by Peter Corris
He leaned down, grabbed me by the shoulders and lifted me into a chair. I weighed about a hundred and ninety at the time. Some lift. Then he reached up to a shelf and took down my wallet, pistol and other odds and ends that had been in my pocket. 'Put some coffee on the stove, Hank. Me and this Jasper's going to have a little talk.'
I didn't want coffee. I didn't want anything except to be out of there. Brown flicked through the wallet. 'Browning, eh? Detective, eh?'
'Not really,' I said. 'I'm an actor, resting between jobs, actually.'
'Shut up!' He slapped me across the face with the leather wallet. Good quality leather. It hurt. My head started to ache in another place. That made at least four. I could hear Hank rattling cups and pots and running water into the sink. Suddenly my mouth was dry and I couldn't tell whether it was fear or thirst or both. It's remarkable how you keep thinking, even when your life is in danger. I realised that neither Hank nor Brown had been on the road near the Ventura County line. Meaning there were more than four men in on this little game, whatever it was. When was that? It seemed like days ago but it was only hours. I was thinking, but not thinking straight. Best to say as little as I could. Hank brought Brown a mug of coffee and he sipped at it while he looked at my possessions.
'Cheap wallet. Cheap gun. Cheap business. You're over your head, cheapie.'
No point in arguing. The wallet had cost the girl who had the second lead in The Desert Song twenty-five bucks. My voice was a croak. 'How about some coffee? I'm mighty dry.'
Brown let out a bellow of laughter. 'Reckon you might be an actor at that. "I'm mighty dry." I don't reckon I've ever heard anyone say that outside the movies. Have you, Hank?'
Hank wasn't as dumb as he looked. He smirked and let his twangy voice go slow and droopy, like Gary Cooper's, 'Nope.'
That got another laugh from Brown. I tried a grin but got smacked in the face again for my pains. 'This isn't funny, cheapie. This isn't the movies. What's your interest in Hart Sallust?'
I was almost glad to be back on the subject again. 'Hired to find him,' I said. 'By his agent . . . script's due . . . Garfield movie. . .' The lack of interest on Brown's smooth face was making me nervous and breaking up my train of thought. Christ, what can I tell him? I thought. What does he want to hear?
'We don't believe that,' Brown said.
'We?' I yelped. 'Who's we? It's the truth!'
Brown shook his head. 'I don't think so. Too much of a coincidence and we don't believe in coincidences.' He sighed. 'Too bad.'
'What?' I said. 'What's too bad?'
He drank some of his coffee, shuddered and put the mug down. I noticed then the big gold signet ring on his right hand and how it brought out the brownness of his skin. The dark hair was very dark and the hooded eyes were slightly slanted. Mr Brown had quite a bit of the Asian in him and the fact didn't comfort me one bit.
'Water,' I said.
He slapped me with the wallet again.
I sucked the blood from my lips. 'Where's May Lin?'
He raised his hand to hit me again and then thought better of it. 'Hank,' he said, 'go outside and look around. Make sure no-one's taking an interest.'
'Ain't no-one around for half a mile,' Hank whined. 'Waste of time.'
'Just do it.'
Hank hesitated. I could see he didn't like taking orders from a man who wasn't white, especially when he, Hank, had a gun to hand. Maybe he doesn't like seeing a white man being beaten up by a Chink, I thought. But that was clutching at straws. Hank swilled down his coffee, shouldered his rifle and went outside.
'Okay, Mr Detective,' Brown said, 'time for a little private chat. Let me tell you what I've got in mind. I'm going to ask you a question. If I get a good, straight answer I'll ask you another one.'
That didn't sound so hard. 'What if you don't?' I said.
He reached into the pocket of his immaculately draped cream suit and took out a small pair of pliers. 'In that case. I'll pull out one of your fingernails. I guess I can spin it out to ten questions, give or take a couple.'
The pliers fascinated me. They had narrow jaws and red rubber grips. They were the cruellest-looking things I'd ever seen and I could feel my bladder getting ready to let go. 'You have to believe me,' I stammered. 'I've told you the truth. I was hired to find Sallust because. . .'
'Who hired you?'
I thought that over. It wasn't a situation you wanted to name names in, but I had no choice. 'Robert Silkstein. The agent.'
He clicked the pliers. 'When?'
'Couple of days ago.'
He stood up and for one ghastly minute I thought he was going to circle around behind me and go to work, but he moved over to the window. I swivelled my head to see him. He rubbed dust off the pane and looked out. It was dark outside now and all of a sudden I felt the air temperature in the cabin drop. It would be a damn cold place at night, even in spring. God knows why I was noting these things, they weren't likely to do me a blind bit of good. Brown left the window, moved up behind me and grabbed my right hand. I screamed as I felt the pliers bite my flesh and click shut.
Brown laughed. He came around and showed me what he'd done. He'd pushed the pliers onto my right thumbnail, forcing back the top of the thumb, and nipped out a half-inch-square section of the nail. He held it under my nose. My thumb was on fire and I retched. Nothing came up except a nasty noise and a sour smell because my stomach was empty. 'Once again. Who hired you?'
I had to say something different. I didn't want to but a man can only take so much. 'A private detective named Pete McVey from Santa Barbara. He told me Silverstein hired him, like I've told you. That's all I know. I swear it's true. Jesus, don't come near me with those. . .'
Brown opened the pliers and let the piece of nail fall into my lap. He'd done a bit of ripping to get it free. There was blood on it. I almost fainted at the sight. Then I heard Hank's voice from the door.
'No-one around, Mr Brown. How tough is he?'
'Not very,' Brown said. 'The trouble is, I think he's telling the truth.'
'I am. I swear.'
'I don't think it's going to do you any good, cheapie, but I need instruction on this.'
'Wh-what d'you mean, instruction?'
'Never mind. Are you a religious man, Browning?'
'No.'
'Pity. Hank's religious, aren't you, Hank?'
'God-fearing, anti-Communist Christian. That's me,' Hank said.
Brown smiled and slipped the pliers back into his pocket. I was never so relieved to see a man do anything in my life. 'Salt of the earth, that's our Henry. Where's the nearest phone, Hank?'
'Garage back down the road a ways. 'Bout a hundred yards from the highway. Name of Art. . .'
Brown raised the finger with the signet ring on it to his lips. 'Ah, ah, no names. Not that it'll matter much, I expect. Keep an eye on Mr Browning while I go and make a call. You might encourage him to say some prayers. Maybe you know some you could teach him.'
'I know some,' Hank said.
'Splendid. I won't be long. I'll take the Plymouth.'
Brown left the cabin and I looked at Hank. He gave me a brown-toothed grin and settled himself on the edge of the table. His rifle lay across his lap. Hopeless weapon and position for shooting at close range, but quite okay if your target is tied hand and foot.
'I could do with a drink,' I said.
'I don't touch liquor, mister.'
'I meant water.'
He came over and checked my hands and feet, taking care to keep clear of a kick or any other sudden movement. He needn't have worried—I was numb everywhere.
'Can't see the harm,' he said. He went to the sink and ran water into a glass. He brought it back and held it to my mouth. I drank gratefully. The water got rid of the foul taste in my mouth. I nodded my head for more, considered spitting it at him, but what would be the point? I closed my eyes and let the water go down my throat. Dignity, I thought, die with dignity.
'You want to say a prayer?'
/> 'No. I just don't want to die ignorant. What's this all about?'
Hank resumed his position at the table. He scratched his stubbled chin and looked at a point somewhere above my head. 'I can't rightly say. I just know we've got to fight those commies, here and now.'
'Russians?' I said. 'I've got nothing to do with any Russians.'
He shook his head. 'Chinks. Chink commies. Can you imagine it? Five hundred million commie Chinks? Can you imagine what that would mean to Christian America?'
I couldn't. 'No,' I said. 'And I can't see what it's got to do with me. Listen Hank, this Brown, he's a bit of a Chinaman himself. Maybe he . . .'
'Shuddup!' Hank raised the rifle and pointed it at me. I closed my eyes and heard the shots, the booms bouncing off the walls of the tiny cabin.
9
As the smoke cleared and I discovered that I was still alive, I pieced together what had happened. Pete McVey had kicked the door in, Hank had fired a shot at him which missed and Pete had shot Hank between the eyes. The scrawny man lay on the Indian rug; his thin, bitter face was obliterated above the cheekbones by blood welling out of the wound and spreading. There was a dark, grey puddle under his head. I choked on the gunsmoke and coughed. Pete was standing shocked in the doorway with his big pistol pointing in my direction.
'Hey, Pete,' I said, spluttering, 'point that thing somewhere else. Boy, am I glad to see you. Help me get untied. I'm losing circulation in my arms and legs.'
He moved across the room, tucking his pistol away in his jacket and glancing down at Hank. By the time he'd reached me he'd regained his composure.
'Damn fool shouldn't have fired,' he said. 'Didn't have a chance.'
I nodded. 'That's right. Got a knife?'
He produced a clasp knife and cut through my tie. Then he bent to saw through the belt but I stopped him. 'Hold on. That's a good belt. I can unbuckle it.'
Pete folded the knife. 'You're a cool one, Rich.'
There's nothing I like better than admiration from a man of action, unless it's admiration from a woman of action. I took a quick look at Pete, judged he hadn't heard me give his name to Brown, and held up my mangled thumbnail. 'They'd made a start,' I said. 'Hank here was a Christian wowser13 if ever I met one, but do you think there'd be a drink in the place?'
While Pete fossicked in the cupboards I got the belt undone and put it back on my pants. That allowed me to pull my pants up and restore a little dignity. I massaged my arms and legs and didn't try to stand just yet. No sense in surrendering the sympathy vote too early. McVey produced a bottle of brandy and poured two hefty slugs into enamel mugs. I took a good pull on mine, sank it in a second gulp and held out the mug for more.
'Easy,' Pete said. 'You'd be in shock, I guess.'
'Best thing for it. How the hell did you get here? Hey, what about the other guy? He could be back any moment. Gimme that rifle. . .'
'I saw him go. What was he doing?'
'Going to make a phone call to see if he should shoot me or cut my throat.'
'It's a half-hour round trip. We've got some time. We can get him when he comes back.'
I liked that. I liked the idea of having Mr Brown in the sights of Hank's Winchester. As I worked my way through some more brandy I listened while Pete filled me in on how he'd happened to turn up in the right place at the right time. He admitted that he'd lied when he'd said he hadn't got the licence number of the car that nearly ran us down. He'd got enough of it to run a trace and locate its registered owner in Santa Monica—Charles Tan. He'd gone out there and chanced upon the Chevrolet, bullet holes and all, heading in the direction of Malibu and parts north. The Chevvy reconnoitred the cabin then pulled off the highway a few miles south of the Ventura County line.
'Hot out there waiting, I can tell you,' Pete said.
'Do you mean to tell me you were there when they stopped May Lin and me? When they sapped me? You just sat there?'
'Now hold on there buddy. All happened so fast. And I wasn't exactly on the spot. Mr Tan and his Chevvy . . .'
'What happened to May Lin?' I said urgently. 'Pete, was she hurt? Did they rough her up? Or was she in on it with them?'
McVey rubbed his big jaw and looked at his watch. 'Rich, I can't say for sure. I was up the road a ways. Hadn't we better get ready for this guy, what d'you call him?'
'Brown.'
'Big, smooth-looking hombre in a cream suit?'
'That's him.'
'Charles Tan, according to the motor licence department.'
I had my circulation back now, and my confidence, boosted by the brandy. Hank's smashed head didn't worry me now. If he was right, he was with his God in heaven; if he was wrong, and I was pretty sure he was, what the hell did it matter anyway? I stepped over him, picked up the Winchester and put a shell into the chamber.
'Looks like you know what you're doing,' Pete said.
'I was a sniper in . . .'
'Spain?'
I grunted. 'Doesn't matter. Let's see what Mr Brown or Mr Tan has to say when he gets back. He's got this pair of pliers in his pocket. I might put them on one of his teeth and see if it gets him talking.'
'Easy, Rich. I agree we should take him but we've got some problems here. I mean, a dead man?'
'Self-defence,' I said
Pete checked his pistol and shook his head. 'What county're we in? What's the law out here?'
'I don't know.'
'Makes a difference.'
He was right. Those parts of the Hollywood/LA complex that fell under county policing were run differently from the parts that were incorporated into the City. Both were as corrupt as Nero's Rome, but you could buy more law for less money in the counties than in the city. 'We'll worry about that later,' I said. 'Brown said he was driving a Plymouth.'
Pete nodded. 'Two-tone job, maroon and blue.'
'You wait in here,' I said, suddenly very much in charge. Maybe it was the brandy, maybe the thumbnail, maybe the Winchester. 'I'll brace him outside.'
'Don't shoot him, Rich,' Pete said. 'We don't know shit about what's going on.'
I checked the rifle. One in the chamber and eight in the magazine, .44 calibre, lever action, well greased. 'I won't hit him anywhere that matters,' I said.
Charles Tan, aka Mr Brown, didn't show. Pete and I waited for over an hour. Then we scouted around the cabin for a time. Nothing happened. I got my first good look at where I'd been taken against my will, interrogated and tortured. It was a nice, modest little place on a canyon road with another running past a mile or so above it and the lights of the highway just visible away to the west. We searched the cabin thoroughly but found nothing to suggest that it wasn't just what it seemed—somebody's holiday shack, a place for walks, chopping wood and cooking flapjacks.
'Door was forced,' Pete said, examining the jamb. 'I'd say our boys just picked out a handy cabin for a couple of hours.'
I was busy collecting my belongings, stuffing the bits of necktie in my pocket and wiping down surfaces. Hank was starting to look even deader.
'What're you doing?' McVey said.
'Cleaning up.' I tried to think of all the things that bring people in these situations unstuck. I found the bloody bit of thumbnail and wrapped it in my handkerchief along with the butts of the seven cigarettes I'd smoked since getting free. The casing from the bullet Pete had fired? No, the gun's a revolver. No casing ejected. I took the enamel mugs over to the tap and rinsed them.
'You planning to just walk away from this?'
'What else can we do?' I said. 'Let's see, we'll have to brush out the tyre marks or drive over them a few times. Where's my lighter?'
'In your hand.'
I looked around the cabin, avoiding the upturned face of Hank. 'Where's my hat?'
'Last I saw, it was beside the highway. Probably blown into the brush by now.'
'Have to get it,' I said. 'I think that'll about do it.'
Pete lit a cigarette and picked up a metal ashtray. I wanted to tell him to be careful of
prints but something about the way he looked at me kept me quiet. 'Great,' he said. 'Nice you got everything tidied up. Now I can ring the Santa Monica cops. Thinking about it, I reckon they'd be the boys to handle this.'
'Are you crazy? There's a dead man here. You shot him.'
Pete blew smoke and pointed to a mark above the doorway. 'Should be a 30–30 bullet in there. And I've got a witness it was self-defence.'
I looked at the rifle lying on the table. My prints were all over it and I would've forgotten them. If Pete was going to stay and claim self-defence, how would he explain a rifle wiped clean of prints? Answer, he couldn't and didn't intend to. I considered skipping out and leaving him to it, but a number of things stopped me. One, he'd saved my life. Two, I wanted to know what had happened to May Lin and, three, Charles Tan and his mates were still out there somewhere, still threatening. Pete McVey was a good ally. I put on a grin I didn't feel and sat down on the torture chair. 'I was just kidding, Pete. What're the Santa Monica cops like?'
'Lousy,' Pete said. He put his hat on and stubbed out his cigarette. 'Get ready, Rich. You're in for another bad time.'
He was right. Pete McVey had an annoying habit of being right. Detective Lieutenant Burt Martingdale and his offsider, Sergeant Hamer, were almost as unpleasant as Charles Tan and Hank. Neither they nor the two uniformed men whose names I didn't catch who arrived first, expressed any regret about Hank. Cops are like that. They see too many corpses to care and what they really like is kicking living heads. I had the impression that Martingdale and Hamer were past masters, when they felt like taking the trouble. They sneered at Pete's licence and credentials only slightly less than they sneered at mine.
'Torture?' Martingdale said after I'd shown him the bit of thumbnail. 'I do worse than that to myself with my teeth when I'm tense.'