County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  Rita opened the door and the odor of cheap perfume drifted out. “Jesus!” she said. “The Montevista hot-shot. Now what, muscles?”

  “I’d like to speak with you,” I said. “Pete Chavez has been killed.”

  Her mouth opened and her stocky body stiffened. She stared in silence.

  From behind her, a man’s voice said, “If it’s a guy, grab him, Rita. It’s too late to be fussy now.”

  A woman laughed.

  Rita continued to stare at me. Finally, in a whisper, “How was he killed? His car?”

  “He was stabbed,” I said.

  She was breathing heavily. “What have I got to do with it? Why are you here?”

  “You were with him last night. The police will want to talk with you.”

  She looked back over her shoulder and then at me again. Her voice was anxious. “Do they have to know? They’re going out for dinner now. They’ll be gone in a couple minutes.”

  “Shall I wait downstairs?”

  “No. Come in. But don’t say nothing about Pete. These people here — well, they’re not crazy for Mexicans.”

  I went into a new apartment furnished in what looked like castoffs. Rita’s cellmate, Helen Garden, was a tall, thin girl with imitation red hair.

  Her date for the evening was named Al Dunkert, a tanned and lanky man with an amiable grin and nasal voice. Why didn’t we join them for dinner? he wanted to know.

  I told him I had eaten my dinner.

  He smiled knowingly. “I get you. Maybe we can pick you up after dinner, huh? How much time you need?”

  Rita flushed. “You got a dirty mind, Al.”

  “Hell, yes,” he said. “Who hasn’t? O.K. You kids be good then. No hanky-pank.” He waved a finger.

  Helen Garden said frostily, “Let’s go, Al. If they want a comedian, they can turn on the TV.”

  He sniffed and winked at me. Helen told me it had been a pleasure making my acquaintance and hoped she would have the pleasure again and they left.

  Rita said, “Tell me about Pete.”

  I told her what had happened and added, “There’s a possibility that Pete’s death is connected with his cousin’s. It might even be that Pete knew who killed Johnny.”

  Her eyes were thoughtful. “Yeah. That could be.” She nodded.

  I waited for a clarification, but none came. I asked. “Did he mention something like that to you?”

  She paused and then said quietly, “He said the law wasn’t seeing what was right in front of their noses. He said he was almost sure he knew who killed Johnny.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged.

  “He told you that much and you weren’t interested enough to ask more?”

  “I asked. He said it wasn’t my business.” She gulped. “I had a feeling … you know, that Pete was going to take care of it his own way. He … was wild at times.”

  “How long were you with him last night?”

  She stared at me suspiciously. “What difference does it make? He was alive when I left him. Drunk, but alive.”

  “If the police know when you left him, it might help to establish the time of death,” I explained.

  “Police?” She stiffened, glaring. “Like hell! I thought you were a private eye.”

  “The police are looking for you,” I said, “and I have to work with them. We’d better go down to the station now, Rita.”

  She shook her head stubbornly, backing doubtfully away from me.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said calmly, “and see that you get a square deal. You have to go down, Rita. They asked me to bring you in.”

  She was breathing heavily again and her voice was labored. “How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know I’ll ever see the station if I go with you?”

  “Phone the Police Department,” I said. “Ask them if I’m to bring you in. I’ll wait outside, if you want me to.”

  She glanced at the phone and back at me. “Who told you my name?”

  “A person who will also tell the police,” I lied; “a person who wants to stay out of it.”

  “Mary Chavez?” she guessed.

  “No. Rita, I’m not trying to pressure you and I’ll try to prevent the police from pressuring you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, they might threaten you with a morals charge if they think you’re not being co-operative. They can be rough.”

  “Morals charge? Who you trying to kid? Pete wasn’t married and I’m not. We got a right to date.”

  “All right,” I said wearily. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’ll tell the police who and where you are and let them take over. May I use your phone?”

  There was a silence of seconds. Then, “How can I tell who’s side you’re on? You weren’t no buddy of Pete’s.”

  “I’m working for a friend of his — for Skip Lund. You can check that, too, if you want to. Phone the station.”

  Another doubtful silence of about ten seconds. Then she said dully, “Wait here. I’ll get a coat.”

  When she came back to the living room, she was wearing a beige car coat and I noticed that she kept one hand inside the coat, out of sight.

  It wasn’t until we were in the car and moving that I learned why that hand had been hidden.

  As we passed under a street light the hand came out, and it was holding a long, narrow, sharp and shining bread knife, which glistened malevolently in the reflected light.

  “Right for the station,” she said hoarsely. “One wrong move out of you and you get it.”

  I drove carefully and silently, making no wrong moves.

  Vogel wasn’t there, but Captain Dahl was still in the chief’s office. He looked from me to Rita and asked, “Is this the girl?”

  I nodded.

  “Quick work,” he commented. “Will you go out and tell the man at the desk to send in Lynch for dictation? You can wait out there.”

  “She’d like me to stay with her,” I said.

  He shook his head. “If she wants a lawyer, she can call one. What’s she got to hide?”

  “Nothing,” Rita said. “What kind of crack was that?”

  Dahl looked at her without interest and said to me, “Have Lynch sent in and stay out there.” He looked back at Rita. “None of your Constitutional rights are going to be violated here, Miss. You don’t need Mr. Callahan present.”

  Rita Wollard looked between us doubtfully and then said, “O.K., Callahan, I’ll talk to him alone. You stay within shouting distance, though.”

  “I certainly will,” I promised. “And if you feel you need a lawyer, you don’t have to tell the captain anything until your lawyer gets here.”

  “I don’t want a lawyer,” she said. “They’re as bad as cops.”

  “Worse,” I said and obediently went out to send in Lynch.

  There wasn’t any reason why I couldn’t have stayed in the room while Dahl took Rita’s statement. There wasn’t any reason but Dahl’s ego. They couldn’t find Skip Lund and I had brought him in. And now Rita. His arrogance, like mine, was based on his lacks.

  It didn’t soften my resentment. I sat on a bench in the hall and watched the man called Lynch go in with his notebook. After about five minutes, I grew bored with sitting on the bench.

  I went out to the front room, where the man who had let me see Skip last night was once more in charge of the desk.

  He smiled genially. “You mustn’t mind the captain’s bias. His first wife used a private man to get grounds for a divorce.”

  “I don’t handle divorce work,” I said, “and I’m sure he knows it. Has Sergeant Vogel come back from wherever he was?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “He went over to see Montegro. He’s on vacation, but Vogel wonders why he didn’t start on his trip. Would you know?”

  “I might. Maybe Officer Montegro will be disciplined?”

  The man shook his head again. “Montegro is an old and respected n
ame in this town. I’m sure Juan can take care of himself in all ways.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “He struck me as a very conscientious man and a capable officer.”

  “Oh, yes.” The man sighed. “And we sure as hell could use a few more like him around here.”

  A traffic officer came in then and I went back to the bench in the hall. The death of Pete Chavez had made the trail to the killer no clearer. So far. To me. I had no way of knowing if it was making the trail clearer to Dahl and Lynch, in there with Rita. I wondered if they were learning any more from her than I had.

  At ten o’clock she came out, her eyes blazing. “Cops!” she said. “The snotty bastards!”

  “It’s all over,” I soothed her. “It’s behind you now.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I hate the smell of the place.”

  From the open doorway behind her, Dahl said, “Will you come in here a moment, Mr. Callahan?”

  I nodded and said to Rita, “Wait in the car if you want the air. I’ll be right out.”

  She went down the hallway as I went back into the chief’s office.

  Dahl was smiling slightly, a welcome change. He said, “We got off to a bad start, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice was humorously dry. “You managed to come up with Lund and now this girl despite that, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe we need you more than we realize,” he said.

  I would have felt smug except that this Dahl was too cute. I looked for the angle and said nothing.

  “We’ll work together from now on,” he said. “You keep us informed and our files will be open to you.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” I said humbly, and went out wondering why the wind had shifted.

  Perhaps Vogel had reported back and I hadn’t seen him. Perhaps he had reported back by phone after talking with Juan Montegro.

  In the car Rita Wollard was still miffed. “Cops!” she grumbled.

  “Aw, they’re not so bad,” I said. “There are times when they can be real sweet.”

  “Phooey!” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We made the trip in silence. I could have asked her what she had told them, but I didn’t need to. Their files were open to me, Captain Dahl had said.

  In front of her place, as I stopped, she sighed. “Sunday nights. They’re the worst, huh? I suppose you have to keep working.”

  “Unfortunately I do,” I double-lied. “Damn it!”

  “O.K., O.K.,” she said. “I get the message.” She opened the door and stepped from the car.

  “Wait,” I said, and opened the glove compartment.

  She turned. Hopefully? She turned, anyway.

  I took out the long, narrow, sharp, and glittering bread knife and handed it to her. “You forgot your protection,” I said. “Sleep tight.”

  SIXTEEN

  IN MY RENTED room, futility gnawed at me. I was doing as well as or better than the San Valdesto Police Department, but it didn’t diminish my sense of insufficiency. I was on a cold trail.

  Was there an alternate trail?

  Pablo Chun had said, “Johnny was always in hot water…. If it wasn’t money, it was women.”

  Love and money, lust and greed….

  I undressed slowly and climbed into bed, shivering for no reason at all except the general state of the world. Love or money….

  It had been love for June and money had almost destroyed it. It had been money with Glenys and love came late and fraudulently. With Jan the money didn’t stop the love but the lack of it prevented the marriage. That dopey Jan….

  In the warm bed I stayed cold, tossing, fretful, as tag ends of dialogue came to me, remembrances of attitudes and slights, of humiliations and small successes.

  Damn it, I was too dumb for this business! Big enough, but too dumb. I dozed and saw Mary Chavez looking up at me, Bud Lund looking up at me, and the horizontal Glenys looking up at me. To hell with all of them. Except Bud.

  I dozed and began to perspire, still chilled. I fell asleep.

  I wakened suddenly. I was still perspiring, still chilled, but now I was also frightened. From the black-top parking area behind my room came the sound of a stealthy footstep. I tensed, listening for another.

  I heard a voice mumbling incoherently and then the scrape of another footstep. Some drunk coming home?

  My peasant’s prescience assured me that it was not that innocent.

  I slipped quickly and quietly out of bed and over to my valise holding the.38. I took it with me as I padded in my bare feet to the door and pressed one ear against it.

  I could hear hoarse breathing now and then the scratch of a match and a whispered, “Ah!”

  There was a muffled knock.

  “Who’s there?” I asked softly.

  “Open up, you bastard!” the voice said — the voice of Lars Hovde.

  I opened the door. He had a jacket over his sport shirt; otherwise, his uniform was the same. Something glistened in his right hand and I brought the gun up quickly.

  It was a bottle. I lowered the gun.

  “What’s wrong, Red?” I asked quietly.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “You stay away from that Juanita, you understand?”

  “Come in,” I said, “and keep your voice down. People are trying to sleep.”

  He studied me warily and came in. I closed the door behind him and tried not to inhale the odor of wine that had come in with him.

  I asked quietly, “Who gave you my address?”

  He grinned slyly. “I’ll ask the questions, peeper. Why you bothering Juanita? You leave her alone, see?”

  I lifted the gun and he must have seen it for the first time. His face grew even uglier and he stared at me without any visible fear. “What the hell’s that for? Put it away, gutless.”

  I shook my head. “Who sent you here, Red? Not Juanita.”

  “Never mind who sent me. Put that goddamned gun away!” He raised the bottle in his hand, an empty wine bottle, a quart.

  He was too drunk to be scared. I kept the gun on him. I said quietly, “I think the edge is mine. I’ve used this gun. I don’t like to, but I have. You’re trespassing, Red, and I’ll use it if I have to. Once more now — who sent you here?”

  He pointed at his belly with a thumb. “I sent me here. And that gun don’t scare me. I’m warning you, Irish — ”

  I lifted the gun higher and extended my arm. The business end of the barrel was now about a foot from his nose. I said, “Shut up!”

  It was probably not fear that came to his glazed eyes — only the beginning of caution. He was momentarily silent.

  “Who sent you?” I asked again. “This wasn’t your idea, coming here, and it wasn’t Juanita’s. She and I are working together.”

  “Huh!” he said. “You don’t fool me.”

  “Nobody does,” I said patiently, “but you’re mistaken if you think I won’t shoot you. I want some answers, Red.”

  He dropped the empty bottle on the carpeted floor and it came rolling and bouncing my way.

  I said, “Don’t move. I’m calling the police.” I kept the gun on him and took half a step toward the phone.

  “Huh!” he said once more, and turned his back to me, heading for the rear door.

  “Stay where you are,” I said, but he kept moving.

  He opened the door and turned. “You don’t fool me,” he said once more. “You ain’t got the guts to pull the trigger.” He went out and slammed the door behind him.

  I stood there for a few seconds, shaking and wet. Then I went to the door and opened it. I could see him in the overhead light, walking toward the darkness of the highway.

  Then a pair of headlights went on down there and Red disappeared into the shadows. I heard the slam of a car door and saw the headlights begin to move, but it was too dark for me to identify the car.

  And then, from the south, another pair of headlights came along and illumi
nated the car that was leaving. It was an ancient and faded two-door Rambler.

  Those lights had gone on before Red had reached the car. So somebody had been waiting for him. It might have been the somebody who knew where I was staying; it could have been the somebody who had prompted Red’s irrational visit.

  I closed the door again and locked it and put my gun back in my bag. In the bathroom I washed my sticky face.

  I considered phoning the police but decided that I could tell them about it tomorrow. I checked the front-door lock and went back to bed.

  It must have been one o’clock before I finally fell asleep.

  • • •

  Monday dawned hot and dry, perfect tourist weather. I went to Headquarters from the downtown restaurant where I had eaten breakfast.

  Captain Dahl, in a smaller office, was gloomy and pessimistic. He said, “No match for the print and no gun for the slug. Maybe Washington can help us on the print.” He took a deep breath.

  I said, “A fingerprint will be mighty handy after we find a killer. And that.30-.30 slug might be, too. Could I see your file on Johnny Chavez?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know what you could find there. No lead that I can see. Sergeant Cloda will show it to you.” He looked at me bleakly. “You keep us informed, now, at all times.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, and went to look up Sergeant Cloda.

  It was a skimpy file. But it was also more than that. It lacked a story I had heard, a throwaway line. I tried to remember — hadn’t Vogel told me about the knifing?

  And then I remembered. It had been Deputy Dunphy, up in Solvang.

  I asked Sergeant Cloda, “Doesn’t your Department co-operate with the Sheriffs Department on exchange of information on local citizens?”

  He nodded, frowning. “Why? Something missing from that file?”

  “I heard something from Deputy Dunphy that isn’t in here.”

  “If Dunphy had a record of it, we’d have it. Was it a rumor or a fact? I mean, of course, an official fact.”

  “Maybe it was a rumor. I don’t know. I’ll have to check with Dunphy, I guess.” I put the file back. “Could I use your phone to call Solvang?”

  I could and I did, but Dunphy was not in his office. I went back in to see Dahl.

  I told him, “Wasn’t Johnny Chavez knifed once, or threatened with a knife? Dunphy, up at Solvang, told me something like that.”