Dead Pigeon (8 page)

He sighed. “That Joe, what a shoddy operator he was. And you almost got yourself killed trying to find his killer. What was he to you?”

“He was one of ours,” I said. “You should be able to understand that.”

“Dear God!” he said. “The Sam Spade Syndrome. What was it that writer from the Times called you?”

“A self-anointed knight in tarnished armor.” I stood up. “Thanks for what you told me.”

“You’re welcome. And let me know if you need any help with Gillete.”

“I will,” I lied.

One thing I had to admit about the Mafia, they policed their own ranks. The same could not be said about all those prestigious brokerage houses now being investigated by the Feds.

Peter Scarlatti represented the new breed in the Family tradition. The original vindictive Sicilian madmen had relied on terror. Peter’s peers took a more rational businessman approach. Money was their goal, not mayhem.

If Gillete got rich enough he might be invited to join the Family. But not Terrible Tim Tucker: he was an anachronism that they could not afford. And he wasn’t Italian.

I could think of no reason for Gillete to have me on his hit list. That had to be Tucker’s personal vendetta. Why? Because I had questioned his cousin? If Bay had told the truth about their current relationship, that couldn’t be the reason.

If, if, if … Somewhere in the morass of lies I had been told there had to be some seed of truth, some contradiction that would point a finger. Patience, I told myself.

There was a message for me at the hotel. Arnold Gillete had phoned and asked that I phone him back any time before five o’clock.

Which I did from the room. He had just learned, he told me, about my second encounter with Tucker. He assured me it would not happen again.

“Did you find out what his beef is with me? I never met the man until I came to your house.”

“And refused to tell him your name. I told him, as long as he was working for me he was on my payroll. It’s possible he was trying to protect that cousin of his who runs that kooky cult in Venice. Some bartender down there told Tim that you were questioning him regarding a murder. Frankly, I didn’t think the two of them were that close.”

“Neither did I. Who told you about the fuss we had in Tessie’s Tavern?”

“Tim did. Why do you ask?”

“Because Tessie and a police officer and the officer’s informant were the only other people in the place. And the informant was killed today, murdered.”

“And the police suspect Tim?”

“I have no idea. They don’t confide in me.”

“Well, they can’t pin it on Tim. He’s been here all day.” He hung up.

Another lie? I had no way of knowing. But the man had no reason that I could think of to put me on his hit list. If he hoped to move up to the majors, Tim Tucker would probably have to be dumped. He was the relic of another time.

Half an hour later, Lars phoned. He said, “Jerry Levy dropped in to tell me what happened to you. You okay?”

“I’ll live. Do you think the man who slugged me was Clauss?”

“I do. Levy doesn’t. He thinks I’m on a crusade.”

I didn’t comment.

“About tomorrow, Brock. I got a lot of static about my piled-up paperwork when I came back to the station and a few nasty remarks about jurisdiction. I’ll call you when the paperwork is cleared up.”

“Okay. Good luck. Keep the faith.”

My head was aching. I took a couple of aspirins and a long, warm shower, trying to wash away the frustrations of this day. Mike was dead. Finding his killer wouldn’t bring him back. How long could I stay on the hunt?

The combined efforts of Callahan, Hovde, Sadler, and the Santa Monica Police Department had come up with nothing. Lars was back to his paperwork; the SMPD must have decided by now that they had spent too much time on a low priority case, a dead pigeon.

Sadler phoned before dinner to tell me that he, too, had come up with nothing of substance. And, he added, his wife had decided that not all of his vacation time should be spent in sleuthing. They were going to Palm Springs for the weekend. Was that okay with me?

I assured him that it was and I might go home myself.

“You’re not quitting.”

“Not yet.”

Lars had probably not checked out the present whereabouts of Tony Gorman. I didn’t phone him to ask if he had; Clauss was his current obsession.

Heinie was familiar with that case. Heinie was familiar with all of the major cases I had worked down here. And it had been twenty-four hours since I had feasted on his sirloin steak and cottage fries.

There were only four booths occupied when I entered. Jose was behind the bar. Heinie was sitting with a couple of sports writers from the local papers.

He left them and went to get a pitcher of Einlicher to bring to my booth. “Your usual?” he asked.

I nodded. He went to the kitchen to order it. When he came back to sit across from me, I asked him, “Do you remember Tony Gorman?”

“I do.” He frowned. “You’re not thinking that he might be the guy who aced Mike?”

“He could be. Do you know where he is now?”

He shook his head. “He must still be in the slammer. Didn’t he get six years?”

“Three years ago.”

“I see what you mean. I’ll ask around. That was a Beverly Hills pinch, wasn’t it?”

“It was. You’ve got an in there, haven’t you?”

“Only with the day watch,” he said. “I’ll go there tomorrow.”

I ate and we yacked about this and that, none of it worth recording, and then I left. The boys at the bar were already into their game of liar’s poker. By leaving now I would still be ahead from last night.

H
EINIE PHONED IN THE
morning to tell me Gorman had been released from prison two weeks ago and was now living at a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. The name of the place was Second Chance. He gave me the address.

There had been certain discrepancies in Gorman’s trial that had troubled me at the time. Mike had told me Gorman was a dealer. I had investigated and found out it was true. It was when Gorman was out on bail that Mike had warned me about the vendetta. But the history of the man, according to the Beverly Hills police, had never included any acts of violence.

The day was again overcast when I left the hotel. The sun was out in the Valley. The place called Second Chance was a long, narrow, gray wooden building in Tarzana. It looked like it had once been an army barracks.

There was no doorbell; I went in. There were several steel chairs in this small room and a desk next to the open doorway that led to the hall. A heavyset man in faded jeans and a tan T-shirt was sitting behind the desk. The man standing in front of it turned as I closed the door.

It was Gorman. He was thinner and his hair a shade grayer. He smiled.

“I figured you’d show up here,” he said. “It’s about Mike, isn’t it? I read about it in the paper. Were you the man who phoned?”

I shook my head. “Could we talk?”

“Why not?” he said. “This way.”

He led me down a long hall past a string of closed doors to an open door at the end. There was a small bureau in this room, an army cot, two wooden kitchen chairs, and a draped area against one wall that probably served as a clothes closet.

He sighed. “It’s a long way from Beverly Hills, isn’t it? Sit down and tell me why you’re here. If you want to know where I was the night Mike died, you can ask the man at the desk. He runs this place.”

“That’s not the reason I’m here, Tony.” I sat down on one of the chairs, he on the cot. “I’ve been thinking about the trial.”

“You’re thinking I might have got jobbed?”

I nodded.

“Callahan, I never put anybody on the stuff. I had the Beverly Hills trade and the studio trade, sniffers, all of ’em. That was enough for me; I’m not that greedy. They all paid up front. But Mike, ugh!”

“What about him?”

“He was into me for over two grand. And when I pressed him, he finked to you. My only charity case—and he finks!” He took a deep breath. “I liked the guy! Nobody else ever got into me for that kind of money.”

I said, “I had no idea Mike was into the heavy stuff. Marijuana, I knew about that. He was smoking that when we were roomies.”

“That damned fool,” he said. “The golden boy! The way I see it, he killed himself.”

I said nothing.

“Any other favorite suspect?” he asked.

“A man named Clauss.”

“Emil Clauss?”

I nodded. “Do you know the man?”

“All my brethren know him,” he said. “A vicious cop and on the take. But he never bothered me. The small dealers were his bread and butter. Beverly Hills was not on his beat.”

“The search is out for him, Tony. Maybe you have friends who can help us.”

“I’ve never been a stoolie,” he said, “but maybe in this case. A crooked cop who blew away an unarmed dealer? I could switch. I’ll ask around. Leave me your phone number.”

“I’m staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“So was I,” he said sadly. “For years. And now this!”

I couldn’t see Gorman as a killer. Asking the man at the desk for Tony’s alibi would be ungracious. I didn’t need to. He informed me that Tony had been sound asleep the night Mike was killed.

I drove out of the Valley sun and headed back down toward foggy Santa Monica. Clauss had probably killed that unarmed drug dealer because he didn’t pay off. It had lost him his job and turned him more vicious than ever. Both Denny and Heinie had confirmed that Mike was far from solvent; he couldn’t even pay his bar tabs. That would be pickings too small to interest Clauss. But Clauss was not a rational man.

Crystal was out in front, clipping her solitary rosebush. “Now what?” she asked.

“I thought maybe I could take you to some expensive place for lunch.”

“Are you coming on to me?”

“Nope. Just a friendly visit to an old friend.”

“You could have dropped the ‘old.’ I have to be back here at two-thirty. Turhan’s coming then.”

“For an afternoon quickie?”

She glared at me. “For our meditation session, you foul-minded jock! Turhan has helped me through some bad times, just as he tried to do for Mike. You can leave now.”

“I apologize, Crystal. Please?”

“Okay, okay! Maybe you had a right. I’ll admit I’ve never been the village virgin. I’ll have to change. You can watch a game show on the tube. That should fit your mentality.”

“I love ’em,” I lied.

She was wearing a blue silk sheath and blue pumps when she came out again, a welcome change from today’s silly fashions.

In the car, she said, “Do you remember when you asked me if I lusted for Turhan and I said I did?”

“Yes.”

“I lied. He’s gay.”

“And married—?”

“His wife’s a lesbian.”

“Let’s hope his devoted followers never learn that. I’m almost beginning to believe he means what he says, even if I don’t understand it.”

“It’s kind of complicated. He has this belief that ours can’t possibly be the only planet in the universe. That would be sheer arrogance. There must be thousands of inhabited planets out there somewhere. And a lot of them with a more advanced civilization.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I said. “I ain’t too crazy about this one.”

The sun came out. The food was fine, though not exactly geared to my peasant palate. We talked of other times and old friends, and where were they all today? As some sage has said, nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.

I took her home in time for her celestial seance and drove to Denny’s.

The bar was lined with males, except at the far end where Denny was paying off a female winner.

She left with a handful of twenties and I took her place at the bar.

“Did you get a chance to check out Gorman?” he asked.

I nodded. “He’s clean.”

“Clean? A drug pusher, clean? What kind of talk is that?”

“He wasn’t a pusher; only a dealer. And he confined his trade to rich suckers.”

“That’s better, but still not clean. Anything new on the murder?”

I shook my head. He set a glass of Einlicher in front of me. I asked, “Did you ever pay off Clauss?”

“Never! For my puny take? And a lot of my customers are mean and tough and they don’t like crooked cops.”

He went down to the other end to serve a customer. The place was getting noisy and crowded, I finished my beer and left.

Gorman had been cleared. So had Carlo Minatti. That left us Clauss as our prime suspect.

The longest line of connections on my sheet was Gillete, Tucker, Bay, and Nolan. If Clauss was the who, what was the why? Motive, means, and opportunity are the deadly triplicate that a prosecutor requires for a Murder One conviction. What was the motive?

I’d had almost a week of frustration, leading nowhere. My image of Mike had deteriorated in that time. Peter Scarlatti was probably right; I was a victim of the Sam Spade syndrome. Mike was my Archer. Archer had been Spade’s partner; Mike had been my roomie.

Denny had not paid off Clauss. But Denny, so far as I knew, did not deal in drugs. Gorman had told me the small dealers were Clauss’s bread and butter. That description would include Mike. It wasn’t likely that he would get the Beverly Hills trade.

Did he, I wondered, know that Turhan Bay was homosexual? If he did, it would be a motive for blackmail. That, I decided, was taking my image of Mike to a new low. And the possibility of Bay hiring a vicious killer like Clauss was highly unlikely.

It was possible that if we ever found Clauss, we would have the who. But we wouldn’t have the why. To paraphrase Sherwood Anderson, I wanted to know why. What was Emil’s motive?

The bullet from a pistol or rifle can be matched to the gun. But not a shotgun. Clauss obviously knew that. It could be the reason the shotgun was his choice.

G
ORMAN PHONED IN THE
morning to tell me that all he had learned about Clauss so far was that he had a son named Emil. The word he had on him was that they had never got along since Clause’s wife had divorced him.

“Is she still in town?”

“No. She moved to Bakersfield right after the divorce.”

“No other children?”