Gilroy said: “Well, fo' goodness' sake!”
* * * * *
THEY TURNED OFF Whittier Boulevard and drove a long way along a well-paved road. The road ran between fields; there were a few dark houses and occasionally a light at an intersection.
Kells sat on the left side of the tonneau and Borg sat on the right side and Taylor was between them. Gilroy and Faber were in front. Gilroy had insisted on coming. Beery had gone home.
Kells said: “Where is Rose?”
Taylor made a resigned gesture with one hand. “I tell you, Mister Kells—I don' know,” he said. “If I knew—”
Borg swung his fist around into Taylor's face.
Taylor whimpered and put his arms up over his face. He tried to slide farther down in the seat, and Borg put his arm around his shoulders and held him erect.
“Where's Rose?” Kells pursued relentlessly.
“I don' know, Mister Kells.... I swear to God I don' know....” Taylor spoke into the cloth of his coat sleeve; the words were broken, sounded far away.
Borg pulled Taylor's arm down from his face very gently, held his two hands in his lap with one of his hands, swung his fist again.
Taylor struggled and freed one of his hands and put it over his bloody face. “I tell you I got orders that was supposed to come from Rose,” he panted—“but they were over the phone ... I don't know where they was from....”
They rode in silence for a little while, except for the sound of Taylor's sobbing breath. Then they turned into a dirt road, darker, winding.
Kells said: “Where's Rose?”
Taylor sobbed, mumbled unintelligibly.
Gilroy turned around and looked at Taylor with hurt, softly animal eyes. Then he looked at Kells, and Kells nodded. There was a little light from a covered globe on the dashboard. Gilroy kept looking at Kells until he nodded again and then Gilroy tapped Faber's arm; the car stopped, the headlights were switched off.
Kells took the big automatic out of a shoulder holster. He opened the door and put one foot out on the running board, and then he spoke over his shoulder to Borg: “Bring him out here. We don't want to mess up the car.”
Taylor screamed and Borg clapped his hand over his mouth—then Taylor was suddenly silent, limp. His eyes were wide and white and his lips moved.
Borg said, “Come on—come on,” and then he saw that Taylor couldn't move and he put his arms around him and half shoved, half lifted him out of the door of the car. Taylor couldn't straighten his legs. He put one foot on the running board and his knees gave away and he fell down in the road.
Gilroy got out on the other side, said: “Ah'm goin' to walk up the road a piece.” His voice trembled. He went into the darkness.
Taylor was moaning, threshing around in the dust.
Kells squatted beside him. Then he straightened up and spoke to Faber: “Pull up about thirty feet.”
Faber looked surprised. He let the clutch in and the car moved forward a little way.
Kells squatted beside Taylor in the darkness again, waited. He held the automatic in his two hands, between his legs. The dim red glow of the taillight was around them.
Taylor rolled over on his back and tried to sit up. Kells helped-him, held one hand on his shoulder. Taylor's eyes were bulging; he looked blindly at the redness of the taillight, blindly at Kells—then he said very evenly, quietly: “He's in Pedro—Keystone Hotel....” Fear had worn itself out, had taken his strength and left him, curiously, entirely calm. He no longer trembled and his voice was even, low. Only his eyes were wide, staring.
Kells called to Borg and they helped Taylor back to the car. They picked up Gilroy a little way ahead. He stared questioningly at Taylor, Kells.
Kells said: “He's all right.”
They headed back toward town.
* * * * *
THE NIGHT CLERK at the Keystone in San Pedro remembered the gentlemen: the dark, good-looking Mister Gorman and the small and Latin Mister Ribera. They had checked in early yesterday morning, without baggage. They had made several long-distance calls to Los Angeles during the day, sent several wires. They had left about seven-thirty in the evening; no forwarding address.
It was a quarter after one. Kells checked his watch with the clock in the lobby, thanked the clerk and went out to the car. He got in and sat beside Borg, grunted: “No luck.”
They had taken Gilroy home—Faber had stayed with him.
Borg asked: “Where to?”
Kells sat a little while silently staring at nothing. He finally said: “Drive down toward Long Beach.”
Borg started the car and they went down the dark street slowly. The fog was very thick; street lights were vague yellow blobs in the darkness.
Kells tapped Borg's knee suddenly. “Have you ever been out to Fay's boat?”
Borg hadn't. “I ain't much of a gambler,” he said. “I went out to the Joanna D. once, before it burned up—with a broad.”
“Do you remember how to get to the P & O wharf?”
Borg said he thought so. They turned into the main highway south. After about a half-hour, they turned off into what turned out to be a blind street. They tried the next one and had just about decided they were wrong again when Borg saw the big white P & O on the warehouse that ran out on the wharf. They parked the car and walked out to the waiting room.
Kells asked the man in the office if the big red-faced man who ran one of the launches to the Eaglet was around.
The man looked at his watch. “You mean Bernie, I guess,” he said. “He oughta be on his way back with a load.”
They sat down and waited.
* * * * *
BERNIE LAUGHED. He said: “You ain't as wet as you were the last time I saw you.”
Kells shook his head. They walked together to the end of the wharf.
Kells asked: “You know Jack Rose when you see him?”
“Sure.”
“When did you see him last?”
Bernie tipped his cap back, scratched his nose. “Night before last,” he said, “when you and him went out to the Joanna.”
“If you were wanted for murder in LA and wanted to get out of the country for a while how would you do it?”
“I don't know.” Bernie spat into the black water alongside the wharf. “I suppose I'd make a pass at Mexico.”
“If you were going by car you wouldn't be coming through Pedro.”
“No.”
“But if you were going by boat?”
Bernie said: “Hell, if I was going by boat I wouldn't go all the way to Mexico. I'd go out and dig in on China Point.”
Kells sat down on a pile. “I've heard of it,” he said. “What's it all about?”
“That's God's country.” Bernie grinned, stared through the sheets of mist at the lights of the bay. “That's the rum runners' paradise. All the boys in the racket along the coast hang out there. They come in from mother ships—and the tender crews.... I'll bet there's a million dollars' worth of stuff on the island. They steal it from each other to keep themselves entertained....”
“How long since you were there?”
“Couple years—but I hear about it. They got a swell knockdown drag-out cafe there now—the Red Barn.”
Kells said: “It isn't outside federal jurisdiction.”
“No. A cutter goes out and circles the island every month or so. But they pay off plenty—nobody ever bothers 'em.”
“That's very interesting,” Kells stood up. “How would Rose get out there?”
Bernie shook his head. “A dozen ways. He'd probably get one of the boys who used to run players to the Joanna to take him out. It's a two-hour trip in a fast boat.”
They walked back toward the waiting room.
Kells said: “It's an awfully long chance. Do you suppose you could get a line on it from any of your friends?”
“I don't think so. I know a couple fellas who worked for Rose and Haardt, but with Rose wanted they wouldn't open up.
Bernie took
out a knife and a plug of tobacco, whittled himself a fresh chew.
Kells said: “Try.”
“Okay.”
They went into the waiting room and Bernie went into the telephone booth.
Borg had found a funny paper. He looked up at Kells, said, “I'll bet the guys that get up these things make a pile of jack—huh?”
Kells said they probably did.
Borg sighed. “I always wanted to be a cartoonist,” he said.
Bernie came out of the booth in a little while. “There's a man named Carver got a string of U Drive pleasure boats down at Long Beach,” he said. “He says a couple men and a woman hired one about eight-thirty and ain't come back yet. One of 'em sounds like Rose. The other was a little guy; and the woman, he don't know about—she was bundled up.”
Kells smiled as if he meant it, said: “Come on.”
“We wouldn't get out there till daylight in my boat. Maybe I can borrow the Comet—I'll go see.”
Bernie went out, came back in a few minutes shaking his head.
“He wants fifty dollars till ten in the morning,” he said. “That's too damn much.”
Kells took a sheaf of bills out of his pocket, peeled off two.
“Give him whatever he wants out of this,” he said. “And does he want a deposit?”
“No.” Bernie started for the door. “He keeps my boat for security.”
Kells and Borg followed him out, across the wharf, across a rickety foot bridge and down to a wide float.
Bernie gave the man who was waiting there one of the bills, said: “I'll pick up the change when I come back.”
The man asked: “Don't you want me to come along?”
Bernie glanced at Kells.
Kells said: “Thanks—no. We'll get along.”
The Comet was a trim thirty-foot craft; mahogany and steel and glistening brass. She looked very fast.
Bernie switched on the running lights and started the engine. The man cast off the lines; Bernie spun the wheel over and they swung in a wide curve away from the float and out through the narrows to the cut that led to the outer bay.
The fog was broken to long trailing shreds. The swell was long, fairly easy.
Bernie snapped on the binnacle light. “I hope I ain't forgot the course,” he said. “I think it'll clear up when we get out a ways—but I'm usually wrong about fog.”
Borg said, “That's dandy,” with dripping sarcasm.
Kells went down into the little cabin, lay down on one of the bunks and watched the red and green and yellow buoy lights slide swiftly by the portholes. After a while they rounded the breakwater and there weren't any more lights to watch.
* * * * *
KELLS WAS AWAKENED by Bernie whispering: “We made it in an hour and fifty minutes.” Then Bernie went outside.
It was very dark. Borg was lying in the other bunk, groaning faintly.
Kells said: “What the hell's the matter?”
Borg didn't answer.
“You aren't sick!” Kells was emphatically incredulous.
It was quiet for a minute and then Borg said slowly: “Who's the best judge of that—me or you?”
Kells got up and went outside. Bernie had doused the running lights; there was a thin glow from the binnacle— and darkness. The fog felt like a wet sheet.
Bernie said: “There's a big cruiser tied up on the other wharf I coasted by close—I don't think there's anybody aboard.”
“Any other boats?”
“I couldn't see any.” Bernie switched off the binnacle light. “There's another little cove on the other side of the island, but nobody uses it.”
Kells said: “We're not tied up, are we?”
“Sure.”
Kells looked at Bernie admiringly. “You're a wonder. It didn't even wake me up.”
Bernie chuckled. “You're damn right I'm a wonder.” They climbed up on the wharf, crossed quietly. The cruiser was big, luxurious, evidently deserted—Bernie couldn't make out the name. Except for a few rowboats and the Comet, it was the only boat at the wharf. Kells said: “Well—I guess I'm wrong again.” They walked up the wharf, and Bernie found a path and they walked along the bottom of a shallow gully, up to the left across a kind of ridge.
The fog was so heavy they didn't see the light until they were about twenty feet from it. Then they went forward silently and a big ramshackle shed took form in the gray darkness. The light came from a square window on the second floor.
Bernie said: “This used to be a cattle shelter—they've built onto it. I guess it's the place they call the Red Barn.”
They found a door and Kells knocked twice. There was no answer so he turned the knob, pushed the door open.
There was a kerosene lamp at one end of a short bar. The room was long, windowless; the ceiling sloped to a high peak at one end. There was a stairway leading up to a balcony of rough timbers, and there was an open door on the balcony leading into a lighted room.
At first Kells thought the downstairs room was deserted; then by the flickering uncertain light of the lamp he saw a man asleep at one of the half dozen or so tables. There was another man lying on a cot against one wall. He rolled over and said, “Wha'd' you want?” sleepily. Kells didn't answer—the man looked at him Wearily for a moment and then grunted and rolled back with his face to the wall.
A man came out on the balcony and stood with his hands on the railing, silently staring down at them. He was of medium height, appeared in the inadequate light to be dark, swarthy.
Kells said: “How are chances of buying a drink?” The man suddenly stepped out of the doorway so that a little more light fell on Kells' upturned face. Then he threw back his head and laughed noiselessly. His shoulders shook and his face was twisted with mirth, but there was no sound.
Bernie looked at Kells. Kells turned and glanced at the man on the cot, looked up at the swarthy man again. The man stopped laughing, looked down and spoke in a hoarse whisper:
“Sure. Come up.”
He turned, disappeared into the room. Kells said, “Wait,” to Bernie. He went up the stairs two at a time, into the room.
It was a fairly large room, square. There were a few rather good rugs on the floor, a flat-topped desk near the far wall, several chairs. There were two big lamps—the kind that have to be pumped up, hiss when lighted.
The man closed the door behind him, went to the desk and sat down. He waved his hand at a chair but Kells shook his head slightly, stood still.
The man's face was familiar. It was deeply lined and the eyes were very far apart, very dark. His mouth was full and red, and his hair was very short, black.
Kells asked: “Where do I remember you from?”
The man shook his head. “You don't.” There was some sort of curious impediment in his speech. Then he smiled. “I'm Crotti.”
Kells pulled a chair closer to the desk. He said: “I'll still buy a drink.”
Crotti opened a drawer and took out a squat square bottle, a glass. He pushed them across the desk, said: “Help yourself.”
Kells poured himself a drink, sat down.
He knew Crotti very well by reputation, had once had him pointed out in a theater crowd in New York. A big-timer, he had started as a minor gangster in Detroit, become in the space of three or four years a national figure. A flair for color, a certain genius for organization, good political connections had kept him alive, out of jail and at the top. The press had boomed him as a symbol: the Crime Magnate—in New York he was supposed to be the power behind the dope ring, organized prostitution and gambling, the beer business—everything that was good for copy.
Crotti said: “This is a miracle.” His voice was very thin, throaty.
Kells remembered that he had heard something of an operation affecting the vocal cords, that Crotti always spoke in this curious confidential manner.
He asked: “What's a miracle?”
Crotti leaned back in his chair. “In the morning,” he said, “your hotel was to be calle
d, an invitation was to be extended to you to visit me—out here.”
He opened a box of cigars on the desk, offered them to Kells, carefully selected one.
“And here you are.”
Kells didn't answer.
Crotti clipped and lighted his cigar, leaned back again. “What do you think of that?”
Kells said: “What do you want?”
“Since you anticipated my invitation may I ask what you want?”
Kells sipped his drink, shrugged. “I came out for a drink of good whiskey,” he said.
He looked around the room. There were two closed doors on his right, a window on his left. In front of him, behind Crotti, there was another large square window— the one he had seen from the outside. He finished his drink, put the glass on the desk.
“I'm looking for a fella named Jack Rose,” he said. “Ever hear of him?”
Crotti nodded.
“Know where he is?”
“No.” Crotti smiled, shook his head.
They were both silent for a minute. Crotti puffed comfortably at his cigar and Kells waited.
Crotti cleared his throat finally, said: “You've done very well.”
Kells waited.
“You've helped eliminate a lot of small fry: Haardt, Perry, O'Donnell—you've run Rose out of town and you have the Fenner and Bellmann factions pretty well in hand. You can write your own ticket...”
“You make it sound swell.” Kells poured himself a drink. “What about it?”
“I'm going to cut you in.”
Kells widened his eyes extravagantly. “What do you mean—cut me in?”
“I'm going to clean up all the loose ends and turn the whole business over to you...”
Kells said: “My, my—isn't that dandy!” He put the full glass down on the desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Crotti flicked the ashes from his cigar, leaned forward.
“Listen,” he said. “Things are pretty hot back East. I've been running a couple ships up here with stuff from Mexico for a year. Now, I'm going to move all my interests here, the whole layout. I'm going to take over the coast.”
“And? ...”
“And you're in.”
Kells said: “I'm out.”
Crotti leaned back again, studied the gray tip of his cigar. He smiled slowly. “I think you're in,” he said.
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