Dead Pigeon (5 page)

“Thanks, Dennis. You’ve really done your homework.”

“Oh, yes! But not enough to convince my mother-in-law.” He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to me. “That’s my home phone number. I do some free-lancing when I’m off duty. I’ll never get rich at Arden.”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” I promised. “And thanks again.”

I
PHONED THE SANTA
Monica station and Lars was there. I told him what Sadler had told me, except for the mother-in-law complaint.

He confirmed what Sadler had suspected; Terrible Tim Tucker had moved up from his collector days. He was now a bodyguard for any minor-league hoodlum who hoped to move up to the majors.

“We ran him out of this town,” he told me. “I have no idea where he is operating now. I’ll ask around and let you know if I learn anything.”

There was no Tim Tucker listed in any of the hotel phone books. I knew a man who might help me. I drove to The Captain’s Gym, run by the venerable Captain Robert Napier, on Olympic Boulevard near the Olympic Auditorium.

The odor of perspiration was strong when I entered. A pair of ugly showmen were practicing winning and losing in the center ring, complete with scowls, fist shaking, and vulgar verbal insults.

The odor in Napier’s small office was a slight improvement, expensive cigar smoke. He was sitting behind his battered desk.

“Callahan,” he said, and stood up. “What are you doing in town?”

“I came down for Mike Gregory’s funeral. Do you remember him?”

He shook his head. “Is he the guy who was killed in Santa Monica?”

I nodded. “I’m working with the Santa Monica police. Mike was a good friend of mine.”

“I thought you left the shamus racket when your uncle died.”

“I did. This one is personal. I was wondering if you know a former wrestler named Terrible Tim Tucker.”

“That creep? You mean he might be the killer?”

“Possibly, but doubtful. He might be a lead.”

He nodded. “The last I heard he was the muscle man for Arnie Gillete. Gillete lives up in the Valley somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe he’s in the book.”

He reached into a desk drawer and took out a telephone book. “You could look it up. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

It was there—Arnold Gillete on Eureka Drive in Studio City.

“Do you know what Gillete’s into now?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Anything that makes him a dirty buck, I suppose. When I first met him, his name was Arno Gilleti. He used to book bets at the Olympic in the old days. Strictly small-time. Did Jan come to town with you?”

“Nope. She’s visiting her aunt in Tacoma. How about your lady friend? Did you finally marry her?”

“Gloria? Yup. Eight months ago. Now you and I are both solid citizens. There’s nothing like that good home-cooking, right?”

“Right,” I said, not mentioning that we had a cook. That would be one-upmanship. I thanked him and left. The behemoths were still practicing winning and losing in the gym. I headed for the San Fernando Valley.

It was hot in the Valley and the air smoggy. The home of Arnold Gillete was low and wide and white, fronted by a large expanse of bright-green dichondra lawn.

There was a four-car parking space at the end of the driveway, occupied by one car, a green Bentley. Arno had apparently graduated to the majors. I parked on the road in front and walked up the drive.

The man who opened the door to my ring looked considerably older than the image of him I had seen on the tube during his wrestling days and later on gymnasium commercials. His dyed white hair was gone; he was bald. But he was as big and ugly as ever.

“You selling something?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m trying to locate an old friend of mine from Chicago. I just moved here a week ago and I couldn’t find any listing in the phone book.”

He glanced back into the house and quietly closed the door behind him. He said, “I’m not in the phone book, either. Who told you I lived here?”

“A wrestler at Muscle Beach. I didn’t get his name.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Gordon Tucker. That’s why I’m here.”

“And your name?”

“Dallas McGee.”

He stared at me for seconds. Then, “I don’t think so. I know I’ve seen you somewhere. Let’s see your driver’s license.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

He nodded. “Let’s see your license.”

“Get lost!” I said, and turned to go back to the car.

He grabbed me by the right shoulder. I turned and nailed him with a looping right-hand smack on the button. He stumbled to one side. I swung my right foot into his jewel box and he went down, groaning.

I was in the car and driving away before he could get back to his feet. Wrestlers …

One way or another they were all connected: Bay and Tucker and Gillete and Nolan and Mike and possibly Carlos Minatti.

And Crystal. I drove there next. She was out on her driveway in shorts and a halter, her hair in curlers, washing her Bug.

“Dear God, the peeper!” she said. “What now?”

“You told me we should keep in touch.”

“You could have picked a better time.”

“Okay. I’ll leave quietly.”

“Stay,” she said. “Coffee?”

I nodded.

She turned off the hose and we went into the house. I sat in the Naugahyde chair; she went into her closet-size kitchen. “Maybe some Danish, too?” she asked. “I remember you had a sweet tooth.”

“I still have it.”

Ten minutes later she brought the coffee and pastry out on, a tray, along with two paper napkins. She set up two TV tables, one in front of me, the other in front of her studio couch.

“Ain’t we the cozy ones?” she said. “I hope you didn’t come with questions.”

“A few. Did you know that Bay’s real name is Gordon Tucker?”

“I knew it once was. He had it changed.
Legally
.”

“Did you know he spent six months in Chicago for running a crooked financial racket?”

She nodded. “And nobody suffered. Everybody was paid off. He’s a different man now, Brock.”

I considered adding what Nolan had told me about Bay’s account there, but I had promised him I wouldn’t.

She smiled at me. “Have you run out of questions?”

“Only of patience,” I said wearily. “Do you plan to get married again?”

She was still smiling. “If you get a divorce, I might. I like rich guys.”

A bite of Danish, a sip of coffee, and silence.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

“God damn you!” I said. “Mike’s murdered and you sit there with that silly smile on your face, talking nonsense.”

Her face stiffened, her eyes glazed with moisture. “What do you want me to do, take the veil, burn incense? Your jock friend is dead. And better men than you or Mike have died before their time and many more will. Don’t get too damned noble, Callahan. You’re not exactly a saint.”

Silence—and more of the same. I ate the last bit of roll, drank the rest of my coffee, and stood up. I stared at her and she at me. Then I turned and went out.

The lady had made her point.
Judge not that ye be not judged
, Callahan, I told myself.
You left the church long ago
.

From there I drove to the office of Nolan, Welch, and Ryan. Nolan was there, but getting ready to leave for lunch.

“Something important?” he asked.

I nodded.

“We can discuss it over lunch,” he said. And added, “On me.”

We ate at a sidewalk cafe under an awning only two short blocks from his office. Over our martinis I asked him if he knew about Bay’s probation sentence in Chicago.

He nodded. “He told me all about it, including his change of name. He was quite frank with me and I saw no reason to reject his account. Though I must admit I was nervous about it at the time.” He took a sip of his drink. “Frankly, I know of several respectable brokerage houses which I suspect of handling doubtful accounts.”

“Did Bay ever tell you that his cousin is a muscle man for Arnold Gillete?”

He stared at me and shook his head. “He never mentioned any cousin to me. Who is Arnold Gillete?”

“A local hoodlum.”

He smiled. “Isn’t that a bit farfetched? I mean—the cousin of my client is working for a hoodlum. Therefore the client should be punished.”

“It’s overreaching,” I admitted. “What I can’t figure is how he got big money out of that cult in Venice.”

He shrugged. “It’s possible he also gets some upper-income followers. Cults seem to be doing well these days.”

“Maybe he brought his money from Chicago.”

“It’s possible. But where he got his money is no business of mine. We don’t ask our clients where they got their money. Brock, my only reason for contacting you was the hope that you might learn more about who killed Mike than the Santa Monica Department will. From my brief talk with Chief Denzler there I had the feeling that they were not overly interested in Mike’s murder.”

“They aren’t,” I admitted. “But I am.”

The Danish was still in my stomach. I had a salad for lunch. Half an hour of small talk after that he went back to work and I back to the hotel to learn if there were any messages for me.

There was one from Lars. I phoned the station and was told he was out for lunch. He would be back at four o’clock.

I added today’s semirevelations to the record. All I had were names and connections and no pointing finger. I stretched out on the bed and ran the events of the morning through my mind. I was dozing when Lars phoned.

He had good news. At least it was good news for him. Carlos Minatti had been arrested in Fresno, after robbing a liquor store. That should give him another stretch in prison. And, he added, I could eliminate one name from my favorite suspects list. Minatti had been in Fresno when Mike was killed.

“How about your list, Lars? Mike was our friend.”

“I know. But more your friend than mine. Wasn’t he the guy who tipped you off when that kook was trying to put you away?”

“He was. I hope Minatti gets a long stretch. You’re too young to die, Lars.”

“Right!”

“So was Mike,” I said, and hung up.

It had been an unrewarding day and I was sour. I shouldn’t have taken that shot at Lars. Day after day on his job he saw only the seamy side of the street. And if Mike hadn’t been my savior, I doubt if Heinie would have phoned me. I might never have learned that Mike was dead. It wouldn’t be important news to the San Valdesto paper.

A lecture to Crystal and a cheap shot at Lars … Maybe I needed a Dale Carnegie course.

I went over my notes again and saw something I had overlooked. When he first came to the hotel, Nolan had told me he didn’t know what Bay’s original name was. At lunch today he had told me Bay had told him that when he opened his account. What else had he lied about? And had he really learned, or only been told, that Bay was sharing bed and board with Crystal. He had identified her as a former hooker. Where had he learned that, and why? Maybe at his talk with Chief Denzler. And maybe not.

In my hungry years in this town, I had done some divorce work. One of my clients was a broker at Hutton who suspected his wife was backdooring him. I had saved him a considerable amount of alimony.

I looked him up in the book and phoned him at his home number. I identified myself and asked him, “Do you remember me?”

“Until my dying day,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“A man named Joe Nolan.”

“He’s not with us anymore, Brock.”

“I know. I wondered why.”

“There were a number of reasons. I guess what you’d call erratic behavior covers them all. The boss called it lying. Joe claimed it was an occasional loss of memory.”

“He contradicted himself a couple of times when I talked with him. When he first came to see me, he said he was in AA. Today we had lunch together and he had a martini.”

“That’s not unusual. I went to a couple of meetings myself. But my shrink convinced me that if I was able to produce the way I have, I was a drunk, not an alcoholic. So I’ve cut down. One drink a day for the last four years.”

“You don’t think Nolan’s a compulsive liar?”

“Not compulsive. Maybe when he has to be—as you should know. He’s got a couple of partners who can keep him on track. By the way, now that you’re rich, where are you investing your money?”

“With a discount broker.”

“Well, next time you need a stoolie, call him!”

“Thanks for the info,” I said, and hung up.

N
OLAN HAD TOLD ME
in this room that he had sorted out his priorities and decided to reveal all. Lying had apparently been his first priority. The urge to point this out to him was strong in me, but it would probably only alert him.

Shadowing suspects and wearisome surveillance stakeouts had never been my favorite kind of investigative work. I still had Dennis Sadler’s card. I phoned him after dinner and asked if he was available for part-time labor.

“Full-time,” he told me. “I have two weeks of vacation due, starting tomorrow.”

“Could you drop in tonight for a briefing?”

“I’m on the way.”

He brought a small, battery-operated recorder with him. This young man was part of the electronic age. I gave him the cast of characters first, and then their connections. I added my suspicions and admitted they could easily be wrong. And finally I asked him what his rates were.

“Twenty dollars an hour,” he said.

“And expenses?”

“Only for gasoline. I don’t have any office expense, working out of my house. This Arnold Gillete—he’s heavy, isn’t he?”

“I’m sure he’s not as heavy as his bodyguard, though I’ve never met Gillete.”

“I didn’t mean avoirdupois,” he said. “What I’m thinking, my wife doesn’t want me to carry a gun. Though I always do when I have guard work.”

“I didn’t bring my gun with me because I didn’t think I would be staying over. If push comes to shove with Gillete, I’ll borrow your gun.”

When he left, I stretched out on the bed. Fatigue was heavy in me, but I knew I couldn’t sleep. It had been a troublesome day, bucking traffic on the way to Studio City, the fuss with Crystal, the sense that I was getting nowhere in my hunt.