County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  I climbed into the flivver hating the big, dumb bastard. Motel rooms are lonely. Friday night was a bad night for TV and I didn’t even like the good nights. That had been a warm and friendly bar, and who knows what might have developed, either revelatory or romantic, as the guitar and the alcohol worked their blend of magic?

  The flivver hummed along, oblivious to my sense of frustration.

  And then, as I turned into the drive behind my unit, another car turned in ahead of me and continued toward the rear. It was a big car, a black Continental, and a ghost of this afternoon’s transient lust came back to haunt me.

  Maybe that bastard Hovde had done me a favor; it looked like Glenys Christopher’s car.

  SIX

  THE CONTINENTAL PULLED into the stall directly behind my room; I pulled into the stall on its left. The light over the rear door was bright enough to show me that it was Glenys behind the wheel. She looked my way and stepped out of the car.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello. Where have you been? I called twice.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  “Oh? Then Jan isn’t here?”

  Did you really think she was? I thought. I shook my head.

  “Any news about Warren?” she asked, after a second.

  “Some hope. I think I’ve met someone who knows where he is.”

  “Someone named Mary Chavez?”

  I shook my head again. “I’ll know more tomorrow. Would you like to come in or is that a vulgar question?”

  She stared at the ground. She might have blushed, but I couldn’t tell in this light. She said softly, “Bud’s staying with a friend and my sister went out with Jim someplace. I — was bored.”

  It didn’t figure. Not Glenys Christopher. Not that inhibited, reserved, and disciplined lady. I couldn’t think of anything un vulgar to say.

  She seemed to be holding her breath, and her voice was tight. “I — uh — brought some Einlicher.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “We’ll have a quiet bottle and talk about the old days.”

  She seemed to be appraising me and I think there was a moment when she was ready to get back into the car. But finally she said, “It’s on the floor in front.”

  It was a canvas cooler and it took both my hands to carry it. I gave her my key and she opened the door. After she had turned on the light, she asked, “What time will Jan be here?”

  “She isn’t coming,” I said. “She has to spend the weekend with a client. Money, money, money, that’s Jan.”

  She was sitting next to the TV when I came back from the kitchenette with our beer. She sighed and said, “That’s not a happy house over in Montevista. I had to get out of it.”

  Sure, sure, sure…. I handed her the beer and asked, “Was it a happy house before Skip left it?”

  “For a while.”

  “Glenys,” I asked gently, “did you try to make Skip Lund over into something he wasn’t?”

  “I? Now what did that mean?”

  “Well,” I explained, “one of the things he wasn’t was Warren Temple Lund the Second.”

  Her face tightened. She didn’t comment.

  I smiled. “O.K., tell me off. It’s none of my damned business.”

  Her chin lifted and she said coolly, “I didn’t try to make Skip Lund into something he wasn’t. Perhaps if I had, the police wouldn’t be looking for him now.”

  “O.K. Your point. Let’s not fight.”

  “Why not? You’re losing.”

  I laughed and she smiled. And then I asked, “How long were you married?”

  “Two months. It was never legal. He had … neglected to divorce one of his previous wives.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She shook her head, her eyes reminiscent. “I … went into that marriage a virgin. At twenty-eight.”

  Well…. What in hell do you say to that kind of frankness?

  She looked at me candidly. “Did I embarrass you?”

  “A little. Would you like more beer?”

  “I guess. Does my being here embarrass you?”

  “Nope. Why should it? We’re friends, in a way.” I went to get more beer. My hands shook as I poured it.

  When we were settled again, she said, “I was a sadly innocent girl who had been deluding herself for years that she was self-sufficient. The man was — nothing, just as Roger Scott was. But he taught me that even a nothing man is better than a women’s club luncheon.”

  Glenys Christopher letting down her hair; it was beyond belief.

  I said, “You are beautiful and intelligent and desirable. You are single only by choice.”

  “Huh!” she said. “Only a man could believe that.” The glass in her hand was unsteady for a second and she changed the subject. “To get back to Skip Lund — neither June nor I tried to make him over. He came up here without any thought of going into business. He spent forty thousand dollars for that damned boat and practically lived on it. June can’t stand the water.”

  “Boat?” I said blankly. Something flickered in my unconscious mind, one fact trying to relate to another. “Boat?” I said again, trying to trigger the pattern.

  She shook her head bitterly. “It was a new kind of hot rod for Skip Lund. He’ll always be a hot-rodder.”

  I asked, “Where did he get the money?”

  She said dully, “From June. Where else? Have you been briefed on the police history of his good friend, Johnny Chavez?”

  “Yes.” I thought of the reefers. Narcotics and a boat; the flicker had more substance now. Narcotics and a boat and Juanita saying she didn’t know exactly where Skip was right now. Exactly had been a strange word, but not for a man at sea.

  “What are you thinking about?” Glenys asked.

  “A theory. A hunch. Was Skip’s boat seaworthy enough to make Mexico?”

  “I have no idea. Why? Do you think he might have gone there?”

  “It was just a random thought, a hunch from left field. Your glass is empty.”

  “Fill it,” she said.

  I brought in a bottle and filled her glass. As I was pouring, she said, “I worry about Bud.”

  “Of course. But he’s not your responsibility, Glenys. Bobby and June might have been, but Bud isn’t.”

  Her fine face lifted and her eyes mocked me. “Is he yours? You won’t even accept pay for helping him.”

  “I’m sentimental,” I explained.

  The chin lifted again, but not defiantly. Beseechingly. “And I’m not?”

  Vulnerable, that strong and beautiful face, beseeching.

  I bent and kissed her.

  For less than a second there was resistance in her soft lips, and then they answered me. I straightened to look down and see some mist in her eyes.

  Her voice was hoarse and husky. “I suppose we’re heading somewhere we shouldn’t. Will you promise to consider it therapeutic for me?” She put a hand on my forearm. “And never, never mention it again?”

  It would be indelicate to go into the clinical details of what followed, but it required a lot of patience on my part. Her morality was strong and extended to sex because of the twenty-eight barren years. Though her need was great (the annulment was three years back), she was too basically and instinctively a lady to enjoy the bed fully without proper conditioning.

  Patiently, slowly, gently, and cunningly, the vulgar Callahan worked toward the deeper breath and the first indicative and anticipatory quiver.

  Slowly but successfully, until the body writhed and the whimpers no longer were protesting and a great, soaring catharsis was achieved.

  She shuddered, she sighed, she stretched. And asked sadly, “Will I ever be able to look at Jan again?”

  “You don’t see her much, do you?”

  “Lately I have. I’m thinking of redoing the house.”

  “Glenys,” I said sternly, “get married. Find a man you can trust, one with more money than you have, and let him buy you a house. Damn it, you always get involved with con me
n!”

  “Always? Twice.”

  “That was always for you. Would you like another beer?”

  She laughed quietly. “Heavens, what a hedonist you are! Tell me, is it a happy philosophy, Callahan?”

  “It serves.” I put on a robe and sat on the edge of the bed. “Glenys, get married before you turn to stone. You’re wasting yourself and depriving some solid citizen of a first-class wife.”

  She sat up and put a tender hand on my cheek. “Old Uncle Brock! Who needs a cow when milk is free?”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” I said. “That’s my pitch. You can’t be the mother to the whole damned world, Glenys.”

  “I’ll be the girl friend, then,” she said lightly. “Will you be in touch with Skip tomorrow?”

  “I hope to be.”

  “And then you’ll be going home?”

  “I suppose. Maybe I’ll wait until Sunday.”

  “Could we — have dinner or something tomorrow? You’re nice to be with, when you try to be.”

  “I’ll phone you in the morning,” I promised. “Drive carefully, now.”

  The big black car went away and I sat on the edge of the bed, a robe over my nakedness, finishing the bottle of beer. Glenys had left by the back door. When someone knocked on the front, I thought perhaps she had come back that way.

  It wasn’t Glenys; it was the thin girl with the rich voice and big eyes, Mary Chavez.

  She looked at my robe and up at me embarrassedly. “I’m sorry. I heard voices before and knew you had company. I heard the car leave and thought … I mean …”

  “Come in,” I said. “Don’t stand in the light.”

  She hesitated — and came in. I closed the door.

  She stood next to the doorway, her gaze carefully staying above my shoulders. “Did Juanita tell you anything?”

  “As little as possible. She’s a cautious woman. She thinks she can get in touch with Skip tomorrow.”

  “I see.” She licked her lower lip. “Did she say where Skip had been?”

  “She didn’t. Do you know?”

  She shook her head. “Do you think — I mean, there’s something dishonest going on, isn’t there?”

  “A reasonable man would have to think so. I’m surprised you don’t know more than you do,” I said.

  She looked startled. “Why should I?”

  I didn’t answer.

  But she must have read my mind. Because she said, “I can guess why you said that. We are burying him tomorrow. Until he went up to Berkeley, he was a good boy.” Her chin quivered and she glared at me. “It’s an anglo world. You don’t know about people like us.”

  “I know about soft and innocent girls like you,” I said. “You were born to be suckered. Get smart now, Mary, before it’s too late. Skip Lund is shaping up as more of a bum every minute.”

  She said fiercely, “That’s not true. In Beverly Hills he had a good business. And he’ll have one here when he has a wife who doesn’t need diamonds and sable and European vacations. He’s a fine, straight man!”

  “He’s a hot-rodder who married money,” I said.

  Wham!

  What a right hand…. It hadn’t been a slap. It had been a fist, smack on my mouth, and blood ran down from my torn lower lip and I stared at her in untainted admiration.

  She began to cry.

  I had thought her soft, but in her neighborhood she couldn’t be soft and grow to her age looking as she did. She might not be soft, but I would lay odds she was pure.

  “Your knuckle’s bleeding,” I said. “You’d better wash it.”

  She shook her head, still crying.

  I went into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth with soapy water.

  I brought it out to her and said, “Please wash that hand. I apologize if I said something wrong. Would I have said it if I wasn’t worried about you?”

  She sniffed and took the washcloth and went into the bathroom. I sat on the bed with a piece of Kleenex, wiping the blood from my lip.

  When she came out again, she was no longer crying. I grinned at her. “Juanita called you an angel, but that was quite a right you threw. Where did you learn that?”

  “Where I live. From Johnny. I shouldn’t have hit you. May I wash it for you?”

  “It’s nothing. Juanita told me Vogel gave you a bad time. Why?”

  “Because I told him I would not sign a statement that Skip went to the shack with my brother.”

  “Didn’t Skip tell you he was going with Johnny?”

  She stared at me, her lips compressed.

  “O.K., Mary. So you play it your way. If I said anything wrong, I’m sorry. Fight City Hall, marry a man who can’t settle down, hate angloes. Good night!”

  “You’re angry,” she said softly. “You have a right to be. Good night.”

  She went out and I went to the refrigerator to get an ice cube for my swelling lip. Uncle Brock … I had given Glenys quite a lecture for having the same faults I had. Uncle Brock…. To hell with all of them, and particularly the lambs.

  The girl might be vulnerable, but her friends were not. I went to bed and tried to forget them all.

  The morning dawned clear and bright. This was a beautiful town. With Jan gone from Beverly Hills, I might as well stay until Sunday and write it off as vacation. If Juanita came through, my mission would be completed today. Tomorrow I could use the pool and maybe even take Glenys to dinner.

  And if Juanita didn’t come through …?

  She wouldn’t be available until this afternoon; I could use the morning for my own research. But, first, some pancakes; there was a restaurant down the road that sold nothing else but all the kinds of pancakes there were.

  A double order of French pancakes with boysenberry syrup and whipped butter, fried eggs, and little pork sausages — I was halfway into this delicate repast when Sergeant Bernard Vogel walked in.

  He stood just inside the doorway, giving us all the eye, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he hadn’t come in to eat.

  When he spotted me, he came over. “Saw your car outside. Missed you at the motel. A few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “What good would it do to mind? Sit down, Sergeant.”

  He sat down across from me and shook his head to the waitress who came over. He watched me carefully as he said, “Friend of yours got clobbered last night. Man named Lars Hovde.”

  “He’s no friend of mine,” I said. “That’s why I came home early. He was heading for trouble, last I saw him.”

  “Where was this?”

  I looked at him levelly. “What did Hovde tell you?”

  “He said it was a place called Chickie’s.”

  “He told the truth.”

  “And what were you doing there?”

  “Having a beer. What happened to Hovde?”

  “He was slugged a couple minutes after he left the place.” Vogel paused. “And knifed. He’s over at St. Mary’s Hospital right now.”

  I said easily, “That’s a tough neighborhood. And Red’s got some unfortunate attitudes. Last night was the first time I ever saw the man and I hope it’s the last.”

  Vogel’s face was grim and his voice deadly. “Let’s start over. What were you doing at Chickie’s?”

  I finished the last half of my final sausage and slowly stirred a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. I said, “Sergeant, I have to respect some confidences if I’m to work effectively. The way it looks right now, I’ll be through here this afternoon. I’ll come in and see you then. Fair enough?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s the way I work,” I told him.

  He shook his head again. “Not in this town.”

  I kept the anger from my voice. “Your boss checked me and I checked out. I’m not one of those crummy divorce peepers, Sergeant.”

  He studied me as though I were a bug. He was getting to me with his quiet contempt.

  He stood up. “All right, you came in crying for co-operation and we were suckered
. You ask another citizen of this town a single question and we’ll run you in and really sweat you. You got it?”

  “Could I speak with the chief about that? You’re being unreasonable, Sergeant.”

  “You’ve had your chance,” he said harshly. “We’ll be watching you again, Callahan.”

  His voice had risen and customers at other tables glanced our way and a few of them stopped eating to stare.

  Anger and embarrassment surged in me. Only his badge was keeping him vertical and conscious. I stared at my coffee ignoring him.

  When I looked up again, he was gone.

  The other customers were avoiding my glance; when I went to pay the cashier, she took my money and murmured a “thank you” while she carefully kept her eyes every place but on mine.

  I went back to the motel, for lack of any better place to go. I was burning at Vogel’s officious and arrogant stupidity, but I wasn’t quite angry enough to disregard his warning.

  I called the Lund home and asked for Glenys. I asked her, “Have you said anything to Bud about the possibility of his father’s being found today?”

  “No. I thought I’d wait until I had something more definite from you.”

  “You might not get anything more definite from me. Sergeant Vogel just told me to keep my nose out of the case.”

  “Why would he do that? What happened?”

  “He doesn’t think I’m working with the Department. He doesn’t understand my position.”

  A silence, and then, “I’ll have June talk with Jim. Jim is not only a friend of Vogel’s; he knows Chief Harris very well.”

  “O.K. You phone as soon as you get a clearance for me.”

  “It might take some time,” she said. “Jim’s playing golf this morning.” A pause. “Why don’t you do what needs to be done and I’ll start working at this end?”

  “All right,” I said. “Fine.”

  I should have stayed with my original hunch. James Edward Ritter was not likely to come to the aid of anyone searching for Skip Lund. Ritter would prefer to have Skip missing forever.

  SEVEN

  THE WHARF WAS an extension of the town’s main street and the flivver rattled over the wooden roadway at the legal five miles an hour. The Pacific had some blue in it again today; clouds hovered over the Channel Islands. Boats of all shapes and sizes bobbed in the light swell of the harbor.