The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance (18 page)

Straight-Ahead was a pro. There was no point in going over the room again to see if I could turn up something on Alex that he had missed. As I stepped to the door, it began to open. I expected Straight-Ahead. I got John Cawelti.

“Surprise,” he said.

I was surprised.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. “You want me to just turn around and leave? We can forget the whole thing.”

“We’ve played this scene before John,” I said, trying to think of a way to swallow the envelope in one quick gulp without water.

He touched his hair to be sure it was still parted in the middle, adjusted his jacket and tie, and smiled an unfriendly smile.

“That was a tank full of crap about John Wayne the other day,” he said.

“No,” I said. “It was true. Someone tried to shoot him this afternoon. I was there. Fellow named Alex. Alex shot Teddy last night, the clerk and …”

“And …” Cawelti prompted with the evil smile of a leprechaun.

“A guy named Lewis Vance on Sunday,” I said.

“We found Vance this morning in a freezer at the San Luis Ice House. They’re slicing him now. Frozen solid. Doc says it gives him an idea about taking tissue samples. Thought you might like to know you contributed in a small way to forensic science.”

“I’m pleased,” I said, watching him bounce on his heels.

“Waiting for a ballistics report,” he went on. “I think the bullet in Vance is going to match your thirty-eight, the one turned in by your two friends. And I think we’re gonna get you on the Longretti killing last night. You got troubles, Peters, and I don’t think your big brother will even want to get you out of them.”

Cawelti took a step toward me, teeth set, face a little redder than usual. “Why don’t you try to get by me,” he suggested. “Maybe I couldn’t stop you.”

“You couldn’t,” I said, putting the envelope down on the desk, “but that bulge under your jacket could. Let’s go see Phil.”

He stepped back, giving me a few yards to pass, reached over, and picked up the envelope, which was a mistake. I didn’t have much choice now. That list and the note on Wayne would have me tied up for a week. I didn’t see how they could get me for anything long-term on the two stiffs, but Cawelti could lock me in the can for a night. I threw an elbow as he turned for the package and caught him in the chest. He reached for his gun. I grabbed the envelope with one hand and with the other pulled at his jacket to make it a little hard for him to kill me. It was a great plan, well thought out, well executed. The problem was that it didn’t work. Cawelti had one free hand, which he used to hit me flat on my already flat nose. There was nothing left to break in my nose but that didn’t stop it from bleeding, and it didn’t stop me from staggering back, still clutching the envelope. I went over the bed and neatly rolled to a position on my knees, facing him. An unprejudiced audience would have appreciated the acrobatics, but Sergeant John Cawelti was not one of my fans.

His gun was out and pointed at a spot around the center of my chest. At seven feet, even I would have hit a kneeling man.

He looked happy.

“Resisting arrest,” he said, pulling back the hammer of the revolver to extend his pleasure.

“Murder suspect,” he went on.

“I’m a Rosicrucian,” I said. “I’m also unarmed.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, his hair dangling in front of his eyes. “I’m just going to shoot a kneecap or two. Hurts like sin. I know. I’ve done it three times. Twice to the same guy.”

I was on my feet now and the spirit of fear and feeling of I’ve-had-enough were on me. My legs were almost fifty years old. My back was a dry rubber band and I had a mouth full of blood. I knew I was going to make a leap for the good sergeant. Somewhere not too deep down I also knew I probably wouldn’t make it, but John Wayne had tried something crazier in
Randy Rides the Range.

The door moved behind Cawelti and bounced as it flew open.

“What’s the discrepancy here?” Straight-Ahead said.

Cawelti didn’t turn. His eyes and gun were leveled at me. “Murder suspect here is resisting arrest,” he said. “I’m going to subdue him with minimal force.”

“Streets are yours,” Beason said. “Alhambra belongs to Merit Beason. It’s not much of a territory, but what there is in these ten floors is mine. Now put the weapon up.”

Cawelti shook his head, holstered his revolver after releasing the hammer, and brushed back his hair. Then he turned to Straight-Ahead.

“You’re on my list, Beason,” he hissed. “My Christmas list, right under Peters.”

“I’ll take a tie,” I said.

“You’ll take a ride to the Wilshire Station with me,” Cawelti said, rubbing his chest where I had thrown the elbow. Straight-Ahead removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me as he walked around the bed. It was ironed and clean. I pressed it to my nose and it wasn’t clean anymore, probably never would be. I had a sudden image of Straight-Ahead in a one-room apartment in the rundown building he lived in, standing straight up in a pair of shorts and a white undershirt, ironing handkerchiefs by the bushel. I laughed.

“Crazy bastard,” muttered Cawelti.

“Merit will take care of our friend in the morning,” Straight-Ahead assured me.

Cawelti stayed behind me on the elevator and through the lobby, where he zigzagged through glittering people drinking glasses of mineral water. I figured out now what was wrong with this gathering. This convention of health fadists included old men and women, people of odd shapes and sizes, and even some kids, but no young men. This was an army of those unsuited for combat, uniformed in white and obsessed with staying healthy. I shivered and heard the blast of disease and remedy words and decided that the crowd from last night, the drunken kids and the tarts in uniform, were probably healthier than this bunch.

I tried not to bleed on them and they tried not to notice me. It was what we both wanted.

Cawelti cuffed me and guided me into the backseat of his Pontiac. We didn’t talk much on the way to the Wilshire Station. I asked him how he knew I was in that room in the Alhambra. He said, “A tip.” It was the most cordial conversation I had ever had with John. Maybe we were on the way to a friendship. Maybe not.

      
12

B
y the time we got to the Wilshire Station I had succeeded in bleeding over most of the backseat of John Cawelti’s vehicle. The bleeding had stopped, but he didn’t appreciate my redecoration.

“Christ,” he shouted, pounding the upholstery when he opened the door. “Look at that.”

I looked at the blood. If my hands weren’t handcuffed I might have pointed out to him that his punch was at least partly responsible.

“Get out,” he said, and helped me through the door. With my hands cuffed behind me, I did a rather neat dance to keep from falling on my face. He had parked in a space right in front of the station. He prodded me up the stairs and through the door. The sergeant on duty at the desk—McConnell—was a little knot with glasses.

“One of these days, Peters?” he said, turning from the two women who were chattering away at him in Martian.

“One of these days, Frank,” I agreed.

Cawelti took the cuffs off and prodded me to the washroom near the stairway leading up to the squad room and my brother’s office. It was a washroom that would have made a slum gas station’s look like home. Even the soap was too dirty for a civilized human being to touch and the towels were stiff and almost black.

“Hurry up,” Cawelti grunted. “Wash.”

Cawelti didn’t want Phil to see me bloody. We both knew it. Phil had no objection to my being bloody. He just wanted to be sure he was the one who did it. It was a commission he had taken on when we were kids and he objected to others cutting into the shelf life of his merchandise. Our old man was a grocer. Sometimes I can’t help thinking in grocery images.

There was an ancient bum in the grime-speckled mirror. I looked at him with sympathy, washed his face with the crusty soap, dried it with my jacket lining, and smiled at him. He looked like shit.

“Let’s go,” said Cawelti, and we went.

We had to wait for about ten minutes outside Phil’s office. I was getting hungry again. The night was dark and I was tired. Cawelti checked his jacket pocket to be sure the envelope with the names and numbers was safely there. It was. He grinned, and for the first time I thought I had found a person who really deserved the care and attention of Dr. Sheldon Minck.

Phil stuck his head out the door, looked at us, and grunted. We got up and went into the office. He sat behind the desk and looked at me. I couldn’t read the look. He looked terrible. Not as bad as the bum in the mirror, but bad enough. His tie was open and dangling from the wilted collar of a white shirt. His short white hair was sweat-dampened and flat and he needed a shave. If he had let his beard grow, Phil would have made a hell of a Santa Claus. On the desk in front of him was half a sandwich and a cardboard cup filled with what was probably coffee. I couldn’t tell what was in the sandwich besides wilted lettuce. The only light in the room came from the desk lamp, which bounced a deadly white on his face.

“Give,” he croaked, reaching out his ham hand.

Cawelti stepped forward and handed him the envelope. “If you—” he started.

“Shut up,” Phil said, reaching into his pocket for his glasses.

Cawelti shut up and looked at me. I shrugged in mock sympathy. Phil read. He took a bite of his sandwich and some tepid coffee and read some more. Then he put the papers down, open to the sheet with John Wayne’s name. He took off his glasses, pocketed them, and pointed to the drawing of the pistol and the bullet.

“What is this?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Evidence,” said Cawelti.

“Of what?” Phil said, running his right hand over his bristly hair.

“Some kind of scheme,” Cawelti said, looking at me for help.

“You know what time it is?” Phil said. He looked first at Cawelti and then at me. I shrugged and pointed to my watch. Phil recognized our father’s watch and shook his head. “It’s almost two in the morning,” he answered himself. “I haven’t seen my wife and kids in three days. We’ve got a killer out there in Watts with a machete, a gang of fifty, sixty kids stealing cars in Culver, an impotent rapist in Echo Park, assorted goddamn lunatics, half-assed gangsters, and a whole set of new war crimes, counterfeit sugar and gas stamps, stealing armed services uniforms, and pretty soon we’re going to have rubber thieves, paper thieves—”

“Musical instrument thieves,” I added.

Phil’s fist came down on the desk, sending stale toast, wilted lettuce, and something that looked like cheese dancing into the air.

“Cawelti, out,” he said.

“Hey,” Cawelti said, stepping forward.

Phil looked up calmly, the worst of all possible Phil Pevsner looks. “You want to argue with me, Sergeant?” he asked, folding his hands.

Cawelti straightened his tie and shook his head no. Phil said nothing and I looked at a blank spot on the wall as innocently as I could. Cawelti went to the door.

“Slam it and I lose my temper,” Phil said.

Cawelti left without slamming the door. It was my turn.

“Where’s Steve Seidman?” I asked socially.

“Vacation,” Phil said. “Where’s your goddamn brain? Is that on vacation too? Sit down.”

I sat in the chair opposite him. If my office was too small for business, his was too large. His desk and single lamp were an island in a dark room the size of Shelly’s entire office. Maybe Phil didn’t plan on staying a captain long. Maybe he didn’t think he could survive as a schedule maker and problem solver. His hairy hands longed for the throat of a back-talking holdup man. He looked at me for a few seconds and then reassembled his sandwich as best he could.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I’m hungry,” I admitted. He fished in one of his desk draws and threw me a box of Wilbur Buds. He watched me eat them, finished his coffee, and threw the empty cup at the battered brown metal waste basket at the side of the desk. He missed.

“Talk,” he said. “Whole thing, start to finish. No jokes. Include Vance, Longretti, John Wayne, and this who’s who list.

I talked. I could have used a drink of something to get the chocolate out of my teeth but I knew I was going to get nothing until I finished.

I finished and Phil looked through the list again.

“This is no evidence of anything,” he said. “It’s a damned list. Anyone can write lists. Any of these people willing to make a complaint against the Larchmonts?”

“I don’t—”

“Hell no,” he said. “The hills around here are filled with con men and grifters. Biggest damn industry since the gold rush. They came out here to mine the rich.”

“Phil, I didn’t shoot anybody,” I said.

“Who gives a shit, Toby,” he said. “I mean who really cares. Vance had a record with more sales than Bing Crosby. Longretti was vermin. Arrests for junk like picking his nose in public. I don’t care who swept them away. It’s the goddamn book work that keeps me here. Reports, reports. You think Wayne is in real trouble?”

“Someone shot at him,” I reminded Phil.

He picked up his phone, dialed, and screamed at someone, giving them Alex Tuster’s name. “And fast,” he added before hanging up. Then back to me, “I’m thinking of quitting when the war ends. I’ve got my twenty in. Short pension. I can get a job doing security in San Diego or back East.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.

“I won’t do it,” he said, picking up his reconstructed sandwich.

“I know,” I said.

“I’ll pick up the Larchmonts,” he said, looking at the sandwich with distaste but continuing to eat it. “I’ll pick up those two goons who work for them, too. I’ll have a nice talk with them, very friendly, maybe persuade them to share a confidence or two with me.”

The prospect of getting Lyle and Sutker alone in a room did a great deal to brighten Phil’s night. He looked dreamily at the last bite of his sandwich and then downed it.

“Can I leave, Phil?” I asked.

He returned from his reverie and remembered I was there.