County Kill (11 page)

“I don’t know why Johnny went there, so help me.”

“Maybe he went there to meet somebody,” I suggested.

He nodded. “That could easily be. He was a real quiff hound, that Johnny. Some dame, you mean?”

“No. I wasn’t thinking of a woman. I’ve been told that Johnny had some contact with the L. A. emigrants up here — some hoodlum contacts. Maybe Johnny was arranging a meeting with the competition — and was double-crossed.” I looked at him questioningly.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re reaching now.”

“I have to. I’m working blind, thanks to you. Do you have any better theories?”

He shook his head slowly, staring past me. “I’ve been trying to come up with something ever since I heard about it. I heard it on the radio while we were still at sea. Hell, for a whole day Pete and I didn’t talk about anything else. And Pete’s as much in the dark as I am. But he’s going to look into it, you can be damned sure.”

“The reason I keep thinking about dope,” I said, “is because Johnny Chavez served time for selling reefers to high-school kids.”

He stared at me in shock. “That’s a lie. When?”

“A few years back, probably before you knew him.”

“Are you sure, Callahan?”

“Yes.”

“God!” He sat on the bunk and stared at the carton of cigarettes I’d brought him. He looked up. “Cripes, I never knew that. Hell, Johnny wasn’t like that
at all!”

“He was a friend. You weren’t critical. Knowing that, can you now believe Johnny might have been planning a double cross up in that cabin?”

“If that’s true — what you told me — I don’t know what
the hell to believe. Has Pete — what kind of record has Pete got?”

“I don’t know. When the police here were co-operative, I hadn’t heard of Pete Chavez. Since this morning, I’m not likely to get a chance to look at the files.”

He still seemed shocked by my revelation about Johnny Chavez. I had a feeling he also felt conned.

I said, “A revolt against Montevista mores didn’t have to go as far as a
racket
, did it?”

He didn’t answer.

I asked, “Is there a possibility that Pete Chavez would work with me? He’s not a logical member of my fan club.”

“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “You can tell him I hired you.”

“I already have. It didn’t help. Well, I’ll try again. You still aren’t ready to open up and help your own cause?”

His voice was dull. “If I opened up, I’d get ten years. I think I’ve been a sucker, Callahan, though I’m not completely sure — not yet. I wish I could help you. If you want to quit, I’ll understand.”

“I never quit,” I told him. “Though I often lose. Chin up; you’re still breathing.”

I didn’t think it was politic to add that I had former clients who weren’t.

In the front room, Farini was waiting on a bench. He said, “Any luck?”

“None. Can you throw your weight around here some more and learn if Pete Chavez has any record?”

“I’ve already checked him,” he told me. “Traffic violations; that’s all.”

“The way Chief Harris talked, I had the impression that Pete would make an unacceptable witness for the defense. Does he have a bad rep?”

“He’s Johnny’s cousin; that’s enough.” Farini rubbed the
back of his thick neck. “You have no lead, have you? No place to start?”

“Maybe. I’d rather not reveal it to a man hindered by ethics. In my world, I’ve evolved my own code. The Bar Association has established yours. Did you have any people in mind I might contact?”

“None,” he said. “Corporation law is my field. But I like this Skip Lund and I think he’s worth straightening out. He got a bad start up here.”

“He tells me he was a solid citizen in Beverly Hills,” I said.

“He was,” Farini said. “I checked that, too.” He smiled. “Skip was a friend, but a lawyer is a lawyer. You know, when I was younger your trade appealed to me.”

I returned his smile. “Joe, you’re big enough for it, but I don’t think you’re dumb enough. Well, back to the jute mill.” I shook his hand. “If the police get obnoxious, I’ll know who to call.”

I went out into the day again, and two cars down from mine a red Porsche was parked. June Lund was coming along the sidewalk toward me. I waited.

The blue eyes under the chestnut hair were clear and young this afternoon. Her chin lifted when she recognized me.

“Hello,” I said. “It must have been a long luncheon.”

She frowned.

“Glenys told me about it,” I explained, “but it’s four o’clock now.”

“I had some shopping to do,” she said. “Are you checking up on my actions, Mr. Callahan?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Only making polite conversation.”

She asked gravely, “How is Skip? Is he all right? Is — I mean, will they be holding him long?”

“He’s healthy,” I said. “I think at the moment, he’s regretting the path he took after leaving the Montevista boozers.
Could you live on eleven thousand two hundred dollars a year, Mrs. Lund?”

Her chin stayed high. “I suppose. But I don’t have to. Will it be enough for Mary Chavez? It should be a step
up
for her.”

I said nothing.

She said, “All right; I didn’t have to say that. Not to you, anyway. But he is going to marry her, isn’t he?”

I shrugged.

“I heard that he was taking instructions,” she said, “that he was going to turn Catholic. I heard it was all settled. Didn’t you learn that?”

“I heard it. I don’t believe everything I hear. What’s your church, Mrs. Lund?”

“Don’t lecture me,” she said. “You’re not qualified. What’s
your
church, Mr. Callahan?”

I smiled. “Let’s not fight. You’re here; that’s the first step. We can always fight later.”

“I’m here,” she informed me coolly, “to tell that retarded hot-rodder exactly what I think of a man who neglects to maintain contact with his own son. I’m here to give that arrogant idiot a piece of my mind.”

“Sure you are,” I said. “Hell, yes. Good luck, Mrs. Lund.”

It was only a little after four o’clock, but I was hungry. Juanita had bragged about her enchiladas. Perhaps I could kill two birds with one beer. Coming at her with direct questions had availed me little, but maybe I’d be luckier if I gave her more time.

On a Saturday afternoon one would expect a workingman’s bar like Chickie’s to be well populated. It wasn’t, when I entered. There was a short, thick, and dark man with a scar under his right eye working the bar.

At a table near the entrance to the kitchen the lanky guitar player was playing cards with two shorter, heavier men.

The bartender asked quietly, “What’ll it be, sir?”

“A beer for now. Enchiladas a little later. Is Mrs. Rico here?”

“She’s in the kitchen. Did you wish to speak to her?”

“It can wait. Draught beer.”

He poured a glass and set it in front of me and went over to stand near the cash register. It was quiet in here, the distant, hushed crackle of frying food in the kitchen, the halfhearted buzzing of a fly, the scarcely audible slap of playing cards. But under the lazy passing of time I felt a tension.

“Quiet town, isn’t it?” I said to the bartender.

“Mostly. Quieter than down south. I like it.”

“Lot of money in this town,” I added.

He smiled sadly. “Not in this end of it. Plan to open a business here?”

At the table one of the men said something in Spanish and the other two laughed. They probably weren’t talking about me, but I felt uncomfortable. The bartender glanced at me doubtfully, and away. That was the tension I probably sensed — the
insularity
here.

I said, “I’ve got a business already, in Beverly Hills, and I don’t plan to move it.”

Again there was a remark in Spanish from the table and another laugh. I turned to look that way and one of the heavy men met my gaze steadily, smiling without warmth.

And then the swinging door to the kitchen opened and Juanita stood there, staring at the three men. They gave immediate and complete attention to their cards.

Her
smile was warm when she finally looked at me. “Mr. Callahan! Still on vacation?”

“Nope. Working. I thought I’d have some of those enchiladas you were bragging about last night.”

“In five minutes,” she promised. “Nurse your beer. In
five minutes you’ll see if I was bragging.” The door swung shut.

The men at the table continued their game quietly. The bartender commented, “Best enchiladas in town.”

“Good. Another beer.”

A man and woman came in. Filipinos. The man wore a sport jacket composed of all the colors there are; the woman was small and shapely in tight black silk. They took a table as far as possible from the card players.

The woman in black made me think of Mary Chavez, and I wondered if she was still bearing up or if grief had finally pierced her composure. Perhaps she and her wild brother had grown apart. While she had gone to school to learn typing, he had set out on the trail of the fast buck.

And wound up being nibbled by rats.

Sadness and an uneasy peace, the beer putting a blurred benediction on the day. The man and his woman talked softly; the smell of food from the kitchen stirred my hunger.

And then the front door opened once more and Lars (Red) Hovde stood there, grinning apishly at us all. The slob hadn’t even changed his crummy sport shirt.

“Back again,” he said happily. “Start the music, professor!”

H
E CAME OVER
to where I sat and I managed to nod civilly.

“Callahan,” he said genially. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Why not, Red?” I asked. “I wasn’t knifed or slugged.”

“They weren’t from here,” he said scornfully. “These are my friends.” He called to the men playing cards, “Right?”

Without looking up, the guitar player said,
“Si, amigo.”

“Gracias, gracias,”
Red said, and looked smugly at me. “I even got the lingo now.” He climbed up on the stool next to mine. He slapped the bar. “Double bourbon, buddy.”

He was about half-gassed already. I could smell the sweet wine on his breath. Sweet wine and bourbon — what a mess he was going to be. I didn’t want to move away from him too obviously; I sat where I was.

He relished the alliteration of his order and repeated it. “Double bourbon, buddy. If I can say that, I’m not drunk, huh?”

“Right. I thought you were in the hospital. I heard you were knifed.”

“Hell,” he said, “I’ve cut myself worse than that shaving. Where’s Juanita?”

“In the kitchen, making enchiladas. You gave Vogel my name, didn’t you?”

“Vogel? Oh, that cop? Yeah. I was drunk. He give you a bad time?”

I shook my head.

Red called loudly, “Hey, Juanita!”

Everyone in the room stared, and then Juanita was standing in the open kitchen doorway. “Oh, God!” she said bleakly. “Tanglefoot is back. Good evening, Mr. Hovde.”

“When does the dancing start?” he wanted to know.

“Later,” she told him. “Much later. It’s not even five o’clock, Mr. Hovde.” She closed the door again.

The bartender set the double jolt in front of him and Lars said to me, “She don’t fool me. I was getting to her last night.
Mr. Hovde
, huh! You should have hung around. You have a date or something?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t want to miss Jack Paar.”

“Jack Paar,” Red said scornfully. “He don’t fool me.” He lifted the double shot and gulped it down.

It had been too unpleasant a day for me to sit next to this freak and listen to him detail the list of people who didn’t fool
him
. But if I moved away, his aggressive sense of inferiority might be triggered into pugnacious action, and it was no time for a fight. I was cornered.

“Double bourbon, buddy,” he said again, holding his glass high.

And then I saw a chance to get away. Because Juanita was coming from the kitchen, a steaming plate in her hands, and I assumed that it held my enchiladas.

I slipped from the stool and beckoned to her as I headed for the smallest table in the room, a corner table.

She nodded understandingly as she followed my lead.

She put the plate on the table and said, “Isn’t he awful? I’ll get my plate and some lettuce.” She went back to the kitchen.

She returned in a few minutes with a big bowl of ice-cold chopped lettuce and a plate for herself. The table was crowded with the two of us; there wasn’t an inch of room for Hovde.

He hadn’t missed me yet; he was trying out his new three-word Spanish vocabulary on the bartender.

Juanita said, “Skip turned himself in, I hear.”

I nodded and dug into an enchilada. “Wonderful!” I said. “You weren’t bragging.”

“Thank you. Are they trying to railroad Skip downtown?”

I shrugged. “He isn’t helping himself much. He claims he was on some kind of trip, but that’s all he’s willing to say about it.”

“Oh?” Her voice was casual, but she had stopped eating.

I looked at her directly and asked, “Would you know what kind of trip it was?”

Her voice was tight. “Why should I?”

“That’s no answer. Skip has hired me to find Johnny’s killer. I’m not going to get any help from the police on it. Am I going to get any from you?”

“You’re talking nonsense,
amigo,”
she said in her deep voice. “Skip and Johnny were close friends. A hundred people will tell the judge that, or the police. Skip could
never
be convicted.”

“You’d like to believe. Let me tell you, Juanita, if I don’t come up with the murderer, the police are going to put a lot of pressure on Warren Temple Lund the Second.”

Silence. She was less angry than thoughtful, it seemed, but there was some anger in her dark eyes. I ate some of the cold lettuce and some more enchilada. I glanced toward the bar to see Lars Hovde studying us speculatively.

“Don’t look now,” I whispered to Juanita, “but Red is watching us. If he gets belligerent, I’m going to pop him.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I already had enough trouble with the police about him. I can’t afford any trouble now.”

“No trouble,” I assured her. “One punch and he’ll be asleep.”

“No. No, no, no! Please?”