Goodey's Last Stand: A Hard Boiled Mystery (Joe Goodey) (10 page)

“Oh, no,” I lied. I’d really have preferred not to be let in on the family secrets, but it looked as if I already was. “But I hope you’ll excuse me if I’m just as frank.”

“Of course,” they said together, all smiles.

“Well, then, Mayor,” I said, “with the number of girls in San Francisco available to a man in your position, how could you have been stupid enough to choose one like Tina in a situation as public, if not more public, than your own?”

I thought that would shake him up. But he didn’t seem to mind a bit, just smiled boyishly, looked fondly at Mrs. K., and said: “Tina reminded me of Maria when she was younger.”

Christ, another complication. Who’s this Maria, and how does she fit in? Then it came to me: Maria was Mrs.
Kolchik. I don’t know why it occurred to me, other than the expression on Kolchik’s face. She looked about as much like Tina as I did. Trying not to be too obvious, I searched Mrs. K.’s ravaged face and body for any faint resemblance to Tina’s plastic lushness. I suppose my face showed it.

“I was not always a cripple, Mr.
Goodey,” Mrs. Kolchik said softly, and I felt ashamed of myself. “However, I must say that I never looked anything like Tina D’Oro. I fear it was just Sanford’s imagination. But I found it flattering, I admit.”

“You were far more beautiful than Tina, Maria,” said
Kolchik with a great deal of enthusiasm. But then he remembered that he was talking of a girl who had only recently and violently died, and he crossed himself.

“You were asking questions,
Goodey,” he said, bringing things back into official tracks. “What else do you want to know?”

“When did you last see Tina?” I asked.

“Tuesday afternoon,” he said quickly, “between two thirty-five and four o’clock.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about her? Did she seem depressed or worried about anything? Would she have told you if she had been?”

“No, to the first two questions,” he said. “And I doubt it very much, to the third. Tina didn’t seem any different than usual.”

“And how was that?” I wondered how a bimbo like Tina ap
peared to a big man like Kolchik.

“Simple, happy, uncomplicated, uncomplaining,” he said. “A very relaxing girl to be with. Of course, she was vain, obsessed with her
self, her body, her career. Tina had the idea that wiggling about to loud music was some kind of art form. No, more than that—a power for positive good in the world. I believe she thought she was making a personal contribution to world peace and general enlightenment.”

“Did Tina tell you much about herself?” I asked. “About her past, I mean—where she came from, what she did before she became a big topless star.”

He shook his head. “No, I asked her to tell me about her life, but she was always very vague. She didn’t want to talk about that. She did say once that she came from someplace over in the East Bay, but that’s all. Tina wasn’t interested in the past. The past was dead and buried as far as she was concerned. She knew only one direction- ahead. Upward and onward, that was Tina, and she was in a terrible hurry to get there.”

“To get where?” I asked.

“To the top,” Kolchik said. “The movies, Las Vegas, Broadway. You name it, Tina was going to get there and be bigger and better than any of them. The Jungle was just a phase. She had her foot out for the next rung on the ladder, but I don’t think she knew where or what it was. But she knew the direction she was going.”

“Mr.
Kolchik,” I said, “did you know before Tina was killed that she kept a diary and that you were in it?”

“No,” he said, “I had no idea. I do know that she seemed to un
derstand the need for discretion, that it couldn’t be publicly known that we were—friends. I never asked her if she was writing anything down.”

I had more questions I didn’t like to raise with my new buddy, Sandy, but I had to.

“Mayor,” I said, “was Tina or anybody else blackmailing you about your relationship with her?”

“No!” he said positively. “Nobody.”

“Do you know if she told anybody about you and her? Anybody at all?”

He thought deeply for a few moments. “She could have,” he said, “but I don’t know that she did. It may sound odd, but I didn’t know Tina very well. I don’t even know who her friends were or if she had any. Ours was a very—limited friendship, you see.”

I did see, if he was telling the truth. I plunged on. “And your— friendship, Mayor,” I asked, “how had it been going lately? Had you had any arguments, fights, disagreements of any kind?”

He seemed honestly puzzled. “No,” he said, “nothing like that. It really wasn’t that sort of relationship.”

“Well, was the nature of your relationship changing or on the verge of changing? I mean, if I’m not being too personal, were you tired of her? Did her attitude toward you seem any different? Or were things just going along smoothly?”

“To tell the truth,
Goodey,” he said, “I was giving some thought to—to seeing Tina less often. After all, with the election coming up—” The rest of the sentence faded in the fresh morning air.

“Did Tina know that? Did she object?”

“She didn’t even know, Goodey,” he said. “I hardly knew it myself. I hadn’t really made up my mind yet.”

If
Kolchik was the guilty party, he was going to be a hard man to trap. He seemed too damned honest. “One last question, Mayor,” I said, getting up from the sun lounger. “Can you prove where you were at the time Tina was murdered?”

“No,” he said. “At about three in the morning on Thursday I was asleep here—alone.”

“We have separate bedrooms, Mr. Goodey,” said Mrs. Kolchik, who had been listening closely to our exchange.

“So,” said the mayor, “you can see that I have no ironclad alibi. You’ll just have to go on suspecting me.”

“I’ll do that,” I said and began to make well-I’m-leaving noises. The late-morning sun beating down on this terrace was very pleasant, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to where I wanted to be. Mrs. K. said good-by with a ruined smile, and the mayor walked me to the door, where Stoney Karras waited with a face like a garbage man making a pickup. Kolchik waved him away and offered me the big hand he’d forgotten when I’d arrived.

“Good-by,” he said. “I hope you’re successful in your search—and soon.”

“Me too,” I said, taking back my hand and turning to walk back to my car.

“
Goodey,” he said, and I stopped and turned back toward him, “do you really think it’s possible that I killed Tina?”

“It’s possible,” I said. No use letting him get complacent. “I haven’t heard anything yet which rules it out.”

“Good,” he said to my surprise. “You keep on suspecting everybody, and you’ll end up getting the right person. Maybe you’re a better detective than we all thought.”

“Maybe.” I turned again to go.

“Goodey,” he said.

This was getting monotonous. I was beginning to feel like one of those little shooting-gallery rabbits that turns sharply at the end of each row and repeats his path.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t waste any time.”

I answered that one with a meaningless look and walked through the doorway to the back of the house. Stoney was waiting for me. He didn’t look friendly.

“I’ll see you off,” he said.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“It’s no strain. It’s a pleasure.”

As I got in my car, Stoney said, “I don’t like ex-cops.”

I backed up and got the right slant to the road before I answered. “Neither do
I,” I said, driving close enough to make him back up against the white-painted wall. That wouldn’t do his suit any good. In the mirror he didn’t look happy.

12

St. Timothy’s was a tall, crooked, hip little church in the shadow of Coit Tower. It was the kind of church that held rock masses and nudist baptisms. The curate was a weedy little West Point dropout who was on record calling Cardinal McGinty a “tired, old, worn-out, neo-Fascist prick.” It was that kind of church, and the waiting list to get married there was as long as a bookie’s memory.

It was still half an hour before Tina’s memorial service, but the block in front of St. Timothy’s looked like the closing scene of
Day of the Locust
. You couldn’t have cast that crowd at Twentieth Century Fox. You name it: hippies, Chinese pimps, spade socialites, the dregs of Nob Hill’s rearguard bacchants, the Broadway cognoscenti—they were all there, milling around for the benefit of the television cameras and the nine o’clock news. The tall, oak double doors of St Timothy’s were still closed.

From their windows the natives looked down on the
throngers in third-generation Italian wonder and occasionally threw down something that wasn’t too heavy or too valuable. An old buddy of mine, Sgt. Jack Sweet, the uncrowned king of North Beach, was jostling about in the crowd, using a bit of muscle on the more obvious pickpockets, rubbing up against the prettier girls, trying to nip mayhem in the bud, and enjoying every minute of it. Better him than me.

I stashed my car safely around the corner and edged up to the mob gingerly. If Tina’s murderer had been standing in the middle of that crowd with a confession pinned to his chest, I don’t think I’d have gone in after him. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder in an authoritative manner. He didn’t quite knock me down.

Rather than risk another attack, I turned around and found Bert Coney, newspaper columnist, celebrity maker, and claimant to the title of “Mr. San Francisco.” He was looking at me as if he owned me and the square mile I was standing on.

“You’re Joe
Goodey,” he told me in a way that made me want to believe him. Coney carried his round little head at about fifteen degrees off vertical, and his very expensive toupee seemed to be holding on for dear life. He had weary little eyes, resting comfortably in nests of wrinkles, and a face that had been introduced to many an expensive bottle of wine.

I didn’t deny the accusation, so he went on: “You knew Tina, didn’t you? Maybe you’ve got an angle for my column tomorrow. They’re crying for my copy down at the office, and all I can get from this crowd of scum is ‘so young, so beautiful’ crap. I can’t use that.”

“I didn’t know her all that well,” I said, still casing the crowd over the top of his head.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked. “
Kolchik didn’t take you back on the force, did he?” An idea seemed to glow at the back of his dull eyes. “Say, you didn’t lay her, did you? I wonder how many guys here today laid Tina D’Oro? That’s an angle.”

I didn’t argue with him. “No, I didn’t lay her,” I said, “but it might not be too late. I understand it’s going to be open coffin.” That took even Coney by surprise. He stopped searching the mob for Tina’s ex-lovers and looked at me with new interest.

“Now, that,” he said, “is really sick.” He wasn’t being critical, just remarking on a new discovery, like peanut-butter yogurt. “You cops are a hard lot. Tina’s body is hardly cold yet, and…“

“Yeah,” I said, “so young, so beautiful. You’ll have to excuse me now.” I pushed past him with my eyes on the horizon as if I were searching for someone, but I just wanted to get away from him and away from that crowd.

Holy Martyrs Cemetery was a little patch of waste ground on the wrong side of Millbrae. Unlike St. Timothy’s, it wasn’t fashionable. Nobody who was anybody would be caught there dead or alive. But that was where they were going to bury Tina. And I couldn’t find it.

It was an uneventful drive down the Bayshore past the airport. I turned at Millbrae Avenue and pulled off the road at a place called Bruce’s Eatery. I asked a scared-looking little man behind the counter if he knew the way to Holy Martyrs Cemetery.

He couldn’t have been all that scared. I could have crushed him with my thumb, but he answered, “Did you come in here for some
thing to eat or just ask directions?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yes. If you’re not going to order anything, I can’t remember where Holy Martyrs is. There’s something about a cash-register bell that stirs my memory. Without it, I’m a case of walking amnesia.”

“How big a tab does a guy have to run up to get a straight an
swer?” I asked, settling onto a counter stool. “I don’t think I can afford total recall.”

“Try a cheeseburger, French fries, and coffee,” he said, peeling the paper separator off a square of frozen something and dropping it on the grease-blackened griddle. “It’s cheaper than wasting gasoline in this end of nowhere.”

That cheeseburger worked miracles. It tasted pretty good, and it jogged his memory to a rosy glow.

The gates to the cemetery were ancient with rust, and the old man who said he was the caretaker refused to open them until the funeral party arrived. There was no use in doing the same job twice, he said, leaning on a rake I knew damned well he never used. I could have bribed my way in, but I figured I might as well wait there, ad
miring the veins in his nose, as sit next to a freshly dug grave.

We didn’t have much to say to each other, so he just leaned and I just sat while the flies buzzed around us and more dust settled on my Morris. We’d probably be there frozen like a cheap tableau to this day if a beautiful black Cadillac hearse hadn’t swept into the ceme
tery’s short, rubble-strewn drive and come to rest about an inch from my back bumper. A pebble-grained chauffeur in wraparound sun glasses frowned through his tinted wind screen at the back of my head. The top of the hearse was festooned with sprays and horseshoes of brilliant hothouse flowers, looking waxy enough to melt in the hot sun.

Behind the hearse came another black Caddy and behind that a blue-white Rolls Royce Silver Shadow which shimmered in the heat like something out of Fellini.

That was it—the whole funeral cortege. But it was enough for the old caretaker to creak into action with a big ring of keys. Eventually he got the right one into the keyhole, but then couldn’t get the gate to swing open. I got out and pushed as he pulled, but we still couldn’t do it. I looked over my shoulder at the hearse driver. He couldn’t see me until his partner in the front seat, a smooth character who looked like a beauty queen’s favorite uncle, turned to him and said something short and sharp.

The chauffeur came out, clapped his fawn gloves together with impatient energy, and put his weight onto the gate like the Detroit Lions’ front four. It screeched open with an Inner Sanctum note. With a see-you-sissy look at me, the driver headed back for his hearse. I was glad to see that his pretty gloves and uniform shoulder were stained with rust.

The caretaker waved me vaguely off to the left on a weed- overgrown track. It didn’t take me long to spot the big pile of earth that had been moved to make room for Tina. I drove past it a discreet distance to leave space for the funeral procession. By the time I’d parked and had walked back, the hearse had stopped, and the driver and his boss were rolling Tina’s coffin down a little portable ramp.

The casket was draped with what looked like a million white gar
denias sewn together into a blanket. The edges of the flowers scraped along the brown earth, leaving a little trail of petals to the edge of the freshly dug grave. The chauffeur then got busy untying the rest of the floral tributes from the top of the hearse.

Meanwhile, a door of the elongated Cadillac sedan had been eased open silently. Another chauffeur and a tall old gentleman in a tail coat were assisting a woman dressed entirely in black from the back seat. Her face was completely obscured by an opaque black veil, but from the size of her and a flash of a muscular calf, it looked to me as if she could have carried both of them and the casket. But just then she was blubbering too loudly and vividly to pull her own weight, so the old boy and his driver were edging her in the same di
rection as the casket.

The Rolls Royce had stopped too, and a back door was open. But nobody was getting out. I recognized the driver as one of the monkeys Fat Phil let hang around The Jungle. He was sitting behind the wheel, reading a magazine, with one foot cocked up on a win
dow ledge. It was obvious that he was no mourner, just an honest citizen earning a buck.

I walked over to the open door of the Rolls and peered in.

Sitting square in the middle of the big back seat was Fat Phil, and it looked as though he needed a half-size bigger car. Despite the arctic blast of the air conditioner, sweat was rolling out of his low hairline, and he was moaning softly like a half-crushed puppy.

“
Goodey,” he said when he could gather the strength, “I can’t make it. I thought I could, but I can’t.” He took a gasping breath. “And after I rented this car too. The best they had. Costing me a fortune.”

“It’s a business expense, Phil,” I said consolingly. “You can write it off. That is, if you live.”

“If I live,” he echoed. “I don’t know. Hey, did you see the blanket of gardenias? Great, hey? It set me back a packet, but nothing’s too good for Tina.”

I was going to tell him to take it out of Tina’s side of the profits, but then I felt someone tugging genteelly at my sleeve. It was the second chauffeur, an aging black with an old razor scar running down through one nostril.

“Sir,” he said without conscious irony, “the service is about to begin if you would like to join us.”

I thought about trying to help Fat Phil out of the Rolls, but he’d closed his eyes again and had gone back to breathing through his mouth. Turning with the chauffeur, I caught the scene at graveside. The big woman in black had been handed over to the younger un
dertaker and was rearing and bucking at the edge of the grave. It was all he and the other driver could do to keep her from toppling in after the casket. At the head of the open grave, the old gentleman with the white hair had a large book open, which I took for a Bible, and was looking up over it at me with disapproval. He also sneaked a look at a watch peeping out from his faultless white shirt cuff.

“No priest?” I asked my guide.

“Father Shearer,” he said through motionless lips, “wasn’t able to make it. In the commotion after the church service he was nicked by the fuzz. Mr. McDavitt will do the reading.” If he learned that style of talking any place but San Quentin, I’d misjudged my man.

Just as I was taking my place across the grave from the bereaved lady and her two anchors, a voice cried out: “Hold it!” A San Francisco taxi had come to a stop behind the Rolls, and four men came piling out. I recognized two of them as reporters. The other two had bulky press cameras.

McDavitt looked even more pissed off. One of the photographers ran around to the head of the grave and began badgering him to raise the casket again so that he could get a picture of it going down. McDavitt refused, copping another peek at his watch, and tried to calm everybody for the service, which, unless I was wrong, was going to be short and sweet The photographer settled for a high-angle picture of the casket in the grave, and the two reporters stationed themselves on either side of the lady mourner, ready to pounce as soon as the first shovel of earth hit the casket. The other photographer had fallen back for some long shots of this splendid little scene and was now zeroing in on Fat Phil’s rented Rolls for a bit of color.

Old
McDavitt got his pretty white teeth into a text which began: “We gather today to say farewell to this child. For child she was, as are we all in the eyes of God...” It wasn’t a bad start, but I couldn’t hear any of the rest of it for the wailing that commenced from the old party across the grave.

Undeterred,
McDavitt plowed on with the text, mouthing the words as eloquently as if he were burying a queen. When he closed the big book there were tears in his watery blue eyes. He dropped a signal, and the black driver lofted a big spadeful of dirt down into the grave.

The dirt hit the box with a muffled thud.

With that sound the wailing and moaning across the way suddenly stopped. A dusty silence fell over our little funeral party, and even the photographers stopped snapping for a moment. Then the lone mourner raised two muscular arms tipped with black gauntlets and lifted her veils revealing thick coils of copper-wire hair and a face like a retired fullback.

She couldn’t have been less than sixty years old, and every one of those years had been a hard one, judging by the souvenirs they’d left on her old mug. One incisor was missing, and she had three chins making inverted
stairsteps down to the high ruching at the neck of her black dress.

Her complexion was that of an old wineskin that had been dipped in the flour barrel, and her eyes were hollow and cried out. The two reporters converged on her like freeloaders after the last cocktail sausage.

“Mrs. Barton,” said the big one, an ex-police reporter named Royster I’d often seen sleeping on a sofa at police headquarters, "would you…”

The little one, a lad who looked like a new cub on a high-school paper, tried to sneak under Royster’s arm and get at the old woman. “I’m from the
Examiner
, Mrs. Barton,” he said, “and I wonder if...”