Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (13 page)

Chapter Nineteen

After four bennies, Hickey’d been pacing and sucking his briar as though to interrupt either occupation would invite catastrophe. Just for the sake of moving, he would’ve allowed Harry to shoot pool, except while they were in the other cube, the front room might get occupied. He’d return to find a gunman crouched behind every piece of sofa, a platoon around back of the bar.

Besides, what he needed wasn’t another room but to get clear out of this hideous joint before he gave over to his impulses and blasted chunks out of the Formica, heaved a chair at the snake pit, set fire to a pile of sofas.

The boss sat glowering, restlessly tapping his feet. They thumped the tile floor like jungle drums in a fierce rhythm that would settle in, then break stride, as though to annoy Hickey deliberately. Punish him for refusing to let a man shoot pool.

Outside the picture window, aside from the snow, which in sunny places was already melting, the day could’ve passed as summer. The noon sky was cloudless, the lake placid except where boats or currents meeting stirred up ridges and arrowheads of foam. Squaw Peak reflected so brightly it could’ve been a glacier rising out of the lake. Off the point at north stateline, a funnel rose. A summer squall out of season, Hickey thought, or a gambler who’d dropped his life savings and discovered a new and spectacular way to throw a fit.

Hickey stopped pacing to listen. He thrust his left hand, palm out, at Poverman and glared until he got silence. For the past half hour he’d kept hearing sticks crack, out in the woods on the south side. It might’ve been innocent horseback riders cutting through Harry’s tamarack grove, or a gang of thugs intent on delivering their boss, maybe getting a bonus or a raise by wasting the intruder.

Tyler was still in the northeast wing with the maid. A few times every hour, Frieda would cut loose a burst of hysterical laughter, as though Tyler were tackling, and tickling her.

The phone rang. Harry slid across the couch and grabbed it. He listened a second, then bolted up straight.

“Hey, Mister Cohen, thanks for calling.…Yeah, business. See, I got this neighbor, helps me out at the club. Straight arrow, ex-cop. You know, somebody’s pocketing dimes, Tom’s gonna snoop out the right guy.…Tom Hickey.…Sure it’s a stupid name. …

“See, Tom got into a jam down in San Dago. Trying to spring this old smooch of his they say put a match to Johnny Sousa. You know about that guy, right?…Sure. Well, Tom got in a hurry, smarted off at Schwartz and Paoli.…Yeah, sure he’s a moron, else he wouldn’t of been a cop.

“But look, somebody snatched his wife. She’s gonna have a baby any day now. What I’m asking is you pass the word down to Dago, say whoever nabbed her, toss her back. Tom’s outta the deal, learned his lesson. He gets the girl, that’s all there is. He tries to get even, I ax his lousy head off.…Yeah, I’m done.…Yeah, I get it.…Sure, sure.”

As the gambler made a sour face and replaced the phone, Hickey snapped, “What?”

“Let me think a minute,” Harry growled. He stood up, spun on his heel. Kicked the sofa arm. “Okay. Mickey says he don’t know from nothing about the Sousa fire or anybody’s wife, or any jerk named Hickey except one used to have a partner named Leo—”

“Weiss.”

“Yeah. Mickey says the next word he hears about Guns for Israel, guys are gonna start having accidents. He says the first one’ll be this character Weiss.”

Hickey jumped up. Revolver at his side, he edged over and grabbed the phone, carried it back to his chair. He checked the note pad and dialed the operator, gave her the Brentwood number of the Las Palmas Motor Court.

The desk clerk sounded like she had a bellyache. “Leo Weiss, you say? The stiff that ran out on his bill, same guy the cops came looking for an hour ago? That the one?”

“Yeah. He stops by, tell him to phone Tom. Got it?”

“Oh, yeah, at your service, mister.”

Hickey punched down the button, swallowed the lump in his throat, and dialed O again.

As though from a phantom cloud, snowflakes had begun pelting the house. Across the lake to the north, a small black patch of sky made Hickey shiver, as if it were the eye of a tornado meant especially for him. You only have to glimpse the universe from the wrong angle, he thought, and it looks as if all the malevolent forces of nature, the cruelest angels and demons, have made a pact to liquidate you.

Leo’s answering-service girl gave her name as Flora. A new one Hickey didn’t know. Mr. Weiss hadn’t left any number except the Brentwood one, she said. Not for Tom Hickey nor anybody. So he dictated a message.

“
Get your fool self up here, straightaway
. You writing this down?”

“Yes, go ahead,” the girl muttered.

“Say:
You want to hang Mickey, wait till I get my wife and kid back. She’s number one in this deal, and number two and three. Mickey’s nowhere. Neither are Charlie or Cynthia. Not for now
. You got all that?”

“Oh, sure,” the girl said meekly. “Shall I tell him you’re upset?”

“Yeah. Upset’s the perfect word.”

Hickey had to lean back a minute, chew on his pipestem, force some air into his lungs. It felt as though his blood, which normally meandered like a lazy river, was approaching a waterfall. Finally he stuffed and lit his pipe, called the operator again, and gave her a number for the San Diego police.

“You oughta hire a secretary,” she said.

Thrapp was out. Hickey left a message for the captain to phone him instantly. The next call he dialed himself, to Sheriff Boggs.

“Tom, I tried to ring you a couple times. Line was busy.”

“What gives?”

“Zero, sorry to say. All of Harry’s boys are accounted for. Still, the kidnappers might be working shifts. I guess I’ll shake down the hotel. If Harry’s got her, I’d give you house odds she’s stashed right there.”

“You think Harry’s an idiot?”

“More or less.”

“What’d he say?” the gambler snapped. He raised his hands, palms up, in wait for an answer. When Hickey ignored him, he muttered, “Smart enough to outwit a dozen old lizards like him.”

The sheriff offered to stop by the cabin and brainstorm, in a while, after he leaned on Tom’s neighbor. But Hickey told him to forget Poverman and keep badgering the snitches and tough guys. “You want to talk,” he said, “call me at Poverman’s. Got his number?”

“We’ve got his number, all right. What’re you doing there?”

“Trying not to lose my head.”

“Might help if you keep your eyes shut. I hear the fella that designed the eyesore is wearing a straitjacket.”

As Hickey let go of the phone, the boss growled, “That sheriff’s gotta call in a deputy every time he needs to find his dick.”

Hickey paced to the window. The wind had kicked up. The cedars started to howl as though arguing with the wind. The wind relented. The trees fell silent. Somewhere close by, a woman sobbed. Hickey heard it clearly. He thought it must be Frieda in the kitchen. She’d looked weepy when she’d finally appeared out of the northeast wing where she and Tyler had holed up since last evening. They’d only surfaced whenever Harry yelled and one of them dashed out to empty the stockpot or bring a snack or a drink.

Turning toward the kitchen, Hickey listened more closely and resolved that the sobbing didn’t come from the house. It was rising from deep in his mind. It sounded like Wendy, only back when her voice was higher and more timid, when she could hardly weep without sounding afraid that somebody was going to smack her—like a dog that’s been kicked every day of its life.

The phone rang, and Hickey startled so violently his pipe slipped out of his mouth and clanged against the chrome ridge of a coffee table. Harry pounced on the phone.

“Miss Blackwood. Pleasure to hear your voice.…You bet he’s here. Shall I take a message?…Yes, ma’am.” The boss gave Hickey a wink and the receiver.

“Claire?”

“I think I found a stooge, Tom.” She almost shrieked with excitement. “He’s awfully drunk, and miffed about a baby-sitting job he didn’t get. But he clammed up. I think you’ll need to talk to him.”

Chapter Twenty

Hickey rode shotgun, pressed against the door, to keep his revolver better than arm’s length from the boss, who drove one-handed while listing the foibles of Hickey’s car. Its tall profile. Short wheel-base. Scratchy upholstery. Mushy brakes. The radio that sounded like a gramophone. Hickey’d decided on the Chevy because if they’d driven one of the boss’s cars, a minute after the valet spotted it, every manager, bouncer, and pit boss would know the king had arrived. This way, he could try sneaking them in through the back and hustling to the cover of Harry’s office, which was next to the lounge where Claire’d be waiting, keeping the stooge distracted. Unless Tyler hadn’t bought his lie—that they were going to meet Claire north stateline, at the Cal-Neva. If Tyler was smarter than he looked or Harry had flashed him a sign, he’d have phoned the club. A battalion of creeps would be posted all over. Out of nowhere, a tire iron or golf club would smash Hickey’s arm the same instant a blackjack thumped his noggin.

He should’ve put Poverman on the phone, got him to enlist a couple of his boys to deliver Claire and the stooge. But between his excitement at finding a lead and his fervor to escape the leather and Formica prison, he hadn’t thought straight until five or so miles down the lakeside highway. Even then, reason only held sway for a few minutes, until Secret Harbor, when the highway turned inland and climbed into Bliss Meadows, and Hickey realized that any moment they might be passing a house, cabin, or barn where some punks had Wendy.

As they crested Spooner Summit, Tahoe reappeared, a flash of silver-blue. Hickey stared while his eyes adjusted and the western ranges appeared—the Rubicons, Tallac, Job’s Peak and Job’s Sister—mirrored precisely along the far shore. Last September, Wendy’d gotten so dazzled by the view from this place she’d gasped and reached for his hand, though she’d been here maybe a hundred times. Since she’d learned about the baby, the beauty of everything had multiplied. For both of them.

Poverman finished slandering the Chevy, whistled “Saint Louis Blues,” then struck up a jitterbug tune. He coasted lazily down the grade.

“Step on it,” Hickey commanded.

“Hey, I’m doing my damnedest to keep this rollerskate on the road.”

The lower they dropped, the bigger the lake appeared, until it felt as though the earth were mostly water and beyond the rim of jagged silver-white mountains outer space began. Through Glenbrook, Harry goosed the throttle and hunched over the wheel, as though he’d remembered some urgent business at the club. They roared and skidded in and out of shady groves and meadows so brilliant they struck you blind.

Hickey pondered how to play his hand at the club. If he dropped his guard, pocketed his gun, and strolled in beside the boss like he had last week and a dozen other times when they were still the house dick and the guy who signed his paychecks—if Tyler or somebody had called an alert, Hickey’d get whacked before they passed the laundry room. But if Harry was playing straight and Tom marched him into the club with a gun to his ribs, he’d likely make a grandstand play to save face, which would probably leave Hickey with a dead neighbor and himself bleeding from a variety of holes.

They crossed the hill below Kingsbury, swerved off an ice slick near the wedding chapel, passed Lacey’s Roadhouse and a field where an entrepreneur offered the tourists buggy rides, into the town of South Lake Tahoe, which could’ve passed for an LA traffic jam. A crowd of rubberneckers stood in the middle of the road as though, now they’d blown their inheritance, they might as well get run down.

Hickey ordered the boss to swing left onto the icy dirt road that led behind the Wagon Wheel and the Gateway Club and into Harry’s casino’s back parking lot. The guard was making his rounds, like Hickey’d charged him to, after a San Francisco city councilman’s Lincoln Zephyr had gotten swiped and Harry’d assigned his neighbor to awaken and terrorize the security staff.

At Hickey’s direction, the boss pulled into a marked space closest to the employees’ entrance and loading dock, where two Chinese laborers hoisted crates out of a bobtail delivery truck. One gave Hickey a casual wave and appeared not to notice Poverman, as if you couldn’t tell one white guy in an overcoat and fedora from the next.

The double doors swung open on a stiff little man in a uniform Harry’s tailor had modeled after the getup of Canadian Mounties. “Say—”

“Hello, Leroy,” Hickey muttered.

Noticing his boss, the guard’s voice rose a step. “Mister Poverman. You’re lookin’ good. You—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry chucked the guard’s shoulder.

The hall was like a tunnel: thirty yards, barely wide enough to fit the two broad-shouldered men. Hickey nudged the boss a step ahead.

“Where’s the popgun?”

“It’s handy.”

“Keep your paws in the open,” Harry growled. “You make the hostage routine a spectacle, it’s curtain time.”

The hall was floored in asphalt tile over plywood. Their feet rapped as though on a snare drum that wanted a little tightening, until the noise got obscured—first by the rumble of washing machines, then by the pings of machine-shop hammers and the groans of several men as though one of them had told a sour joke, and finally by pots clanging in the dishwasher’s nook.

As they surfaced into the gaming room, Hickey realized his pulse had been drumming his ears so loud and long, any second it might overamp and blow his lights out. He might land outside heaven and rush the guard, demanding to know had Wendy arrived yet. If the thugs cut her loose, fifty years hence he might still be loitering outside the gates.

The two pit bosses who rushed Harry looked like the finalists in a swagger-and-grin competition. They wore brown tuxedos and bolo ties noosed in silver and turquoise.

“All’s well, Mister P,” the winner announced so obsequiously he could’ve passed for a lap dog. He sported a gorgeous mop of sleek auburn hair. “A poker cheat, a couple loudmouths, is all.”

The runner-up, Eduardo, a pockmarked Spaniard, asked Hickey about the family, got a nod, then turned to the boss and relayed the story that Pauline had spread, about Mr. Poverman having the croup and a touch of laryngitis.

Harry chuckled. “Pauline’s got this problem. All her brains are down here.” He cupped his hands at his chest. “Keep her outta my sight, would you, Eduardo? I got business. When a guy’s got business, he don’t need Pauline around. Know what I mean?”

“You bet I do,” Eduardo quivered his head, as though the thought of Pauline had caused a spasm.

“Raymond,” the boss said. “Grab a pal and follow Tom and me.”

The gaming room was all redwood panels, maroon carpet, brass fixtures and spittoons. Out on the floor, change runners and cocktail girls dodged the drunks and wandering losers. Lights flashed, wheels spun, cards skittered over the felt, yelps issued from people delighted to win back the cash out of which they’d gotten swindled. A husky redhead in cowgirl duds rushed over to check the boss’s and Mr. Hickey’s coat and hats. Harry lifted a finger, tossed her a look, and she fled. A bartender tipped his Stetson. A croupier saluted.

Claire jumped up from the booth in which she appeared to have cornered the stooge, who sprawled as though one more sip would deposit him onto the floor. Though Claire’s right hand was riding her hip, Harry grasped it in both of his while he angled toward the pit boss and his helper. “Show the lug to my office.”

When Claire broke free, she started around him toward Hickey, who wagged his head sharply to back her off. But Poverman had already spun around and tossed his hands up next to her shoulders. All he needed was to grab, then Claire’d be his shield. Hickey’d be a chump. Maybe a dead one.

The boss fluttered his fingers and gave Hickey a wry smile. “Think about it, tough guy,” he said, then chortled, turned and marched ahead of the pack, past the bar. He pulled a ring of keys, unlocked a carved redwood door.

The office looked like a warehouse for extra junk from Harry’s home. Three black sofas, a sheepskin rug, and a miniature Formica desk that implied its keeper wasn’t a sucker for paperwork. In each side wall was a door. The wall behind the desk sported an unframed canvas upon which some creature that resembled a shark labored through either murky water or rust-streaked motor oil. Claire stopped in front of the desk to gape at the canvas.

The boss pinched his nose and shrugged. “My steno, Pauline, said she learned all about painting when she used to model for some artiste. So I gave her a crack at it. She thinks it’s a trout.”

The stooge reeled into the office, prodded and shoved by Raymond and a Greek bouncer. The stooge stood half a head taller than either escort, with a vast, barrel-shaped torso and squat legs. His face was round, dark, and greasy. Harry motioned toward a sofa. The men dumped him there.

“Who
is
this guy?” Harry demanded.

“A sore loser,” Raymond said. “Can’t hold his booze. Saturday or so, we booted him out. That’s all I know. Today, he shows up with a wad, drops it to craps. Plato would’ve gave him the heave-ho again, except the lady says you’re on your way and we’re supposed to sit on him.”

Harry gave a nod and wave of dismissal.

“You sure, Mister Poverman? He’s a big mutt.”

The boss scowled. The two men hustled for the door. As it clicked shut, Hickey dug in the pocket of his overcoat and brought out his .45; the stooge’s head jerked up and backward. He careened that way so hard the sofa’s front legs flew up and dropped.

Hickey sat across from the man, next to Claire, feeling lightheaded and slightly giddy with relief, to feel in pursuit, released from his mind. The boss sat on his desk, gazed around placidly, then wheeled on the stooge. “You looking for a job or what?”

“Yeah. You got it.”

“What kind of work?”

“Aw, anything takes muscle.” As though suddenly forgetting Hickey’s gun, the man straightened up and stared intently at each of them, as though trying hard to focus. “You got a job for me?”

“Sure.”

“What’s it pay?”

“A C-note in chips.”

“That ain’t much,” the man said cockily, then wilted under Poverman’s glare. “What’s the job?”

“Doing what you do best, Mutt. Running off at the mouth. See, we’re looking for a gal that got snatched.”

“Hey.” The stooge turned to Claire and frowned, a delicate fellow betrayed. “Hey, I don’t know about any snatch. I was just trying to make time with the dame.”

Harry flew off the desk. “Dame! You calling Miss Blackwood a dame, moron? Tom, God’s sake, don’t just sit there. Punish the moron.”

“My pleasure.”

Hickey stood and took one long stride before the man wailed, “Naw. Naw. I already spilled the beans. I’ll come clean, all I know. I was down in Reno, at the Motherlode, and some little guy—a cowpuncher, looked like—says a couple Reno boys got big dough to snatch a…lady. Up here. It ain’t right, he says. Guys start poaching on the next guy’s territory, what you end up with’s a range war. He says.”

“Who are the boys?” Hickey snapped.

“Search me. I don’t even know the cowpuncher. A little guy. Brown hat. Checked shirt.”

“Who they working for?”

“I don’t know, pal. You got all there is to get outta me.”

The stooge hung his head and stopped forward. A perfect target. In two steps, Hickey crossed the space between them. He kicked a bull’s eye. Probably tenderized the man’s heart. As he slumped forward, Hickey dropped beside him. Poking his .45 into the man’s right eye socket, he snarled, “Where’d they take the lady?”

“Do what you gotta, buddy.” The stooge caught a breath and groaned. “I’m tapped out.”

“Tom,” Claire said.

Hickey got up, sat beside her, and rubbed his temples. She gripped the base of his skull and pressed firmly.

The boss whistled, loud as a football coach. Before the echo died, Raymond and his sidekick came in. “Go feed the lug a steak. Give him a stack of chips. Only, if he tries to leave, lock him in the freezer.”

They hoisted the man to his feet and led him staggering out the door. Hickey grabbed up the phone, walked it back to the Formica table, slammed it down. “Call Reno.”

“I believe that’s a town, Tom. Give me a person.”

“The guy that knows who’s got Wendy.”

With a sneer and sigh of boredom, Poverman dialed the operator and shifted his voice a notch lower. “Yeah, cutie, give me Reno thirty-six eighteen.” He shot Hickey a vicious scowl, as though suddenly he’d gotten his fill of this game. “Hey, Beau. What’s cooking?…Same old stuff, huh?…Right, Friday’s good. Chinese joint in Truckee. Listen, I got a problem. Pretend you’re looking for a couple boys to do an odd job, grab somebody, keep her on ice, maybe buy her a one-way ticket, who do you call?

… Naw, I’m just supposing.” He threw out a hand for the note pad. Hickey delivered. “Yeah, I heard of him.” The boss scribbled a few names. “Who else?…This guy Rollins: he the one’s been collecting for Foster?”

“Whoa!” Hickey bellowed.

“Hold on, Beau.” The gambler cupped the mouthpiece and gave a queer look, one eyebrow raised, the other eye squinting.

“Frankie Foster?” Hickey demanded.

“What about him?”

“He’s in Reno?”

“Sure. He used to work outta the Doubloon in Santa Monica. A few months he’s been sizing up Reno, trying to muscle in on the sports book.”

“Call him.”

“You know the guy?” Harry switched hands on the mouthpiece, freeing his right hand.

Hickey watched sharply, expecting the boss to open a desk drawer. “He’s got an in-law, Jack Meechum?”

“Beats me. Wait. Yeah, he’s got a daughter goes by Meechum. Came up for a party last summer. Tits out to here.” He stretched his arm far as it would go.

“Call him,” Hickey commanded.

The boss glowered and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Beau. I got a pest here. You have Foster’s number handy?” He jotted it down. “See you Friday, huh?” Holding on to the receiver, he pushed the hang-up button and asked Hickey, “Where’s this Meechum fit in?”

“Let’s see. Make the call.”

Harry tossed the receiver onto the hook and shifted himself toward Claire. “Miss Blackwood, if you don’t mind, how about letting us gab on our own for a minute, Tom and me? You need a drink or a snack? How about a scarf? We got a French boutique right in the club.”