Streets of Death - Dell Shannon (18 page)

"Did you sell the car to Jim?" he asked.

"Yes," she said stiffly. "That is all
right? There’s no reason I should not?"

"Not that I know of." He ordered almost at
random, and she went away at once. She didn’t make any comment on
his facial decorations; maybe she thought cops were always getting
into fights. She didn’t come back until she brought his plate, and
he watched her unobtrusively. Damn it, he thought, the girl was
nothing to him; just, those damned cynics so ready to believe she was
telling a tale, and he--halfway--believed her. He was sorry for her;
look at it any way, she’d had a raw deal. And if she was telling
the truth-- But there were all the questions: her coming home earlier
than she’d said she had that day, and the car, what that Frost
woman said, what they’d said about Fleming--Damn it, why should she
tell such a story unless it was true?

He wondered suddenly if Carey had thought of digging
up that raw empty lot where the building had been torn down. That was
woolgathering with a vengeance. For one thing, he thought suddenly,
Mrs. Del Sardo was right--that place had thin walls, you couldn’t
have a good argument without neighbors knowing it. It didn’t make
much noise, say, to hit a man over the head, but a little girl like
Marta couldn’t have got him out of the place, down the stairs,
alone.

What about the wheelchair? It had rubber tires.
Galeano had a sudden clear vision of Fleming, dead or dying, tied
into the wheelchair while she manipulated it down the stairs quietly,
so quietly, late at night. She’d taken him to the doctor--that had
meant getting him down the stairs. She was a sturdy girl, and it was
a question of leverage, keeping the thing straight. But he’d
probably helped, those times, with the increased strength in his arms
and shoulders.

That was nonsense too. She couldn’t have done it;
there hadn’t been time. He’d been perfectly all right that
morning when she left. And the boy said there’d been no answer to
his ring at one o’clock. And the car was gone then.

Galeano gave it up. Only
God knew what had happened to Edwin Fleming, and He was preserving
inscrutable silence.

* * *

Jason Grace had three exposures left in the
Instamatic, and used them up that morning taking pictures of cuddly
brown Celia Ann, who was--impossible as it seemed--nearly eighteen
months old now. She was pretty special to him and Virginia because
they’d waited so long for her, deviling the County Adoption Agency.

"You want anything at the market, Ginny?"
he asked after lunch. "It looks like rain again, and I think
she’s coming down with a cold."

"She can’t be after all the shots. Jase,
you’ve got that look again. You’re thinking about something, and
you know I wanted to go see your mother this afternoon. Are you going
out on something on your day off?"

"Just around a little, Ginny." He brushed
his mustache back and forth. "I just had a little idea."

"Your little ideas I know," said Virginia.
Grace grinned at her and picked up the phone. When he got hold of
Robert Buford in Thousand Oaks, he said after identifying himself, "I
hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Buford."

"Well, I suppose. It’s over. That is, the
funeral’s tomorrow, we had to wait till your office released the
body."

Grace didn’t bother to correct that to the
coroner’s office. "I’ve got a funny sort of question for
you, Mr. Buford. Did your brother like to play cards? Gamble a little
now and then?"

"That is a funny one, Mr. Grace. Well, he used
to. He used to be quite a man for that, years back. But Mary, his
wife, she disapproved of it and he hadn’t for a long while. Tell
you something funny, Mr. Grace--when I couldn’t get hold of him, it
just crossed my mind to wonder if maybe he’d gone down to Gardena,
one of the gambling houses, to sort of pass the time. He was at loose
ends, and since Mary was gone--but I don’t think he would have, at
that. He’d got out of the habit."

"I see. That’s interesting," said Grace.

"You found out anything about who killed him
yet?"

"Not yet, but I may have a little lead,"
said Grace.

"Thanks, Mr. Buford .... Ginny, I’m off. I’ll
be back sometime." She just gave him an exasperated look. He
dropped the film off at the drugstore and went on downtown, to Virgil
Avenue. It was just one-thirty. Ben’s Bar and Grill was open. The
little idea might be nothing at all, but in Grace’s experience you
had to, as the song said, accentuate the positive to get any results.
It was said that if you sent a telegram saying All is discovered to
any ten people at random, nine of them would pack bags and start
running. He believed it.

He walked into the place and went up to the bar. The
owner, fat bald Charles Reinke, was alone here: no customers yet. He
recognized Grace with a nod, obviously remembering the badge in his
hand before. "Do for you?" he asked unwillingly.

"Oh, Scotch," said Grace. "Straight
up. By the way, why’s it called Ben’s? Your name is Charles."

Reinke looked even more wary at the implication that
Grace had been checking into him. "Uh, it was named that when I
bought it," he said. "It’d been here awhile, I just
didn’t bother to change the name."

"Sounds sensible," said Grace, and sipped
Scotch.

"But you know something, Mr. Reinke. I don’t
need to tell you that the state examiners are pretty damn choosy who
they sell liquor licenses to. You could lose yours right away quick
if they got to hear you’re running illegal card games here."

"Oh, hell and damnation," said Reinke.
"Hell and damnation. I knew it--I knew it’d get around, those
God-damned fools-- It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t want any part of
it! I told them to go away somewhere else, I told them about my
license, listen, this place is all I got, I just barely make it now,
I got to keep my nose clean if I--I told them!"

He was nearly wringing his hands; he looked at Grace
anxiously. "How did you hear about it? Have you--have you--"

"Called up the board and said come grab your
license quick? No, Mr. Reinke." Grace hadn’t anticipated this
reaction; from what Galeano had said, he’d rather expected the
quiet game in a back room with a cut to the house.

"I don’t think the regulations are just very
realistic myself."

It was a human instinct, gambling. Reinke’s fat
face looked somewhat less miserable.

"Neither do I--I don’t know your name."
Grace told him. "--Mr. Grace. But there they are--and I get
caught with customers playing for money, I’m dead. Look, it was
only the once, see. I asked them to go somewhere else, I told them,
but Sam--he just laughed and said I shouldn’t worry so much. I
couldn’t do nothing about it, because--"

He hesitated.

"Good customers?" suggested Grace, letting
him take his time.

"Well, yeah, but also--I might as well say, as
long as I got to tell about it--also, I owe Sam some money. I got in
a bind last summer when my wife was sick, we don’t have any
insurance, and Sam loaned me a thousand. I been payin’ it back as I
can, but he’s been a damn good friend to me, he’s a nice guy and
I just didn’t like to press it, he brought out the cards. Honest,
it was only the one time and I’ll see it don’t happen again."

"Al1 right," said Grace casually. "When
was it? Was Dick Buford in on it?"

"Yeah," said Reinke, passing a hand across
his mouth.

"Yeah. That was another reason I felt kind of
nervous, you coming before, asking. I suppose it was just a
coincidence, him getting clobbered by some thug just after, but----"

"That night? Last Tuesday, a week ago today?"

"Well, no," said Reinke. "No, it got
started on Monday afternoon. They just got to playing and sort of
kept on. It was draw poker."

"Mmh-hm," said Grace. "Who was in the
game?"

"Well, Sam--Sam McAllister, he lives down the
block on Fifth. He started it, and the Colombos--Rudy and Vic
Colombo, they own the garage across the street, got a couple reliable
hands so they could take the time off. And Andy Bond, he’s a
regular too, a retired guy like Sam. There was another guy, I’m not
sure of his name, he works at the men’s store across the street,
but he was only in the game awhile, said he had to get back to work.
Then Buford dropped in, late Monday afternoon, and got in it. I asked
’em to go away, they could go to Sam’s, but Sam said his wife’d
kill him if she come back, find the place in a mess--I guess she was
away somewheres----and they were comfortable here, everything to hand
like, and I shouldn’t worry. I could just go home, he said, he’d
keep count of any drinks they had and sandwiches and all, and if they
got tired they’d lock up. But they didn’t," said Reinke.
"They was all still there Tuesday, all Tuesday, and I was wild,
I tell you."

Grace marveled slightly, no gambler himself, but he
knew such sessions did go on. "Sam’s nephew was with them
then," said Reinke, "young sailor, he was on leave, stayin’
with Sam. Yeah, Buford was still in too."

"When did it break up?"

"Along about seven that night. I told them they
had to go away, I didn’t like it. And I guess by then they were
getting tired, no wonder, even if one or the other’d drop out
awhile and lie down in my back room. They finally broke it up and
went."

"Would you happen to know who came out ahead?"
asked Grace. "They playing very high stakes?"

"I don’t think so, but it went on so long-
Yeah, Buford and Andy took kind of a bundle, I guess. I remember this
sailor sayin’ they’d got most of his shore-leave money, and Sam
said maybe he’d got some education for
it,
better than spending it on girls."

"They all left about the same time?"

"About. I was damn glad to see them go, and I
made up my mind, Sam try that again, it’s no go--I’ll put my foot
down. Mr. Grace, you aren’t going to do anything about it, are
you?"

"Not to you,"
said Grace, finishing his Scotch.

* * *

The sergeant at Pendleton had been very helpful, but
Hackett was tired of this damned job. He and Higgins had by now come
across several military personnel stationed at Pendleton who hailed
from California, but nowhere near L.A.

"And that," said Higgins finally with a
long sigh, "is that. Finis. If it was a hunch, it was a dud, and
damn Scarne and S.I.D. We might better have asked Luis to consult his
crystal ball."

"Probably." Hackett lit a cigarette and
flipped over the sheets on his desk. "Oh, damn--here’s one we
missed, George. The AWOL’s. But it’s short and sweet-- And isn’t
that a coincidence?" he added suddenly. "Don’t speak too
soon. Here’s an enlisted man, Leo Mullarkey, AWOL last month. His
home address is on Magnolia, just a block away from Faber’s
Market."

"And I suppose he made for it right off,"
said Higgins, "the first place they’d look for him."

"People do stupid things or we wouldn’t have
such a good reputation," said Hackett.

"I believe you. I said to Mary, I think the
stupidity rubs off on us. I don’t know, I suppose it is just barely
possible, Art. And wouldn’t you know, if he is, the last one of all
these hundreds of names. But he won’t be there now, for God’s
sake."

"
Maybe we can get an idea when he was."
Hackett got up and put on his jacket. Higgins straightened his tie.
Palliser, who had been typing a report across the room and just
picked up the phone, said suddenly, "You don’t say, Jase. Who?
Well, I’ll be damned! The boss’ll be interested in that, but I’ll
never understand how anyone can waste time over-- Yes, I see. Yes, it
doesn’t say how much but we can talk to the other men and-- You and
your little ideas. I’ll pass it on .... Jase just came across
something interesting on Buford, Art."

"Buford? Oh, that. I hope we’ve just come
across something interesting too," said Hackett.

Outside, it was making up its mind to rain again.
They took Higgins' Pontiac, as it were for good luck. They couldn’t
transport a subject in Hackett’s Barracuda. The address on Magnolia
was an old square stucco house with a strip of brown grass in front
and an ancient Ford sitting in the drive. They parked in front, went
up and rang the bell. After an interval the door opened.

"Mrs. Mullarkey?" Hackett showed her the
badge.

"What the hell do cops want?" She stared at
them angrily, unwilling acknowledgment in her eyes of two great big
cops, looking like cops, on her doorstep. "Oh, I suppose you’re
lookin’ for Leo--we don’t know where he’s at."

She was a fat bleached blonde about fifty, makeup
plastered on, in tight black pants, a bright flowered tunic.

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked
Hackett.

"Listen, the soldiers come and asked--and
asked," she said impatiently. "We ain’t seen him since--I
coulda told them Leo wasn’t goin’ to stay at one thing long, and
he never did like bein’ told what to do, no way. So he took off
from the Army, so what? How did we know that, or figure it was some
big crime?"

"He was here?" asked Higgins.