The Third Figure (9 page)

I tried to smile, but was aware that the attempt must seem grotesque. I was wondering how many remained, of his dozen ice picks.

“How you doing?” His voice was solicitous.

“How—how do you mean?”

“I mean, how you doing? Figuring out who killed Mr. Vennezio?”

“Well, I—I haven’t had a chance to do much.” I took a deep breath, reassured now by his apparent amiability. He’d demonstrated his capacity for destruction. He’d made his point. Now, possibly, he wanted to ingratiate himself.

“I hear you got Mr. Russo’s O.K.”

“Yes. That—that’s what he said.”

Reggie Fay nodded judiciously. “That’s good. You got Mr. Russo pulling for you, then you got no problems. You play ball with him, he plays ball with you. But if you cross him …” The small man grimaced, mocking a forlorn sadness.

“Was Dominic Vennezio like that?” I asked.

“Mr. Vennezio was different. Mr. Russo, he uses his brains instead of his muscle. He keeps you guessing—a little off-balance, until he gets you in line. But not Mr. Vennezio. He was the old-fashioned kind, if you know what I mean. Anything he got, he got the hard way. That’s the way he came up, and that’s all he ever knew. Hit ’em on the head.” Reggie Fay struck the arm of his chair a sharp, vicious blow. “Bop.”

I decided to try and draw him out, not by asking questions directly, but by apparently confiding in him, enticing conversation.

“I think that’s what got him killed,” I said. “That bopping. I think he bopped one person too many.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sat forward on the edge of his chair, gripping the arms. “How’d you figure that out? Did you see it in a mental flash, or what?”

I shook my head and smiled. “I’m not that, ah, facile, I’m afraid. I have to work for my flashes.”

“I read about one of you guys. Some guy in Europe, he could tell the police exactly where to look for a kid that’d drownded a whole month before. He told the cops to go to a certain place along the riverbank on a certain day, at a certain hour. He said the kid’s body would come floating up to the top. And that’s what happened. He does that kind of stuff all the time. He handles something that belongs to the person, like a handkerchief, or a glove, or something. That’s all he needs. He can tell what’s in the future, too. Like fortune-telling.”

“Well, he’s luckier than I am. I have to do a lot of leg-work.”

“Do you see it all like a big, bright picture, or what?” His avid, intent expression was guileless—almost childlike.

At that, I had to ruefully snort.

“I see it as a very small, very muddy picture. Sometimes it’s like seeing an abstract painting, that you have to figure out. Everything’s there, but it’s meaningless.”

He nodded and thoughtfully blinked. Then, leaning sideways against the chair’s arm, he tucked his feet up beside him. It was an oddly feminine posture. Suddenly he seemed vulnerable—if one could forget the ice pick tucked inside his natty tweed sport jacket.

“So you got to play detective until you get the picture. Is that it? And then you got to figure out what the picture means, sometimes.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

“And that’s what you’re doing now. Playing detective.

“Yes. I’m asking everyone I can. Trying to piece something together. Then maybe I’ll get the picture. Literally.”

He cocked his head almost pertly aside, thinking about it.

“And you think Mr. Vennezio was killed by someone he bopped too hard. Is that it?”

“That’s what I think, yes. He must’ve had a hundred enemies. In his, ah, line of business, he could’ve made enemies he didn’t even know existed. A cigar store owner, for instance, could’ve gone broke because the Outfit moved in with one of their own, ah, cigar stores.”

Reggie Fay nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin in a gesture that seemed to burlesque manhood.

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The job was too smooth. Too professional.”

“The murderer could’ve just been lucky. It happens all the time.”

He thought about it, then judiciously shook his head. “I don’t know about luck, where murder’s concerned. It takes more than luck. Figure it out for yourself: a guy’s doing something that could mean the gas chamber. So luck’s not enough.”

“What does it take, then?”

“It takes experience.” His manner was decisive—flat with an authoritative finality. “A job that clean, it takes experience.”

“What you’re saying, then, is that someone in your, ah, organization did it. Is that right?”

He shrugged. “I’m just talking about this luck thing. I’m not pointing anywhere.”

“Mr. Russo says there wasn’t any, ah, official beef against Vennezio.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I’m low down on the pole. Real low down.”

“But you were Vennezio’s bodyguard.”

Now his expression became ironic. He snorted. “If you really want to know, I was always around mostly to mind the Vennezio kids, Angelo and Charlene.” He paused and once more shrugged. “I’m forty-eight years old. I don’t look it, but I am. I started with Mr. Vennezio twenty-five years ago, running errands. I could never be a bagman, or anything like that, because I was too conspicuous. So I just used to run errands. I guess Mr. Vennezio and the other big shots, they kept me around for luck or something. They were always polite, and everything—except when they’d get to drinking. Then they’d start kidding around with me. Kings, you know, used to do that.” He paused, briefly trapped in a sad, distant reverie. Then, drawing a deep breath, he said, “Anyhow, when Angelo got to be two or three years old, he used to get real happy whenever I showed up. He’d clap his hands and laugh and run over to me. Charlene did the same, too, when she was old enough. So gradually I became the kids’ bodyguard, sort of. When Mr. Vennezio first came out here from the East, there was lots popping, believe me. Guys were getting killed every week, until Siegel finally got it. The kids never got hurt, but you never knew. Finally, though, things calmed down, and the kids grew up. So I just kind of stayed around. Then, a couple of years ago, Mr. Vennezio’s wife moved out on him, like she told you. And I went with her. To—” He hesitated. “To keep an eye out for her.”

“How do you mean?” I pretended not to understand.

“You know …” Guilelessly-seeming now, he spread his hands. “Just keep an eye on her. Mr. Vennezio, he was pretty worried about her. He wanted to make sure she was all right.”

I decided not to pursue the point. Instead, musingly, I said, “The way I understand it, then, you think Vennezio was murdered by a professional, but not necessarily for, ah, professional reasons.”

He thought about it, frowning. Then he finally nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way of putting it.” His eyes were uneasy, foreshadowing evasiveness.

It was time to shift my ground.

“What about Charlene? I understand she’s been going around with, ah …” I couldn’t come up with the name.

“Larry Sabella.” He was watching me carefully.

“Right. Larry Sabella. And I hear her father didn’t approve.”

He got to his feet. “I guess I better be going.”

“Wait a minute.” I also rose. “Tell me something about this Sabella. I could ask Frank,” I added, by way of technique. “But I’d as soon not bother him.”

Using Russo’s first name seemed to have an effect. Reggie Fay turned to face me, staring up at me intently. Finally he said, “Larry Sabella runs the gambling end of things. He and Charlene are pretty thick, I guess. They have been, for three or four years.”

“And Dominic didn’t like it.”

“No. He sure didn’t. He was always real wrapped up in Charlene, the way some guys get about their daughters.”

“Is Sabella married?”

“He’s divorced. He got divorced just about the time he and Charlene started going around together. Maybe a little before. I’m not sure.”

“Does Charlene live by herself?”

“Now she does. For the last two years, after Mr. and Mrs. Vennezio split up, she lived by herself. Before that, she lived at home.”

“You said, though, that she’d gone with Sabella for three or four years.”

“Yeah. She used to see him without her father knowing.”

I thought I saw my chance to slip Mrs. Hanson into the conversation.

“Did Charlene know Mrs. Hanson?”

He shrugged. “She knew about her. I don’t know whether they ever met. I doubt it, though.”

“Did Charlene like the idea of her father having someone like Mrs. Hanson?”

His eyes became opaque, his manner noncommittal. “You’d have to ask Charlene about that.”

I nodded, thinking over his answers. As I did, I realized that Reggie Fay was far from stupid. His insights were sharp and his mind quick.

I decided to try for one last bit of information.

“Do you happen to know,” I began tentatively, “how Dominic left his estate? I mean, did he make a will, for instance?”

He smiled, as a card player might smile at an opponent’s clumsy play.

“That’s not my department, Mr. Drake.” He turned and limped to the door. “About some things you can pump me. But I know when to stop talking. That’s how I got to be forty-eight years old.” He opened the door and politely wished me good night.

I sat for perhaps five minutes, thinking over the conversation. Then, on an impulse, I dialed Mrs. Vennezio’s number. She answered the phone herself, on the second ring.

“This is Stephen Drake,” I said, trying to make my voice cordial. “I just wanted to thank you for the money.”

“That’s all right. Have you found out anything?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Vennezio. But I only got in town last night, and I haven’t been able to question anyone until today. However, now, I’m beginning to get an idea of the kind of information I need.”

“What kind of information is that?” It seemed a cautious question.

“Well, that’s the reason I called. First, I’d like to know how your husband left his estate. Who benefited, in other words.”

A long silence followed. I was on the point of repeating the question when she asked, “It’s necessary, that you have this information?”

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Vennezio. Absolutely.” As I said it, decisively, I realized that I may have turned a corner: demanding something of others, rather than merely awaiting their demands on me. I was dimly realizing, too, that I possessed an important advantage in my present situation—a cultural advantage. “Class” seemed to count heavily in underworld society.

“… just left a handwritten will,” Mrs. Vennezio was saying. “It was just one page, that’s all. But the lawyer says it’s good. It’s in the probate court right now.”

“What’re its provisions?”

“Well, Dom said that first everything he had should be turned into cash within six months, at the best price. Then next everything but fifteen thousand dollars was to be divided three ways and given to me and the kids.”

“And what about the fifteen thousand dollars?”

“Five thousand of it goes to Reggie Fay and ten thousand to that—that woman.”

“I see. And what’s the total estate, Mrs. Vennezio?”

“Well …” She hesitated. “Most of it’s in real estate, but the lawyers figure it’ll be around three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Three hundred—that’s a lot of money.”

“Dominic worked hard,” she replied, defensive-sounding. “And he saved his money. All our life, we only had one car. Things like that.”

I thought about it, visualizing life with one Cadillac and three hundred thousand dollars in real estate.

“Were your children on good terms with their father, Mrs. Vennezio?”

A brief silence followed. Then she said, “What difference does it make, about Dominic and the kids? Do you think they know something about Dom’s murder?”

“No, no,” I answered hastily. “It’s not that. It’s just that I want to know everything I can about your husband. I have to—to fill in the picture. I have to feel that I
know
him. For example, I’m very interested in talking to your daughter, just to get her impressions.”

“You want to talk to the kids, is that it?” Her voice had the same flat, resigned quality I remembered from our conversation in San Francisco.

“Yes. That’s it.”

A moment of silence followed. Then, reluctantly, she said, “Charlene’s in the Los Angeles phone book. If you want to find out about Charlene, you’d better ask her yourself. We—Charlene and I never hit it off. Not for a long while, anyhow.”

“I see.” I paused, phrasing my next question.

“Has your son been out to California lately, Mrs. Vennezio?”

“Just for the funeral. But he went right back to Phoenix.

The jet time was less than two hours, I was thinking, from Phoenix to Los Angeles. An easy commute.

“Did your husband favor one child over another?” I asked.

“Dom always liked Charlene better’n Angelo,” she answered with regretful gravity. “But Angelo was a better son than Charlene was a daughter. At least, that’s the way it was at first. Dom would always be spoiling Charlene, and Angelo would always be trying to do things that’d get Dom’s attention. At first, when Angelo was a kid, it was just mischief. Later, when he started to grow up, it was different things. You know, teen-age things. But whatever Angelo did, right or wrong, Dom never paid much attention. So, pretty soon, Angelo didn’t seem to care anymore what Dom thought. At least, that’s the way it always seemed to me.”

“And what about Charlene? How did she treat her father?”

“Charlene could always get anything she wanted from Dom, right from the time she was two years old. By the time she was a teen-ager, she was running wild. Everyone could see it but Dom. Whatever Charlene told Dom, he’d believe. And as long as she hung around with kids whose folks had money, anything she did was all right. And all the time she was getting into—into the kind of trouble that girls can get into, Angelo was getting into real trouble.”

“Was Angelo ever actually arrested?” I asked.

She snorted, bitterly mocking humor. “Angelo finally had to leave town. He was getting arrested so often that Dom just couldn’t have it.”

“Was he working for the Outfit, you mean? Or did he …?”

“Angelo was supposed to be going to school. College. Dom had it in his head that both kids had to go to college, no matter what. He’d threaten them, and he’d bribe them. One time he offered Angelo a thousand dollars, just to get through one college semester. But it didn’t do any good. The very next week, Angelo was arrested for stealing a sports car out in Beverly Hills. It got so Dom’s lawyers were spending as much time on Angelo’s problems as they were on Dom’s.”