Dead Pigeon (17 page)

I nodded.

As we walked past the front window of The Dungeon, I could see the former flyweight boxer, little Ernie, quaffing a beer at the bar. Maybe it was he who had alerted Gillete, but I doubted it.

There was no light showing in the front window of the cottage; the reflection from a side window showed there was a dim light on in one of the windows near the rear of the house.

Lars stayed out on the walk in front, giving me time to go down the alley to the back of the cottage. At the far end of the alley, two shabby men were rummaging in the trash cans there, illuminated by the streetlight at the far end.

I moved into the small yard and crouched behind a bush. The moon was out, the night was cloudless. The scavengers were arguing now. One of them must have unearthed something the other man wanted.

No sound came from the house. Perhaps it was vacant. Lars should have rung the bell or knocked on the door by now. It was hard to believe that Gillete had conned us. He had too much to lose.

And then I heard Lars shout, “Damn you, Veronica, open the door! I’m not here to bust you.”

Less than a minute later, I heard the rasp of the dimly lit side window opening. And the bald head of Emil Clauss emerged.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Emil!” I shouted. “You’re covered all around.”

The head disappeared.

Seconds later, there was the blast of what had to be a shotgun. I ran through the yard to the front of the house.

Lars was lying on the sidewalk below the porch. I didn’t see any blood. “That bastard!” he said. “He shot right through the door!”

He rose slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank God for the jacket. The door slowed enough of the pellets to keep me alive, but not enough to keep me on my feet. Did you see which way he went?”

I shook my head. “But we have a car and he probably doesn’t. Let’s go!”

We were heading for The Dungeon parking lot when Ernie stopped us short of the place. “I heard the shot,” he said. “Are you looking for Clauss?”

We both nodded.

He pointed at The Dungeon. “Don’t tell the boys in there that I finked. It’s full of Clauss fans. Me, I’ve had enough trouble. He’s in the storage room at the back of the joint. He ran in there a couple minutes ago.”

“Is there a back door to the room?” Lars asked.

Ernie shook his head. “Two windows. But both of them are screened with heavy netting. He should still be in there.”

Lars said to me, “You go back to the alley, Brock. I’ll handle this end.”

The scavengers were now nowhere in sight. There was a large rubbish can in the alley about forty feet this side of The Dungeon. That would afford me all the cover I would need.

A rasping sound was coming from the storage room. Emil must have found some tool in there to loosen the heavy netting. It wasn’t likely that Lars would go into that dim room with the light from the bar framing him in an open doorway.

The rasping sound ended. Again, there was the squeaking sound of a window opening. And again the bald head emerged. This time it swiveled to check both ends of the deserted alley. I crouched lower, my stomach rumbling, the Galanti shaky in my hand.

The head disappeared, one leg emerged. I waited until he was out and standing in the alley before I called, “Drop the gun, Emil!”

He didn’t. He spun my way, looking for me, bringing the shotgun up. I didn’t yell again; he wouldn’t have heard me anyway in the sudden blast of his weapon. He missed me, but I didn’t miss him. I put two slugs from the Galanti into his chest. He went down, the shotgun clanging as it bounced on the pavement.

I was bending over him when Lars stuck his head through the open window. “Dead?” he said.

“Dead.”

“Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask dumb questions. Give me the damn gun and take mine. Go back to the car and wait for me. I’ll phone the station from here.”

I was back in the car when the ambulance and the squad car showed up. I stayed there until they left again a long time later.

When Lars came, he said, “You can take me home now. I’ll take the Department car to the station. I’ll bring your Galanti to you at the motel after I’m finished reporting at the station,”

I handed him his gun. “I’m the one who shot him, Lars.”

“We both know that. Do you want to spend a couple months in court down here claiming self-defense?”

“I don’t. But maybe I should.”

“And get me into more trouble with Slade? He
hates
private eyes. But he loves to see hoodlums die. He’s been getting a lot of static about the Department’s lack of interest in nailing Mike’s killer, mostly from concerned citizen’s groups. We took that load off his back.”

I said nothing.

“Brock, if he’d come out into the bar, I’d have nailed him and he’d be just as dead. Jesus, man, grow up!”

I turned on the engine and drove out onto the street. We had no further dialogue on the way to his house. I was emotionally bushed.

When I dropped him off, I said, “Keep the damned Galanti. I don’t want it.”

He grinned at me. “Thanks. I forgot to get you a permit for it. You could be in deep trouble, buddy, if you kept it.”

Some bitter words came to mind, but I didn’t voice them. I had come down here and done what I had to do. And he had been more help than hindrance. One more killer would not be back on the streets. Why should I feel guilty about that?

It was only a little after ten o’clock and I was only ninety miles from home. I checked out of the motel and headed for San Valdesto.

F
OR TWO DAYS I
gave a lot of thought to whether I should or should not inform the Feds about the Gillete-Clauss-Nolan connection. I didn’t want to get on to Gillete’s hit list.

On the third day, that problem was resolved for me. Nolan had lied to me about Loeb no longer being under observation by the Feds. According to the L.A.
Times
, Loeb had been suspected—and smart lawyer that he was, he had turned informant on himself, and on Nolan and Gillete, in exchange for a minimal sentence.

Nolan had cracked, too, under pressure. He was the one who had put the arsenic in Terrible Tim Tucker’s whiskey. He was afraid of Tucker, afraid of winding up beaten to death like Barney Luplow—that was one reason. Another was that he’d found out Gillete wanted to get rid of Tucker in order to make himself more acceptable to the mob. Nolan figured poisoning Tucker would put him in solid with Gillete. Not too smart. But what else would you expect from a crook, a liar, and an effing stockbroker?

On the fourth day, Jan came home and all was serene again in the life of Brock Callahan.

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copyright © 1992 by William Campbell Gault

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-7339-5

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