Fast One

by Fast One (retail) (epub)

  “God deliver me from a sadistic doctor,” he said.

  Janis grinned, bent again over the leg, probed deeper. “That Was a dandy.” He held a tiny twisted chunk of lead up in the forceps' point, exhibited it proudly. “Now you know how a rabbit feels.”

  “Now I know how it feels to be a mother. You're as proud of a few shot as a good doctor would be of triplets.”

  Janis chuckled, jabbed again with the forceps.

  At a little after eight-thirty, Kells left Janis's office in the Harding Building. It had rained all night; the air was sharp, clear. He limped across Hollywood Boulevard to a small jewelry store, left his watch to be repaired and asked that they send it to him at the hotel as soon as possible. He went out and bought a paper and got a cab, said, “Ambassador,” leaned back and spread the paper. Then he sat up very straight.

  A headline read: WOMAN IN BELLMANN KILLING ESCAPES.

  He glanced out the window at a tangle of traffic as the cab curved into Vine Street; then leaned back again slowly, read the story:

  Early this morning, Miss S. Granquist, alleged by police to be the self-confessed slayer of John R. Bellmann, prominent philanthropist and reformer, was “kidnapped” from Detectives Breen and Rail after the car in which they were taking her from the Hollywood Police Station to the County Jail had been forced to the curb near Temple Street and Coronado, crashed into a fire plug. Officer Breen was slightly injured, removed to the Receiving Hospital. Rail described the “abductors” as, “eight or nine heavily armed and desperate men in a cream-colored coupe.” He neglected to explain how “eight or nine” men and a woman got away in a coupe. Our motor-car manufacturers would be interested in how that was done. It is opportune that another example of the inefficiency of our police department occurs almost on the eve of the municipal primaries. The voters....

  Kells folded the paper, knocked on the glass and told the driver to make it fast. They cut over Melrose to Normandie, out of the heavy traffic, over Normandie to Wilshire Boulevard and into the big parking circle of the Ambassador.

  Kells told the driver to wait, hurried up to his room and changed clothes. He called the desk, was told that Mister Beery had called twice, called Beery back at the Hay ward Hotel downtown. The room line was busy. He took a long drink and went back down and got into the cab. It took twenty-five minutes to get through the traffic on lower Seventh Street to the Hayward. Fenner opened the door of the small outer room on the fourth floor; they went through to the larger bedroom. Kells said: “You're down early, Lee.”

  Fenner glanced at the rolled newspaper in Kells' hand, nodded, smiled wanly.

  “Where's Beery?” Kells took off his hat and coat. Fenner sat down on the bed. “He went over to the print shop about an hour ago. He ought to be back pretty soon.” Kells sat down carefully. Fenner asked: “How's the leg?”

  “Doc Janis picked eleven shot out of it like plucking petals off a daisy. It came out odd—he loves me.” Kells unrolled, unfolded the paper, looked over it at Fenner. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “I do not.” Fenner said it very quietly, very emphatically.

  “What do you think?”

  “Rose.”

  Kells stared at Fenner steadily. He moved his fingers on the arm of the chair as though running scales. He said: “What for?”

  “She's crossed him up all the way—he's the kind of a crazy guy that would take a long chance to get even.”

  Kells sat staring blankly at Fenner for perhaps a minute. Then he said slowly: “I want you to call Gowdy—everybody you can reach who might have a line on it....”

  Fenner got up and went to the phone. He called several numbers, spoke softly, quietly.

  After a little while the other door opened and someone came through the outer room. It was Beery. He said: “We can't get it on the newsstands before noon.”

  “That'll be all right.” Kells was still sitting deep in the big chair. Fenner was at the telephone. Beery took off his coat and hat, flopped down on the bed.

  “Maybe I can get a couple hours' snooze,” he said.

  Fenner hung up the receiver and looked at Kells. “You might pick up something at the Bronx, out on Central Avenue. It's a nigger cabaret run by a man named Sheedy. Rose is supposed to be a partner—he was seen there last night.”

  “Who's Sheedy?”

  Beery said: “A big dinge—used to be in pictures....”

  “You know him?”

  “A little.”

  “Get on the phone and see if you can locate him. He wouldn't be at his joint this time of day.”

  Beery sighed, sat up. “The law's looking for Rose too, Gerry,” he said. “You're not going to get anything out of any of these boys.”

  Kells half smiled, inclined his head toward the phone. Then he stood up.

  “If that son of a bitch got her—which is a long shot”— he looked sideways at Fenner—“he'll give her everything in the book. I got her into it—and by God! I'll get her out if I have to turn the rap back on Lee and let the whole play slide.” He turned, went to one of the windows. “And if Rose did get her and lets her have it. I'll spread his guts from here to Caliente.”

  Beery got up and went to the phone. “You're getting plenty dramatic about a gal you turned up yourself,” he said.

  Kells turned from the window and looked at Beery, and his eyes were cold, his mouth was partly open, faintly smiling.

  He said: “Right.”

  * * * * *

  SHEEDY COULDN'T be located.

  Fenner got Officer Rail on the phone and Kells talked to him. Rail said he couldn't identify any of the men who had taken Granquist; he thought one of them was crippled, wore a steel brace on his leg. He wasn't sure.

  Kells called Rose's place on Fifth Street; there was no answer. He called the Biltmore, was told that Rose hadn't been in for two days; Mrs. Rose was out of town.

  Beery napped for an hour. Kells and Fenner sat in the outer room; Fenner read a detective-story magazine and Kells sat deep in a big chair, stared out the window. Hanline stopped in for a minute. He said he'd speak to one of the bellboys downstairs, send up a bottle.

  At a little after ten-thirty the phone rang. Fenner answered it, called Kells.

  A man's high-pitched voice said: “I have been authorized to offer you fifteen thousand dollars for the whole issue of the Guardian, together with the plates and all data used in its make-up.”

  Kells said, “I don't know what you're talking about,” hung up.

  He told Fenner to hurry down to the switchboard, try to trace the call; waited for the phone to ring again. It did almost immediately. The man's voice said: “It will be very much to your advantage to talk business, Mister Kells.”

  “Who s your authority?”

  “The Bellmann estate.”

  Kells said: “If you know where Miss Granquist is and can produce her within the next half-hour, I'll talk to you.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then the man said: “Wait a minute.” After a little while a woman's voice said: “Gerry! For God's sake get me out of this!...” The voice trailed off as if she had been dragged away from the phone. The man's voice said: “Well?” Fenner came in, nodded to Kells. Kells said: “Okay. Bring her here.” He hung up. The phone rang again but he didn't answer. He sat grinning at Fenner. Fenner said excitedly: “West Adams—about a block west of Figueroa.”

  “That wasn't even a good imitation of the baby.” Kells stood up. “But maybe they'll come here and try to do business on that angle. That'll be swell.”

  “But we'd better get out there, hadn't we?”

  Kells said: “What for? They haven't got her or they wouldn't take a chance faking her voice. They'll be here— and I'll lay ten to one they don't know any more about where Rose and the kid are than we do.”

  Kells went back to his chair by the window. “I told Shep to plant some men at the print shop in case there's trouble there. Did he?” Fenner nodded.


  There was a knock at the door; Fenner said, “Come in,” and a boy came in with a bottle of whiskey and three tall glasses of ice on a tray. He put the tray on a table; Fenner gave him some change and he went out and closed the door.

  At twenty minutes after eleven a Mister Woodward was announced. Fenner went into the bedroom, closed the door.

  Woodward turned out to be a small yellow-haired man, wearing tortoise-shell glasses; about thirty-five. He sat down at Kells' invitation, declined a drink.

  He said: “Of course we couldn't bring Miss Granquist here. She's being sought by the police and that would be too dangerous. She'll be turned over to you, together with a certified check for fifteen thousand dollars, as soon as the issue of the Guardian, the plates and the copy are turned over to us.”

  Kells said: “What the hell kind of a cheap outfit are you? The stuff's worth that much simply as state's evidence—let alone its political value to your people.”

  “I know—I know.” Woodward bobbed his head up and down. “The fact of the matter is, Mister Kells—my people are up against it for cash. They'll know how to show their appreciation in other ways, however.”

  “What other ways?”

  “Certain political concessions after election—uh—you know.” Woodward glanced nervously at his watch. “And it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”

  Kells said: “I'm not in politics. I want the dough. Lay fifty thousand on the line and show me Miss Granquist”— he looked at his watch, smiled—“and it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”

  Woodward stood up. “Very well, Mister Kells,” he said. His voice had risen in pitch to the near-falsetto of the telephone conversation. “What you ask is impossible. I'll say good-day.”

  He started toward the door and Kells said: “Hold on a minute.” The big automatic that had been O'Donnell's glittered dully in his hand. “Sit down.”

  Woodward's blue eyes were wide behind his glasses. He went back toward the chair.

  Kells said: “No. Over by the phone.”

  Woodward smiled weakly, sat down at the telephone stand.

  “Now you'd better call up your parties and tell them everything's all right—that we made a deal.”

  Woodward was looking at the rug. He pursed his lips, shook his head slowly.

  “There's a direct line in the other room,” Kells wept on, “if you'd rather not make it through the switchboard.”

  Woodward didn't move except to shake his head slowly; he stared at the floor, smiled a little.

  “Hurry up.” Kells stood up.

  Then the phone in the bedroom rang; Kells could faintly hear Beery say “Hello.” It was quiet for a moment and then the bedroom door opened and Fenner stood in the doorway looking back at Beery.

  Beery said: “You sure?... Just the press and the forms.... All out?... All right, I'll be right over.” The receiver clicked and Beery came into the doorway. He glanced at Woodward, grinned crookedly at Kells.

  “They blew up the joint,” he said. “But nearly all the stuff was out. A hand press and a couple of linotypes were cracked up and one guy's got a piece of iron in his shoulder, but they discovered it in time and got everybody else and the sheets out. The originals are in the safe.”

  He struck an attitude, declaimed: “The first issue of The Coast Guardian; A Political Weekly for Thinking People, is on the stands.”

  Kells turned slowly, sat down. He looked steadily at Woodward for a while and then he said: “As representative of the Bellmann estate”—he paused, coughed gently—“do you think you're strong enough to beat charges of coercion, conspiracy to defeat justice, dynamiting, abduction—a few more that any half-smart attorney can figure out?”

  Woodward kept his eyes down. “That was a stall about the girl. We haven't got her, and we don't know where Rose is....”

  “So Rose has got her?”

  Woodward looked up, spoke hesitantly: “I don't know.”

  “If you've got any ideas, now's a swell time to spill them.”

  Woodward glanced at Beery, Fenner, back to Kells. “My people don't want to have anything to do with Rose,” he said. “He's wanted for murder and if he's caught he'll get the works.” He smiled again, went on slowly: “He called up this morning and said you shot O'Donnell—said he could prove it....”

  Fenner laughed quietly.

  Kells said: “Where did he call from?”

  Woodward shook his head. “Don't know.”

  Beery had gone back into the bedroom. He came into the doorway again, pulling on his coat. “I'll be back in about an hour, Gerry,” he said. He poured himself a short drink, swallowed it and went out making faces.

  Kells asked Woodward: “Where can I find you?”

  Woodward hesitated a moment. “I've got an office in the Dell Building—the number's in the book.”

  “You can go.”

  Woodward got up and said: “Good-day, sir.” He nodded at Fenner, went out.

  Kells took Fenner's twenty-five-thousand-dollar check out of his inside coat pocket. He unfolded it and looked at it for a minute and then he said: “Let's go over to the bank and have this certified.”

  They went out together.

  Chapter Five

  KELLS SLEPT MOST of the afternoon. Doctor Janis stopped by at seven. The leg was pretty stiff.

  Janis said. “You ought to stay in a couple days, anyway. You're damned lucky it was the edge of the fan got you— Dickinson got the middle....”

  Kells asked: “How is he?”

  “He'll be all right. He's too tough.”

  Janis put on his coat and hat and went to the door. “You had a break,” he said—“don't press it.” He went out.

  Kells telephoned Fenner. There had been several steers on Rose—all of them bad. Sheedy hadn't been located. The Mexican who had been with Rose was probably Abalos, from Frisco. He lived at a small hotel on Main street which was being watched. Reilly was being tailed.

  Beery came up about eight. “Everything's lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the Guardian stuff— I'm the fair-haired boy at the Chronicle.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the Chronicle job too, don't you?”

  Kells said: “Sure.”

  Beery stooped over the low table and mixed himself a drink. “I'm going to the fights. Swell card.”

  “So am I.”

  Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You'd better stay in the hay,” he said.

  Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”

  “Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”

  “Sure—we'll take her. Call up and see if you can get three ether, close.” Kells limped into the bathroom, turned on shower.

  Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don't want to go anyway.”

  Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.

  Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don't like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.

  Kells disappeared into the bathroom again, and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She'd rather go to a picture show.”

  * * * * *

  THE SEATS WERE fifth row, ringside—two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.

  The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.

  Kells had been looking at his program, asked: “What's the price on Gilroy?”

  “The boys were offering three to two before dinner— very little business. I'll lay two to one on Shane.”

  Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racia
l discrimination—too few fights—had softened him. The dopesters said he'd lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that more than made up for his lack of experience.

  Kells remembered Gilroy—from Harlem—had known him well, liked him. He said: “I'll take five hundred of that.”

  Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.

  Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells, muttered: “For God's sake, Gerry, they're grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they're going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”

  Kells said: “He used to be very good—he can't have gone as bad as they say in a year. I've only seen Shane once and I thought he was lousy....”

  “He won, didn't he?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Beery was looking at Kells sideways with wide hard eyes.

  The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don't happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”

  Sure.

  The man said: “I'll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”

  Kells nodded.

  Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.

  A man crawled into the ring, followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen... Six rounds ... In this corner— Johnny Sanga ... a hundred an' thirty-four...”

  Kells said: “I'll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.

  At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can't go any farther, buddy.”

  Kells looked at him coldly. “I'm Mister Olympic—I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper's hand, went on.

  Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid be-jeweled Greek sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can't come in here, mister.”