Although the old man went on in this vein for some time, listening was worth it to Casey, for before he hung up and left the phone booth, he had assured himself that Farr had been to Satterwitt, too.
TWENTY-TWO
Outside his car windows, Venice unreeled like a nightmare landscape, veiled in fog, dark, labyrinthine. Ramshackle two- and three-story frame houses wore Room for Rent and Vacancy signs, Dressmaking and Alterations, or, simply, Peace. Roofs and porches sagged, dripping. Here and there doors stood open. On the high verandas once peopled with tourists taking the sea air, derelict-looking groups of hippies squatted, communing, turning on, sheltering from the damp. Along the dark streets, passers-by looked furtive or somnambulistic. The land of the alienated, Farr thought. A fitting place for the beginning or end of a bad dream.
He was no longer shocked or frightened now, only angry. For what had seemed at first a malevolent force had been revealed to him as human. Faceless, yes, remorseless, yes; nevertheless, a man to be dealt with. And no man can play Devil forever.
A dim form materialized out of the dark. Farr slammed on his brakes just in time as a girl wearing a long dress and a fringed shawl darted across the narrow street ahead of him. She was barefoot, he saw. Moth-pale in the glare of the headlights, she turned, smiling, giving the peace sign. A girl like Holly.
Driving slowly onward down the dark alley-like street, Farr hunched over the wheel, the cold, inert, helpless regret which lived in him now, gnawing painfully. If only, he kept thinking. If only—what? He were someone else? If he were, she’d be alive. Yes, and drawing him into some rotten mess—drugs, blackmail, God knows what. But even so…Farr groaned. Even so, guilt is not conscience, or remorse feeling. Only time would give substance and dimension to what had happened. And meanwhile he must concentrate on this hour, the next, and the next. On finding her brother. Because his life as he knew and desired it depended now on Delbert Berry.
In a deserted lot between two old brick apartment buildings which faced on the wide Venice beach, Farr parked his car, vaguely recognizing a weathered sign advertising summer and winter rates. Lock your car, no bailment created…Violators will be…The asphalt paving was full of potholes, and the fence enclosing it had long since collapsed.
Lost in the fog, the surf boomed distantly. The wide beach-front walk which skirted the sand seemed empty of life, fogbound. Last night it had been full of strollers, Farr remembered—old people walking old dogs, hippies clustered around guitarists and bongo drummers, swish pairs and threesomes headed for their hangouts where jukes and pool tables passed the time between pickups.
Unclear which direction he had taken last night, Farr chose south, and shivering in the clinging sea chill, hurried along the sandy walk. At shoulder-height unshaded windows framed small shabby rooms where bereft-looking elderly tenants hunched before television sets. He glimpsed a woman knitting; saw a shadow looming hugely on a kitchen ceiling, a cat perched like a sphinx on the back of a chair, a dime-store sampler tacked on a wall: Bless This House. Storefronts came next—a bar, a beanery, a dark filthy window full of sea shells. Then another parking lot. Another brick apartment building. A motel, then. Almost certain he had guessed wrong, Farr slowed his pace, stepping aside as a vehicle approached, headlights refracted into luminous blobs in the moisture-laden air.
A black and white car cruised slowly by, two cop faces under billed caps eyeing him blankly, taillights leaving behind a red glow like a reflection of fire. Exhaust smell. Then he was alone again, footsteps silent except for the gritty scrape of sand on the pavement. And the fog seemed thicker, opaque and fibrous. Not like Atlantic fog. But that was home. This was not. He no longer had any home, only a setting for the man he meant to be…
Before he saw the place, Farr heard music behind blackened store windows. Saw a poster like a tomb-rubbing plastered on the door: many-armed Hindu deity, an octopus god he remembered. Go in. But he waited, listening in the steamy cold. Sometimes when they’re stoned they let me sing. Sometimes. Small hot tender body. Like this. And this. You bastard, you’re scared shitless somebody’ll ask you…A blast of sound and bar stench like a blow in the face as he pushed the door open. Let him be here, God. Let him for Christ sake be here. Neon signs burning out of the dimness: Schlitz; Hamms; It Refreshes. A homemade spotlight on The Piccolo Incense. Beards, hair, wire-framed specs—banally imitative. Twang and thump, one singing screechily, wordless words. The one he had given money to. You lay some bread on him, man, he might—“Beer,” he shouted over the din to the bartender, certain he could not be heard. Got an okay sign back.
Foaming slightly, the brown bottle was set before him. As the bartender took the dollar bill he had laid on the bar, Farr signaled him to keep the change. Then leaning, he slowly scanned the dark room, quartering it between sips from the bottle. Two leather-jacketed lesbians at a corner table to the left, both drunk. Bearded group drinking colas at the other corner table. Two ordinary-looking men in some sort of company uniform shooting pool. Silhouetted against the glowing jukebox, two girls—no, a girl and a man with long hair. No one sitting at the bar who looked like he might be her brother. Slowly, casually he studied the three men spaced at four-stool distances from each other. Solitary drinkers, he decided, one black, one who looked like a Hawaiian, and an aging crew-cut stud wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both too small for him.
He was on his second beer when the music stopped abruptly; sudden silence, like a collapse of the senses, falling on the barroom. The drummer switched off the homemade spotlight. One by one the musicians slouched to a table near the open back-corner space which served as their stage. Farr signaled the bartender to give them a drink. The black man at the bar grinned at him. Music lovers together. As the bartender yelled, “Free ones, dudes!” one of the lesbians lurched to the jukebox, spilling coins. A cue cracked on the rim of the pool table, celebrating a near-miss. Summoning patience, ignoring the sense of time ticking, ticking away in his brain, Farr lounged against the bar, waiting. Five minutes. Ten. The third three-for-a-quarter number was blasting from the juke when he headed for the door in the back marked Men.
“Hey, man, you buy this brew?”
Farr only smiled at the musicians as he passed by their table. From somewhere a girl had materialized to sit with them. Another Holly, he thought. This one dark-haired, and kooky, too. Sometimes did they let her sing? The stench of the urinals was gaseous in the small restroom. Water ran slowly out of a rusty tap into the filthy basin. Farr was cupping it in his hands, splashing his feverish face when the door swung open.
“Hey, bread man—”
Wiping his face and hands on the shred of paper towel which was all the dispenser would part with, Farr ignored the bearded boy slouched against the door frame. The same one.
“You still looking for Del, man?”
“That was last night. Thought you said he’d be here.”
The kid laughed silently. “He regrets man, he regrets. Due to shakes beyond his control, he couldn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Farr said evenly, “I might have been able to help him.”
“He needs bread, man, bread is what he needs. You want to help him, you give it to me, I’ll—”
“No. No money unless I see him.”
“Uh-hunh. Yeah, dude.” He sighed gustily. “I hear you, man.” Hesitating, he shifted. “See, the trouble is, he say he got somebody after him—” shrugging. “Nark, maybe. Won’t say. But somebody. So he’s holed up tight. But he’s hurting. He’s hurting bad. And when he comes out, he’s gonna come out screaming—”
“Where is he?” Farr waited, watching the face buried in hair—like a mouse, he thought, peeping out of a bush. All you could see was eyes and snout. “All right, suit yourself,” he said. “But I can promise you, you’re not doing him any favor.”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Look, I saw you first at the party you pl
ayed—where I met Holly. A private gig Mr. Pincus got for you.”
“Hey, Pink, you know Pink?”
“Where do you think I got the name of this place?”
“Uh-hunh. Okay, man, lemme think.” Slack as a puppet propped against the door, he blinked and pondered. Then suddenly he grinned at Farr, crooked a finger to follow, and slid out the door.
No one seemed to notice their departure except the black man, who grinned. Yeah, music lover. The Hawaiian looked lost in some beery dream. Crew-cut was standing at the jukebox near the door. As they left the bar, Farr could hear the tinkle of his quarter in the slot, and a groan from one of the pool shooters. Fog enfolded them like wet cotton. He started shivering and could not stop.
TWENTY-THREE
“You suppose he’s working two watches these days?”
“Figures he’ll retire twice as fast, maybe.”
“Think we ought to tell him it doesn’t work that way?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil a guy’s dreams of glory.”
Slowly surfacing from the depths of his concentration, Casey glimpsed Smithers’ grin, and realized he himself must be the joke. The others in the quiet squad room were watching him, amused.
“You lost your happy home?” Smithers asked, winking broadly.
“Not yet.” Casey yawned. “But I’m probably working on it.” He rubbed his burning eyes, then, blinking, bent over his notes again.
This was like trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded, he thought: a pattern seems to emerge, but sensed rather than seen. And he dared not believe in intuition. What was needed, he knew, was more in the way of fact, a clearer picture. But how did you get such a thing of a ghost, a shadow?
After his phone call to the real estate broker, Edgar Satterwitt, Casey had tried to reach Al, but there was no answer at the Krugs’. Every move they had made should be rechecked, he knew, every detail reviewed from this new angle. But if he was right, time might be terribly short—
The phone rang in the quiet squad room.
“Yo,” Smithers groaned, “there goes old John Q. up to his nasty tricks again. Who’s taking it?”
“I will.” Casey grabbed for his receiver. “Maybe it’s Al.”
“Look at that,” Smithers marveled to the others. “All that wasted ambition—”
“Detective Bureau. Kellog speaking.”
“You trying to make rank the hard way?” Krug’s voice crackled through the receiver. “What the hell’re you still hanging around there for?”
“Trying to retire twice as fast.” Casey grinned at Smithers. “Or so I hear. Listen, Al, I’ve got a new line going. You remember when we first walked into Kenji’s, that spiel he gave us about Farr’s keys?”
“Yeah, so?”
“They were stolen.” Casey told him then about the photographer with Edgar A. Satterwitt’s card.
“You’re kidding,” Krug said. “You sure about that description?”
“Positive. It’s the same one, Al!”
“Okay, don’t get excited. I buy it could be the uncle. So-called uncle. But what the hell is this key business?”
“I think Farr’s been framed.”
“The hell you say!”
“Al, I know it sounds crazy, but keep listening. I tried to get hold of you, and when I couldn’t, I went ahead backtracking—”
“Like where?” Krug asked coldly.
“The motel first—but that was negative. Then the gas station. Nothing there, either. But I lucked in at Synanon…”
The lobby of the former beach club had been smoky and crowded—a party or a meeting, Casey had thought as he walked in. But on second look, he had realized that the crowd was half onlookers, half participants in what looked to be some sort of kangaroo court in session. After listening a short time, Casey had realized that the seeming trial was not that at all, but the celebrated Synanon version of group therapy—a roasting session as merciless and savage as a threshing machine.
Savoring the faces of the onlookers—some shocked, some avid, some merely bored as the ex-addicts ripped into each other’s psychological defenses—he pushed through the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Finally he saw the hairy kid he had talked to the first time. And with the boy’s help, he located at last the sort of informant who is pure gold to a policeman, provided the policeman knows the right questions to ask…
“What’re you talking about?” Krug’s voice rasped through the receiver. “What right questions? Come on, sport, you already told me you covered that territory—”
“Sure, I did. Found out the kid had checked out just before his visiting uncle showed up. Great stuff. But what I forgot to find out was if he came around again. The uncle. And he didn’t, Al.”
“What’s so important about that?”
“Nobody knew then that the brother wouldn’t be back. He didn’t tell anybody he was splitting. But the so-called uncle must’ve known. Anyway, he found out about the sister, I know that much. So all he needed then was where she lived—easy enough to find out from one of the kid’s buddies. See what I’m getting at, Al? If he was after the brother, he found the way to get at him.”
“Jesus Christ,” Krug groaned, “what’re you trying to work up here—a whole new case?”
“Wait, there’s more,” Casey said stubbornly. “I called General downtown about those needle marks on the girl’s arm. There weren’t any when she was picked up, Al—no physical evidence of any sort she was an addict. Then I talked to the lab. One of the technicians there claims that wad of tape we found in the boat could’ve been on her wrists for days. So maybe Farr was leveling with us after all. See what I mean? Somebody grabbed her at the motel—”
“Bullshit, that’s Farr’s pipe dream. We haven’t got one piece of evidence to support it.”
“We’ve got his statement. And it fits, Al.”
“It fits, all right.” Krug’s guffaw blared like a brass horn. “Fits so good, in fact, the guy’s on the lam.”
“Well, if he isn’t, God help him—for sure we won’t!”
“Ah, you bleeding hearts, you’re all the same. Give you a suspect, right away you got to whitewash him.” Through the receiver his angry breathing hissed as Krug paused. “Okay,” he said finally, “if you’re through playing Sherlock Holmes—”
Casey was too furious to answer.
“Forget it. Any word on Farr?”
“None, he’s disappeared.” Sour and weary, Casey glanced out the window at the billowing fog. “So has everything else around here. It’s Jack-the-Rippr weather. Pea-soup fog.”
“Yeah, it’s here, too—but not heavy yet.” Krug lived inland near Bundy. “But I heard on the news it’s really getting bad. Airport’s socked in. Big pile-up on the Coast Highway. So”—Casey could hear the shrug in his tone—“we pick him up tomorrow, he can’t hide forever.”
“Al, I swear I don’t think—”
“I know what you think. Nice guys don’t kill anything but fifths of Scotch. Listen, what’s the word from Pete?”
“Only that preliminary report so far.”
“Then go home, sucker. Quit hanging around. See you tomorrow,” and he hung up.
Well, so much for your brand-new line, Casey thought. And your missed dinner. Yawning, he peered at the report still sitting in the typewriter, savagely resentful that he was limited to this one-dimensional officialese which in no way conveyed his strong sense of that shadowy figure out there. The so-called uncle moving omnisciently behind the façade of events as reported, manipulating them like some minor god or demon.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Hey, dude, you got the shakes, too, hunh?”
“Cold,” Farr muttered through clenched teeth. “How far is it?”
“Relax, man.” Woolly head bobbing to some inner rhythm, he shuffled along, seeming impervio
us to the chill although he wore only a blue workshirt, threadbare jeans, ratty sandals with a broken strap.
Hunched inside the nylon windbreaker he usually wore for sailing, Farr counted buildings, tried to keep oriented. His clothing seemed to soak up moisture, clinging to him clammily. In the kingdom of the blind, he kept thinking as, wraith-like in the fog, passers-by materialized, then disappeared, their voices like the voices of spirits. If only he could see house numbers. Relieved, he spied a public phone booth ahead, half-glass, its yellowish light glowing like a dim beacon.
But before they reached it, a hand caught his arm. “Wait here, man.”
Shuddering, hands deep in the slash pockets of his windbreaker, Farr watched him drift off in the fog—a shadow rising as he mounted a steep wooden stairway fastened to the outside of an old dark-painted shingle-sided house. One story, two, he went up, then a half-flight more to a door which must let into an attic room. A faint glow appeared as the door opened, then the ghostly hairy figure disappeared.
Gritty-sounding footsteps came at Farr as he waited. Stepping aside, nearer the house, he guessed his silent motionless figure emerging out of the fog must have startled the passer-by, because the man sheered off, giving Farr a wide berth as he passed with his head down, his coat collar turned up. The footsteps stopped. A match flared. As the man went on, a melodic mocking whistle drifted down to Farr. Peering upward, he dimly discerned the musician beckoning in the radiance from the open door at the top of the rickety outside stair.
The treads were so rotten they felt spongy underfoot. Beneath Farr’s hand, the railing was slick with moisture, splintery. Nothing to lean against, he thought, one good kick could send the whole structure tumbling. From somewhere inside the building came canned comedy-hour laughter from a television set. Through next-door windows on the second story, he spied an unmade bed, clothing strewn, a shadow passing to and fro.
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