The Complete Bragg Thriller Box Set

by Jack Lynch

  “I’m from San Francisco,” I told her, “looking into the Cornell killing as a favor for some people down there. They don’t like Buddy Bancetti sitting out in the county jail because of it.”

  “A lot of us aren’t comfortable about that,” she told me. “I heard about you. You’re the private detective.”

  “I’m trying to be, but I couldn’t prove it with what I’ve learned so far.”

  She shook her head. “Wish I could help. I’m Sandra Kelsey,” she told me, reaching a hand across the bar.

  “Peter Bragg,” I told her. She had a good grip, despite her small bone structure. “Kelsey? This your place?”

  “My grandfather’s,” she told me, nodding down the bar toward the old geezer who couldn’t seem to get the drink orders right and kept yelling “What?” at the waitresses. “He’s semiretired, but once in a while he likes to come in for a couple of hours on a Saturday night. Says it keeps him young, but it sure does age the girls working with him.”

  I smiled, and she moved on down the bar to put an affectionate arm on her grandfather’s shoulder and speak for a moment to a pair of waitresses at the service bar. They both gave me quick glances. The word was out and the little messengers were on their way.

  Sandra worked her way back to me after a time and I ordered another drink. More people were coming in, and fellows with guitars, a bass and violin were tuning up on the bandstand at the far end of the room. Sandra caught me studying her when she put the drink in front of me.

  “Something?” she asked with another little smile.

  “None of my business, really,” I told her. “I’m just surprised you haven’t married yet is all.”

  She snorted and waved one hand at me. “I’m married and divorced. Got kids in school. The father was a stinker, and when I went to court to rid myself of him I shed his name as well and took back my own.”

  “Good girl.”

  “And I’m no girl, either,” she told me, giving me a little bigger smile as she turned away with some more of my money.

  “I know you spread the word about me,” I told her when she put change back in front of me. I shoved a couple of dollar bills into the bar gutter. “If you or the girls hear about anybody who might be able to tell me anything about the Cornell death, or where young Bancetti might have been that afternoon, I’d certainly appreciate hearing of them. I’m not doing this job for money. It’s a very serious matter to some people back in the Bay Area. I’m trying to help them, is all.”

  She made a small face. “I’ll pass along what you said. But if I knew anything, or if most any of the people in town did, they’d already have told the sheriff.” She shrugged. “If I hear something I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked up then at a girl with long brunette hair who had just entered. Sandra beamed at her and called her over to a vacant stool next to where I was standing. The girl had an odd gait. She moved with a slouch and a frown. A person couldn’t say she wasn’t pretty, but a sense of trouble and burden kept the glow out of her that she should have had at her age. I guessed her to be less than twenty-five, but from the way she moved and looked, she might have had a couple of lifetimes behind her.

  Sandra introduced me to her, said her name was Liz. “You two get acquainted,” she told us. “You might be good for each other.”

  Liz colored, I sighed and Sandra tended to some customers down the bar.

  “That’s an awkward thing to tell two people,” I said, not looking at her.

  “She means well,” the girl told me in a quiet voice, glancing up at me. “Sandra must have decided you’re a decent enough person, to have introduced us like that. She’s a friend.”

  “I think probably she just took pity. I’m in town trying to do a piece of work and I’m having a miserable time of it.”

  She looked me over more closely this time. I did a little looking back. Her hair was thick and sparkling. She was tall for a woman and instead of affecting the western costumes most of the people in the place had on, she wore a simple white cotton dress with a small, yellow flower pattern in it.

  “Are you the man from San Francisco?” she asked me.

  “Like I told Sandra, news travels fast.”

  She surprised me with a cute giggle. “You must be the fellow my little sister tried to seduce out at the ball game.”

  “Were you there?”

  “No, but Angel told me about it. She said she practically threw herself at your feet.”

  “Or somewhere, if she’s the saucy teenager who approached me out there.”

  “I’m sure. She was furious when you turned her down and walked off with freckle-faced Aggie Leland. Then when she learned you were an honest-to-Gawd private eye,” she said, deliberately drawling the last part of it, “you could almost see the flecks of foam shoot out of her mouth.” She laughed, and her eyes sparkled as she told me about it. I had the feeling she didn’t do too much of that. I shook my head.

  “The girl must be a burden.”

  “You don’t know by half,” she told me, turning sober again.

  “Would you like a drink?” I asked. “I’m pretty safe, all in all.”

  “Sure. Sandra always makes a face and says I’m so out of date, but would it bother you to order me a champagne cocktail?”

  “Not at all, if you figure she knows how to make one.”

  “Sandy knows how to do most anything,” the girl assured me.

  After her drink came we talked some more. She told me a little bit about the Reynolds family, that being the surname of her and her little sister. Families, at least some of them, tend to drift apart early, around Claireborn, from what Sandra and now Liz said. She said her father deserted them when she was twelve and her sister was six. She said if it had been the other way around, so far as their ages were concerned, Papa might have stuck around, because by the time Angel was twelve she was a young woman and drawing stares. Then a couple of years ago their mother had remarried. She’d hooked up with a smooth-talking highway maintenance worker named Theo who’d been through town during the heavy snows of that year.

  “But Angel was sixteen by then, and being just a man, Theo had a hard time keeping his eyes off her, and you’ve seen what Angel can be like around men, so Mama and I decided it’d be smarter for her to set up house with Theo down in the valley. Whenever they come up to visit, Mama phones first and I get Angel out of town for the day. Most times, anyway. It’s worked out okay so far.”

  “It must be a bit of a disappointment for Theo.”

  “No, I think he truly likes Mama. Man is a little bit like a rhinoceros that way. If you can avoid their initial charge they seem to forget what it was they were after in the first place and go on to other things.”

  “That’s how it is with a rhinoceros?”

  She nodded and took a sip of her champagne cocktail. “I read that someplace.”

  She and Angel shared the family home on the way out to the lake, and she did her best to try keeping Angel from going absolutely berserk over men and boys, she told me, but her watchkeeping time was restricted by a daytime job in an office at the plywood-products plant and a part-time job in the Town Cafe, where I’d had breakfast that morning.

  “It doesn’t sound as if you have time for much of a social life of your own,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “I’m wore out just trying to keep Angel barely in tow. Took her down to Planned Parenthood in Sacramento last year to avoid that sort of thing, but she won’t graduate from school for another year. Maybe then she’ll run off, or settle down and raise kids or whatever. Anyway, she’ll be eighteen and I’ll be able to start putting together a life of my own. Maybe I’ll come to San Francisco and become a private detective,” she told me with a twinkle in her eye.

  “It’s not a lot of fun,” I told her.

  “You think being around here working two jobs and trying to keep Angel from going completely ape over the whole male population is such a treat?”<
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  “It’s beginning to sound like Mama deserted in the face of enemy action.”

  “Not really. She just got wore down. Angel’s been like this for nearly five years, remember. Mama talked to Doc Peterson about her once. Asked if there weren’t some shots or something he could give Angel to calm her down. He pooh-poohed it all. Said it was just a stage she was going through. Well, I’ll tell you, it’s the world’s longest stage so far as I’m concerned. And who can blame the men and boys? At least the ones with any ginger left in ’em.” She tossed back the last of her champagne cocktail and said, “Let’s dance.”

  The band was sawing away at one of their slower numbers, so I led her out onto the floor. It wasn’t because I can’t figure out something to do with my feet when the tempo picks up, but all those waving arms and dipping elbows on a crowded dance floor in a country-western place do intimidate me some. Liz Reynolds settled into my arms comfortably with her head along the front of my shoulder. It wasn’t me, especially, I felt pretty sure. I could tell that dancing was something she liked to do, and that’s probably why she came into Kelsey’s on a Saturday night. Sandra Kelsey’s calling her over to meet me told me Liz didn’t have anybody special she was meeting—at least I hoped it wasn’t to stage some jealous scene later. Liz moved nicely to me and the music, and we even tried a little faster number that followed. One of the band members sang some lyrics to it, but as usual I couldn’t understand much of what he said. I think young Bob Dylan screwed up whatever lyrical comprehension I might have had, many years earlier.

  When we got back to the bar a large-boned, attractive redheaded woman showing a bulge of pregnancy was standing by our stools asking Sandra the bartender about somebody.

  “Haven’t seen him all evening, Jessica,” the girl behind the bar told her.

  “Damn,” muttered the newcomer, staring around the floor. “Only thing that man’s ever on time for is supper. Hi, Liz.”

  “Hello, Jessica. How’s the newest family member?”

  “Huh? Oh, okay. At least I’m not puking my guts up every morning these days.”

  She wandered off and I ordered another champagne cocktail for Liz and a bourbon for me. When Sandra brought the drinks I asked if anybody had been pounding on the bar wanting to talk to me about Cornell’s killing or young Buddy Bancetti.

  “Afraid not. You might as well kick back and enjoy yourself for an evening.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve been at it since before dawn this morning. It’s about fold up time for me.”

  “Why did you have to get up so early?” Liz asked.

  “I got a phone call,” I told her. I also told her a little more about why I was in Claireborn, about what was going on at San Quentin. I figured she could use a little diversion from her oddball life.

  When I’d finished talking she regarded me soberly. “Wow. I wish I could help out.”

  “So do I. Look, Liz, I hope you won’t think I haven’t enjoyed your company, because I have. And you’re a very good dancer. But I’m dog-tired and I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “I understand. But you’re nice to talk to. If you’re around tomorrow, and would like to stop in for lunch or brunch or whatever, please do. No strings attached; no time limits up or down.”

  She was grinning and held out her hand. I took it and gave it a warm squeeze. “Thanks for asking, and I just might take you up on it.”

  She told me how to find her house. I shoved some more money into the bar gutter and said good-bye to Sandra.

  Outside the air was crisp and made the lungs tingle. I stood just outside the door a moment breathing it in. It was nice in the high country, but it was going to be nicer in bed.

  I went around the side of Kelsey’s and into the darkness of the parking area in back. There were numerous cars back there now, and when I heard quiet laughter—male and female—coming from one of the darkened vehicles I passed, I figured I knew why they hadn’t bothered to install a light or two back there to illuminate things. I’d spent a little time in parked cars behind dance halls at night my own self in my foolish youth. That had contributed eventually to an ultimately disastrous marriage, but there was no sense in rapping on car doors and trying to tell these people about such things. A man has to muddle through his mistakes by himself.

  I was still a ways out of the cone of light from the garage and wrecking yard when something happened to make me feel I’d had my first break in the mystery of what happened to J. D. Cornell. I heard a footstep a split second before somebody threw a rolling block into the small of my back and sent me skidding facedown along the hard-packed earth.

  I couldn’t tell right away how many of them there were. They tried kicking me some while I was still stunned and down on the ground. But I held my hands over the sides of my head and tucked my elbows into the body, and the arms and hands caught most of the blows. As soon as I could tuck my legs and roll, I did so. Whoever was coming from the side I rolled toward backed off, and I jumped to my feet. But my back was to the garage and the light and I was looking into the dark of the parking area. Whoever they were wore dark clothing and ski masks, and I caught another blow alongside the head by somebody who worked his way in from my right rear quarter. It sent me to the ground again, and everybody moved in to have a part of me. Somebody on the right side of me was punching the back of my neck and somebody else was trying to stave in the left side of my rib cage. I managed to grab his foot finally and bit through his trousers and into flesh.

  “Shit!” somebody yelled, and the foot went away.

  I was on the ground taking a fair amount of pummeling here and there, but for the first time since the sudden attack, I decided I wasn’t in for a really bad beating. These people were amateurs. There were at least three, and maybe four or five of them, and some of them were breathing hard from their exertions. If they’d known what they were doing, I would have been unconscious and half-dead by then. I’d had it happen. As it was, they were just knocking me around some and making me angry. I didn’t think they’d done much street fighting. At the next opportunity I bounced back to my feet and ran, up toward the light and the wrecking yard near where I’d parked my car. They came rushing after me. Good for them. I wouldn’t have as far to go when I found what I wanted. A wrecking yard is a foolish place to set upon a man when you only plan to use your fists and feet. They should have had pipes and clubs and knives and brass knuckles and maybe even a couple of other things. They would learn that in a moment or so.

  I finally saw something I could use off to the right. The pounding feet were getting close again, so I feinted left, then broke to my right, across the yard to where I could throw off my jacket and grab up an old motorcycle chain there on the ground next to some other cycle parts. They were almost on me again when I scooped up the chain and whirled around with what I hoped was a properly savage grin on my face.

  The fellow in the lead was a large one. His feet nearly slid out from under him as he tried to draw up short. I didn’t even bother with the chain. He was off balance and tilted back. I kicked him a solid lick in the vicinity of the kidney. It hurt him and he veered off. The next closest was coming in from my right. I got the chain a-flying and whipped him alongside his face. Ski mask or no, it stung him. I’d meant it to. He made a small shriek and staggered to one knee. I turned again. There were three more of them, dumbly hesitating. The one in the middle began to back off. I swung the chain in a big arc and let out a whoop. I started toward the man on my right. He jerked to a stop and raised his hands to ward off the blow, but then I changed directions and swung out at the man on my left. He got an arm up to partially block the blow, but the chain links bit into his elbow and he let out a yelp.

  They’d had enough. They straggled back toward Kelsey’s in a ragged little group, snuffling and limping and holding themselves where the chain had hit them. The bitch of it was, I was too pooped to go after them. I just stood there with my hands at my sides, panting as if my lungs would explode.

  In
a moment I lost sight of them, and a few seconds later a couple of cars rolled out of the lot. I threw away the chain and went looking for my jacket. When I found it I went over to my car and just sat there until I felt strong enough to drive on out to the motel. My jacket and I were both a little beat up around the edges, but I was generally pleased about things.

  There was always the possibility I was mistaken, that the people who attacked me were just a squad of local bohunks who wanted to have a little sport with the private eye from San Francisco. But I didn’t think so. I thought they were a group of people who really felt that the five of them could put the fear of God into me and discourage me from doing my job. It didn’t make the next day’s outlook any too good. Now they would know a little more about the private eye from San Francisco. He fights dirty. And maybe next time they would come at me with pieces of pipe and clubs and knives and knuckles and other things. But at least I now had the hard-edged conviction that there was indeed something to learn about the John Donald Cornell killing that somebody didn’t want me to know. The bumps and bruises and pain and crusted blood I would have to contend with made that all worthwhile.

  TEN

  I did not leap out of bed the next morning. I started slowly, and let the body get used to the idea it was going into another day of thrust and parry. I did some stretching in bed. Then I did some stretching out of bed and went through a few routines to at least partly neutralize the lactic acid built up by the parking lot exertions the night before. I heated water in the pot provided by the motel so I could make a cup of instant coffee, and thought a little bit about the parking-lot exertions. It had been a little like the antics pulled by gangs of grade-school-age kids on some hapless youngster, usually new to the environment, who was for a time the favorite butt of pre-teenage sadism. There had been too many people crowding in at once to really hurt somebody. Everybody sticking out a fist for a half-hearted poke and trying to avoid everybody else at the same time. As memory served, those beatings had always been more emotionally punishing to the victim than anything else.