Dead Pigeon (7 page)

I shook my head.

“You sticking with it?”

I nodded.

“You are one stubborn Mick,” he said.

“Guilty. Do you remember Terrible Tim Tucker?”

“That freak? Hell, yes! He used to drop in here once in a while when he was living in North Hollywood. He’s not wrestling anymore, is he?”

“Not anymore. He’s the muscle for a hoodlum named Arnold Gillete now. They live in Studio City.”

Heinie tapped his forehead. “I remember now. Some reporter from the
Express
told me Tucker was connected with the mob in Chicago. That was a long time ago.” He shook his head. “But Tucker isn’t Italian.”

“His new boss is. His real name is Arno Gilleti.”

“He could be in the mob, with that name. But that Tucker freak? I can’t buy it. Half the stuff the reporters feed me here is sheer bullshit. They love to pretend they have the inside story.” He stood up. “Sirloin and fries?”

“Natch.”

He went to the kitchen to order it. When he brought it, he went back behind the bar and his wife went home.

I played liar’s poker with some of the regulars after eating and wound up fifteen dollars ahead, the best thing that had happened to me today. I was glad that Joe Nolan hadn’t been in the game.

Lars had left a message for me at the hotel; he would be free to work with me tomorrow afternoon.

I wasn’t looking forward to another depressing round of lies and evasions, mean streets and tawdry people. But Heinie had called it right. I was one stubborn Mick.

Lars had gone that route for decades, bringing the bad guys to justice and seeing the courts turn them free on some technicality that only a lawyer could understand.

And the ones who were convicted, like Carlos Minatti, walked out of prison long before their original termination dates on what is euphemistically called good behavior. That put them back on the streets where they could then indulge in bad behavior.

It was a restless night and a chilly and overcast morning, standard May weather for the area. Foggy in the morning, clearing by noon, except along the coast; that was the weatherman’s prediction almost every May day.

I had located none of my former informants on my solo endeavor. Lars, I suspected, had run out of most of his. We could be on a dead-end road.

There was one connection I could investigate: Bay and his cousin. I phoned the temple and was told that he wouldn’t be in until this afternoon.

I phoned his Brentwood home and he answered. “This is Brock Callahan,” I said. “I’m sure you remember me.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” he said. “But Crystal has since told me you are an honorable man, except when you ply your trade. She told me you are a private investigator.”

“I was, until my inheritance. I think both of us share a common goal. We want to find the person who murdered Mike Gregory. Could I come and talk with you this morning?”

“Of course.”

Of course he would say “of course”
was my cynical thought. I had mentioned my inheritance.

The overcast grew heavier as I drove closer to the ocean. The lannon stone home of Turhan Bay was on a wooded slope that overlooked the Brentwood Country Club.

Turhan smiled when he opened the door. He looked past me at my car on the driveway. “A sixty-five,” he guessed. “A classic.” I nodded.

“I should have kept mine,” he said. “Come in.”

I followed him down a long hall. He led me to a small room at the end of it. There was a small desk in the room, two chairs, and a file cabinet. Two of the walls were completely shelved and jammed with books. He sat behind the desk, I in the other chair. “You know by now that I lied to you,” I opened. “I guess it was a hangover from my previous profession. The man I really came to question you about that evening was your cousin.”

“Timothy? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“He is working for Arnold Gillete.”

“I don’t recognize the name. Who is he?”

“A major local hoodlum. Tim is his muscle.”

He sighed. “I didn’t know that. Tim and I were never very close, even in Chicago. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year. He was quite often in trouble with the law in Chicago.” He smiled. “As I was. His problems were less serious, mostly bar brawls. But you can’t believe he had anything to do with Mike’s death, can you? I mean—a shotgun?”

I shrugged. I said, “There’s a rumor that I picked up from a friend this morning that your cousin had a Mafia connection in Chicago.”

He smiled. “It’s a rumor Tim circulated in Chicago, too. But it’s nonsense. One of my clients was a widow who helped to pay off my detractors, and she had Italian connections, if you get what I mean. She told me Tim’s rumor-mongering was the reason he had to leave Chicago.”

“That makes more sense,” I said.

He nodded. “I want to apologize for hiring those Arden people after your visit.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said. “I think it would be wise if you steered clear of your cousin.”

“I certainly will,” he agreed.

I stood up and he walked to the door with me. He was still standing in the open doorway when I drove down his driveway to the street. If he had told the truth about his current relationship with his cousin, it bolstered my suspicion that Terrible Tim had been tailing me.

But how could I be sure? Brokers and cultists and millionaire electronic preachers—it was possible that they begin to believe their own con as their audiences grow larger and their followers more fervent. Turhan Bay, as Crystal had suggested, might really believe in his own con by now. The yippies of the sixties were the yuppies of today and money was their dream. Not all of us have rich and dead uncles.

I was relieved to see that there was no yellow Chevrolet pickup truck following me as I drove down Pico Boulevard. I turned left into Venice to learn if Denny had anything of interest to tell me.

The only thing he had to tell me was that he had heard about my fracas with Terrible Tim at Tessie’s Tavern.

“Who told you about that?”

“Tessie. She’s on our bartenders’ bowling team. She said you were losing until Hovde took out his gun.

“I was.”

“To a fucking wrestler?” He shook his head.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

Which we did. It was still too early to pick up Lars. We talked about the Dodgers and about the upcoming finals in the NBA between our Lakers and the Bulls.

Then, just before I left, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Mike. And I remembered he was the one who warned you about that guy who was out to get you. I don’t mean the last one. He’s dead. I mean about three years ago. What was his name?”

“Gorman,” I said. “Tony Gorman.”

“I remember now. If he learned that it was Mike who had alerted you, he’d have reason enough to blow Mike away, wouldn’t he?”

“If he’s out and around. He got a six-year sentence.”

“Which means, these days, that he probably got out three years earlier than he should have.”

“It certainly does. Thanks, Denny.”

“You’re welcome. If you go looking for him, you’d better take Hovde with you. If you can’t even handle wrestlers—!”

I did not dignify his comment with a reply.

A
T THE STATION I
told Lars what Denny had reminded me about Tony Gorman.

“First things first,” he said. “I think I got a hot lead on Clauss this morning.”

“I was thinking maybe you could find out if Gorman is out of jail now.”

“Clauss first, damn it! The hell of it is I just had orders from the Chief to stay in my own jurisdiction. The stoolie who phoned me is the man I was talking with in Tessie’s Tavern. His name is Barney Luplow. I don’t have his address but Tessie probably knows it.”

“Okay. I’ll go.”

“Do that. But use some finesse for a change.”

Advice on finesse from Lars? I sighed and left.

Tessie was the only occupant of the place when I entered. “Now what?” she asked.

“I came to ask if you have the address of Barney Luplow.”

She studied me suspiciously. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

“Not with me. But he might have some information that I intend to pay him for. And it might keep him
out
of trouble.”

She stared at me for seconds. Then: “It’s about a block from here, that two-story rooming house next to the Mobil station. His room is on the second floor in back.”

I left the car where it was and walked to the place, an ancient red Victorian house, narrow-windowed, with three steps leading up to a small and sagging porch.

The door was open, the screen door closed. I went in without knocking. The stairway was on the left. There was no sound from any of the rooms as I went up the stairs. Down the narrow hall I went, past the open doorway of the bathroom to the room at the end. The door was ajar.

“Barney?” I called. “Sergeant Hovde sent me.”

“Come in,” a voice answered.

I pushed the door open—and saw Luplow stretched out on the floor. I heard a sound from behind the opened door, but didn’t turn in time. Something heavy crashed into the back of my head and I joined Luplow on the floor. I heard the clatter of feet going down the uncarpeted stairs before the darkness arrived.

The dawn came slowly, voices first. “I know the guy,” one voice said. “He’s a private eye working with Lars on the Gregory kill. You remember Lars, don’t you? He used to be with us.”

“That was before my time,” the other voice said. “Isn’t he with the Santa Monica Department now?”

“Yup.”

I was no longer on the floor; somebody had laid me out on the narrow bed in the room. The image of a tall, thin man began to come into focus.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. The ME assured me it was only a minor concussion.”

I was in clear focus now. “Jerry Levy?” I asked.

“Right. Take it easy, Brock.”

The other man was shorter, heavier, and uglier. He asked, “What in the hell were you doing here?”

Jerry said, “Don’t mind my partner, Brock. He’s almost as mean as Lars.” He turned toward the man. “Go down and see if the landlady has come home. If she hasn’t, wait there.”

The man left. Jerry smiled and asked, “Now you can tell
me
. What in hell were you doing here?”

I told him the what and why and asked, “What happened to Luplow?”

“He wasn’t as lucky as you were. He really got worked over. He is now at the morgue. Do you think it was Clauss who conked him?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what Clauss looks like and İ never saw the man who conked me.”

He smiled. “Your friend Lars is really making a crusade out of nailing Clauss, isn’t he?”

“Not as much as I am. Mike Gregory was my roomie at Stanford. Are you going to take me to the West Side station?”

He shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be all right?”

I rose to a sitting position and nodded. “As soon as I can get some fresh air.”

He smiled again. “Brock, next time you go out on the prowl, wear your old Rams helmet.”

Or take Lars with me, I thought.

He and his partner were gone when I came down the stairs some minutes later and into the fresh air from the ocean. I walked slowly and carefully back to the car and drove to the Santa Monica station.

There the desk clerk told me Lars was out on a call and wouldn’t be home until later this afternoon.

Where now? I had talked with everybody who was possibly involved, except for Arnold Gillete. That was the name I wanted to check out. I headed for Sunset Boulevard.

On my most recent visit to Los Angeles several years ago, I had come to investigate the murder of a fellow private eye, a man named Joe Puma. Joe had been the payoff man years earlier when a Mafia big shot’s son had been kidnapped for ransom. The son was no longer a child when I talked with him. He had been very cooperative.

His home was a two-story brick place in Pacific Palisades, on the bluff above the Riviera Country Club. The last time I had been here there had been a 1932 Duesenberg on his guest parking area. There was none there today.

The same gray-haired, dark-skinned, middle-aged maid opened the door to my ring.

“Is Mr. Scarlatti home?” I asked. “My name is Brock Callahan.”

“I remember you,” she said, “and I’m sure he’ll be home to you. But I had better ask him first.”

A few minutes later he was at the door, a short, broad man in gray flannel slacks and a cashmere pullover.

“My favorite Ram,” he said, and looked past me at the car. “When did you buy that?”

“Many years ago. I was driving a rented car last time I was here. Where’s the Duesy?”

“Getting rebored. New rings, pistons, and valves, the whole bit. Come in.”

We walked through an immense living room and off that to a long hall that led to his office at the rear of the house. I sat on the same chair I had sat on last time and he sat on a small couch.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“A man named Arnold Gillete.”

“What about him?”

“Well, I had a couple of tangles with his muscle man and I don’t know why. This Gillete—I wondered if he could be—you know—”

“In the Family?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “You’re still skating on thin ice, aren’t you?”

“Okay. I’ll go quietly.”

“Arnold Gillete,” he said, “is not one of ours. Maybe if he gets a little richer and a little smarter, he might be some day. Who is this muscle man who’s been bothering you?”

“A man named Tim Tucker, known to the video world as Terrible Tim Tucker.”

“That freak? That wrestler?”

I nodded.

“He must have a death wish. Are you sure he is working for Gillete?”

“He’s living with him in Studio City.”

“And what do you want from me, a word of caution to Gillete?”

“No. I don’t want him alerted. It’s possible he had a friend of mine murdered. That’s why I’m in town.” I smiled. “But I wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting into water over my head.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Brock. To use Chick Hearn’s line, you’d fight King Kong on a ladder. How are Mrs. Puma and her boy doing these days?”

“Very well. She’s got a good job as a legal secretary and the boy is in his second year at Cal.”