by Jon Wilson
He maintained his silence, and I suspected he was taking the time to formulate a response. But when he did finally speak, it was to say, “I’m not sure I understand.”
I made sure he heard my exhale. “That won’t do. If you want my help, you’ll—” I stopped cold. “You do still want my help?”
“Of course I still want your help.”
“Then you’ll have to help me. That means opening up. Why did your mind immediately jump to Velasco? I think I know, but I want you to tell me.”
He let me hear his breath as well, though I don’t think he put as much effort behind it. “Because I knew you’d been out to see him.”
“How did you know that?”
“Well, er, Joe, of course.”
Of course. I wanted to be crystal clear. “Joe Lovejoy told you that I had paid a visit to Marty Velasco?”
“Yes. This morning. When I went to get the letter from Lana. He was there. Joe, I mean.”
I tightened my fingers around the receiver, and clenched my other hand into a white-kunckled fist. I didn’t speak.
O’Malley said, “You thought I was still under Velasco’s thumb, didn’t you?” His tone was daring me to admit it.
“No.” I shut my eyes tight and didn’t reopen them. “You were at some point though, right? A while back?”
“What does he say?”
“Velasco? He’s cagey.”
“He’s a lousy bastard.”
“Yeah. You still hang out at his club.”
“Not as much. I enjoy roulette. And I’m not about to let that lowlife frighten me away.”
I heard myself laugh, knowing it was wrong. “So your business transaction with Velasco concluded some time ago?”
“Yes. Six months at least. You know, you’re kind of a bastard too. I shouldn’t tolerate it.”
“You shouldn’t. You paid up and you got negatives?”
I heard another loud breath, in and out through his nose. “Do we have to go into it?”
“You think you’re the only guy he shot pictures of? You probably aren’t even the only guy you know. I just want to confirm that it is all over with. The negatives were destroyed? You know that?”
“Yes. I handled it. Well, George and I.”
“Good ol’ George,” I said. “He telephoned me an hour or so ago.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t in and haven’t called him back. I wanted to clear this up first.”
He considered that a while. I found myself waiting with more patience than I would have predicted I still possessed. I relaxed my fist slowly. His voice came timidly, “Have you had dinner?”
“Yes. And so have you. Your girl told me.”
“My girl.” It was his turn to chuckle. “She’d love that. But you’re wrong, we’re having tapas. I have a lodger from Spain, and he’s laying a feast. You’re more than welcome to join us.”
I was surprised at the virulent reaction his invitation stirred in me. I watched my fist clench, saw the knuckles go white again. I might have been some insane beast. My emotions seemed to ricochet back and forth like a dog who has been poked and petted so interchangeably, it can’t tell the difference anymore. He called me a bastard, and I practically cooed. He offered me dinner, and I wanted to break something.
“I’ll pass,” I told him, forcing myself to breathe.
Not being there, he was naturally unaware of my bout of madness. “I do have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be at my office no later than ten in the morning.”
He chuckled again. “You’re a funny duck, Mr. Colette.”
“Not me.” His latest assessment had me neither cooing nor railing. It just made me want to hang up. I thanked him for calling me back and answering my question, he told me I was welcome, and we ended the call.
I dialed George Kelly’s number but got Fenton, who explained that Mr. Kelly was out. No one knew where, possibly his club or his office, both equally doubtful. I told the butler to make a note of my call and hung up.
Chapter Seventeen
I was sitting on my bed, propped against the headboard, resting my eyes when the telephone rang. I jerked a bit, swiveling my head to survey the scene and size up the opposition. Finding none, I frowned and was about to wonder what had startled me when the bell sounded again. I leaned over and reached for it, causing the open book on my chest to tumble to the floor. My hand was halfway to the receiver before I spied the smoldering nub of a cigarette between my first two fingers. Seeing it there allowed me to acknowledge the searing pain, and I cussed and shook my hand, tossing the butt down alongside the book. The phone rang again and I looked at the clock. Nine-twenty. Almost certainly it had been eight forty-five a moment ago. I sat trying to figure how that might have happened, while the telephone bell pealed a fourth time.
“Hello?” I got the receiver up beside my head and leaned over the edge of the bed to make sure my carpet didn’t catch fire.
“Mr. Colette?” It was a man I didn’t recognize, not from those two breathless words nor the half dozen that followed. “Sorry to call you at home.”
“Not to worry.” I picked up the cigarette butt and put it in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Who’sis?”
“It’s George Kelly.”
I yawned. “Oh, hello, Mr. Kelly. You got my message?”
He was confused. “Your message? No. What message?”
“I returned your call. I spoke with Fenton.”
“Oh that.” But he said it in such a way that I deduced he wasn’t quite sure. Neither was he particularly concerned. His breathing came a bit labored like he’d just run up a hill. “No. I—I haven’t been…Mr. Colette, I must see you.”
He actually sounded like ‘must’ was the right word. I sat up. “Of course. Would you like to come by the office tomorrow? Or shall I—”
“You misunderstand. I must see you now. Will you meet me?”
I had swung my feet over onto the floor, anticipating his request. Heavy breathers who phone late and interrupt your eye-resting seldom feel inclined to wait for morning. “Where?”
“I’m at…” It sounded like he pulled away from the receiver. I heard what I interpreted as the door of a telephone booth opening, and then street sounds, but faintly. “I’m at Third and Oakdale, in a—there’s an alley half a block down Third. I’ll be there.”
“What’s this about?” I stood and was strapping my wristwatch on. “Are you all right?” I grabbed my trousers from the chair I’d tossed them over.
“Yes. I—I think I lost them.” He was back in the booth, gasping his words directly into the transmitter. “I’m not in great shape. Can you hurry? Don’t—don’t take a cab. Do you have a car? You can—”
“I have a car.” I sat back down to pull on my socks. “Who did you lose?”
“Velasco’s men. They—”
I cut him off with a very sweet oath. “Never mind that part. Get yourself into the alley. I drive a thirty-eight Lincoln. One of the old Zephyrs. You know it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“She used to be blue. Now she’s sort of blue.” I wasn’t trying to make small talk, at least not for small talk’s sake. I carried the telephone over to my dresser and was pulling out my armament, giving it a look. The only shooters I keep in my apartment are an ugly little belly gun that sleeps under my mattress near the head of my bed, and a Colt revolver, a forty-five that lives in my bottom drawer. The Colt’s slow but very effective. It also has a kick and weighs far too much to carry in a pocket. Carting it requires a shoulder holster. I grabbed that and a box of ammunition.
“How long do you expect it will take you? I…I’m bleeding.”
I repeated my oath. “It will take some time. Should I call an ambulance?”
“No!” He had nearly shouted, but then grew plaintive. “Please. Just hurry. I…I’m not shot. Or stabbed.”
“Just get into that alley and keep an eye out. I’ll
be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Colette. I—”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see. Go.” I waited to hear the click at his end before hanging up. I finished dressing, and by finished, I mean the holster and the Colt, my shoes, a jacket and, finally, a handful of bullets for my jacket pocket.
I took a cab to my garage since I lodge the Zephyr in closer proximity to the office than home. Still, I slid behind the wheel a few minutes before ten o’clock. The night attendant knows me even though I seldom drive, and he offered some remark about my spending a night on the town. I grinned more playfully than I felt like doing and sped off into the darkness.
Traffic heading down toward the shipyards was predictably light at that time of night on a Thursday. Ten-fifteen found me slow cruising down Third, approaching Oakdale. I passed an alley and saw nothing but darkness in both directions, so I proceeded to the intersection and turned around. As I crawled north again, a figure stumbled out of the alley on my right, stopping just at the sidewalk and leaning heavily against a wall.
I turned into the alley, and my headlights swept over him. He brought his right hand up to shield his eyes, but not before I saw that someone had made alterations to his face. His cheek was apple red and more crimson traced a line from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin. He leaned on his right shoulder, his left arm across his belly, guarding it. His clothes were somewhat disheveled, as was his hair, but neither looked as played with as his face.
I got out and helped him around to the passenger side of the Zephyr. He tried to thank me again and I brushed him off, also again. The fact is I was pretty disgusted. I got back in and started driving, down the alley and three right turns to get us back onto Third.
I didn’t speak or really look him over except for the brief survey I’d managed getting him into the car. He sat with his shoulders forward, holding his belly, admiring the floor between his feet. His breathing was loud and anything but clear. The silence lasted halfway to my office.
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” He sounded hurt that I hadn’t asked.
I shrugged. “You fought back.”
His look showed just how offensive he found my implication, which was funny considering the state of his face. “Of course I fought back!”
“Yeah, you and your cousin. You’re not about to let some lowlife like Velasco scare you.” Stopped at an intersection, I leaned over and opened the glove box. A half-empty bottle of Old Crow was in there, and I dropped it into his lap. “Wet your lips. It’s not Paul Jones but it’ll help. You got a handkerchief?”
He opened the whiskey and took a sip. That caused him to make a face and close the bottle tight. He didn’t put it away though, just tucked it between his thighs. He produced a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his chin. I was amazed that hadn’t occurred to him until I mentioned it.
“Did she tell you what happened today?”
He turned his head slowly around so that he could scowl at me with his sour eye. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop it.”
“Was I supposed to?” I lit a cigarette. Traffic was such that just a few looks in the mirror told me we weren’t the object of any special scrutiny. Until we hit Army, the streets were mainly our own. Applying the glowing tip of the lighter to my cigarette, I noticed that the residual adrenaline had my hand shaking. Strapping on a shooter and speeding down toward the shipyards to save a man from a gang apparently had gotten me somewhat excited.
I took a nice puff and blew the smoke out into the windshield. It billowed back toward my face and I waved it aside. “I knew she brought me along for a reason, but I didn’t think it was to stop it.”
“What are you talking about?” His red face looked hot now as well as hurt. And his brow was tying itself in knots. He could deny it, but he had some inkling of what I was talking about. “She said they hit you and you simply lay there like a coward.”
I chuckled. “One of them did get it into his noggin to try and tag me with the butt of his gun, probably an unfortunate adlib. It was one of the worst flubs in the whole comedy of errors.”
“What are you talking about?” He managed to make it sound exactly like the first time, an impressive feat considering he had to know just how weak it came across. He braved another taste of the Old Crow.
I took a breath. “Where am I taking you? Home?”
“No.” He looked around, considering the point. “Can’t we…I need to get cleaned up. I can’t go to my club.”
“You’re holding yourself kind of funny. You sure you don’t need a doc?”
“I’m fine,” he said, and then corrected himself. “I will be fine. I just need to clean myself up.” He angled his head to sneak a peak at me, plaintive.
I kept my eyes on the road, chewing the question and some tobacco over on my tongue. “I know a place.” I spit the tobacco out the window.
We rode the next several minutes in relative silence. He put away his handkerchief and took a third sip of the Old Crow. The taste seemed to be growing on him. I smoked my cigarette and wound through the streets, which grew less and less deserted as we made our way north. I found some curb space on Pierce a half block south of the Rooker Building.
“Wait here,” I told him, getting out of the car.
“Where are we?”
I ignored him and got to the sidewalk and headed north.
There are actually two hotels on the same side of the street as my office. One, just south of the Rooker Building, is nicer and also an SRO. The other, two doors north, which rents rooms by the hour, is called the Lena Dorne. I went to the second place, passing the plain wooden door of a massage parlor called the Oriental Palace, which is nestled between the Rooker Building and the Lena Dorne.
The lobby looked and smelled like the waiting room in a hospital where no one ever wants to wind up. A row of recessed lighting ran along one edge of the ceiling, but half of it was not working. The furniture was modern and plain and designed to discourage sitting. No surprise, the room was virtually empty. The only occupant was at the far end, seated on a stool behind the front desk. A bare bulb hung over his head like a really bad idea.
I made my way over to him, asked for a room with twin beds and a bath and paid for a full night. Not that he cared much for trivial matters like length of stay or identification. He glanced at my signature on the register—John Hancock—but nothing about it caught his eye. He gave me a key and told me the elevator was off for the night.
I mounted the stairs, reached the third floor and matched the number on my key to one on a door. The room beyond it was a good deal cozier than the lobby below, but a little too creamy yellow. The beds had yellow spreads, and the one chair a yellow cushion, and the walls yellow paper showing what looked like tiny carnations. The paper was peeling from one corner near the ceiling.
I switched on the bathroom light for a look, deciding that not only would it have to do, but why did I even think there could be any question at that point. I left and took the back stairs to the ground floor, found the door to the alley and propped it just shy of latching. Then I went back up a flight, returned to the front stairs, the lobby, and the street.
Kelly repeated himself again. “Where are we?”
I kept right on ignoring him, pulling out and going around the corner and then turning into the alley. I stopped in front of the Lena Dorne’s back door. “Go up and wash,” I told him, handing over the key. “I’ll get you something to wear.”
He looked wary. “You can’t go to the house.”
“No. You’ll have to slum it, I’m afraid. Fortunately, its dark and we’re only a few blocks from home. Not much chance you’ll run into many people you know. Go.”
He sat examining the key and the numbered panel attached to it like he expected to find detailed instructions there.
“Go,” I said again, but he only turned his head to look at me.
“You’re…I’ve never…” He showed me a weak smile. “I’m glad I called you.”
He did, taking the Old Crow and limping through the door. As soon as I heard the latch catch, I sped off around the far corner and back onto Pierce. The same space was waiting, and I took it. Upstairs in my office, I got my last clean shirt and the only pair of trousers I keep there. These rich folks were proving a drain on my supplies: cigarettes and clothes and patience. It was fortunate for Kelly that he and I were nearly the same size. My rags might be a little loose around the shoulders and the waist and a bit short at the cuffs, but they’d get him home.
I sat and smoked a cigarette at my desk. The lights were off, and I waited for the dark and the smoke and the just plain sitting to help me unwind. I wondered if she had any idea of what she’d nearly accomplished with her silly little stunt. Then I decided I didn’t want to think about it, and I closed my eyes and thought of the sea. When I had whittled my cig down to a nub, I dropped that in the ashtray, got up, stretched my tired and aching limbs, and carted my clothes over to the Lena Dorne.
“Who’s there?” Kelly called when I knocked.
“Moxey’s Drug,” I told him, and he opened the door a crack to peek out.
He had showered and donned his shorts but nothing else. He’d draped a towel across his shoulders. He was in fine shape for a man my age. Not as muscular as me I feel obliged to point out, slightly softer around the middle, but he clearly kept an eye on himself. I thought he rated some time from my eyes as well, but kept to the task at hand and pushed my trousers and shirt toward him.
He backed into the room as I shut and locked the door. When I turned around, he was still standing there, looking at the clothes in his hands.
“Won’t those do?”
His head came up, his expression startled. “What?”