Bloodlines (21 page)

"I've got company coming," he said softly, slipping her a five. "And I don't want to disturb the poet. Delay my shadow a little, then let me back in?"

She sighed. "Don't get hurt out there. You aren't the first one to leave by this door tonight. Probably smoking reefers out there."

He smiled. "We who are strictly squaresville have certain advantages over the cool."

"You're crazy. And I don't mean that in a good way."

He watched as a skinny man entered the bar. The man seemed familiar to O'Connor, but between the smoke and the poor lighting, he couldn't make out his features. He seemed frail, not up to whatever job he had taken on. It made O'Connor feel more wary, not less--if the man wasn't strong, he might be carrying a weapon to even the odds.

No use delaying, though, he thought.

When he was sure the man had seen him, he stepped outside and stood so that the door itself would hide his presence when it opened again. He was now in the alley behind the bar. There was a strange scent that he had smelled only a few times before, but recognized nonetheless--Nancy was right, someone was smoking marijuana nearby. He heard giggling and the sound of voices, then a young man knocked over a metal trash can as he and his girlfriend stumbled away. O'Connor ignored them, concentrating on the door. A single lightbulb burned beneath a green metal shade over the door--otherwise, the alley was in darkness. He had to stop the man as he came outside.

A moment later the door opened cautiously. He waited until the man had stepped into the alley, then tackled him from behind.

The man fell hard. An "umphh" of breath came out of him as he hit the ground. He lay so still that for a moment O'Connor wondered if he had been knocked unconscious. Pinning the man's arms, he said, "If you wanted to see me, all you had to do was come by the newspaper."

"No I couldn't," rasped a familiar voice.

"Ames?" O'Connor said, startled.

"Yes. For God's sake, Conn, you're crushing me. Get off."

O'Connor stood and helped Ames Hart to his feet, apologizing as he brushed off Ames's clothing. Hart stood on shaky legs, his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath in the way a runner might after a hard sprint. Thank God, O'Connor thought, that he hadn't thrown a punch at him or hit him over the head or taken any of the other measures he had considered.

O'Connor hadn't seen Ames Hart for some time. Known to the staff of the Express as Red Hart--though seldom to his face--Ames had covered the follow-up story of the little girl in the well, the legislation that required abandoned wells to be capped. That was less than ten years ago, but Hart looked as if he had aged thirty years since then.

Hart had been one of their best reporters, a muckraker who turned in one daring story after another--until Old Man Wrigley heard a rumor that Hart had once been a member of the Communist Party and asked Hart to deny it. Hart told Wrigley he had no right to ask the question, and Wrigley fired him, saying that when he had an answer--the correct answer--he could have a job.

Hart had remained stubbornly silent on the matter. Jack had argued with Wrigley on Hart's behalf--and nearly lost his own job.

It wasn't a good time to lose a job, but for Hart, matters got worse. He had been blacklisted. No other paper would touch him. He lost his home and barely managed to keep himself clothed and fed. Jack had become worried-- not long before, a friend on one of the L.A. papers had committed suicide after being blacklisted. Jack eventually found a job for Hart with a small radio station in Los Angeles, where Ames worked off-air and under a different name. It required all Jack's charm to talk Hart's widowed sister into letting her "pinko" brother sleep in a spare room until he got back on his feet, but once Ames was under her roof, she became fiercely protective of him. Hart had managed to get a place of his own since then, but seeing the condition of his suit and the wear on his shoes, O'Connor thought he must still be struggling to get by.

"Why the hell were you following me?" O'Connor asked, his guilt making his tone abrupt.

"Trying to see you in private," Ames said, wheezing breaths between each word. "You know what would happen if anyone saw you talking to me?"

"It's not like that anymore," O'Connor said. "You saw the crowd in the bar. This generation won't follow in Old Man Wrigley's footsteps. I'll bet his son would hire you."

Ames gave a small laugh. "O'Connor, I don't know which is more charming, your nadvete or your optimism." He sniffed the air and frowned. "Perhaps not so nadve ...were you out here smoking tea?"

"No, a pair of lovebirds before me, but thanks for thinking so highly of me."

"I do think highly of you, and Jack as well. You know I'm doing news writing for the station I work for?"

"Yes."

"So I've built up some sources. And I've heard something that might be of interest to you."

"Go on." O'Connor shifted on his feet, feeling impatient with Hart's drama.

"I've heard that a thug with connections in my neighborhood in Los Angeles was hired to beat up a newspaper reporter on the Express. Thug's name is--"

"--Jergenson. Bo Jergenson."

"Yeah," Hart said, and looked so dejected O'Connor regretted interrupting his act.

"Ames, look--"

"I guess you don't need me."

"Jergenson's dead, Ames, and not from natural causes. Someone put a bullet through his forehead and left him not far from where Jack was found. That's the only reason I know his name."

"No fooling?" He became animated again. "A bullet, huh? Well, I guess it could still be the dame, right?"

"What dame?"

"Blonde by the name of Betty. Hooker, but she's not as strung out or worn down as most. She's the mistress of a guy named Gus Ronden."

"Any last name?"

"Hell if I know it. You can bet it isn't ever going to be Ronden. But that's probably lucky for her."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not too much. Reputation for being a little psycho. You might have seen him around the pool hall--the one down at the corner near the paper?"

O'Connor shook his head.

"Go by there, you might run into him."

"What's his line?"

"Pimping, mostly. Word is, he rents out high-dollar girls like Betty by the hour, but I have a feeling he doesn't own the stable. He's probably mob-connected. Always manages to keep himself out of the hoosegow."

"What does he drive?"

Ames shrugged. "I don't know. Ask around at the pool hall."

"Thanks, I will. Sorry about knocking you down."

Ames smiled. "Not the first time that's happened to me. As long as I can get back up again, I guess I'll be all right."

Thursday morning began badly: He learned that Jack was unlikely to regain sight in the injured eye. Jack laughed about it, said he was going to buy a patch so that he could look like the mysterious man in Brenda Starr, and maybe then some gorgeous woman reporter would fall in love with him. Helen said she guessed that let her out of the running. They teased each other back and forth until O'Connor decided all the bravery was admirable but unbearable in these moments when he himself felt nothing but murderous rage, so he quickly excused himself to go to work.

At the newspaper, O'Connor tried the simple way first: looking up Ronden in the phone book. He didn't find a listing. He looked at the clock, pulled out a story he had nearly finished last week, and worked like crazy to turn it in before the pool hall opened at ten. He got over there by ten-thirty.

He spent the next few hours hiding his billiards skills, usually letting others win. During this process, he learned that Gus Ronden hadn't been seen since the Friday before Katy's birthday party. Nobody seemed to miss him much.

O'Connor softened up the bartender at the pool hall by telling stories and jokes, leaving good-sized tips, and aiding in the forcible removal of a rowdy patron or two. By the time he got around to asking him about Ronden, the bartender was in a confiding mood.

"He's no good," the bartender said. "Give you an example--cut up a colored girl in Stockton. Bragged about it, and about how he hired some slick lawyer and weaseled out of going to jail. He made out like the local coppers up there didn't care, because she was a Negro. I think that's all eyewash--they must have made it hot for him there, because he moved down this way. Probably figured if he'd do that to a black girl, next he'd do it to a white."

"Any idea where I could find him?"

"Don't go looking for him, kid. You'll just be looking for trouble."

"I like to find trouble before it finds me."

"So that's how it is. Sorry I can't be of more help, then--he has a house, somewhere over here on the west side of town."

"Kind of surprised to hear he could afford one."

"Oh, Gus is never short of money. Squeezes a penny until Abe Lincoln has bruises, but somehow I don't think that's the secret of his wealth."

"Know who he works for?"

"The devil, for all I know."

So he drove to the county offices and looked through property records to learn where Ronden lived, and then went back to the paper, where he used the crisscross phone directory to look up the phone number, which was listed as that of Elizabeth Bradford. Betty. He called repeatedly, but got no answer.

It was late afternoon by the time he got to Ronden's place. He knew it was a bad time to allow himself to go calling on anyone connected to Jack's beating. He knew he didn't have his own temper in hand, but he couldn't keep himself from hunting Ronden.

The house wasn't much of a place, nothing more than a rundown wood- frame. Most of the houses on the street were in poor repair--torn screens, weedy gardens, peeling paint. Directly across from Ronden's was one of a few exceptions: a white picket fence guarded a home with a green lawn and neat flowerbeds. Nice for Ronden to look out his window and see that, O'Connor thought dryly. The view this neighbor had was not nearly so pleasant. Ronden's house was a graying white, with a lawn that was a mongrel collection of weeds.

He watched Ronden's house for a time before getting out of the car. There was no movement or sound of any kind coming from the house. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do if Ronden was home.

Punch him, the way Jack had been punched? Literally take an eye for an eye?

Beat the hell out of him, then turn him over to Norton?

Pretend to be a salesman for the Fuller Brush Company, walk off peaceably, then call Norton?

He wasn't sure which of these ideas he'd stick with, he only knew that he couldn't sit in the car, staring at the dump Ronden called home.

As he walked up the porch steps, one creaked loudly. He paused, wondering if he was a fool not to have brought a weapon. But he had no real experience with guns, not much more than Dan Norton taking him to a firing range a few times. With Dan's tutelage, he'd managed to hit a paper target fairly consistently, but he knew that men were not likely to act like paper targets, and thought himself little match for someone who truly knew what he was doing with a gun.

He knocked hard on the door, half in anger, half in fear. He kept his fist clenched. But after a while, it was clear no one would be coming to the door. He listened for the sound of movement within the house for a long time, and became convinced that Ronden wasn't home.

He walked up the rutted dirt driveway toward a dilapidated garage, one that looked old enough to have housed a Model T at some point, if not a carriage. A short fence between the house and the garage enclosed a small backyard. He was surprised to see pink roses growing along the back wall. They seemed well tended--the only thing about the place that was.

He turned back to the garage. There was no lock on the latch that held the double doors closed, so he opened it and pulled on the one on the right. It swung out toward him with a loud creaking. If Ronden was in the house and hadn't heard him yet, the man was deaf.

The scents of oil and dust greeted him, but no car occupied the garage. A few rusty garden tools and a push mower stood against one wall, a workbench on the other. He opened both doors and stepped inside to get a closer look, taking care to avoid stepping on the oily tire marks on the concrete floor. Big tires, set wide apart. A big car.

He pulled a string hanging next to a bare lightbulb overhead, but nothing happened. Either the bulb was burned out or the electricity was off. Had Ronden abandoned his home after killing Bo Jergenson?

He looked more closely at the workbench, but it appeared that little work was done on it. There were no tools on or near it. He saw a rusting footlocker beneath it, though, and bent to open it. He had just released the latch when a gruff voice said, "What are you doing in here?"

Startled, O'Connor banged the back of his head on the underside of the bench.

"Jesus!" he said, wincing. He straightened, and saw a man in his sixties pointing a shotgun at him. He raised the hand that wasn't rubbing his head.

"I'll thank you not to use the Lord's name in vain."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you doing in here?" the man asked again.

"My name's O'Connor. I'm with the newspaper. Put the gun down and I'll show you my press credentials."