The Black Hearts Murder (8 page)

“Coddling?” McCall said. “The man is charged with an offense that could get him eighteen months. A white man charged with the same crime would likely be released on his own recognizance. It isn't coddling to offer blacks the same treatment as whites.”

“It is when they have a history of jumping bail,” the little man said.

McCall stared at him. “One Black Heart jumping bail constitutes a history? Do you belong to any organization, Cordes? The Elks, for instance?”

“I'm a Rotarian.”

“If some fellow-member of Rotary were arrested for a crime and jumped his bail, should that bar you from bail if you later got into trouble with the law?”

Cordes sniffed. “The Black Hearts can hardly be equated with Rotary, Mr. McCall. Anyway, you're arguing with the wrong person. You asked me what I thought Gerry Horton's reaction would be, and I told you. Nothing you say to me is going to change Gerry's attitude.”

“I suppose not. But off the record, Cordes, and strictly because I'm nosy, how does your attitude compare with his?”

The little man thought this over very carefully. “As I said before, Mr. McCall, I'm a follower. I believe Horton has a big political future, and I mean to devote my energies to furthering it in whatever way I can. I suppose Gerry doesn't need me so much as I need him. I believe in him—I guess you could call it an old-fashioned case of hero worship. Anyway, our relationship precludes me from holding divergent political opinions. So your question really isn't pertinent.”

“Just a Banbury Boswell?” McCall smiled. “No opinions of your own?”

“None,” Cordes replied, “that I would ever express. To you or anyone else, just so long as Gerald Horton has a use for me.”

McCall got to his feet. “Loyalty right or wrong is rare these days, Mr. Cordes,” he said. “I hope Horton realizes what a jewel he has.”

“Thank you, Mr. McCall,” the little man said earnestly.

Back in his hotel suite, McCall dialed Horton's home number again. There was still no answer. After dressing for his dinner date he tried once more, with no success. Cordes's guess as to when Horton would get home was probably correct. There was no point in trying again until eight or nine o'clock.

The 3200 block of Ralston Avenue was an area of modern medium-range apartment houses and small homes. Number 3217 was a two-story brick. No elevator, and the aggregate of mailboxes in the lobby added up to ten units to a floor.

McCall climbed a flight of concrete stairs and sought out 2C. He pressed the bell. The door opened immediately.

Laurel Tate was wearing a sleeveless moderate-mini suitable for anything from a neighborhood tavern to a nightclub. Its pine green matched her eyes and haloed her auburn hair.

Her pale skin pinked at McCall's admiration. After a moment she tossed her shining head. “Well, are you just going to stand out there, Mr. McCall? I don't bite.”

“I do,” McCall said.

“You'd find me tough chewing, Mr. McChaser,” Laurel said sweetly. “As the immortal Miss West said, I like a man who takes his time. But thank you for what I take it was meant as a compliment.”

She stood aside, and he stepped into her tiny living room. There was nothing distinctive about it, and he felt a twitch of disappointment. The hair sometimes fooled him. Everything was brand-new and of discount-store quality. But the easy chair looked cosy, the lamp behind it shed a good reading light, and there were books as well as a hifi-radio-TV set. He would know a little more when he had a chance to check out the book titles.

He tried to ignore the fake fireplace with its artificial-log-type gas burner.

“Would you care for a drink?” Laurel asked.

“I can wait,” McCall said. “How about you?”

“All right. I'll get my things.”

She went into what he assumed was her bedroom and closed the door behind her. McCall homed in on the bookcase. He immediately felt better. Sociology and psychology textbooks, several volumes on the Peace Corps, a sprinkling of fiction—Malamud, Cheever,
The Ugly American
, an old copy of Kuprin's
Yama: The Pit;
a wide-ranging selection. The lack of distinction in her apartment was probably the result of economics, not taste. She must have bought it all on the installment plan.

Laurel returned carrying a black velvet cape and a matching bag; the evening was too cool for bare arms. She handed McCall the cape with a natural gesture, as if she had been brought up to expect the traditional courtesies. He draped it about her shoulders with the feeling that it was going to be a warm and satisfying evening.

He could not help thinking of Chief Condon's secretary as he handed Laurel into his car. Laurel was all woman. So was Policewoman Beth McKenna, but he suspected that Policewoman McKenna would have emerged from her bedroom with the cape already in place.

NINE

The desk clerk, who apparently felt no particular loyalty to the Banbury Plaza's Revolutionary Room, had recommended the Capri Club's food as the best in town. On the way McCall told Laurel about LeRoy Rawlings's arrest and the outrageously high bail set by Judge Edmundson.

Her first reaction was indignation, but then she looked puzzled. “How does a municipal court judge take jurisdiction in a case involving a felony? I thought such courts handle only misdemeanors.”

McCall explained that a writ of habeas corpus required that the person in custody either be released immediately or be brought at once before the nearest available magistrate.

“The term ‘nearest available' gives the official on whom the writ is served considerable latitude. What it amounts to is that he can pretty well choose the judge. And all magistrates, of course, have the authority to preside over preliminary hearings and fix bail. The trial itself will be held in district court, and once Rawlings is arraigned the district court judge can reduce the bail if he wants to. But by the time a grand jury acts, or the D.A. gets around to filing an information—whichever route he chooses to go—Rawlings may have been in jail for a month or more.”

At the Capri Club, which was already filling up, the maître-d'hôtel took one look at McCall, snapped his fingers for a cocktail waitress, and placed them at a corner table marked
RESERVED
. By which McCall knew that the Banbury Plaza desk clerk was a steerer for the club.

Laurel, ordered a vodka martini. McCall, whose reputation as a hard drinker was wholly undeserved—his job sometimes called for heavy social drinking, but his defenses were chemical rather than preferential; he tolerated rather than enjoyed alcohol—ordered a gin and tonic “with plenty of ice.” Ice melted and became water, so his drink grew progressively weaker, which suited him fine.

The waiter came over with elegant oversized menus, and McCall saw Laurel study the righthand margins.

“Don't worry about the prices,” he said. “I'm on a swindle sheet.”

“I thought you were an honest man.”

“I'm. But the governor gives me hell if I don't bill him with what he considers expenses appropriate to my position as his deputy. How about the steak-and-lobster combination?”

“Oh, my God,” Laurel said. “I can't remember when I've had either. Yes!”

“It's been tough?” McCall said when the waiter moved away.

“Well.” Laurel fiddled with her cocktail glass. “It hasn't been all roses and featherbeds. I come from a huge family, and every one had a mouth, every mouth was always hungry, and there was never enough of anything.”

“How well I know,” McCall said. “By the way, I noticed some books on the Peace Corps in your library. Were you once considering joining?”

“I did more than consider,” Laurel said. “I joined.”

“Really? You're the first girl I ever met who was in the Peace Corps. Tell me about it.”

“I'm afraid it's not a very exciting tale,” she laughed. “I wasn't one of those brave gals who lived in the Bolivian jungles and ministered to the “Indios” while fighting off the steaming advances of the Bolivian doctors. I spent two years in the Dominican Republic in a secretarial job.”

“Where did you go to college?”

Her green eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

“I used to be a detective.”

“No, I mean it! How did you know?”

“Those sociology and psychology books. They're college textbooks.”

“I got a scholarship to State. I had to leave at the end of the first semester. My father died. I thought I wanted to go into social work.”

The cocktail waitress brought Laurel's refill—McCall was still nursing his gin and tonic—and he dropped what was evidently a painful subject to her. “How did you happen to join the Peace Corps?”

“Why did men use to enlist in the Foreign Legion? I lost the boy I was engaged to. Vietnam.”

“Oh. Rotten break.”

“Oh, not to the V.C.,” Laurel said brightly. “He married an army nurse. He's out of the service now. Settled in New York City, I understand, and raising a family like mad.”

“He's an idiot.”

“For raising a family like mad?”

“For leaving you for another girl.”

“What a nice thing to say! And spoken as if you really mean it.”

“I do.”

“I'll bet. By the way, Lou's decision was a decision of honor. He got the gal pregnant.”

“Well, Lou's loss is my gain,” McCall said gallantly.

He asked her how she managed to snag the prestige job of secretary to the mayor. “I just applied for it when Mayor Potter's secretary quit to have a baby. The major events of my life,” Laurel said thoughtfully, “seem to result from other women's pregnancies. I wonder if there's a message there somewhere.”

McCall chuckled and began to feel guilty. He had a premonition about this date, and it was making him so euphoric that the gravity of his mission for the governor seemed imperiled. He reached across the table for Laurel's hand, and she allowed him to hold it for a few moments before she firmly retrieved it. She began to ask him questions about himself.

“That's what the handbook says, all right,” McCall said. “I mean the girl getting the man to talk about himself. How can I resist?” And he told her not quite all about himself. She was astounded to learn that he had been a private detective, first working for a national agency, then in his own business before quitting to become Governor Holland's man Friday.

“Mayor Potter said you were a lawyer.”

“I passed my bar exams and found out that young law apprentices sit in cubbyholes preparing briefs or looking up stuff in bad-smelling law books. I can't stand desk work.”

The cocktail girl asked if they wanted more of the same. Laurel shook her head. “Two is my limit. On three I get stupid, and on four I get sick. But don't let me stop you, Mike.”

“I'm stopped,” McCall told the waitress. “You can tell the waiter to serve dinner, miss, whenever he's ready.”

During dinner McCall mentioned his unsuccessful attempts to reach Gerald Horton. “Do you think there's a chance of talking him into using his influence to get that bail reduced, Laurel?”

“I don't know him that well,” Laurel said. “As councilman-at-large he's naturally in and out of the mayor's office, but he and Mayor Potter are hardly pals. I think they respect each other, but of course they're political opponents, and their relationship is correct rather than cordial. Mr. Horton extends it to me, too. He's never been more than polite.”

McCall said gloomily, “Ben Cordes didn't hold out much hope of Horton's cooperating.”

“The little man who runs Mr. Horton's radio station for him?”

“Yes. Horton's campaign manager.”

Laurel paused in the process of dipping a forkful of lobster into her butter. “He is?” She seemed surprised.

“Not to mention writing Horton's speeches.”

“So that's why he's at city hall so much! Some of us girls call him The Shadow because of the way he trots around after Mr. Horton. Will wonders never cease?”

She obviously knew nothing about the Horton setup—or considered what she knew confidential—so McCall turned to other subjects.

It was nearly eight-thirty when they reached the coffee. While Laurel was still sipping, McCall excused himself. The maître-d' directed him to a phone booth, and he tried Gerald Horton's number again.

This time he was successful. A deep, pleasant, phony voice said, “Horton residence.”

“Mr. Gerald Horton?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Mike McCall, Mr. Horton—”

“Oh, yes, I've been expecting to hear from you, Mr. McCall. I just finished talking to Ben Cordes.”

“Then you know why I'm calling.”

“Ben and I discussed it at some length. I'm afraid my decision is what Ben told you it would be.”

“There's a factor involved that I briefly mentioned but didn't discuss with Mr. Cordes in depth,” McCall said. “It's my considered opinion, Mr. Horton, that this sky-high bail will provoke racial trouble in the city. You can't possibly want to risk that.”

There was a silence. Then Horton said brusquely, “I don't agree, Mr. McCall. A demonstration, maybe. But Banbury doesn't have race riots.”

McCall said just as brusquely, “I know, not since the 1920s. I read your Chamber of Commerce handout. Next year they may have to put out a revised edition.”

“Mr. McCall. Are you sure there isn't a political motive behind this request of yours?”

It was McCall's turn to be silent. When he spoke it was tonelessly. “If you know anything about my relationship with Governor Holland, you know that my job is completely outside politics. The governor sent me down here for the sole purpose of heading off black-white violence, and I have made no secret of why I'm here. If politics is involved, it's your people who are playing it, Mr. Horton.”