Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (41 page)

I looked over at him. He was smiling reminiscently. "What
kinds of games?"

"We'd shoot some pool, go fishing, play war."

"War?"

"Yeah. Like go out in the country and play the National
Survival Game."

I'd seen something about the National Survival Game in the paper
recently. "You mean where adults play capture-the-flag with toy
guns?"

Beck frowned. "It's not that simple. I mean, it's a real
sport, with a manual and all. There's a national organization, and
they have playing fields in most of the states, Canada too. And the
guns aren't toys."

Now I frowned. "They're not?"

"No. You turn right here."

I did as he directed, driving along the boulevard that bordered
Lake Merritt. "What are they then? You don't use real bullets,
do you?"

"Of course not. They're paint guns, shoot pellets the size of
marbles, full of yellow paint. When you're hit, you yell 'paint
check,' and one of the officials comes up and makes sure it's a legal
hit."

Paint. I remembered the gun in Mack Marchetti's living room
display case, the one he'd said was for marking stock on ranches. I'd
been about to ask him why he had one when the phone had rung and
Selena had told him about Alida's murder.

"And if it's a legal hit?" I said.

"You're out of the game, same as if you're dead."

"Oh." The concept of grown men running around and
shooting one another with paint was faintly ridiculous. "What's
the object of all this?"

"To capture the other team's flag. They give you a battle
map, showing where it's at, and whichever side gets to the other's
flag first wins."

"It sounds like cowboys and Indians to me."

Beck rolled his eyes. "Women never understand these things."

"Explain it to me, then."

"The game is a good release for tensions. The way the world
is today, you need that. Take me: This morning I go in and they load
up the truck. They short me on one order. The guy at the restaurant
where I'm delivering yells at me, like I loaded the truck personally.
Christ, he acted like I'd
baked
the stuff! Can I yell back
at him, though? No. He's the customer; the customer's always right.

"So I go back to the bakery. I complain about being shorted.
The shift boss doesn't listen. Can I yell at him for not listening?
Not if I want to keep my job. Can I yell at the guy who shorted me? I
don't even know who did it, and anyway he's gone for the day. So what
do I have? Tension. What can I do about it? Nothing."

"So what you're saying is that the Survival Game is good
therapy."

"Yeah. You're out there, you got your gun, you're equal to
any of the other players. You can do something about things for a
change. You're somebody, you've got power."

"Does it cost a lot to play?"

"Maybe forty bucks. There's an entry fee, and you've got to
rent your fatigues and goggles and gun. Some guys, like Mack, cut the
cost by owning their own gear—but it's got to be regulation."

"Does anyone else from the flea markets besides you and Mack
play the game?"

"Sure. Monty, about five, six of the other vendors. Even some
women played."

"Selena Gonzalez?"

"Nah, not that I know of."

"What about Alida?"

"Hell, no."

"And not Willie?"

"Never Willie. It used to piss him off that we played,
because we'd take weekends off from the markets to do it."

"Where do you play?"

"Like I said, there are places in practically every state. We
used to go to one in Contra Costa County, near Mount Diablo. You need
a lot of room, and it's got to be kind of rough country for it to be
any fun."

"I've never noticed any of these places."

"Well, they don't exactly stick up a sign. While it's just a
game, it's not a spectator sport. I mean, somebody could get hurt if
they got in the players' way."

"So how do you find out where to play?"

"There's a directory you can buy. You better turn right
here."

I signaled and started up the hill, which was honeycombed with old
stucco apartments and rooming houses. "So you and Monty and Mack
play at this place in Contra Costa County."

"I do; they don't anymore."

"Why not?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable. "A couple of years ago they found
some place else closer to home."

"Where?"

"I'm not sure. That's my driveway there." The house was
two stories, green stucco with a red tile roof. Its small yard was
unkempt and the hydrangeas in the flower beds were browning and badly
in need of water. A sign in the front window advertised ROOMS TO LET.
I turned in and stopped. "Why didn't you start playing at the
new place with them?"

He shrugged again. "They wanted a rougher game, something
more challenging. I wasn't up for that. Besides, I didn't like who
they were playing with."

"Who was it?"

"That Jew-boy who got himself shot in Willie's garage. I
couldn't take him, and it's not because I'm prejudiced against Jews
either. I mean, I got plenty of Jewish friends. I'm not prejudiced at
all—not like Mack and Monty."

It surprised me so much that I let out the clutch and stalled the
car. "Jerry Levin, is that who you mean?"

"Yeah. Jerry was Monty and Mack's big buddy for a while
there. I couldn't stand him myself."

"Why?"

"Because he was one vicious little motherfucker. I mean, when
he played those games, it was like he was playing for real. I got the
feeling he liked to see people get hurt." He paused, his hand on
the door handle. "Funny."

"What's funny?"

"Well, Mack and Monty are a couple of the most prejudiced
guys I know. I mean, they hated Jerry Levin and only hung around him
because he had money. But now that I think back on Levin, I realize
he was even more bigoted than them. He hated everybody, no matter
what their race or religion was. Hell, he even hated his own people."

"Wait a minute—you say Levin had money?"

"That's what I gathered from what Mack and Monty told me. You
see, they wanted to open their own game, break away from the national
organization and form a new one that would play a tougher, harder
game. I think Levin either had the money to do it, or else knew how
to get it."

I stared at Beck, stunned. Of course. Jerry Levin may not have had
the money, but he
did
know how to get his hands on it. How
it must have amused a trio of bigots like Marchetti, Adair, and Levin
to finance what was basically a right-wing sport with the proceeds
from Torahs stolen from Jewish congregations.

Before I let Beck get out of the car, I remembered to ask him if
he'd duplicated any keys at the flea market recently. He looked
genuinely puzzled and said he certainly hadn't. I believed him; there
was no reason Beck would put himself out for Jerry Levin, who had
intruded on his formerly good-natured beer-buddy friendship with
Marchetti and Adair. I left him standing next to a wilted hydrangea
bush in his front yard, looking confused at my abrupt question and
even more abrupt departure.

I drove rapidly toward San Francisco and All Souls, glad the
rush-hour traffic was headed the other way. Details of the case were
whirling around in my mind. I still had the problem of how Levin got
into Willie's house. And add to that the image of grown men playing a
lunatic sport in the hills of Contra Costa County. Grown men shooting
at each other with yellow paint pellets…

All Souls was quiet when I got there, and Ted sat at the reception
desk doing one of his ever-present crossword puzzles.

"Five-letter word that's a prefix for 'backward,'" he
called as I passed him.

" 'Retro,' " I said and kept going toward Hank's office.
I myself was not bad at puzzles.

Hank sat at his desk, feet propped on a bottom drawer, a brief in
one hand. He looked up as I came in, then took off his glasses and
rubbed his eyes. "Any news?"

"Some, but I haven't figured out what it means yet. Can I use
your phone?"

He motioned toward it. I picked up the receiver and called the
Oasis Bar and Grill. The background noise was overpowering; business
must be good on this Tuesday evening. I asked if Willie had picked up
my message. He had, the man said. I left the same one, knowing all
the while that the fence would disregard it in the way he had my
others.

Then I phoned my answering service. They had a message from
Willie. It said, "I'm getting closer."

"Terrific. I wish I was." I slammed the receiver down
and went over to Hank's stack of the San Francisco
Chronicle
.
It was about three feet high and went back several weeks.

"What are you doing?" Hank asked, putting his glasses
back on.

"Looking for an article on the National Survival Game."

"Try April, around the thirteenth."

"Thanks." It didn't even surprise me anymore when he did
that. Hank was a media junkie and had a copious memory for dates and
figures. I was pulling the right issue out of the stack—it was
the fifteenth; he'd only been off by two days—when the intercom
buzzed. Hank answered it, then held the receiver out to me. "Call
for you."

It was Rabbi David Halpert. "Was the information I gave your
associate all right?" he asked.

"What information?"

"About what you and Ben Cohen and I discussed yesterday."

"What associate?"

"A Hank Zahn. He said he was working with you and wanted to
check some details. We went over the whole conversation, and he said
he'd get back to me with some further questions, but I haven't heard.
He also spoke briefly with Ben."

"When was this?"

"Around two o'clock."

I glanced over at Hank, who had gone back to reading the brief. At
two o'clock Hank had been in court.

Willie.

"I hope the information agreed with what we talked about,"
Halpert said anxiously. "He asked a lot of questions, as if he
was afraid I'd left something out."

"No, the information was just fine. I asked Mr… Zahn to
verify it because sometimes I don't trust my memory."

Hank looked up, curious.

"I saw where there was another killing," Halpert said.

"Yes."

"Are you investigating that one too?"

"In a way. Thanks for giving Mr. Zahn the information, David.
I'll let you know how the case turns out." I handed the receiver
back to Hank.

"What information am I supposed to have verified for you?"
he asked.

"You, in the person of Willie Whelan, got the details on
Jerry Levin from Rabbi Halpert."

"You mean Willie impersonated me?"

"I'm willing to bet he did."

"Jesus Christ!" Hank tossed the brief on the desk. "He
still thinks he's a detective."

"Yes. And he's going about it in a very logical, methodical
manner. Maybe he missed his calling." Then I sat down and
started reading the article on the National Survival Game. Hank got
up and left the office. I suspected he was going down the hill to his
favorite sleazy bar—the Remedy Lounge—for a shot or two
of Scotch.

The article confirmed what Roger Beck had told me. The game was
the brainchild of some East Coast types who had later quit their jobs
and incorporated, selling franchises all over the country. Around ten
thousand people played it weekly in the United States and Canada.
There was an official manual and national championships. Experts had
various opinions on it, ranging from benign attitudes of indulgence
to outright alarm. One man had likened it to a "real live video
game." And, like the manufacturers of video games, people were
getting rich off the survival game, selling everything from military
fatigues to paint guns.

I seemed to be hearing a lot about guns these days. There was the
.22 that had killed Levin… Selena's "plinker," now in the
possession of Willie… Mack Marchetti's Nel-Spot 007… Fat
Herman's sinister stock… Monty Adair's frequent visits to the gun
shop… Herman, saying, "I'm not one of the Krupp family…"

I jumped up and went down the hall to the reception area. Ted
looked up and said, "Six-letter word meaning—"

"Never mind. Listen, you pick up a lot of trivia through
those puzzles, right?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about the Krupp Arms Works."

"That's not trivia. That's big stuff."

"Big weapons, right?"

"Yeah."

"Supplied most of the German arms during World War II?"

"Yeah, and—"

"Mainly military arms, huh?"

"Yes. They—"

"Thanks." I started for the door.

"Hey, I thought you wanted
me
to tell
you
about Krupp." I didn't answer him; I was already on the front
steps.

Selena Gonzalez was at home, but she didn't want to let me in.
After she yelled for me to go away, I kept pounding on her door.

"I said, go away!"

"No. I have to talk with you."

"Leave me alone!"

"Let me in."

"You will disturb my neighbors."

"Then open the door."

Finally she did. Casting a sullen look at me, she went and sat on
the floor amid a litter of plastic sandwich bags. Big tubs that
contained dried fruit and nuts were lined up in front of her.

"Getting ready for the flea market next weekend?" I
asked.

"Yes. They bring the food from the plant where I buy it on
Tuesday. I spend the rest of my week putting it in the bags and
pasting my label on the jars." She motioned at several cases of
olives that sat on the kitchen counter.

"Looks like a hard week's work."

She didn't catch the irony in my voice. "Work is what you
make it."

I sat down crosslegged behind a tub of dried banana chips and
viewed her over it. She looked even worse than the night before; her
face was pale and puffy and her hair straggled from combs that seemed
to have been stuck into it at random. When she saw me studying her,
she picked up a bag and began filling it with corn nuts.