Come Die with Me (7 page)

“Not without Dave’s cooperation,” I said. “And he’s scared.”

“He’s not as scared as I’m mad,” Pete said quietly. “And I’m apologizing to you for him right now, Brock.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “Let your lawyer do your talking. Let him earn his money.” I nodded to the chair next to me. “Relax. Sit down and simmer down.”

He sat down and lighted a cigarette. He said softly, “Giovanni, right? Giovanni’s boys?”

I nodded.

“He’s no bigger than the law.”

“In some towns he is,” I said. “What was his beef with Dave?”

“He thinks we were friends of Tip Malone’s. He thinks we might know something about his death.”

“Do you?”

The Chief and Pete’s attorney were talking quietly at the desk. Pete lowered his voice even more as he said, “Hell, no. We weren’t even very good friends of his.”

“And why should Giovanni be interested in Tip Malone’s death?”

Pete shrugged. “You tell me. I suppose that niece of his figures in there somewhere. All I know right now is
nobody’s
going to get away with what happened to Dave.”

From the desk the Chief said, “All right, Mr. Callahan. We won’t be holding you. You may go now.”

I said, “Mr. Petroff might want my story if he’s going to file charges, sir.”

The Chief looked at me levelly and coolly. “You may wait for him outside. I’m sure he won’t be filing charges.”

Pete said, “I am, sir. I’ll want your story, Brock.”

For a moment nobody said anything. The Chief and Pete’s attorney were frowning, Pete was glaring. I rose and smiled at them all and went out quietly.

To the best of my available knowledge, Frank Giovanni had been in Las Vegas when Tip Malone had been murdered. Of course, Frank probably didn’t do his own killing; he had the money to hire it done by experts. If he had hired it done, what was Dave Petroff’s connection with it?

And then there was the possibility that the slapping around Dave had been taking had nothing to do with murder. It could very well be a private feud between Giovanni and the Petroffs. It could even be a private feud between the Petroffs and the hoodlums. Though hired muscles are puppets, more or less, they must have some private animosities not connected with their employment.

I went past an open door and saw Calavo and Jessup talking to two uniformed men and a detective. Just inside the front doorway, Dave Petroff was sitting on a bench next to a uniformed officer.

“Remind me not to interfere,” I said, “next time you are getting your brains knocked out.”

He looked at me and away. The uniformed man looked at me and not away. I went out into the sunshine.

My flivver was still over at the Petroffs; I had ridden here in a prowl car. Some neighbor had sent in the call after seeing my scuffle with Calavo. The prowl car had been only a block away when the call came in.

I stood out on the front walk, waiting for Petroff to appear. I needed a ride back to his place. I didn’t feel particularly like a marked man, though I suppose I should have. Giovanni didn’t like to be interfered with, even by the law, and I was considerably less than that.

The Bay shimmered in the sun and sea gulls whirled in a circle around the wharf. A pleasant town, self-contained and self-governed, insular and chauvinistic. It has been maligned often in print, but what town is perfect? Los Angeles surrounded it on three sides and the ocean was the fourth side. Without Los Angeles, its criminal problems would be minor. Without the ocean, it would be nothing.

I sat on a bench in the small park surrounding Headquarters and thought back to yesterday, when Mrs. Malone had first come to see me. I thought of everything that had happened since and could see no pattern in any of it.

Pete and Dave Petroff came over to the bench when I had just finished a newspaper I had found there. “Waiting for us?” Pete asked.

“For a ride,” I told him. “My car’s still at your place.” I stood up. “Did you file your complaint?”

He looked uncomfortable. “My attorney suggested I hold off for a while.”

I smiled. “Don’t tell me a big man like that is afraid of Giovanni.”

“He was thinking of me.”

I looked at Dave’s bruised and lumpy face. I said nothing.

Pete said, “Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. I can get you plenty of Giovanni. I know just where to get it.”

I chuckled. “You are so unafraid of Frank Giovanni you are going to help me commit suicide. Pete, that’s damned white of you.”

“You’ll be going up against him anyway, won’t you? You’re already a marked man, after you manhandled that Calavo slob. You’re investigating Tip Malone’s death, aren’t you?”

“Who told you that?”

He nodded toward Headquarters. “The Chief. And man, if Giovanni isn’t hip-deep in the murder of Tip Malone, I’m Santa Claus.”

I stretched and rubbed the back of my neck. I said, “I’ll be obliged to you for a ride to my car.”

He took a deep breath. “All right then, I’ll hire you. You’re for hire, aren’t you?”

“Not until I’ve finished the case I’m on. If I think I might need some dope on Giovanni to finish that, I’ll call on you. Let’s go.”

We rode without further dialogue to my car. There I thanked them for the ride and told Pete, “If anybody had done to my brother what that Jessup slob did to yours, I wouldn’t have got a lawyer. I’d have got me a hunting license.”

Pete said stiffly, “That was just about my original plan. But when I pay the kind of money that shyster costs me, it seems dumb not to take his advice.”

“Sure,” I said. “I was speaking emotionally, not financially. Well, keep your guards up.”

Dave was already walking toward the house. Pete lingered, studying me. I walked over toward my car and he came along.

As I got in and put the key into the ignition lock, he said, “You’re thinking I’m gutless.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry I said as much as I did. Who wants to be a dead hero?”

He said quietly, “I’ve always watched over Dave. I’m older and bigger. I guess I’m smarter, too.” He rubbed his cheek. “Brock who are you working for?”

“A client, a big wealthy client. Maybe I’ll be around for that information.” I nodded and backed out onto the highway.

He was still standing on his driveway as I drove up the ramp into Santa Monica, heading for Wilshire.

I had had two breakfasts but it was well past noon now and I was hungry. I parked in the lot across from my office and walked over to the drug-store lunch counter.

There my most loyal fan, the counterman, said, “I saved some rye rolls for you. You look weary, boy.”

“I am. What’s edible besides the rye rolls?”

“The short ribs. How about that Tip Malone, huh? Lousy jock, wasn’t he? Great lover, though I’ve heard.”

“I don’t know much about him,” I said. “Bring me a cup of coffee, will you? And the short ribs with rye rolls.”

He is very sensitive to my moods; he didn’t give me any further dialogue but served me quietly and semi-efficiently. He is perhaps one of the four remaining members of the Brock (The Rock) Callahan Fan Club.

The rock … Now why did that disturb me? The rock. “… upon this rock I will build my Church …”

Back at the office I typed up this morning’s adventures, pausing for a few minutes before omitting any reference to black haired, slim Selina Stone, the stylized songbird. I didn’t know what loyalty I owed her but it seemed decent to keep the police off her neck as long as possible. She reminded me of somebody but I couldn’t remember whom. Some movie star? Some denizen of the cafe-society jungle? The similarity nagged me but wouldn’t come through to completion.

Gina Ronico, now there was a girl more suited to shoving some steel into a man. Tempestuous, no doubt, passionate and volatile and capable of temporary violence.

Did it have to be a woman? Lots of men use knives.

I was separating the carbons from the originals when Sergeant Pascal came into the office. Officer Caroline wasn’t with him, for a welcome change.

His long face was sour and his eyes looked weary. He slumped into my customer’s chair and said petulantly, “I just heard about your run-in with the Santa Monica boys. Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”

I gave him the story on that.

“Giovanni, huh?” he said. “That ties in with my theory.”

“What theory?”

“That he’s in this killing right up to his neck. Look, that niece of his, that Gina whatever-her-name-is, she thinks she’s really something, going all the way up in Hollywood. And so does her uncle Frank, I learned this morning. And isn’t he just the boy to take care of any roadblocks on her climb to the stars?”

“What kind of roadblock was Tip Malone?”

“A married man, wasn’t he? It could be a scandal, couldn’t it? And what would a scandal do to her career?”

I chuckled and said patiently, “Sergeant, you’re living in the wrong decade. What could a scandal do? It could make her. You want to check the box-office increases all the girls get after their scandals. These days, if they can’t find a legitimate scandal, they create one. They need them in their business.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Not the new ones, just the established names can stand a scandal. And what about her uncle? Does he want her to climb the wrong way? She’s all he’s got, Brock.”

I said nothing.

“Use your head,” he said. “If Giovanni wasn’t worried, why did he send his boys over to muscle Dave Petroff?”

“You tell me,” I said.

“Because Dave and his brother knew about Malone and this Gina, didn’t they? They came over to this office to try and talk you out of telling Mrs. Malone about it.”

“That’s right, Sergeant. They came over to
protect
her. Now why would Giovanni be mad at them about that?”

“Because now Malone is dead and the girl could be a logical suspect. So Giovanni wants to be damned sure his niece’s connection with Malone is silenced.”

I shook my head. “It just doesn’t add, Sergeant. You already knew Gina Ronico was a friend of Malone’s.”

He nodded. “Thanks to you. But here’s the big question—did Frank Giovanni
know
I knew?”

I smiled. “Why don’t you ask him?”

He looked at me bleakly. “Are you by any chance suggesting I’m afraid to ask him?”

“Only as a gag,” I said. “I’ve always admired your guts, Sergeant.”

There was a pause and he looked at me sheepishly. “To tell you the truth, the only reason I’m not going up against Giovanni is because it wouldn’t do me any good.”

I felt a coolness at the base of my neck. “That’s reasonable. Even Congressional committees don’t frighten him.”

“But you, now …” he said, and I raised a hand.

“Don’t say it,” I said.

He frowned. “Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say I’d have a better chance because most private men are crooks, anyway, and a crook like Giovanni might level more with someone like me.”

He expelled his breath. “Most private investigators are crooks. It so happens you’re not. But Giovanni wouldn’t know that. He might offer to buy you off.”

“And I would then take the bribe offer and what information I could worm out of him to you. Right, Sergeant?”

“Right!”

I shook my head. “No I’m too young to die.”

Pascal grimaced. “In other words, he
does
scare you?”

“That’s a complicated question,” I said. “No man scares me off if I’ve a legitimate reason to stand my ground. But to double-cross a man with Giovanni’s connections …?” I stared at him. “Sergeant, be reasonable!”

He looked at the floor.

I said, “I’ve already mussed up one of his stooges. I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if I’ll hear from Mr. Giovanni. If I don’t, I may go to visit him. Tactfully, agreeably and carefully. But not as a spy for the L.A.P.D.”

Pascal’s long face was motionless and his eyes looked past me.

“Did you drive over here just to suggest this?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood. I saw your car on the lot. Look, Brock, we’re working together, aren’t we?”

“Of course. Under the same terms we have before.”

“So if you see Giovanni, I’ll hear about it.”

I nodded. “It will be in my reports. While you’re here, there are the reports up to now. You can take the carbons along and save me the postage.”

He looked over the reports and then steadily at me.

“
Complete,
up to now?”

I returned his gaze. “As complete as they always are, Sergeant.” I smiled at him. “Let’s not argue, not today.”

He took the carbons, waved, and went out.

Complete,
I thought,
omitting only the lovely Selina Stone, the Continental carnal-knowledge type song stylist.
Now, why was I protecting her? What was she to me? She would probably turn out to be the murderer.

And a Lesbian, too.

It would serve me right.

I sat there, a weary semipro, painfully cognizant of my own shortcomings mistrusting my instincts and resenting Pascal’s dependence on me. Jan was right. It was an idiot’s trade, padding about with big muscles and a small brain.

I had gone to see Giovanni yesterday and thought nothing of it. But yesterday Tip Malone hadn’t been dead. Now, with Tip murdered and Giovanni possibly involved, any visit of mine would have to be considered an unfriendly visit by his way of thinking.

The Department had the trained men and the equipment and the connections. I had only my vulnerability as a weapon; I could be attacked. And from the direction of the attack, one could guess at motives and hope to fashion a pattern that individual trickery could solidify into a case worthy of legal prosecution.

So now, in order to maintain my solid Department acceptance, I was supposed to be the patsy and approach Giovanni. After tangling with his employees this morning, I needed the Department and admitted it. The Department needed me and would never admit it.

I was to be the sacrificial lamb. That was what Sergeant Pascal expected of me. To hell with Pascal. How was I to approach Frank Giovanni? What could I use for an opening speech? It was absurd.

My phone rang. A voice asked, “Brock Callahan?”

“Right,” I said.

“Would it be possible for you to drop over here within the next hour?” he asked. “This is Frank Giovanni.”