County Kill (14 page)

The store called Chun’s was closed. The store-wide sign on the roof informed the potential customer that this was the Tri-County headquarters for raffia and rattan, hemp and grass mats, and kindred importations.

I drove past and parked in front of two converted frame cottages that were now the offices of a doctor of osteopathy and a chiropractor. There was a gap between the buildings, and I could see the front door of another — even smaller — cottage in the back lot behind Chun’s.

There was a light showing in this rear house.

I left the car and started out along the crushed stone path that led from the service door of the store to the rear house. I had no official authority to come here — but neither could Chief Harris prevent me from asking Chun questions. This was not San Valdesto.

I was two steps past the rear of the store and a good distance from the front door of the cottage when this — this
monster
came quietly out from the shadow of an oleander bush.

The only light was the reflected light from the house, and in that hazy vision the general outline of the beast resembled a dog. It had to be a dog; no domestic cat was this big and very few horses were this small.

He didn’t bark; he didn’t growl. He stood calmly in my path, both forefeet planted solidly, his nose pointed in the general direction of my throat.

I assumed that he was staring at me. I knew damned well that I was staring at him, waiting for my eyes to adjust, praying that the anxiety welling in me wouldn’t emit an odor of fear that would encourage the beast.

“Hi, doggie,” I said weakly.

Nothing from him. He stood motionless, and in my growing vision he seemed to be crouched for springing.

I was afraid to turn my back on him; I didn’t have the will to go forward. He looked like one of the Eskimo breeds, wide, big-jawed, and heavy.

“Hi,” I said again. “Hello!”

He took a tentative step forward.

“Down,” I cautioned quietly. “Heel.” He couldn’t be vicious, I thought. A vicious dog would be tied or penned. The neighbors and the law would see to that.

But it was his yard, not mine.

Now he was crouching. I could see him clearly and I listened for the warning growl above the pounding of my heart. Maybe he only wanted to play, I told myself skeptically. Maybe he was crouching for a playful leap.

At my jugular.

If he would only make some sound. If he would growl or snarl or wag his tail — anything but crouch there silently, making me sweat.

I took the chance and shouted, “Hey, Chun! Your dog’s loose!”

It prompted him into action. He leaped and I side-stepped frenziedly. One of his huge paws scraped my forearm.

“Down, damn you!” I shouted at the top of my lungs while I covered my face with my arms.

The light flashed on in the yard and a voice from the direction of the house shouted, “Kong, come here!” And, in a quieter voice, “Don’t panic, mister. He only wants to play. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I lowered my arms from in front of my face and explained with dignity, “I’m not a fly. What the hell is he?”

“An Alaskan Malemute. Sled dog. Lousy watchdog. Too friendly.” A pause. “And who are you?”

“My name is Callahan. Are you Pablo Chun?”

“I’m not Picasso,” he said wryly. “You selling something?”

“Nothing. I came for information.”

A pause, and then, “What kind of information?”

“Information about the death of Johnny Chavez.”

A longer pause. His dog was at his side now, his attention still on me. I couldn’t see Chun’s face. I saw only his outline. He was tall and heavy with a rounded look, slope-shouldered, thick-armed, his head big on a thick neck.

The silence grew and I said, “I’m a private detective hired by Skip Lund.”

A continuation of the silence for perhaps half a minute. Then he said dully, “All right. Come on in. I can’t help you, though.”

I came up the two steps that led to his front door and into a small living room furnished in mail-order
moderne
. Pablo Chun pointed to a square, stuffed chair and I sat in it.

He continued to stand, facing me. He had a round face, dark and strong, with only a suggestion of oriental cast to his brown eyes.

He said, “Back in high school, I used to know Johnny. We played basketball together. We haven’t been close since.”

“I understand you’ve been seeing him more than usual lately.”

“Who told you that?”

“I think it was a police officer,” I lied.

His dog came over to lay his massive head on my knee. I rubbed the coarse fur of his neck and scratched him behind the ears. He slobbered on my knee.

“Kong!” Chun said sharply. He pointed toward a corner of the room. “Down!”

The beast went slowly over to lie in the corner, his eyes reminiscently on me.

Chun said doubtfully, “If the police told you that, why haven’t they been to see me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You lied, didn’t you?”

“I can’t reveal the officer’s name,” I lied further, “but he told me that. Isn’t it true?”

“It might be. It has no meaning, though.”

I said, “He’s been eating without working. How did he do that?”

Chun shrugged.

“He sat ninety days on a reefer rap,” I went on doggedly. “Maybe he graduated to the Big H.”

From the direction of the airport came the sound of a plane revving before take-off. Kong’s ears lifted and he turned to stare in the direction of the sound.

Chun said, “You’re fishing. I don’t know what Johnny’s business was.”

“You haven’t even an informed guess?”

Chun was growing annoyed. He asked, “Why are you bothering me? You figure because I’m half Chinese I’m
bound to be in the opium racket or something?”

“Nothing like that,” I said soothingly. “You were right before; I’m fishing. I have a little information and I need a lot more. I’m not accusing you of any complicity.”

There was emotion in his voice. “If I knew who killed Johnny Chavez, the police would have the killer’s name. I’m a businessman, Mr. Callahan. My books are open. What Johnny did was his business. What I do is sell raffia and rattan and garden furniture.”

The plane had warmed up now, and its thunder grew as it gained momentum down the runway. Kong’s head lifted as the sound rose; he was still staring into space when there was only a distant drone.

I stood up. “It looks like I was given a bum lead. I apologize, Mr. Chun, for bothering you this time of night.”

His voice was calmer now. “No trouble.” He sighed. “Johnny was always in hot water one way or another. If it wasn’t money, it was women. A lot of people didn’t like Johnny Chavez.”

He came to the door with me as I went out into a night that had turned noticeably colder in the short time I had been inside.

The car’s engine was still warm; the heater gave me almost instant heat. Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere….

I am quite often disturbed by my own sense of insufficiency, but tonight was a new low. Chun, Lund, Chavez — none of them had given me even a ghost of a lead. Juanita had been frank, but I had almost guessed what she had told me.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nowhere…. I drove back to the motel in a real ugly mood.

And there behind my rear door the green Pontiac station wagon was parked. James Edward Ritter started to climb out of it as soon as he recognized my car. He was drunk.
That much was clear as he walked carefully toward me. He was drunk and I had to assume that he was going to be belligerent. I could only hope that he wouldn’t cause enough of a fuss to bring the police.

He stopped walking about three feet from me as I stood next to my car.

He said raspingly, “You son-of-a-bitch!”

“Slow down,” I warned him. “It’s been a bad day. What’s your beef, Ritter?”

“You,” he said. “Put up your hands, you bastard.”

“Come inside and talk quietly,” I said, “or I’ll send for the police.”

“You’ll
send for the police? You haven’t got any friends in this town Callahan. Now put up your hands or crawl into your hole.”

I turned and started for the manager’s office and he moved quickly to put a hand on my shoulder and turn me around.

He had turned me with his left hand and his right was cocked for delivery. I suppose I could have moved inside of it and wrestled him to some kind of sanity, but the day had held too many frustrations.

I moved inside of his wild right, pushed him back, and threw a right of my own, a punch that carried the added weight of the day’s humiliations.

It was on target; he went down and out, as cold as the night.

O
N THE BED
he stirred and moaned and then sat up as I came from the bathroom with a cold, wet washrag.

“How the hell did I get here?” he asked.

“I carried you. You all right?”

He swung his feet around and then thought better of it as a wave of dizziness must have hit him. “Carried me?” he mumbled sickly. “I weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“I noticed that. You’re not going to vomit, are you?”

He stared at me in sick indignation. “I haven’t done
that
, Callahan, since I left high school.”

Small prides for petty men…. I said, “Would you like some coffee?”

“I don’t want
anything
of yours,” he said. “You and I will go around again, Callahan, when I’m sober.”

“Any time,” I assured him. “I like you, too.”

He felt his jaw gingerly and tried once more to swing his feet around to the floor. This time he made it and sat on the edge of the bed, his head forward, his hands pressing down hard on the rough-textured spread.

He said quietly, “You think you can do Lund some good?
He’s dead. He’s going to jail, whether he killed Chavez or not. That’s the way it’s going to be and you may as well go home right now.”

I said, “If that’s the way it’s going to be, why did you come over here tonight?”

“Because until you came up here, June was through with that bum. Today she couldn’t stay away from him.” He lifted his head to glare at me. “He’s a bum and his friends are rats.”

“And you love his wife,” I said. “There are always complications, Ritter, when you mess with another man’s wife.”

“Mess?”
he said. “Watch your language.” He rubbed his neck. “I love her. We’re going to be married.”

I said nothing.

His voice quieter, he said, “Who’s paying you? And how much?”

“My client’s paying me the standard rate, a hundred a day.”

A silence, and then, “How many miles do you get on a gallon in that jalopy of yours?”

“About fifteen. Why?”

He stared at me levelly. “I was wondering how far away a thousand dollars would take you.”

“It wouldn’t get me out of town,” I told him. “I’m for rent, Ritter, but never for sale. I think you’d better leave now.”

He stood up shakily. “You figure you and Lund can get into June’s money? She took care of that a month ago. I’ll give you twelve hundred.”

“Good night,” I said. “Be smart. Leave now.”

“I’m going.” He felt his jaw once more and stretched his neck. “And if you’re smart, you’ll leave now, too. You’ve been warned.”

“Good night,” I said.

He went out and slammed the door. In a minute I heard the sound of his tires squealing on black-top as he gunned away. He, too, hadn’t told me anything I hadn’t guessed. If they couldn’t get Skip for murder, they felt, down at Headquarters, that they could put him away on a narcotics charge.

Juanita must have known that, but she hadn’t seemed worried.

High-school buddies, Vogel and Ritter, Chun and Chavez. Old loyalties, well-intrenched bigotries — and I scratched at the surface of nothing, a futile quest in an insular town. Why didn’t I quit?

This is Don Boyer, Brock. This is Brock Callahan, Don. Who’d want me?

I undressed slowly, trying to think, to find a thread or a pattern, a forgotten aside or a telling slip of the tongue. Nothing. I showered for a long time, hoping to wash out with drumming water the tight knot between my shoulder blades.

In about an hour I fell asleep. And dreamed of a girl I’d known years ago in my high-school English class.

• • •

Sunday morning dawned hot and clear. At the pancake restaurant I bought a copy of the Los Angeles
Times
and dawdled over my coffee as I skimmed it. Though I malign the paper constantly, I cannot live for long without it.

It covered in its thorough way this murder up here, and in this Sunday edition it included a résumé of the case up to now. There was nothing in the account I didn’t know, but I read it carefully, hoping to find in the printed summary some pattern that hadn’t shown in my day-to-day questioning.

Nothing.

The waitress was patiently pouring me my third cup of
coffee when I saw the dark-skinned policeman enter, still in civvies, as he had been last night.

He stood in the doorway and then headed directly for my small table.

When he was standing before me, I said, “Good morning, officer. Sit down and have a free cup of coffee.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, and sat in the chair across from me. “My name is Juan Montegro. I started my vacation last night but have decided to stay in town a few days.”

“Because of what’s happened?”

He nodded. He licked his lower lip. “Juanita was — indiscreet last night.”

“She trusts me. Did you know what was going on?”

A pause, and then he nodded.

“Does Sergeant Vogel, too?” I guessed.

A longer pause and another nod.

“And who else?” I asked.

“A man named Captain Dahl. Have you met him?”

“No. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Lund did not kill Chavez. Because Sergeant Vogel is being a bad police officer due to his friendship with James Ritter.” He licked his lower lip again. “I thought you might need some ammunition later.”

“Ammunition? You mean my knowing that Dahl and Vogel let this illegal operation continue? You
can’t
mean I should blackmail them with it?”

His dark face stiffened. “Of course not! I thought of it as a lever, as a shield.”