Come Die with Me (18 page)

I shook my head. “You’re not making sense. Who told you there was a woman involved?”

“Mrs. Bertha Fine, Harry Adler’s widowed sister. She told us that you told Harry you intended to keep this woman’s name from the police.”

I said nothing.

Apoyan said, “The woman is an entertainer. That’s all Mrs. Fine knew about her.”

“And giving her name to the newspapers,” I said, “would ruin a fine career.”

Apoyan leaned back and stared at me. “That’s some change. When I said bad publicity would ruin the Ronico dame’s career, you said I was crazy. You said entertainers
seek
bad publicity.”

“Movie people, yes. And the Las Vegas peep-show artists. This talent is a little different. It appeals to a different segment of our society.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “I want the woman’s name and I want it right now.”

I shook my head again.

Pascal still stood at the side of the desk. He looked at the Captain and the Captain nodded.

Pascal said, “Okay, Callahan, this way.”

“Now where?” I asked.

“To the cells. We’ll let you sit for a while and see if you don’t get a rush of brains to the head.”

“It won’t work, Captain,” I told him. “I’m a stubborn man. You know I am.”

“That’s all right,” he assured me. “There’s not much demand for rooms here, anyway.”

“Let’s go,” Pascal said.

I
PHONED MY ATTORNEY
, Tommy Self. Tommy was a fine guy when he’d been a Stanford quarterback. But he’d gone to Harvard after that and it had made him a little stuffy.

He said, “I don’t handle this sort of thing any more, Brock. I’ll send one of my associates over.”

“You’ve got thirty minutes to get here,” I said. “After thirty minutes I release the story of Tommy Self’s confession to me after a certain Cal game.”

It was a shameful story after a highly controversial game, a game Stanford had won by three points. It involved a pile-up on the Cal goal line and a bit of skulduggery in the pile that only Tommy Self and I, in all the world, knew about. The game was still acid in the memories of all the Cal alumni.

“You bastard,” he now said. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would, Tommy. For your own sake. You’re growing away from the Tommy I knew and Stanford alumni loved.”

“You bastard,” he said again. “I’ll be there.”

Officer Caroline took me down to my cell from there. He wasn’t as cool as Pascal and Apoyan had been. Officer Caroline had given up his early ambitions and it had made him a tolerant man.

“You’ll probably only get about five years,” he said, “and you could cut that down with good behavior.”

“Twenty-four hours from now,” I said, “they’ll all be apologizing to me.”

He smiled at that but said nothing. The next sound I heard was the clang of the cell door.

It had happened before and it was losing its meaning, this gesture of theirs, this imperious wave of the hand and curt “Lock him up.” It was a quick and easy way to dominance, they thought, an action that established their supreme authority. Meaningless. It burned the hell out of me.

I sat on the cot and massaged my bad knee and tried to rest my aching ankle. What had probably infuriated them was my leaving town at almost the same hour they learned I had been withholding information. My out-of-town trip could mean to them that I was taking it on the lam.

But now I was safely within reach and they would remember my reputation and Tommy would double-talk this and triple-talk that and I would probably wind up the fair-haired boy. A man can dream.

I sat there and tried to think of a bone I could throw them, a deal that would let us retain our dignity all around. Letting them rush in on Selina Stone now would be disastrous. They were too heavy-handed, too standardized and too eager to please the powerful and malicious press.

I had it almost figured out in my mind when a uniformed man brought Tommy Self to my cell.

“Judas,” he said.

“Relax, kid. We used to be friends.”

“We still are. But that doesn’t mean you should waste my expensive time on your cheap troubles. I don’t charge you standard rates, you know, Brock.”

“That’s your fault, Tommy. It all goes on the expense account. My client’s got more money than any of your San Marino friends.”

He smiled. “That’s different. Now, what’s our little problem?”

I told him what had happened and the deal I wanted to make. I tried to be persuasive and sensible, but he was frowning when I had finished.

“It sounds like a deal,” he said. “It sounds—shady.”

“It’s a deal. Don’t you make them? Ye gods, that’s a lawyer’s whole function, compromise, bargaining, deals.”

“A lawyer’s whole function is to support the law,” he said stiffly.

I said nothing, staring at him. I shook my head.

“In essence,” he added. “I mean—there is, beneath it all, the clean and solid tradition of …”

“Tommy,” I said, “did you
really
bite that man’s wrist, just to get a ball away from him?”

He inhaled slowly and his eyes hardened. “You’ll never have any dignity,
never
.”

“Not if it makes me as stuffy as you’re getting. C’mon, let’s go in and tell them the terms.”

The uniformed man let him out again and in about two minutes he was back to let me out. He led me to Apoyan’s office.

Apoyan wasn’t there. Lieutenant Trask and Sergeant Pascal were there. Apoyan, they said, had gone to lunch. I didn’t believe it; it was simply that he didn’t want any part of the deal I’d suggested.

Tommy spelled it out, diplomatically and lucidly, reminding them of my past contributions and the necessity for me to maintain a personal and
private
attitude toward my profession. He used the word “integrity” a little too often, I thought, but maybe repetition was necessary.

When he had finished, Trask looked at Pascal, and then they both looked at me. Trask sighed. Pascal shrugged.

I said, “Unless you can match up that .32 slug, where are you? And that would only nail Adler’s murderer. You haven’t got a ghost of a chance on Malone. That would be the tricky one.”

Trask frowned. Pascal said, “Does it always have to be tricky with you? What’s wrong with standard procedure?”

“You tell me,” I suggested. “What has it got you, so far?”

Trask smiled. “It’s got you in the can. That alone is rather rewarding.” He looked at Pascal. “You work it out with him. I can’t get involved in something this cute.”

Pascal’s face froze. He said evenly, “Yes, sir.”

Trask smiled again and left. Tommy Self raised his eyebrows.

“So long, Tommy,” I said. “Your Harvard conscience might be offended. Thanks for coming down.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said cooly. “Thank your client. He’ll pay for my time.”

“It’s a woman,” I corrected him.

“Of course,” he said. “I should have known. It always is.” He waved and went out.

Pascal was breathing heavily. I said, “Easy, Sergeant. Politics we will always have. And politicians. While working stiffs like you and I do the world’s dirty work.”

He was silent, still fuming.

I said, “If we’re successful, the way I plan to tell the papers about it is this: ‘After being refused cooperation by Lieutenant Trask of the West Los Angeles Station, investigator Callahan appealed to …’ You know, a real nasty write-up.”

He looked at me hopefully. “You wouldn’t. He’d get your scalp. He’d …”

“Sergeant,” I said quietly, “you know me and you are damned well aware of what I will do and what I won’t. I promise you I’ll give it to them that way, but I can’t promise you they’ll print it that way, of course.”

His thin, long face was more cheerful. “Maybe they’d print it. Do you think they might?”

I shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Now, about this girl, not a word about her leaks out, understand? That includes your hand-washing superiors, Pontius Apoyan and Pilate Trask.”

“All right! Man, what is she to you? Why do you always have to cover for somebody, protect somebody?”

“I don’t have to. I want to. Let me give you the story, all the way back to 1943.”

Strange thing about my relationship with Sergeant Pascal; when I first met him, we developed an almost instant antipathy for each other. Since then, I’d learned to respect him as a first-class officer and he had almost learned to accept me as an honest man. Which I almost am. We would never be lodge brothers but we had learned to work together.

When I had finished my story, he said, “You don’t think we could do better at Headquarters?”

“I don’t, Sergeant. And I can go it alone, if you think it’s too tricky to be dignified by Department cooperation.”

“I’m with you,” he said, “all the way. Caroline will work with me. He can use the ink.”

I didn’t see either Lieutenant Trask or Captain Apoyan again before I left. They were staying out of my way because of their stainless and important (to them) reputations.

I went from there to the office to check my mail and phone calls. Pete Petroff had called and Jan, I learned, and a Sergeant Pascal had phoned nine times. I took the mail home with me. I was bushed and I needed a few hours of restful contemplation. Alone.

I washed my face and shaved. I scrambled four eggs and made some toast and a pot of tea. I was drinking the tea and reading a letter from my aunt in La Jolla when I had a visitor.

It was Lily Chen. She looked around my little rattrap with almost the same expression on her face that Gina Ronico had shown.

“Poor but neat,” I explained. “That’s Callahan. What’s bothering you, Miss Chen?”

“You,” she said. “I have been thinking about you.”

I smiled. “I wear well, don’t I?” I brought another chair over to the small table on which I ate.

She sat down and said, “I was thinking about all the things you told me.”

“Tea?” I asked her.

“Please,” she said.

I poured her a cup of tea and poured some more for myself. “Toast?” I asked her.

“No, thank you.” She sipped the tea and looked at me squarely. “I misjudged you. I was lied to about you.”

“You were undoubtedly lied to about a lot of things, Miss Chen,” I said politely. “Have you considered how important it is to your physical well-being to believe those lies?”

“I have.”

There was a silence. I didn’t prompt her. Whatever compulsion had brought her here would keep her talking, I knew.

Finally, “He has always been kind to me. He has always been gentle and thoughtful.”

“So okay. And what has changed now?”

“When I was forced to lie about that man, that Anthony Jessup. He was the one who pushed you, you know.”

“I know.”

“The lie,” she said, “that changed everything.”

“Only if you have an active conscience,” I said. “What you did is no worse than things millions of citizens do every day. You came to the support of a hoodlum. Every person who ever bets on a horse through a bookie or who spends money in Las Vegas does exactly that same thing. Your personal conscience has been asleep for some time. This rude awakening has bothered you, but it will go away, and you’ll be able to sleep again, like all the other solid citizens.”

She sighed. “You always have to make a speech, don’t you? You always have to philosophize. You sound like you are angry all the time.”

“I am, more or less. I’m not the last of the angry men, Miss Chen, but I’m among the last of the heavy angry men.”

“That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s a joke. I find I need a few jokes here and there to keep me from screaming.”

She sipped her tea and looked at the table. “I don’t understand you. I try to, but it’s not easy.”

“Is it easy to understand Frank Giovanni?”

“The Frank
I
know is very easy to understand. He’s like a little boy, the Frank I know.”

“All right,” I said. “Go back to him. Forget the lie and believe what you want to believe. You won’t be any worse or better than your neighbors.”

She was silent again. Then she said, “You make good tea, for an American.”

“Thank you. More?”

She shook her head and stood up. “No. I must go. I am going to think about what you said, Mr. Callahan. And I am going to think about my lie.” She gestured. “Don’t get up. Rest your leg.”

She went out but the faint incense of her fragrance lingered, spicing my tea. The things a man can’t do with money … I sat there, luxuriating in self-pity.

I can’t hate women. A number of them have given me reason to, but I can’t hate them. They are forced to live in this absurd world that
man
created, and all their perversions, all their maliciousness, stem from that sad destiny.

And they are, of course, in essence, lambs.

I put some liniment on my bad knee. The broken ankle on the other leg had thrown the load on my weak knee. It was swollen.

The eggs hadn’t filled the void in my stomach or afforded me any new energy I could discover. I lay down and stared at the ceiling and traced my adventures back to the rainy morning Gloria Duster Malone had first come to my office.

The threads were all there and they were woven now, but only in my mind. Unless we could uncover the .32 that had killed Harry Adler, where were we?

I didn’t like the work ahead. I didn’t want to move. I dozed.

T
HE PHONE WAKENED ME
, and it was my beloved. In nondulcet tones she asked, “Where in hell have you been?”

“Oxnard and Santa Barbara. I’ve been working, honey. I’m a working man.” I yawned. “What time is it?”

“You’d know, unless you’ve been asleep. Is that what you’ve been doing, sleeping?”

“No. What time is it?”

“Dinner time. It’s really past dinner time, but I thought you could bring some steaks and we could broil them out in back.”

“I’m working tonight,” I said.

A silence. “Sleeping days and working nights. That figures.”

“Just tonight,” I said patiently. “Maybe, with luck, I can wrap this thing up tonight. With some help.”

Another silence, longer. Then, “Brock, you’re telling the truth, aren’t you.”

“I never lie about murder. This week end, could we take a trip up to Santa Barbara? It’s so peaceful up there.”