County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  He stood up shakily. “You figure you and Lund can get into June’s money? She took care of that a month ago. I’ll give you twelve hundred.”

  “Good night,” I said. “Be smart. Leave now.”

  “I’m going.” He felt his jaw once more and stretched his neck. “And if you’re smart, you’ll leave now, too. You’ve been warned.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  He went out and slammed the door. In a minute I heard the sound of his tires squealing on black-top as he gunned away. He, too, hadn’t told me anything I hadn’t guessed. If they couldn’t get Skip for murder, they felt, down at Headquarters, that they could put him away on a narcotics charge.

  Juanita must have known that, but she hadn’t seemed worried.

  High-school buddies, Vogel and Ritter, Chun and Chavez. Old loyalties, well-intrenched bigotries — and I scratched at the surface of nothing, a futile quest in an insular town. Why didn’t I quit?

  This is Don Boyer, Brock. This is Brock Callahan, Don. Who’d want me?

  I undressed slowly, trying to think, to find a thread or a pattern, a forgotten aside or a telling slip of the tongue. Nothing. I showered for a long time, hoping to wash out with drumming water the tight knot between my shoulder blades.

  In about an hour I fell asleep. And dreamed of a girl I’d known years ago in my high-school English class.

  • • •

  Sunday morning dawned hot and clear. At the pancake restaurant I bought a copy of the Los Angeles Times and dawdled over my coffee as I skimmed it. Though I malign the paper constantly, I cannot live for long without it.

  It covered in its thorough way this murder up here, and in this Sunday edition it included a résumé of the case up to now. There was nothing in the account I didn’t know, but I read it carefully, hoping to find in the printed summary some pattern that hadn’t shown in my day-to-day questioning.

  Nothing.

  The waitress was patiently pouring me my third cup of coffee when I saw the dark-skinned policeman enter, still in civvies, as he had been last night.

  He stood in the doorway and then headed directly for my small table.

  When he was standing before me, I said, “Good morning, officer. Sit down and have a free cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly, and sat in the chair across from me. “My name is Juan Montegro. I started my vacation last night but have decided to stay in town a few days.”

  “Because of what’s happened?”

  He nodded. He licked his lower lip. “Juanita was — indiscreet last night.”

  “She trusts me. Did you know what was going on?”

  A pause, and then he nodded.

  “Does Sergeant Vogel, too?” I guessed.

  A longer pause and another nod.

  “And who else?” I asked.

  “A man named Captain Dahl. Have you met him?”

  “No. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because Lund did not kill Chavez. Because Sergeant Vogel is being a bad police officer due to his friendship with James Ritter.” He licked his lower lip again. “I thought you might need some ammunition later.”

  “Ammunition? You mean my knowing that Dahl and Vogel let this illegal operation continue? You can’t mean I should blackmail them with it?”

  His dark face stiffened. “Of course not! I thought of it as a lever, as a shield.”

  “And you’d back me up?”

  “I would support you with documentation without the necessity of identifying myself. I like my job, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I don’t get your angle,” I said. “No offense, now.”

  “Justice,” he said. “Is that an angle? We know Skip was on that boat, hundreds of miles from where Chavez died. We seem to be the only men who are concerned about his innocence.”

  He sipped his coffee and I sipped mine. I asked, “Does Chief Harris know what’s going on?”

  “He doesn’t want to know about this. No new narcotic cases in the district, a forty per cent decrease in robberies and prostitution — he is happy with the result without wanting to know the reason.”

  “And that’s why you let it continue?” I said. “You and Vogel and this Captain Dahl?”

  He nodded. “Don’t judge us too harshly. We kept an eye on it; it would end when it stopped doing good.”

  Another hunch came to me and I said, “Were you told to take your vacation now?”

  He smiled. “Nothing of the kind. I picked this time last January.”

  “Do you know who killed Chavez?”

  He shook his head. “Was Chun any help?”

  I stared at him.

  “Vogel knows you went there last night,” he explained. “But Chun’s clean. He’s been checked very carefully by the Department, and he was spotless.”

  “Why was he checked?”

  “Because of his mother. She lives down south with her new husband.”

  “His mother?”

  “Her new husband,” Montegro said, “is Carmine Licussa.”

  A name. Kefauver’s committee had considered Licussa a don in the Maffia. Impossible to prove, but every citizen over twelve knew he was a hoodlum and a millionaire.

  “Licussa,” I said wonderingly. “That is the majors.”

  “He tried to buy a home up here,” Juan Montegro said. “In Slope Ranch. He was turned down.”

  I said nothing, thinking the obvious. If Johnny wanted to go out on his own, back on the trail of the big buck, he would need a new source. And what better source than his old buddy, now a stepson of the great Carmine Licussa?

  Officer Juan Montegro said, “You’re nowhere, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “So are we,” he said, “if that’s any consolation. Our first thought was like yours — some Syndicate gun from down south that Chavez was dealing with. None of it is checking out.”

  “So what chance have I in a strange town?”

  He sighed. “None, probably. But I hope you will continue. I followed your work on that Mary Mae Milgrim case. That solution came out of left field, and you seem to have an instinct for those.” He stood up. “I will stay in town for a few days. I am in the phone book. Thanks for the coffee.”

  He went out. I finished my coffee and went out two minutes later.

  An instinct, he had said. Lacking intelligence, what else can a man work on? An instinct. It is not always the answers to questions that are revealing, not always the things that are said. It is often the things that are not said or the things said that don’t seem important — what actors call the throwaway lines.

  But none of them was pointing a finger this hot Sunday morning. I had no place to go; I went back to the motel.

  I’d had a call, the manager told me. A Miss Christopher. I called her back.

  “You don’t work on Sundays, do you?” she asked. “I thought you could come for dinner. About two?”

  “I’d work,” I said, “if I had anything to work on. I’m stymied, Glenys.”

  A silence, and then, “I heard something yesterday that disturbs me very much — that Skip was involved in transporting narcotics.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. Bud wasn’t around when you heard it, was he?”

  “No. But he’ll hear it, won’t he, eventually? This is a small town, Brock.”

  “I’m well aware of that. And who told you?”

  Another silence, and then, “Jim Ritter.”

  “Was he sober?”

  “Of course. Now what does that mean?”

  “He was drunk when he attacked me last night. He was waiting for me when I got back to the motel. He tried to bribe me after the attack failed.”

  “Brock …? This isn’t — you’re not — is that the truth?”

  “I swear it. About the dinner, if I don’t call you before one, I’ll be there at two. I may find something worth investigating, but I doubt it. Chin up.”

  “You, too,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”


  Waiting? Glenys Christopher? For me? Oh, no, we must put an end to that. I had a girl. I went to my room to see if there was a bottle of Einlicher left.

  There was one bottle, and I was opening it when someone knocked at my door.

  It was Sergeant Bernard Vogel.

  “Come in, Sergeant,” I said civilly. “This is the last bottle of beer, but I can get you a Coke out of the machine in the playroom.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. He came in and I closed the door against the day’s heat.

  I took a swig of beer, waiting.

  He said heavily, “A man named Pablo Chun phoned Headquarters last night and wanted to know why you were questioning him. So do I.”

  “Why should he phone your Department? He’s not in San Valdesto municipal jurisdiction, is he?”

  Vogel colored.

  “I haven’t been warned by the sheriff. Chief Harris said he was going to phone him.”

  He stared at me, his face still flushed.

  I said quietly, “I went to see Pablo Chun because he was a stepson of Carmine Licussa’s. I had a hunch, not proven out, that Johnny Chavez was friendly with Chun because he was a stepson of the great Licussa.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Nothing. But, while you’re here, I’d like to ask a question.”

  He waited, saying nothing.

  I said, “Your friend Ritter was waiting for me last night, drunk, belligerent. When his belligerence failed to frighten me, he tried to bribe me. I’m not putting in a complaint because I know he’s a friend of yours. But, in return for that favor, I’d like to know who told him that Skip Lund was involved in the narcotics traffic?”

  Vogel was breathing heavily, glaring, speechless.

  I waited, sipping my beer.

  Finally, he managed, “You skate on thin ice.”

  “I get paid for it. Ritter told Miss Christopher that. If Bud Lund hears it, because of Ritter, I’m warning you right now, Sergeant, that I’m going after your friend. And you’ll need more cops than you have in this town to stop me.”

  His voice was a dead monotone. “I think you’d better come downtown with me right now.”

  “Fair enough. Do the reporters in this hamlet work on Sunday?”

  Some wariness in his anger now, some doubt in his glare.

  I said quietly, “I’m sure I have a story of great local interest for any reporter.”

  More doubt.

  And I added, “Involving Department complicity in a rather unique local operation.”

  He said hoarsely, “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  “I don’t like to work this way, Sergeant. But I have to function in order to eat. And I intend to eat.”

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  “It’s possible,” I admitted. “Are you calling the bluff?”

  He gave it a lot of thought. He gave it enough thought to worry me, because my threat to call in a reporter would also reveal the shame of his father to Bud Lund.

  Finally, he said, “I won’t call your bluff today. I’ll repeat the chief’s warning to you — stay out of our business!”

  I had won my point; I could afford to look humble and I did.

  And then he diminished my hole card by saying, “If we have to, we’ll run you in and you can call all the reporters in town. Just remember that Bud Lund is old enough to read.”

  I had nothing to say. He had made my present edge momentary and precarious; he had reduced my ace to a jack. But he hadn’t called me, and I could guess why. He was a friend of Ritter’s; he knew that I was a friend of at least one Christopher. Where the big money was involved, Sergeant Vogel would move warily.

  He went out and I looked longingly at the pool. Jan had sent my trunks up with Glenys. I had no place to go with further questions; I was at a dead end.

  I didn’t go out. I sat in the room and put all their names down on paper. I connected them with their lines of interest, delineated their peeves, their hates, their hopes, seeking the elusive.

  All blanks. Officer Juan Montegro had said that I had come at the Mary Mae Milgrim solution from left field, but that solution had been intrinsic in the relationship of the principals in the case.

  A man can be hit by a speeding car on his way to a bank robbery and the bank robbery will have nothing to do with the man’s death. Narcotics didn’t have to be involved in the death of Johnny Chavez.

  We weren’t even sure at this time that Chavez had been murdered. It could have been an accident, a stray bullet from another hunter’s gun.

  Out at the pool the tourists frolicked and laughed and splashed and sunned themselves. In my room I sat in the doldrums of a loser. What could I tell Bud if I went up there for dinner?

  The possibility of Pete Chavez as an alibi for Johnny was weak on two counts: the police distrust of Chavez and Pete’s own reluctance to stick his neck out by admitting something that at least three officers in the Department already knew.

  The ammunition that Montegro had given me was not the kind I liked to use. Around Los Angeles I worked with the police. And around the Los Angeles area this kind of ammunition wasn’t available.

  At one o’clock I took a quick dip in the pool. At two o’clock I was turning into the driveway of the Lund home in Montevista.

  Glenys was in the open doorway when I came up from the parking area. “Two o’clock means two o’clock to you, doesn’t it? We haven’t even started the charcoal.”

  “The lower classes are always punctual,” I said. “How is Bud holding up today?”

  “He seems to be all right. He’s over at a neighbor’s.” She smiled. “He has a lot of faith in you.”

  We were in the living room now, and June was sitting on the same sofa where she had spilled the drink. She was leafing through a copy of Vogue.

  “Hi, halfback,” she said casually. “My sister’s been keeping the Einlicher cold for you all morning.”

  I turned to see the beginning of a blush on Glenys’ tanned cheeks.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Would you like something, June?” She was walking toward the liquor cabinet.

  “Nothing,” June said. “I think I’ll give the booze a little vacation.”

  Glenys’ eyebrows lifted, but she made no comment. She brought me a bottle of beer and asked, “How are you with charcoal? The housekeeper is off today.”

  “There’s an electric lighter around somewhere,” June said. “I’ll start the fire.” She stood up and went out.

  Glenys poured Martini into a fairly large glass and loaded it with ice cubes. She said quietly, “I think the housekeeper’s been fired. What’s going on with Skip and my sister?”

  “I didn’t know anything was. How do you mean?”

  “I think they’re going back together again. I heard that Skip might even get back into the gas-station business.” She paused. “If he ever gets out of jail.”

  “Would that make you unhappy?”

  “Not for a minute. They are both adults. I have stopped being Aunt Glenys.”

  I smiled at her. “By request?”

  She glared at me quietly.

  I sipped the fine beer, ignoring her glare.

  “All right!” she said finally. “I was told off. I was called stuffy and class-conscious.”

  “By June?”

  Glenys sniffed and nodded.

  I said, “It’s her life. I don’t think you’re stuffy. And if I had your money, I’d be class-conscious as all get-out. Why have it if you can’t enjoy it?”

  “I’m sane,” she said. “Sane, sane, sane! In my family, that’s a vice.”

  She took a healthy gulp of her Martini. “That Mary Chavez is going to be surprised, I’ll bet, if June and Skip get together again.”

  “And hurt,” I said. “She loves him.”

  “He’ll never get out of jail,” she said, after a few seconds. “He was born to wind up in jail, that man.”

  “You could be right. But he’s not your problem.”

&nbs
p; And then Bud was standing in the archway from the entry hall and I wondered if he had heard his aunt’s prophecy.

  “Hi,” he said, and looked at me questioningly.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Nothing new, Bud. It’s not an easy case. They never are until they’re over. You keep your chin up.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Who’s Mary Chavez, Brock?”

  Glenys looked startled. I said calmly, “She’s the sister of the man who was killed. Where did you hear her name?”

  “Mr. Ritter and Mom were arguing last night,” he said, “and he said Mary Chavez was a little tramp and Pop was crazy for her.” He looked at me levelly. “Is that true?”

  “No,” I said. “Mr. Ritter, Bud, has a big mouth and a small brain. You’ve got to believe in your dad, just as I do.”

  Glenys went to pour some more Martini over the ice cubes in her glass. Bud stared at me doubtfully. “Dad was doing secret work, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Work he thought important and helpful to sick people.”

  He seemed to be digesting that. Then he asked, “Where’s Mom?”

  “On the patio,” his aunt told him, “getting the fire started. Steak today, boy.”

  He went out and Glenys looked accusingly at me. “Jim was right then? Narcotics?”

  “I explained about Ritter to Bud,” I said, “and I thought you were listening. He has a big mouth and a bird brain and I am glad I cooled him last night. Let’s stay off that topic; the thought of that freak spoils my day.”

  “Well!” she said. “Aren’t you worked up? And why?”

  “Frustration,” I said wearily, “and ugly-minded people. Is there another beer handy?”

  She took a bottle out of the ice chest. “Narcotics. And June making plans. He will stay in jail, won’t he? He hasn’t a chance of getting out, and I think it’s cruel to keep Bud’s hopes up.”

  “He has a chance,” I said. “It’s too complicated for me to explain, but Ritter’s good friend, Sergeant Vogel, is not working with clean hands himself. I repeat — it’s complicated and not really any of your business, Glenys.”

  A miffed silence from her, and I said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I’m not permitted to tell you anything about it; it was told to me in confidence. I shouldn’t have told you about Vogel.”