by Peter Rabe
I drove past the rambling sea-food restaurant and parked in a three-car space near a lunch stand. The morning’s pancakes were not digested yet, but I could always use a cup of coffee.
It was a four-stool stand, open on two sides. The man behind the counter was thin and tanned, wearing blue cotton trousers and a T Shirt.
I climbed onto a stool and said, “Just coffee. Black.”
He smiled, poured it, and set it on the counter.
“Quite a boat town, isn’t it?” I commented.
“Boats and horses,” he admitted. “You from down south?”
Los Angeles, he meant. That’s what they called it here. I nodded.
“How’s the smog?” he asked.
“Getting worse. How much boat could a man buy for forty thousand dollars?”
He yawned and scratched himself. “I suppose it would depend on how sharp he was at dickering. Some guys figure a thousand dollars a foot, but I could sure as hell do a lot better than that.”
“Could a forty-thousand-dollar boat make Mexico?”
“Hell, yes.” Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at me doubtfully. I thought I saw recognition there. He asked quietly, “Why do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “A friend of mine bought one. I was just wondering.”
His face was blank. “This friend got a name?”
“Warren Temple Lund the Second,” I said.
“Skip,” he said quietly. “You’re a cop, huh? I should have known, the size of you.”
“A private investigator,” I said, “working for Skip’s son. I’m not getting paid and I can keep a secret if it doesn’t violate the law.”
He nodded. “I know you now. I thought your face was familiar.” He extended a hand. “The great Callahan. Man, what’s happened to those Rams?”
“They’re rebuilding,” I explained. “How well do you know Skip?”
“Well enough to like him. Most of the gang down here do. He might not be so popular in Montevista, but he’s our kind of people.”
“Do you know where he is?”
He looked out at the boats in the yacht basin and back at me. He shook his head.
“His boat there?”
He paused, and nodded. “Chavez is probably aboard right now.”
I stared at him. “Chavez? He’s dead.”
“Pete Chavez,” he explained. “Johnny’s cousin.” He looked thoughtfully at his image in the glistening coffee urn. “Maybe I got too much mouth, huh? I don’t even know you — only your rep.”
“Up here the police don’t even know that. At least they don’t respect it.” I sipped my coffee and kept my voice casual. “When did the boat come in?”
He studied me for seconds and then said doubtfully, “This morning, around eight. Don’t quote me.”
“I promise I won’t. Think Skip is aboard now?”
The thin man’s smile was cynical. “With the law looking for him? He’s not that simple.”
“Is he outside the law? What does he have to fear from the law?”
His voice was harsh. “In this town the law didn’t like Johnny Chavez or his friends or his relatives. Skip and Johnny were buddies. And you know who else is buddies-Sergeant Vogel and ex-Mayor James Blowhard Ritter, that puke! That’s some deal for Skip Lund, isn’t it? What chance has the man got?”
I said nothing.
“And,” he went on, “with Ritter lusting for Skip’s wife, you want Skip to turn himself in?”
I stared at him wonderingly. “Where did you learn all that?”
“A town this size,” he said contemptuously, “what else we got to talk about?”
“And you admire Skip Lund?”
He looked at me evenly. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “The picture I’ve been getting hasn’t been so — well, favorable.”
“Maybe you got one side of it, the Monte vista side. You might get a better picture if you asked about Skip around here.”
I thought of Mary Chavez’ telling me about Skip and Johnny and how they had lied to her and a hunch came to me.
I said to the counterman, “So Skip Lund and Johnny’s cousin were out of town when Johnny Chavez was killed?”
He frowned, staring. “I didn’t say that.”
His face was guarded; he was probably beginning to regret some of the things he had told me. I was no longer the great Callahan to him. Small-town insularity had built a wall between us.
“Is Skip’s boat visible from here?” I asked him.
He said nothing.
“I can find out,” I told him. I put a coin on the counter and slid off the stool.
He hesitated and then turned toward the harbor. “That fifty-footer with the brown hull and white cabin.” He pointed and turned to face me. “If Pete Chavez is aboard, don’t get lippy. He’s not tall, but he’s awful damned tough.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “Thank you.”
The flivver went rumbling back across the planks once more, toward the shore. Water beneath us and on both sides of us, the ancient pier weatherworn but solid.
I had a pattern in my mind now. By hint and by hunch a pattern had taken shape. If one believed in Skip Lund’s innocence, there had to be a reason why he hadn’t reported to the police. I was sure that Lund knew that he couldn’t be railroaded if his alibi was sound. Justice was dispensed by judges, not policemen.
So there had to be another reason why he was missing. Perhaps he had been on a trip, an ocean trip. Or perhaps his alibi would put him in water almost as hot as suspicion of murder. Either of these things could be true, and maybe both.
At the end of the pier a squad car pulled up alongside and I waited for a signal from the man next to the driver.
But he was looking straight ahead, ignoring me.
I let them slide by before making a left turn and starting to breathe again.
There was a parking lot here that served the yacht club and the dock area; I pulled in and found a space near the water. The pier that led to the slip holding the fifty-footer wasn’t far away.
Both the brown hull and the white cabin looked newly painted; there was a man aboard, squatting on the deck, his back to me. He appeared to be wiping up something that had spilled. He was a short man with stocky legs and enormous shoulders.
From the pier, I called, “Pete Chavez?”
He turned without rising. “That’s my name. And what’s yours?” He had a strong-featured, walnut-brown face, now scowling.
“My name is Callahan,” I said. “I’m looking for Skip Lund.”
He stood up, appraising me. “He’s not here. What’s your beef?”
“No beef. Pure charity. I promised his son I’d find him. His son is a friend of mine.”
“He’s not here,” he said again. “So long.”
I kept my voice friendly. “If you know where he is, would you just ask him to phone his boy?”
“No,” he said.
I stared at him; he grinned at me. There was no warmth in his grin.
My hands trembled, but my voice was calm. “O.K. Play it your way. So long.” I turned to leave.
“You’re not fooling me,” he said. “You cheap peeper.”
This had been a frustrated search, too full of ill-mannered people. I turned and studied him contemptuously from head to foot.
“Don’t let your size give you any foolish ideas, big boy,” he said, still grinning. “Go while you’re still able to walk.”
“Shorty,” I explained patiently, “I came on a mission of mercy. I have no beef with you or with Lund. Now I’d like to leave without further lip. The choice is yours.”
He came lightly across the deck and hopped up on the pier about three feet from me. “Don’t call me shorty, peeper.”
I said reasonably, “O.K., we’ll sign a pact. You don’t call me peeper and I won’t call you shorty. Agreed?”
He maintained the idiotic grin of the short man’s happy-warrior type. “Do I still look small to you?�
�
He was wide and his forearms were ridged with muscle. I said wearily, “I never called you small. But admit it: you’re about five feet eight inches. That’s short.”
He expanded his chest. “Why don’t you try me, fatso?”
Little men…. I don’t know what bugs them. This Chavez must have weighed about one eighty, and he was undoubtedly fast, tough, and durable. Was that enough? No. He had to be sensitive about his height.
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to fight you,” I said. “Now slow down and crawl under your rock again.”
“Beat it, yellowbelly,” he said hoarsely.
Enough, enough…. I wasn’t quite sure what I had in mind, but I took a step toward him and he pulled back a clenched right hand. And as he did I realized his arms were thick but sadly short.
I reached out with my left hand before he could throw that big right. I found a firm grip on his Adam’s apple.
He gagged as he threw the right wildly. He tried to pull his throat clear, but I stayed with him, squeezing hard. His knees began to buckle and he chopped at my forearm with one hand while he tried to pull my wrist away with the other.
I walked him right to the edge of the pier and dumped him.
I had misjudged. He went off backward and he was too close to the boat. His head hit the hull with a horrible thunk before he splashed into the harbor.
There was a ninety per cent chance that he had been unconscious when he had hit the water. I bent to take off my shoes. And then, as I cursed a knotted lace, I saw a man come from the ship’s cabin.
He was over the railing and into the water before I could untie the snarled knot. I stood up.
Both of them came bobbing to the surface and the new man called, “There’s a rope on deck. Get it quick and throw us an end!”
I jumped aboard to get the rope, the face of the new man stirring a memory in my mind. It was a slightly older replica of the face in the picture Bud had given me.
I had finally found Skip Lund.
EIGHT
SKIP LUND STEPPED into a dry pair of dungarees. “Blame me. I was listening. Pete’s-uh, I don’t know. Something’s always bugging him. He’s been a good friend to me, though.”
He was tall and fairly thin, this Warren Temple Lund the Second. He had a mobile face and an engaging grin and I could guess he might be a difficult man to dislike.
We were in the cabin and Pete Chavez, still soaking wet, was lying on a bunk, his eyes closed, the smell of vomit strong. He had swallowed sea water, going under unconscious.
Skip glanced at him and back at me. “I’m sorry about Bud. I should have prepared him for this trip. I-well, I didn’t-”
“When did you get back?” I asked.
“This morning.” He went over to mop Pete’s face with a towel. His back was to me when he said, “How’s-my wife?”
“I guess she’s all right. You’re getting a divorce, I hear.”
“That’s right.” He turned to face me. ‘‘They been brainwashing you up there at the house?”
“Who?”
“June and her rich friends.”
I shrugged.
He took a breath. “I’ll bet that Glenys painted a picture for you, huh? The hot-rodder, she always called me.”
“You were, weren’t you?”
He sat down and pulled on a pair of sneakers. “Mr. Callahan, I came out of Oklahoma at the tender age of fourteen without a dime in my pocket. At the age of twenty-three I had a filling station that was pumping seventy thousand gallons a month. I had six full-time employees. I netted eleven thousand two hundred dollars out of that station the year I married June.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “My job is over.”
He grinned. “I was always a fan of yours. I thought there was a possibility you could root for me, for a change.”
“Go on,” I said.
“To some people,” he went on, “eleven thousand two hundred dollars isn’t much. To a plow jockey from Oklahoma, it looked like the heavy lettuce.” He inhaled. “To a Christopher, it’s lunch money.”
“Did it take you twelve years to find that out?”
“I’m not real bright,” he admitted, “and damned stubborn.” His jaw ridged. “And I was in love.”
“And still are.”
He said nothing. From the bunk, Pete Chavez muttered something and Skip rose quickly and went over to him.
“Easy, buddy,” he said softly. “Everything’s under control. Rest. You’re going to be all right.”
He came back to sit down again. “All right, we moved up here. We got in with that drinking crowd in Montevista. June changed. Maybe I did. It takes two to fight, doesn’t it?”
I looked at the bunk. “Not if one of them is Pete Chavez.”
I stood up. “Well, you had better phone the police or go in. They think you went up to that cabin with Johnny.”
“I know what they think and why they think it,” he said. “To hell with them!”
“You’ll call Bud, won’t you?”
“Of course.” He wrinkled his nose. “Let’s get out of this stink. What’s your hurry? Let’s go up on deck.”
“My job is done,” I told him. “My only charity case.”
“Slow down,” he said easily. “You sound like Pete.”
We went up the two steps to the deck, into the bright sun and clean salt air. From the direction of the lunch stand out on the pier, I saw the glint of glasses. The counterman was watching us.
Lund sighed. “I suppose old brown-nose Bernie has been filling you full of bull about me, too.”
“Vogel, you mean? He told me if I asked any more questions around this town, I’d be in trouble. He and I don’t seem to hit it off.”
“You’re not rich,” Lund explained. “Brown-nose Bernie can’t afford friends like us.” He stared out across the water. “I suppose you’ll be going back to Los Angeles now?”
“Tomorrow, probably.”
Lund continued to stare out across the water. “I wonder why the law isn’t here now? They know I have a boat. The harbor master must have alerted them this morning.” He turned to face me. “I can’t tell them where I’ve been.”
“Then you’re in big trouble,” I said.
“I know.” He faced me squarely. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I think what I’m doing is right. I don’t expect the law to think so. That’s why I need you.”
“At a hundred a day and expenses?”
“At whatever you charge. The boss will pay it.”
“The boss? You’re working?”
“You’ll get your money. I want you to find Johnny’s killer. Vogel and his buddies couldn’t find a load of manure in a phone booth. And Vogel maybe won’t want to. Nor will his chum, the D.A. Callahan, I really need you. I haven’t got an alibi.”
“I don’t think they’ll let me work in this town, Skip. They don’t trust me.”
“You’ll be bringing me in. That ought to earn you some points.”
“Maybe. And can you tell me what you’re doing that the law doesn’t think is right?”
He shook his head. “If I could, I wouldn’t need you.”
What did I expect for a hundred a day, the easy ones? The FBI got those. I said, “A hundred a day, expenses — and a promise from you.”
“Name it.”
“That if you and June get a divorce and June gets custody, you’ll still see Bud every day you’re in town.”
“I’d do that anyway,” he said. “It’s a deal.”
• • •
Chief Chandler Harris was in his office. He sat behind his desk and glared at both of us. Finally he managed to say, “Well!”
“This is my client, Warren Lund,” I said quietly. “He has just learned that you have been looking for him.”
“Your client? Since when? What’s going on here?”
“He came to me,” I half lied, “with the understanding that if he gave himself up I would try to find out who killed J
ohnny Chavez. Of course, I’d need your permission to work on that. In town, anyway. I’m sure the Sheriff’s Department would co-operate in the county.”
“If he has an alibi,” Harris said coldly, “why does he need you?”
“Because Johnny was my friend,” Skip answered for me. “I’ve got an alibi — Johnny’s own cousin.”
“Pete Chavez?” The chief snorted contemptuously. “Is he all you can come up with?”
“My God!” Lund said. “He and Johnny were more than cousins; they’ve been buddies for twenty years. You don’t think Pete would cover for Johnny’s murderer, do you?”
Harris looked between us and settled on Lund. “What day is the alibi for — the day Chavez was killed?”
Tricky. Skip probably didn’t know what day Johnny had died.
“For the past two weeks I’ve been with Pete. Since the day Johnny went up to the cabin.”
“Where were you with Pete?”
“On the boat.”
“Without any other witnesses, out on the ocean?”
“We have a log,” Johnny said.
“Written by you or by Pete? How in hell could that be an alibi? Listen, Lund, you told Mary Chavez you were going up to that cabin with her brother. A log is no alibi. And Pete Chavez is a bad witness.”
“I lied to Mary,” Lund said stubbornly. “Johnny and I both lied to her about going to the cabin together.”
I could see the inevitable question coming before Harris voiced it.
Harris asked simply, “Why did you lie?”
A silence. Skip looked helplessly at me and I said, “You’ll need a lawyer. But phone Bud first. He’s been waiting a long time.” I looked at the chief. “May my client make two phone calls?”
“One,” Harris said.
Lund looked at me again. I said, “What’s your lawyer’s name?”
“Joseph Farini.” He spelled the last name for me.
“I’ll talk with him,” I said. “You phone Bud.” I started for the door.
And Chief Harris said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
I turned to stare at him. “Out. To work.”
“You think you’re in the clear?”
I said patiently, “Am I not? And if not, why not?”