Hit and The Marksman (12 page)

Maybe Mike Farrell, after he'd had half a bottle of whisky, had worked himself up into a state. Maybe he had gone back to Aiello's, persuaded Aiello to let him in, and forced Aiello at gunpoint to open the safe. Maybe. But I doubted it. With all the alarm systems around the place, it was doubtful anybody could have forced Aiello to open the safe without giving him a chance to trip an alarm somewhere—an alarm that would have alerted Vincent Madonna.

If I believed Judy Dodson, I had a few facts. Aiello had been anticipating a big deal. He had been expecting visitors late at night—otherwise why evict Judy?—and a visit at that hour suggested the visitors were people who couldn't afford to be seen meeting Aiello in daylight. I recalled the two politicians whose names Mike had mentioned. Ex-Governor Stanley Raiford, and County Supervisor Frank Colclough.

On the way I wolfed a takeout sandwich from a drive-in. I found Raiford's house in the old part of town, just past a mobile home park where rusty steel trailers were propped in rows on concrete building-blocks, sprouting TV antennae like weeds, baking aridly in the sun glitter. Raiford's street had been widened until the thin ribbons of sidewalk were pinched against the old houses; fences and front yards were long gone. It was a big two-story house shaded by cottonwoods on both sides; it looked worn and comfortable.

There was nobody home. He had no office listed. Rather than chase around asking questions, which might take too much time, I headed for Colclough's place—it wasn't far.

Not far in space, but a thousand miles far in time. Colclough lived in a rich folks' slum. Blooming plastic flowers had been stuck into the yard, dyed to match the swimming pool, and the lawn had been faked on the theory that the grass is greener after it has been painted. The house was big enough to have been expensive; it probably had all the modern accoutrements—tile shower with sliding glass door, electric kitchen, four bedrooms, dish and clothes washers and dryer in the utility room, electric panel heat, central air-conditioning. There wasn't a decent-sized tree for a mile in any direction; the cretins who built these $75,000 shacks just bulldozed everything away and rolled out the houses the way you would roll out linoleum flooring with repetitive patterns. Doubtless Colclough had obtained the house cheap, or free, from some fast-buck operator friend of his who slapped houses together by the hundreds, just squeaking past the building code by bribing inspectors. Long before most of the mortgages were paid up the houses would be crumbling, warped, leaking. By that time the Colcloughs would have moved on.

There were no cars in the two-car garage, no answer to my knock at the door. But when I turned back down the cracking concrete walkway the next-door neighbor turned off his gardening hose and said amiably, “Looking for the mister or the missus?”

I went across the green, dead lawn. He was a sunburned old man with several chins and an office paunch in paisley Bermuda shorts and a loud shirt. I said, “I was looking for the county supervisor. He's not at his office.”

He nodded “He's out of town, you see. Asked me to look after the swimming pool. It's a nice pool isn't it? We often sit around after the sun goes down,-watching the bugs on the pool. Nice and quiet and peaceful. Not like the pious rat race back east, not a bit, no sir. Boy, you couldn't get me to go back, not me. Never, not for all the money in Wall Street.”

“You're a broker?”

“Retired customer's man,” he said, and beamed at me, wishing with all his might he was back in the pious rat race with something to do besides watch bugs skim the surface of a rectangular swimming pool.

The senior citizen said, “If you need him in a hurry, I'm afraid you're out of luck. He'll be gone a couple of weeks.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Frank and Edith went upstate three days ago with Governor Raiford to organize the election campaign.” He was name dropping, of course, but I couldn't complain; at least he was talkative.

“He didn't come back to town last night by any chance? Just for a brief business appointment?”

“If he did he didn't stop by here. My wife and I were home all night. Look, I'll tell you what you do, you can call him at the Stone Mountain Hotel up at the capital, that's where he's staying. We're forwarding the important mail. I'm assuming you want to talk to him about something important—otherwise you wouldn't have come to his home?”

He made it a question but I didn't let him draw me into conversation; I thanked him kindly and strode back to the Jeep. When I got to a phone booth I called Joanne to check on her.

Her voice sounded strange. “Oh—Simon.”

“What's wrong?”

“Why, nothing, I only—”

“Is somebody there with you?”

“Yes,” she said, eager.

“With a gun?”

“Yes, exactly. Simon, can you come right away? There's something I have to talk about and I'd rather not do it on the phone.”

“It's a set-up—he's waiting to trap me?”

“Yes, fine, I'll see you in a few minutes, then?”

“Hang on, darling,” I said. “Do you think he'll use the gun? Should I send cops?”

“No, it's all right, I've already had lunch. But thank you for thinking of it. You're sweet.”

“Is it anybody I know?”

“No, really, I promise you I'm not hungry, and besides, it would take too long to stop and pick up a sandwich for me. I've got to see you right away—it's important.”

“Is this guy alone, no help outside?”

“That's right.”

“What does he want? Just talk, not a fight?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, I'll be right there. It'll take me twenty minutes.”

“Bye, darling.”

“Take care,” I murmured, and hung up. My hand was trembling on the receiver. I made it to the Jeep and pulled away from the curb and almost collided with a bus that roared by with a swish of pollutant exhaust.

Chapter Six

The Venetian blinds were drawn; I couldn't case the motel room. I stood outside the door and listened. The voices were muffled but I could distinguish Joanne's husky tone and a man's deep round one.

I closed one eye entirely and slitted the other, and stood silent for several minutes, letting the pupils dilate so I wouldn't be sun-blinded when I went in. There didn't seem any alternative. I didn't have a gun and hadn't wanted to take the time to find one. Of course I had one advantage—the knowledge that the man was an amateur. If he'd been a pro he wouldn't have let Joanne do all that talking on the phone. He'd have grabbed it from her and told me to come on in or he'd shoot Joanne.

It was only a surmise, based on experience, but if I'd had any lingering doubts they were dispelled when I stood close against the door and knocked, and he answered by opening the door himself. A professional would have brought Joanne to the door, held his gun in her back and had her open it.

He had a round, soft florid face like a baby's buttocks. He smelled of expensive after-shave. Handmade cordovan shoes, tailored slacks, linen shirt and a bow tie. He had one gun in his waistband—mine, the .38 I'd left with Joanne—and another in his fist, a lightweight .25 Beretta. When he opened the door he stepped back one pace and pointed the toy in my direction.

“Come in, Mr. Crane. Shut the door behind you.” If I was supposed to look startled I disappointed him. I just nodded and stepped across the threshold and made a wisecrack:

“What's a big boy like you doing playing with loaded guns?”

“I'm glad you've assumed it's loaded,” he said. “It is.” He had stepped back against the side wall so he could watch both me and Joanne. I gave her a quick glance. She sat in a low armchair, not mussed; she looked all right and she gave me a nod. She looked tense but not terrified.

I pushed the door shut behind me with my heel, and with my foot still braced against the door that way, I launched myself at him. He was a bit too far away for me to try the same trick I'd pulled on Mike Farrell, so I didn't go for the wrist. I counted on his amateur status; an amateur with a gun in his hand can be depended on not to shoot when he ought to; trigger-pulling is not one of the amateur's learned reflexes. When I made my dive, he reacted instinctively by throwing both arms up in front of him to protect his body, forgetting all about the gun.

He made it ridiculously easy. When I rammed into him with an open-handed stiff arm, he tried to bat me across the face with the gun. I stopped his wrist with my forearm, jabbed him under the chin and used my lifted left arm to spin him flat against the wall. Then all I had to do was reach out and pluck the Beretta from his half-numb hand. He went rigid when he saw the Beretta pointed at him. I lifted the .38 out of his waistband and stepped back across half the width of the room, covering him with both guns.

Joanne was actually chuckling. I glanced at her and said, “All right, who is he?”

“He didn't say.”

I turned my eyes to him. He was massaging his wrist, making a point of not looking at me. When he got through with his wrist he rubbed himself under the chin where I'd hit him.

I said, “You heard the question. Who are you and what's this all about?”

He managed to meet my eyes. Glowering, he spoke without bothering to pry his lips apart. “My name is Robert Brown and I only wanted answers to a few questions.”

I looked at Joanne. “How did he get in?”

“By my stupidity.” She made a face at me. “I'm sorry, Simon, I'm not used to fending off men with guns. When he knocked, I let him in. I thought it was room service from the bar.”

Robert Brown, if that was his name, took a breath and said, “This is all a mistake. I can save us all a good deal of trouble if you'll let me explain.”

“Do that,” I said. I clicked the safety on the Beretta and slipped it into my hip pocket, keeping the .38 pointed at him.

He directed a pudgy finger toward an early edition of the evening paper, lying open on the bed. One of the headlines, with photo, was: “AIELLO SUCCUMBS: ALLEGED RACKETEER FOUND SHOT.”

Robert Brown said, “Mr. Crane, I don't know and don't care what your arrangements are with Aiello's friends, but I have to know what happened to the contents of Aiello's safe. It's very important to me—you could say vital.”

“Everybody in town seems to be interested in that,” I remarked. “Who told you the safe had been robbed? And why come to us to find out?”

“I won't fence with you, Mr. Crane.” He said it coyly. He reminded me of nothing so much as an elephant trumpeting an unrequited love. “I spoke with Vincent Madonna an hour ago from my office, when I first heard of Aiello's death. I wanted to make sure the contents of the safe hadn't been disturbed. Madonna was quite frank with me; he told me the safe had been rifled and you were the person most likely to know where the contents were to be found. He told me where to find this lady, and wished me good luck, and asked me to forward to him any information I might obtain from you.”

If I'd had time I might have stopped to puzzle over Madonna's reasons for telling all that to Robert Brown, but first there were more important things to cover. I said, “What's your connection with Madonna?”

“I wish to God there weren't any,” Robert Brown said, sounding as if he meant it. “You must understand that we all make mistakes. There are some of us who are in positions where we can't afford to have our mistakes exposed. Unfortunately, evidence of one or two mistakes from my past found its way into Salvatore Aiello's possession. I have reason to believe that evidence was in his safe. I want to get it back. I won't breathe easy until I do.”

I said, “You've got a wallet in your hip pocket. Take it out and toss it on the bed.”

“What?”

I jiggled the gun at him. He wanted to put up an argument but he thought fast, gave it up, and did as he'd been told. He didn't look happy about it. I picked up the wallet and went through it, keeping one eye on him. The credit and membership cards identified him as Fred V. Brawley, M.D., member of various societies of surgeons, the A.N.A., Lions, Kiwanis, Chamber of Commerce, American Express, Diners Club, Yale University Alumni Association. The emergency ID card said he was forty-nine, allergic to penicillin, Blood Type B+, next-of-kin Mrs. Sylvia Brawley (wife) at 2744 Camino del Rodeo. There was a thick wad of cash, large-denomination bills, and two blank checks with his name and an office address at Cliff View Terrace. There were no photos of wife or children, but there was a handsome color snapshot of a cabin cruiser; it looked like about a forty-footer, with a flying bridge and marlin rigs on the open transom deck.

I put everything back in the wallet and tossed it back to the sportsman-surgeon. I said, to Joanne, “Doctor Fred Brawley. Mean anything to you?”

“I've heard of him,” she said. “Very exclusive—high-priced and high society.”

I said, “That right, Doc?”

He was mum, glaring not at me but at Joanne. I attracted his attention with a two-inch jiggle of the revolver and said, “Doc, I might suggest you're in trouble up to your lumbar region. I suggest you start over. Vincent Madonna didn't tell you where to find us. Who did?”

“Didn't he?” He was being coy again.

I only shook my head. It wasn't worth explaining to him. I said, “You told the truth about one part of it. Aiello had blackmail evidence against you in his safe, didn't he?”

“That's what I said.”

“What kind of evidence?”

He managed a tight little smile. “I'd be a bit of a fool to tell you that, wouldn't I?”

I shrugged. “It doesn't matter much. Malpractice, maybe, or illegal abortions.”

From the way he stiffened I knew I had scored a hit. I didn't press it; it didn't seem to matter. I said, “The point is, somebody pointed you at us. I have to know who it was, I'll get rough with you if I have to. How about it?”