Eureka (42 page)

“So we pull into Lefton's. Leo and I scout the place, and we see Lefton goin' into the office, and Leo follows him in, and he's on the phone. So Leo goes nuts, slams down the phone, and shoves him outside, and I ask him can he run a couple of us into town, and he's walkin' away and says ‘fuck off' and you know the rest.”

“They stole Charlie's car, too?” Culhane said.

“Yeah. By now Riker's getting nervous. He takes the dead guy's keys, tells us to wait here and call if anybody comes snoopin' around.”

I asked him, “Where were you staying in Mendosa?”

“At Shuler's. There's a building back of the main place there with an indoor swimming pool and a workout room. There's a big room on the second floor, which is where they keep all the crazies, and there's four small apartments on the top floor. It's where I was staying. Dahlmus, too. And Leo the clown.”

“How about the other apartment?”

“Empty.”

“Is that where Riker is now?”

“I dunno, I swear. I never seen Riker until we picked him up at the marina. We sail past Mendosa because there was a Coast Guard cutter snoopin' around and end up here.”

“What did he pay you?” Culhane asked.

Hirshman hesitated a moment and Culhane aimed the gun at his crotch again.

“Two bills for everybody I hit,” he babbled. “He told me if a cop named Bannon showed up, he'd give me five hundred to hit him.”

“Jesus,” Culhane said, then dragged Hirshman to his feet and called Rusty over.

“Rusty,” Culhane said, “take him into Lefton's office.”

We followed them. The clown was still lying on the floor, his feet sticking out from under the blanket.

Culhane shoved Earl into a chair near the desk. “Now listen carefully, Earl. You're going to call Guilfoyle. Tell him that I showed up with Bannon and several men. Tell him there was some shooting and we killed Groover and you're trapped in Lefton's office. And you need help
now
. Tell him you can't hold out any longer, then hang up. You think you can remember all that?”

Earl nodded.

Culhane got the operator and gave her the number.

“You really think you can get Guilfoyle to come to us?” I asked Culhane.

“Oh, he'll come alright,” Culhane replied with a smile. “His balls are a lot bigger than his brain.”

“What are you going to do when he gets here?”

“Arrest him for aiding and abetting, conspiracy to commit murder, harboring fugitives, and I'm sure I'll think of a few other things by then.”

Culhane had his men pull both cars up side by side, blocking the narrow road. He dispersed four of his men into the woods, two on each side of the road leading from Mendosa. Rusty, one-eyed Max, and Redd stood behind him back by the cars, Rusty and Redd with shotguns and Max with the tommy gun.

“Where do you want me?” I asked.

“Out of the line of fire,” he said.

“This is my game, too,” I said. I reached under the dash of my car and retrieved the shotgun, got the .45 from the car pocket and stuck it in my belt. The Luger was back under my arm.

Culhane sighed with exasperation. “Okay,” he replied. “Open the Packard door on the driver's side and stand behind it with the window rolled down.” And to his crew: “No shooting until it's necessary. This is between me and Guilfoyle. If the rest of them insist on a fight, we've got them in a cross fire.”

Culhane took off his tuxedo jacket, laid it out neatly on the front seat of the car, and rolled his right shirtsleeve up to the elbow. He took the warrant for Riker out of the jacket's inside pocket and slipped it in his back pocket. He took a wooden box from under the seat, opened it, and took out the six-gun, a Peacemaker in a tanned leather holster. He slid it out of the holster, spun the cylinder and checked the load, then dropped it back in its holster. He hitched the Peacemaker to his hip and tied the holster right against his leg.

“Kill the car lights,” said Culhane, and they blinked off. The only light came from the garish red sign next to the lodge.

Wisps of fog dampened everything.

Culhane stood in front of the Packard, with one foot on the bumper and his forearm resting on his knee.

All eyes were on the road from Mendosa.

A deathly silence fell over the blockade, interrupted occasionally by a cricket fiddling for its mate or night birds talking to each other.

We waited.

But not for long.

CHAPTER 39

Thin and wispy, the fog began to creep in. It swirled knee-deep, pressed against the earth by cool night air. Light from the camp's red neon sign turned the mist into a red glow that enveloped the cars.

Culhane stared down the road toward Mendosa and smoked quietly. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was his political career ruined by the implications of an old frame-up? Or would it be enhanced by revelations that Riker was a monster who ordered up death the way some people order a steak dinner? Now Riker's hands were also drenched with the blood of Henry Dahlmus. And we had an eyewitness to prove he had committed that crime himself.

Culhane's play was to get past Guilfoyle to get to Riker. My play was to bring down Riker for arranging Verna Wilensky's murder.

In the darkness above the circle of light around the cars, I saw a new slender ridge of light appear. Culhane saw it, too. He straightened slightly and watched it grow, forming silhouettes of the trees as it got closer.

“Heads up,” Culhane said.

The ridge of light grew brighter and reshaped into a pair of haloed orbs. Headlights, which rose over a slight crest in the road.

Culhane said, “Lights!”

The headlights of our cars clashed with the oncoming headlights like knights galloping toward each other full tilt. The lead car coming toward us slammed on its brakes and screeched to a stop thirty feet in front of us. The car following stopped a few feet short of rear-ending it.

Nobody moved. Fog swirled around us and was carried off by the wind.

Culhane split the butt of his cigarette, poured out the residue, balled up the paper, and popped it in his mouth.

“Is Guilfoyle in there?” he barked. “Or doesn't he have the guts to do his dirty work himself.”

A minute crawled by before the front door on the driver's side opened and a long leg stepped out, followed by the rest of Guilfoyle's enormous frame. He stared into the lights. He was wearing a yellow suit with a vest, and a flowered tie. A brown derby was cocked over one eye and a cigar lingered forgotten in the corner of his mouth. He slammed the door behind him and said in a loud voice, “Everybody stay put until I say otherwise.”

He hooked two thumbs in his vest pockets, strolled to the front of the car, and leaned against the front fender of his black Cadillac.

Guilfoyle took the cigar out of his mouth and spit at Culhane's shoe.

“What are you and yer Boy Scouts doing out tonight?” he sneered. “Do you get a merit badge for learning how to take a leak in the dark?”

“No,” Culhane said, “we get our merit badges for landing two-bit bottom-feeders like you.”

Guilfoyle's face clouded up. He paced back and forth from one side of the Cadillac to the other and stopped with his right side toward the car and put his right foot on the bumper. An automatic glistened threateningly from under his jacket.

“Watch out, he's a southpaw,” I mumbled to Culhane.

While Culhane kept the uncouth Irish thug talking, Bobby Aaron pulled up behind the two mobster cars, blocking them in.

Guilfoyle looked back at Aaron's car, then at Culhane. Worry furrowed his brow.

“What the hell's going on?” he demanded.

Culhane reached in his back pocket and took out the warrant on Guilfoyle for harboring.

“I got a warrant here for your arrest, signed by State Supreme Court Judge Gray,” Culhane lied. “I'd show it to you but you can't read.”

“For what?”

“Aiding and abetting in first-degree murder, harboring known felons, attempted murder of two Los Angeles police officers. Want me to go on?”

“On what authority?” Guilfoyle sneered.

“You're in my county,” Culhane said. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Show him, Max.”

The one-eyed deputy flicked on the spotlight on the side of the Packard, and swept its beam to the side of the road about forty feet behind Guilfoyle's car. A sign read county line.

Guilfoyle's jaw began to twitch.

“Hey, Rusty,” Culhane said without taking his eyes off Guilfoyle, “show this muttonhead our guest of honor.”

Rusty opened the office door in Lefton's lodge and pulled Earl out. He stared across the road at Guilfoyle.

“Earl here's all the witness we need,” Culhane said. “We been playing twenty questions. You know how to play twenty questions, Guilfoyle? It's like I ask him, what's bigger than a grain of sand and smaller than a pea, and he says, Guilfoyle's brain.”

Culhane took a pair of handcuffs out off his pocket and held them up, letting them dangle like a noose in the lights of the cars. “Reach around with your right hand, take out that peashooter of yours, and drop it on the ground,” he ordered.

To my right, I heard two shotguns click as shells were charged into chambers.

There was movement inside Guilfoyle's car.

“Fuck you,” Guilfoyle snarled, turning full face toward Culhane.

“Either you throw down your gun or I'll take it away from you,” Culhane said calmly.

Guilfoyle stood fast. The fingers of his left hand began to twitch.

“You, boys!” Culhane yelled to Guilfoyle's crew. “Don't be stupid. You're in a cross fire. Give up your hardware and nobody gets hurt.”

He took a step toward Guilfoyle, and the big mobster's left hand flashed toward his automatic.

Culhane bent his knees in a crouch as he swept the .44 from its holster. He fanned the hammer back as he brought his gun hand up and fired.

It sounded like a cannon.

The big man grunted as if he had been punched in the stomach. Culhane's bullet tore into Guilfoyle's abdomen, knocking him backward onto the grille of the Caddy. He looked shocked but the bullet didn't stop him. Growling like a wounded animal, he pushed himself off the grille and blindly fired a shot. It chipped the road under the Packard and whined off in the dark.

Culhane fanned off two more shots.

Both into Guilfoyle's chest.

He screamed as he was knocked backward again. His elbow smashed out a headlight. His breath wheezed out of him like air wheezing out of a balloon. The derby flew off his head and bounced at his feet. Deep red blood oozed from the wounds in his chest and stomach.

He swung his gun up as his chin fell against his chest and fired another shot. It nicked Culhane's shoulder, kicking a tuft of his silk shirt into the air.

Culhane said nothing. He held his arm at full length and fired again. The last shot knocked Guilfoyle's head straight back. His eyes rolled up. He slumped and his right arm draped over the headlight support as his legs turned to rubber. He fell straight down and dangled from the support.

The passenger door flew open and a gunman jumped out, swinging a tommy gun. Culhane whirled, fell to one knee, and fanned off his last two shots. One smacked into the gunman's cheek. His head snapped back, its side bursting into a plume of blood and bone. His hat floated off and rolled into the darkness. The shot spun him around. His finger tightened on the trigger and the stutter gun ripped a trench in the ground at his feet, blew out the front tire, and sent the hubcap spinning away. He fell facedown, his feet crossed at the ankles.

Inside Guilfoyle's car a shape moved, a shotgun swung up.

“Look out!” Max yelled, shoving Culhane out of the way as he leveled a sawed-off shotgun at the windshield and fired both barrels. The left side of the windshield splattered and crumbled in on itself. Behind it, the mobster took the full blast in his face. Blood and bone showered the backseat as he was smacked backward.

The last gunman started screaming.

“Don't shoot, don't shoot, I'm finished,” he cried, and threw his .45 out the car window. It was followed by his wiggling empty hands. Max pulled the door open, grabbed a fistful of shirt and tie, dragged him from the car, and threw him on the ground. He lay there whimpering, his face and suit splattered with the blood of his dead partner.

In the rear car, pistols and shotguns came flying out of windows. Hands were wiggling to show they were empty. One by one, four more of Guilfoyle's shooters tumbled out with their hands straight up over their heads.

The smell of cordite was whisked away by the wind.

Culhane stood up and brushed himself off. He looked at his shoulder. “Ruined my best shirt,” he said.

“You okay?” Max asked.

“Thanks to you,” Culhane said, and smacked him on the shoulder.

I did a dead head count as Culhane walked over to Guilfoyle, still dangling from the headlight support. He wrenched the .45 from Guilfoyle's taut fist, held it behind him, and Max took it. Blood showered down the side of Guilfoyle's face and spurted from the holes in his suit.

“Nice shooting,” I said.

“Buck Tallman used to say shooting's just like swimming,” Culhane replied, holstering the Peacemaker. “You never forget how.”

He watched as the four hooligans from the rear car were herded up to us by Bobby Aaron.

“You know the setup at Shuler's?” Culhane asked me.

I nodded.

“How much security?”

“Lightweights. Ski and I got in without any problem—until Guilfoyle showed up.”

“They know you?”

“They wouldn't remember me, it was dark.”

“Bring Earl up here,” Culhane said. “You know where Riker's holed up?” he asked the gunman.

“I wasn't there when he came in, but I'm guessin' he's on the third floor of the rage ward. That's where the VIPs usually stay. There's a swimming pool on the first floor, and the second floor is for the loonies, the ones they chain to the floor.”

“How do we get in?”

“Only one staircase up to three. Got a steel door, so it's hard to break in. The elevator's the only other entrance to three. It's at the end of a short hall from a private door. It could be a death trap.”

Culhane walked back and forth in front of him for a minute or so.

“Okay,” he said to his crew, “here's the plan. We go in with two cars. Morningdale's gonna drive one car, with Rusty beside him and Redd and Max in the backseat. Aaron drives the other car, with me and two backups. Morningdale will get us through the gate. You do anything fancy, Morningdale, Redd'll cut your throat. You understand that?”

“I understand,” he nodded. A tear of sweat wriggled down the side of his face.

“What we want is surprise.”

I heard myself say, “No,” again.

Culhane looked at me with surprise.

“No?” he said.

“You're trying to count me out again,” I said. “Riker's mine. I started this case and I'm going to finish it. You sit this one out, you've done more than enough. And you might still have a political career to worry about. I'll ride shotgun with Morningdale. Redd and Lenny in the backseat. Aaron drives with Rusty, and Max in the other car. We'll assume he's holed up in one of those apartments at the sanitarium.”

“That's where he's at, the sanitarium,” one of Guilfoyle's men, Bloom, offered suddenly. “I drove him and Guilfoyle up to building B from the boat. There's four apartments on the third floor.”

“How many entrances in and out?” I asked.

“It's a fire trap,” he said. “There's only three doors in on the first floor and one of them goes straight to an elevator—express to the third floor so the big shots can go in and out without entering the main building. There's staircases on each end of the building, but only one of them goes to the third floor.”

“That's the one with the steel door to three?”

“Right.”

I drew a little sketch with my finger in the dirt beside the road and studied it.

“There's also a staircase to the roof right next to the elevator,” he said. “It's the only access to the roof.”

“So if we cover the elevator and the third-floor door to the staircase, we've got him boxed,” I said.

“If you can get onto the third floor,” they both agreed.

“That is, of course, if he's there,” said Culhane.

“Let's go find out,” I said.