Hit and The Marksman (10 page)

“When I woke up Senna and Baker were crawling all over my station wagon, tearing the damn thing apart. I guess they didn't find anything—you got to figure there'd be bloodstains in the car if I'd carried Aiello's corpse out to that roadbed and buried it. Of course I didn't know what they were looking for at first, but then later I heard the radio news about the body and I knew that's what they'd been looking for in the station wagon. All right, they didn't find any stains, and that slowed them down. But the way Senna looked at me I knew I was a long way from being off the hook. I went in the john and I could hear them out in the kitchen. There was a phone call, probably DeAngelo, and after Senna hung up he told Baker to get his gun because they were going out to your place to pump you and Joanne and see if you had the money. So they went, and as soon as they were gone I got in the station wagon and came over here. I had to think.”

“Why here?”

“It used to be a drop. I'd pick up satchels here once in a while. I think a long time ago they used the place to pass dope from dealers to pushers.”

His voice ran down. He sat sweating in a dark pool of shadow. I said, “Three million dollars is a lot of cash. What was it doing in Aiello's safe in the first place?”

“They used the vault for a collection point for everything this side of El Paso and Salt Lake.”

“They wouldn't just let all that cash lie idle in the safe. What was supposed to happen to it?”

He looked at me; he was deciding whether to answer. He said, “Jesus, why not? Look, the way they worked it, Aiello would hold the stuff they collected from various enterprises all over the district. They kept it in cash because they didn't want any records for the tax boys to dig in. This was the raw take, you understand. All sizes of bills, unmarked. The mob's got its own legit banks back east, Long Island and New Jersey, but out here they don't, so it was handy to have that big old bank vault in Aiello's house. They'd let the cash pile up until there was enough for a shipment—maybe four million. Then they'd satchel it into a small van with two or three torpedoes and armor plate and more locks and electric guard systems than you ever saw, and Aiello and DeAngelo would ride with it over to Los Angeles. Over there they'd work through a dozen banks, change the money into cashiers' checks and bank letters under phony names. They'd take a week, ten days to get it done, all in small batches so they wouldn't attract attention. Then somebody flies it over to Switzerland—they've got dozens of numbered bank accounts in Zurich. It used to be Madonna who called the turns but he never touched the stuff with his own hands. Usually Aiello and DeAngelo would fly over to Switzerland.”

“And the safe was almost full last night?” I asked.

“Close. Like I said.”

“It all belonged to the mob?”

“Mostly. A lot of people had pieces of it. And Aiello used to keep money in the safe for people who didn't want to report it for taxes—private money.”

“Who else?”

“I don't know names. Outsiders, but I don't know which ones.”

He got up and wobbled toward the door to get air. I stayed close with the gun. He said, “God, I feel like I just got out of the hospital after six months and fell down in the lobby on my way out and broke both legs. Only this time there's no cure. Jesus H. Christ. I belong to the running dead, you know that?”

All this had been preamble; suddenly he wheeled to face me. He said in a sharper tone of voice, “Crane, I've leveled with you. When I heard Senna and Baker talking this morning, I knew the mob was trying to decide whether it was me that took the money, or you and Joanne. Or maybe all three of us. They want to play marbles with our eyeballs. Okay, listen, I played straight with those guys, I said I was sorry, but I'm not going to die for it and I'm not about to write it a hundred times on the blackboard. I want out. If you've got any brains, you do too.”

“Go on—spell it out, Mike.”

He nodded. “I talk a lot, I know. Reflex habit. But I've been sizing you up. I'm not as dumb as I look. You're one of the mob's prime suspects. I know that because I heard the boys talking this morning. This morning you went up to Madonna's. What for? I asked myself. The answer was easy. You went up there for the same reason I did. When you drove in, I was parked up the road trying to work up the guts to go in and talk to Madonna, beg on my knees if I had to, just persuade them I didn't do it. I didn't have the nerve, but you did. Now, if you'd taken the loot you'd have been long gone by now, I figure. Besides, you're tied up with Jo, and I know her well enough to know she'd never do a thing like this. So let's lay it on the line. You didn't do it and I didn't do it and Joanne didn't do it. What else is there? Madonna himself? I doubt it. Soldiers been drifting in and out of Madonna's place all day, there's a big flap, and I just don't think it's a mob operation. Some independent party is out there someplace with all that loot. But the mob doesn't look at it that way—not yet, anyway. Too many coincidences for them. They know Joanne had keys to Aiello's house and the alarm system—that was why Senna and Baker made a beeline for your place this morning. They know I just got out of the pen and went directly to Aiello's last night and saw what was in the safe. Probably they figure all three of us were in it together, we pulled the caper, right? Just think about that, Crane.”

I had; I was. I said, “Go on, Mike.”

“Okay, the reason I opened up to you, I want to make a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

Now there was cunning in his eyes—anxious and fearful, but sly. “Together maybe we can find that loot,” he said. “If either one of us finds it and turns it over to the mob, do you think that'll keep them from killing all three of us anyway, just to keep our mouths shut?”

“Keep going.”

“Okay. We find it, we split it down the middle, and we go our separate ways.”

I said, “What about the mob?”

He tried to smile. “Crane, forty thousand men disappear every year in this country, and a lot of them don't ever get found unless they want to. If it helps you make up your mind, I got a good contact—not through the mob—with a plastic surgeon. You follow?” He dragged a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, glanced at it, and handed it to me. I looked at it—the name and address of a doctor in Studio City.

He said, “Keep it, I got another copy. Hell, tie it all up in nice neat ribbons—leave a suicide note if you want to and make it look like you took a Brodie off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

He was staring at me without blinking, almost holding his breath.

I said, “What about Joanne?”

“Joanne and me are quits. I won't make waves. You cut your half with her or do it however you want.”

“I notice you didn't offer to split it in thirds.”

“I didn't think I had to. I thought you and Joanne were an item together. Making woo, all that crap.”

I didn't press it; what I said was, “Suppose we look but we don't find the money?”

“Then we get dead. I don't know about you but I'm dead anyway. What have we got to lose?” He had a point.

I said, “You've leveled with me as far as I can tell. I'll give you this much. Madonna gave me forty-eight hours to produce the money.”

“Or else what?”

“He didn't specify. They'll bring Joanne in and then bring me in and they'll work us over to find out what we know.”

“And when they're satisfied you don't know anything, they'll rub you out anyway because they can't afford to let you go and blab what they did to you. A sweet pot, Crane. Look, the only chance we've got is to throw in together. We can't go to the cops—they might help us find the stuff but we'd end up dead anyway, and most of the cops I know would keep the money and pretend they-never found it.”

Which was, I thought, exactly what Mike himself was proposing to do. I didn't point out the irony of his indignation. I said, “Where do you figure to start looking?”

“Have we got a deal?”

“Let's put it like this. We'll work together. If and when we find the money we can decide what's to be done with it. If it looks like we can guarantee our own safety by turning the money over to Madonna, then I'd suggest it's better to be alive and broke than dead and rich.”

“That'd have to be a hell of a guarantee.”

“If we can work it out that way, will you go for it?”

He scowled. “If it's the only way, hell yes. Have I got a choice?”

“All right. We've got a deal.”

He nodded. “Okay. Then the first thing you do is check out the Judy Dodson bird. She was still with Aiello when I left last night. Look, the reason I can't do it myself, I got to stay out of sight. They might take a notion to haul me in any time. You've at least got forty-eight hours and they'll probably keep their hands off you that long, just to see if you can come up with something.”

“Any other ideas if the girl doesn't pan out?”

“One or two,” he said. “For instance, Frank Colclough and Stanley Raiford.”

I looked at him. He had uttered two prominent political names. Frank Colclough, the county supervisor, was a political kingmaker who bossed the county machine. Stanley Raiford, the ex-governor, had been in the news lately, making hard-knuckled speeches that sounded very much like the noises made by a man running for office. It was rumored he was about to throw his hat in the ring and run for the Senate against the aging incumbent.

Mike said, “There were money packages in the safe with their names on them.”

“Packages for what?”

“You'd have to find that out yourself. I don't know. The money wasn't payoffs, I know that much. The bag money doesn't get listed like that in the safe. So it was something else, not bribe cash. But it had Colclough's and Raiford's names on it. Private money, probably, that Aiello was keeping as a favor to them. There were some others, but those are the only two names I remember.”

I scowled. They were leads but they didn't sound very good. But at least it was a place to start.

Mike said, “I'm going to have to stay under cover. If it wasn't for Jo I wouldn't trust you, but I figure she'll look out for my rights if you get any fancy ideas.”

It was a strange thing for him to say. I had no way of disproving the idea that he and Joanne had set the whole thing up, using me as their patsy; no way except the knowledge that it didn't fit with Joanne's character for a minute.

“All right,” I said. “You sit tight.” I turned to go.

He stopped me. “How about my gun?”

I studied him, then handed the gun to him. He stuck it in his waistband. He said, “I may not stay here, but I'll get in touch.”

I said, “If I need to find you, where do I look?”

“Here. Then the Mariache Bar on South Tenth. An old buddy of mine owns it, he's not in the mob. I'll leave word for you with him if I have to move. His name's Maldonado.”

I nodded and went.

Chapter Five

Mike Farrell, I thought as I drove away, was a vexing character. If I'd still been a cop, and if I'd had time and facilities, I'd have taken him downtown, booked him as a material witness and sweated him a while to find out how much of his story was true.

I took back streets to get out of Las Palmas, found a phone booth in a shopping center and called the Executive Lodge. I asked for Mrs. Chittenden and when I heard Joanne's voice I said, “Me. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, but I think our secret is out. Just after you left, I went to get some newspapers and a paperback, and a man saw me in the lobby.”

So that was how Madonna had found her—pure blind luck, and all of it bad. I said, “You recognized him?”

“I think so. What's more important, I think he recognized me.”

“Is he hanging around?”

“He may be. If he is, he's being discreet—I haven't been pestered since I came back to the room.”

“Okay,” I said. “You've got my gun, you may as well just stay put a little while.”

“Simon, how is—”

“It going? We're in trouble up to the hairline. Sit tight and I'll see you in a little while. Have room service send you a sandwich.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Then get loaded,” I said. “Keep the door locked and keep the gun handy, right?”

She said dismally, “All right, Simon,” and I hung up with a vivid tactile image of the rich warm tone of her flesh, the flash of her eyes.

Either way, I had to take a risk. If I tried to spirit her away and hide her someplace else, I'd probably have to ditch a tail and that would make Madonna angry. This way, leaving her where she was, he might get the idea we weren't ducking out on him. It might persuade him to keep his word and give me free rein at least for a little while.

I looked up Dodson, Judy, in the phone book, found a number listed under Dodson, Judith, and let it ring eleven times. No answer. After a minute's thought I looked up the Atomic Bar and when the bartender answered I said, “Is Phoebe there?”

“Who wants to know?”

“A friend. Tell her Simon says.”

“Tell her what?”

“Simon says.”

“Christ,” he said, and then: “Hang on, I'll see if she's here.”

There was some background noise and then Phoebe Willits' whisky baritone voice roared out of the receiver at me:

“Simon, you bastard.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You'd have to check that with Dad and Mom and they're not here right now. Phoebe, I'm looking for a girl.”

“Isn't everybody? Listen, you son of a bitch, if I wasn't old and fat and ugly, somebody'd be looking for me, too.”

“Nonsense. You know you're beautiful.” In the eyes of, say, a bull moose; I didn't state that part out loud but she got the inference. I said, “The girl's name is Judy Dodson and she was seen now and then with Sal Aiello. I tried her listed phone but nobody's home.”