Wild (6 page)

I
HEARD THE PHONE
ringing as I came down the hall toward my apartment. I ran, got the key in the lock, opened the door, and dove across the room through the dark, expecting the ringing to cease.

I grabbed the phone off the cradle.

“Mr. Baron?”

It was Ivor Hendrix. “Yeah.” I carried the phone over to the chair and sat in the darkness. The night was very black beyond the window, with a freighter crawling through the middle of it; tiny saffron cabin lights, running lights. A dreamship in black space. I knew she was on Tampa Bay, headed for the Gulf of Mexico, but she seemed airborne. I ached all over, and the aspirin hadn’t helped my head.

“I thought I’d never talk to you again,” she said.

I felt the lumps on my head.

She said, “I imagined all sorts of things. I’ve been trying to reach you for so long.” Worry edged her voice. “Do you honestly think Carl might be—after me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Another motel. I did as you asked. It’s called Shady Nook. On Maranela Street, North.” She gave me the address and phone number. “I signed as Grace Golden.”

“Okay, Miss Golden. You’ve seen no one who knew you?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to stay there. Don’t go out unless you absolutely have to.”

“Now you
are
scaring me. Will you please tell me what this is all about? I’m worried, and I’m scared.”

“I’m afraid a lot of things happened while you were up in Orlando.”

“What sort of things?” Her voice leveled, and she spoke more quietly. “Please,” she said. “I have a right to know—is Carl after me, or what? There’s something you’re not telling me. Don’t try to keep things from me. I’m all alone in this horrible little room.”

“Okay.” She would know soon enough. I had no idea whether the police had found the paper currency band from the Laketown Union Trust. If they hadn’t found it, they would assume the body was that of Carl Hendrix, and the entire state would be alerted to pick up his wife. If they
had
discovered the lead, they still would want her. Every moment that went by pushed me a little deeper into the bog. “When you were in Orlando, you probably heard about the bank robbery in Laketown?”

“Sure,” she said. “Aunt Liz had money in that bank. She was in an uproar. What’s that got to do with this?”

“I don’t now yet. It sure as hell enters in somewhere.” I told her about the currency band I’d found. “And there’s this Bill Black you said visited Carl. I don’t think that’s his real name any more than you do. And the fact remains, that body still might be your husband.”

She was anxious now. “You should be able to tell quickly. I gave you those pictures of Carl.”

“Hold on a sec.” I put the phone down, turned on a light, and went into the bedroom. I got the snapshots from the jacket pocket of my other suit. I’d forgotten about them. Back in the chair, I picked up the phone, looking at the pictures. They didn’t tell much, and they never could because of the way the corpse’s face had been hatcheted.

In the photos, Carl Hendrix was a medium tall guy with short hair and an ordinary-looking face, wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt. He stood by a palm tree in one shot, staring soberly at the camera. His eyes seemed to pop slightly, indicating a possible thyroid condition. It might ease identification problems. The other two snaps were of him seated in a lawn chair, smoking a cigarette in a stubby white holder. I couldn’t place the surroundings.

“Are you there?” she said hesitantly.

“Yeah. Checking the photos. They don’t tell me anything.” I explained why.

“How awful.” She paused, then said, “But why would—the arms be …?”

“Well, figure it this way. Say you have a dead man on your hands, and you don’t want to be caught. You’ve got to get rid of the body. That’s always a problem. Believe me, I’ve seen some weird attempts. The present job is hardly original. It’s the one real reason I don’t think the dead man is your husband.”

“But why?”

“Too much concern over making the body unidentifiable. If whoever killed him simply buried the body, there’s a damned good chance of it being found. It often is—usually somebody sees the killer burying it, or doing whatever he does with it. So whoever it was decided on another tack. They got rid of the arms—it could have been merely the hands. Fingerprints, see?”

“I’m beginning to.”

“And they also raised a lot of havoc with the facial characteristics. It’ll take time for identification. No telling where the arms are. If the police had the arms, the hands, they could find out damned quick who the guy really is.”

“I suppose so. Don’t the photos help at all?”

“It could be your husband out there. On the other hand, it could be ten thousand other guys.”

“But—if it isn’t Carl, then who is it?”

“Maybe this guy Bill Black. Listen, when was the last time you burned stuff in that trash pit behind the trailer?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe just before I went away. Carl may have burned things since.”

“Specifically. Did this guy Black burn anything?”

“Not that I now of.”

“Maybe you can remember. Had the Laketown robbery occurred before or after you arrived at Carl’s aunt’s?”

“Before. A day or so, a few days. I remember, because Aunt Liz was hopping about it when I got there.”

“Have you ever heard the name Yonkers?”

She paused. “As a person? No.”

“What was Carl’s work when he was working?”

“Well, he’s a CPA. Sometimes he’d work at that. I mean, he was employed for short periods. He hasn’t worked at anything steady for nearly two years. Just odd jobs. Carpentry—and loafing.”

“What did you live on?”

“He had saved some money. And he played the horses some. He was lucky once in a while. He took odd jobs. We managed to get along. Elk took the savings money.”

“Somebody, you or your husband, made paper airplanes. Who was that?” I told her of discovering some in the refuse container by the sink.

“That would be Carl, yes. It was a habit.”

“What is Elk’s line of work?”

She gave a short, brittle laugh. “He inherited some money. A lot. It’s all gone, or nearly. He’s never worked seriously at anything, unless it’s trying not to work. Now I suppose he’ll have to. I’m sure they have next to nothing.”

“I just came from talking with your sister.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Thought she might help.”

“I’m sure she helped.” The words were lathered with sarcasm.

“She’s not a very happy person.”

“She tries awfully hard.”

I let it go. It was leading to dark nooks I wasn’t concerned with at the moment.

I said, “She told me Vince Gamba was trying to reach you. He’s staying at the Royal Palms Apartments. She said he phoned her.”

Ivor Hendrix was silent.

“If there’s anything you haven’t told me about that,” I said. “Maybe you should.”

“There’s nothing. There never was anything. It’s all over now. I mean it.”

“What does Gamba do?”

“He’s some sort of a salesman.”

My head was really painful. The room skidded, then righted itself. I felt rotten. I needed a drink.

I said, “You stay where you are. I’ll contact you. If you need me for anything, call either the office or here. Keep trying till you get me.”

“I wish you’d come and see me.”

“I can’t right now. I’d like to.”

“I’d like you to.”

“Soon as I can. All right?”

“All right.”

I hung up and headed dizzily for the kitchen and the whisky bottle. I poured a water glass half full, started drinking it, and the telephone rang.

It was Vince Gamba. He was very drunk. He was so cockeyed it was all I could do to understand him. He was trying very hard to be deathly serious, which can be alarming. He sounded close to tears.

“Try get you long time,” he said. “Try phone—drunk.”

“I gather that,” I said.

“ ‘Pol ‘gize. ‘Pol ‘gize being such ass—afternoon.”

“Okay.”

His voice was tight and desperate through the alcohol. He was so anxious the phone practically shook in my hand. He wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right approach.

“Mus’ see you.”

“Now?”

“No.” He began to speak with strenuous slowness. “Give—me—two—hour—z-z-z. Sober up, two hours. You come—my—place. Roy—le—oily—all, ah, Jesus! ROY—LEY—ALL—”

“Royal Palms Apartments?”

“How you know?”

“Me Magwa, much crystal ball.”

Silence. “You fun.”

“Yeah. Me fun. Heap blast. Ugh.”

He sounded as if he were crying; either that or choking to death.

He belched, then slobbered, “Jeeze-
CHRI
sags! The money. Money beared—braided—”

“Buried?” A cold clamp tightened on the back of my head.

“Yes. Know where buried, think. Two hours.”

“Wait.” I heard my voice, like wire. “Wait, Gamba. Tell me what you know, man,
now.”

“Must talk you firs'. Two hour.”

Damn the fool. “Where are you—home?”

“No. Sober up. Be home.”

“Goddamn it, tell me!”

He hung up.

I heard voices mumbling in the hall before the knock. Then the knock on the door. A demanding knock. I was already halfway out of the chair. I turned off the light, cursed myself for doing it, and drifted like pale smoke to the door.

“The light went out,” a man said.

Another man started to say something. I didn’t wait to see what it was. I moved fast to the kitchen, let myself out the service door that led into a hall at right angles with the main hall leading to the front door. I skimmed silently down the hall and looked around the corner. Four flatfeet. They were knocking again. I didn’t want to talk with those guys for a while.

I went back down the hall, closed the kitchen door with the latch on, then headed for the Fire Exit.

My head was a solid square yard of throbbing pain.

D
RIVING SLOWLY
down Tangerine Avenue, I took the three crisp C-notes from the envelope and put them in my wallet. I wadded up the envelope and tossed it out the window. What point arguing?

If and when I again met watermelonpuss, he would be repaid three hundred dollars’ worth of knuckles. It was all a matter of getting the drop. I would get the drop.

Somehow I had to find out for certain who the dead man was. I had to stay ahead of the police. I didn’t like the idea of the men in blue being this warm on me. Maybe Haddock had merely sent them around for a chat.

I stopped at a drugstore, gulped a double Bromo for the head. It didn’t seem to help. Maybe I was concussed. The thought of buried money could concuss anybody. The counter clerk stared at me. I saw myself in the mirror. He began sorting menu cards, red-necked.

Back in the car, I lit a cigarette, decided it was still too soon to head for Vince Gamba’s.

What Gamba had said made me nervous. Then I remembered his telling me about Carl Hendrix’s drinking buddy, Joe Lager. They hung out on First Street.

Joe Lager, the beer drinker. A long shot if there ever was one.

• • •

I parked the car near first and began checking bars. In the Oriental Tavern, the barman told me Joe Lager was in a back room. The barman seemed irritated. When he spoke Lager’s name, he made a face like a hooked mackerel.

I went through a door he pointed out, then down a narrow hall. The hall stank. There was a door at the right, near the end of the hall. I knocked.

“What you want, Meathead?”

“It’s not Meathead,” I said. “Guess again.”

“Oh.”

I waited. He opened the door cautiously. I stepped against the door and moved inside before he could slam it. He stepped lightly backward toward an old iron bed, watching me. The room was bare and neat.

“What’s up?” he said.

He stared at me. He had smooth brown skin and silky black hair trimmed so carefully you knew some barber went through hell every week or so. He wore a white sports shirt, dark slacks, brown suede shoes. He had a taut smile that didn’t show in his eyes. He probably carried a knife.

I said, “You’re a friend of Carl Hendrix’s. I’m trying to locate him.”

He wasn’t sure whether I was the law. It troubled him. Trouble would always be in his eyes, darkly lurking. He sat down on the bed. His eyes were like daubs of ink-soaked cotton.

I said, “You’re acting as if you knew something, Joe.”

He sat there as if he were carved from a large cake of brown laundry soap.

“This where you live, Joe?”

He showed me one palm. “Who’s this Carl Hendrix you’re gassing about? So, this is where I live. What right you got, barging in here?”

I started walking around the room. I didn’t turn my back enough to count. Only his eyes moved. On the other side of the bed I knew I didn’t have to look any more. I leaned down, glanced under the bed. I saw four more of them.

“You like to make paper airplanes, Joe?”

“What the hell you talking about?”

I picked up one of the paper airplanes, creased it good, and came back. I stood in front of him and threw the paper airplane into his face. It bounced off his nose. He didn’t move.

“Where is he, Joe?”

He came off the bed, tore into me like a savage. He was trying to get out of the room. I grabbed him around the throat and threw him back on the bed. He lay there a moment, then twisted and ran off the other side of the bed. He came along the foot, then charged for the door. I brought my left fist around. I struck his stomach. He bent around my fist, clawing at my arms. Then he held his stomach, walked backward, and sat down on the bed again.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

He got cunning. Gears meshed. He straightened his shoulders and began to nod his head. I stepped back to let him think it over. His hand flashed inside his shirt and he came at me, all in one long crazy movement, the knife poised, glinting in the light from an overhead bulb.

He was fast. He had the knife raised overhead. That should have tipped me. I was a moment late. They don’t use them that way. It was a feint. I went for his wrist. The knife wasn’t there. It arcked to his other hand, and I saw the arm come at me from down under, his face like a paper clown’s. The knife shot. I doubled, spinning for the wall. The blade spun past me and socked into the door.

He looked startled. He dove for the knife hilt. I stretched, stepped out, and clubbed him on the back of the head with both fists fingered together. Once, twice, three times, meaning to hurt him.

He fell down and lay on the floor. His eyes were open. I lifted my foot and slowly lowered it over his face.

“Where is he, Joe?”

“I don’t know. The dirty bastard owes me. I figured to come here tonight and sweat it out, then when he showed, I’d make him pay up.” I thought for a moment he would cry. “He owes me. I fixed this pad for him.”

“You’re not being too clear, Joe.”

He stared up at me. “All I know’s his name’s Carl Hendrix. What’d he do?”

“I think you’re holding.”

“What’d he do?”

I tried something for size. “He died.”

His eyes changed. They became sick.

“Tell me everything you can, Joe. Maybe I’ll be able to ease things a little.”

He groaned softly. “He looked me up three weeks ago. Said he had to have a place to stay where nobody’d ask questions. Said could I fix him up. He’d pay me five hundred bucks.”

Distant bells chimed. “Say where he got the money?”

“No. Don’t think I didn’t work on him. Not a peep. He’d been flat, too—so he came by it quick an’ easy. I figured he’s copped something. I would latch on. I told Eb, the guy who owns this joint, told him I had a friend hiding from his wife, would he arrange? I cut him in and paid the first month’s rent. The bastard never showed. Eb said he was here, but I never seen him. Today I figured I’d hang here till he showed. The bastard.” He blinked slowly. “Who cooled him?”

“Who said he was cooled?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

I didn’t say anything. He didn’t, either. Finally, I said, “You ever meet Hendrix’s sister-in-law? Asa Crafford?”

His face became consciously blank. “Who?”

“You know who,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Who?”

“Maybe we could sign on at the Little Theater as a couple of owls,” I said. “Or would you rather wear your nose on the back of your head?” I lifted my foot.

“I met her once.”

“With Hendrix?”

He nodded. His head thumped the floor.

I said, “I lied to you, Joe. Carl Hendrix isn’t dead. You know that, don’t you? So we were lying to each other. I wanted to see how you acted. Now. I’ll know if you’re telling the truth. When did you last see Yonkers?”

His brown coloring turned gray.

He said, “You jammed it that time.” He spoke softly. Something like strength had come into his eyes. “You’re not a cop. I don’t give a damn what you do to me. Mash my face in, go ahead. I’m done talking.”

“You know I don’t believe that, Joe.”

“Try. Go ahead. Try.”

“I hope you don’t think I think you were in Laketown with Yonkers,” I said.

He pressed his lips together and showed me how tight together they were.

“Somebody’s dead,” I said. “You can figure that one out, can’t you? A corpse, Joe—without any arms. A very sad trick, don’t you think?”

I went over to the door. “Joe?” I said.

His eyes focused on me. I reached over and took hold of his knife sticking into the door panels. I bent the handle down till the blade snapped. It was a strong blade. I tossed the broken hilt on his chest. He didn’t move. I said, “If you’re thinking of doing anything you consider smart after I leave, don’t.”

I left the Oriental Tavern.

It was close to nine-thirty. I drove to a drugstore, trying to keep my head from falling off. I was sick to my stomach, and that worried me. I kept thinking about concussion. There was a haze over my eyes.

The pharmacist sold me some large yellow pills with an unpronounceable name, for my head. “Ordinarily,” he said, “you need a prescription for these, but I can see you’re in trouble.”

“It shows.”

He told me to take one of the pills. I took four with a glass of water at the counter. By the time I was back in the car, the headache was gone. I wasn’t even sure I had a head.

It had been close to an hour since Gamba called my apartment. Long enough. I headed for his place at the Royal Palms Apartments.

I took side streets. Every car was a police cruiser, now. I wasn’t sure whether or not I liked the feeling that went with that.