Bad Samaritan (20 page)

We shook hands all around.

“Call me Al,” Spicuzzi said.

“My friends call me Lanny,” I told him.

“Okay, Lanny,” Spicuzzi said. “So let’s sit and let’s talk.”

Amos sat on a hassock near a front window. I sat on a couch next to Holly, Ducasse sank back again into the satin chair. Big Al didn’t follow his own suggestion; he stood next to Ducasse’s chair.

He said, “Barry tells me you’d like to back a picture with Patty Serano starring in it.”

“Well, not back it completely,” I said. “I’m sure you can’t make a picture for fifty or sixty thousand dollars.”

“We can try,” Al said. “Patty a friend of yours?”

I shook my head. “I only met her once. It was in a massage parlor in San Valdesto. She probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“You met her
once
? You mean you didn’t go back?”

“I went back last week. But she wasn’t there.”

“And you followed her down here?”

“Not really. I was in town on business and I looked up her Aunt Rose, and. …” I shrugged.

He studied me. I felt like a bug on a pin. He looked at Holly. “Is Patty still here?”

Holly nodded. “But they’re shooting. We could wait.”

Al shook his head. “Get her.”

Holly got up and went through the foyer toward the back of the house. In a few minutes we could hear them coming our way. Not their footsteps; what we heard was a girl’s complaining voice.

Holly was holding Patty’s elbow when they came into the living room. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe, and probably nothing else.

She ignored all of us but Ducasse. “Mr. Ducasse,” she said angrily, “I want out!”

He smiled at her. “You’d prefer to go back to jail? We bailed you out of there, Patty, and we can send you back.”

“All right, then, get me a new male lead. Somebody human. That filthy Angelo is right out of sick ville. I won’t work with him!”

“Who’s Angelo?” Spicuzzi asked.

“Angelo Arrapopulus,” Holly said. “Remember him, the wrestler? He used to be pretty big out here.”

“Never heard of him,” Spicuzzi said. “Get him.”

I looked at Amos, and Amos looked nervously at me. We both knew Angelo Arrapopulus and he had reason to remember me. I had worked for his wife. I had obtained ample grounds for her divorce from Angelo, enough to get her about seventy percent of his assets at the time.

“Do we need him?” I asked. “I’m sure we can find somebody else Patty would be happier working with.”

“We need him now,” Al said. “I want to get this fuss straightened out right now.”

Amos’s eyes had left mine and were scanning the room. He might have been looking for a convenient exit. He could have been looking for a weapon. Knowing Amos, I had to guess it was an exit. He is a brave man in some ways, but he loathes physical violence.

Holly didn’t have to go and get Angelo; he was now standing in the doorway from the foyer, also wearing a robe. He glared at Ducasse. “Are we working with virgins?” he asked. And then he saw me. “What is he doing here?”

“Mr. Callahan,” Holly informed, “is a potential investor in our company. He’s from San Valdesto.”

“Like hell,” Angelo said. “He’s a lousy peeper from L.A. He’s the bastard that got the goods on me for my ex. Brock Callahan? You guys don’t remember him?”

Amos and I were suddenly the center of attention. Al looked between us, back and forth. Then, “You two can leave quietly now or leave on stretchers later. You decide.”

“And I’m going with them,” Patty said.

“The hell you are,” Al said.

“The hell she isn’t,” I said, and stood up.

“I’ll get Franky,” Angelo said. “We’ll take care of this jerk for you, Mr. Ducasse.”

That was when Amos found what he had been looking for. It wasn’t an exit or a weapon. It was a signal. He picked up a heavy marble lamp from a nearby end table and threw it through the front window.

G
LASS FELL QUIETLY ON
the soft carpeting and tinkled off the end table. Big Al came for me. Amos would have been a softer match, but Amos was no longer in sight.

“Franky!” Angelo shouted, and came over to help Al.

Two against one. … They were muckers, like Otis. What has happened to American tradition? I would have gone up clean against Al, man to man. John Wayne was dead; somebody had to carry on the tradition.

The lamp I hit Al with was smaller than the one Amos had thrown through the window, but it was cut glass and it cut up his forehead pretty good. The blood running down over his eyes could have been the reason his looping overhand right missed me by a foot.

I put my own right into his nose to hamper his breathing, as Angelo circled to get a side shot at me.

Together, they could have taken me—maybe. But from the doorway Jack called, “Hey, Angelo, baby! This way. You’re mine, Angie!”

He came in, as Angelo moved toward him. Another hulk, probably Franky, came running into the foyer—and into Joe.

The grapple and groan boys against club fighters? Forget it. This wasn’t Friday night at the Olympic on Channel Five. This was the real world.

Al had no partner now. It was man to man and I honored the tradition. I didn’t try to disfigure him, only to make sure he would spend the rest of his life in pain. As I have mentioned before, I like kids.

Joe and Jack hadn’t been active in the ring for some time, they were overdoing it a little. There was no reason for them to stand there and kick unconscious men.

I pulled them away, and asked, “Where’s Amos?”

“In the car with the girl,” Jack said. “Let’s get out of here before the fuzz come.”

Holly and Ducasse were not in sight. Like Amos, they probably were not physical. Or maybe they were calling the police, though I doubted it.

Amos had the engine running. Patty was in the seat beside him. I slid in next to her, as Jack and Joe climbed into the backseat.

“Move it, gutless,” I said.

He swung the big car in an arc and headed down the driveway. “Gutless? What the hell you talking about?”

“I missed you during the action.”

“You dumb mick! Somebody had to get Patty’s clothes for her, didn’t he? You want to take the girl home naked?”

“I’m not going home,” Patty said. “That is the last place I’m going.”

“The decision is yours,” I said. “But would you talk with me about it before you decide?”

“Talk won’t change my mind.”

We were about three blocks from the house when we heard the sound of a siren below, and saw the flashing red light as it came around a curve.

“Stay well over to the right,” I told Amos. “This is a narrow road.”

“The law,” he informed me, “reads that all drivers are required to stop. What kind of driver do you think I am?”

He pulled over onto the grass in a flat area and turned off the car lights, as the county black and white came around the turn below us.

When it went past us, he turned on the lights and started down again. “I can’t believe those creeps would call the law.

“It was probably neighbors. But they might have. The sheriff’s department knows what’s going on there, and they haven’t busted them. That makes them legitimate.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Patty said. “I know enough about them to keep them from starting anything. There are two twelve-year-old girls up there right now.”

“Did they let you play with their dolls?” Amos asked.

“Shut up!” she said.

From the back, Jack said, “I’m glad I got my licks in on Angelo. My wife thinks he was the prettiest thing on the tube since Gorgeous George. Them wrestlers are sure sickening, aren’t they?”

“Grotesque,” Patty said.

There was no more dialogue all the way to the hotel. There, in the parking garage, I gave Amos his five hundred and Jack and Joe the fifty each he had promised them.

They left, and I asked Patty, “Are you hungry? Would you like to go someplace and eat—and talk?”

She said, “I haven’t eaten since two o’clock. I know a great place for burgers and shakes right near here. But talking isn’t going to change anything.”

At Arnold’s she sipped her shake and munched her hamburger. I sipped my large Coke.

“Your mother wants to travel,” I said. “She’s retiring. She’ll take you anyplace in the world you want to go.”

“With
him
? No, thanks!”

“By him, do you mean your father?”

“He’s not my father. I never told mom I knew that, but I do.”

“Who told you?”

“He did. Mom was three months pregnant when he married her. He told me he married her as a favor, to give me a name.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“Three years ago, when I was fourteen.” She looked down at the table and up again at me. “The first time he took a pass at me.”

“And you believed him?”

“Wouldn’t you? Would you like to think your own father. …” She shivered and sniffed.

“He is now in Phoenix,” I said. “He is in business with his brother down there. If he comes back to San Valdesto, your mother’s cousins will give him reason to regret it.”

She stared at me. “Is that the truth?”

“I swear to God it’s the truth. And I’ll promise you something else. If he comes back to town and your mother’s cousins are busy, you call on me and I will personally castrate him.”

She giggled. “You wouldn’t do that!”

“Probably not. Are you ready to go home?”

“I’m ready,” she said. “Wait until I finish my burger. I’ll take the milk shake along to drink on the road.”

A few miles short of Oxnard, I said, “Lenny Tishkin’s back in town.”

“Who cares? That’s over!”

“He was asking for you at the Arden Massage Parlor.”

“Oh, God! Does my mother know I worked there?”

“Not through me. I doubt if she knows it.”

“That’s where I would have wound up, if I’d stuck with Lenny.”

“Instead,” I said, “you wound up as an internationally famous star with the Adult Art Cinema studios.”

“Shut up!”

I shut up.

This side of Ventura, she said, “I’m sorry. After all you went through to get me out of there, and the expense it will be to my mother—”

I said, “Don’t you worry about Mary Serano. She’s loaded. She’s ready for Europe, first class all the way.”

It was after midnight when we pulled up in front of her house, but there was a light showing through the living-room window.

From behind the locked front door, Mary asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, mom,” Patty answered. “Me and Mr. Callahan.”

Hugs and tears, while I stood there. Then Mary broke free to say, “Come in. You can come in for a few minutes, can’t you?”

“I’d better get home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And you send me a bill,” she said. “Never mind what you said. You send me a bill! You understand that?”

“I understand that. Sleep tight, both of you.”

I had turned off onto Main Street, heading for the highway intersection, when the police cruiser pulled up behind me, its red light flashing. I stopped and took out my driver’s license.

One officer came to my side window, the other stayed near the cruiser. The one next to me said, “Mr. Brock Callahan?”

“Yes.”

“Keep your hands in sight and step out of the car.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Keep your hands in sight,” he repeated, “and step out of the car.”

I got out and went through the ritual, my hands on the top of my car, while he went through his feelies. Then he said, “I’ll ride in your car to the station. My partner will follow.”

“How do you know I haven’t got a gun under my seat?”

“Mr. Callahan,” he said in a patient voice, “all we do is follow orders. We got a call. We picked you up.”

“And felt me up,” I added. “Was that routine necessary?”

“Let’s go,” he said. “Do you know where the station is?”

“I’ve been working out of it for a week. I ought to. Am I supposed to be dangerous?”

“The dispatcher didn’t say. Please, let’s go!”

He was young and doing his duty. I didn’t argue. We rode to the station and parked on the lot. He took me right to Captain Dahl’s office.

“Well!” Dahl said. “The Montevista Avenger. Where have you been, Mr. Callahan?”

“I’ve been out of town. Is this one of your nasty ways to get back at Lund through me?”

“You don’t know what happened?”

I didn’t answer him.

“You may sit down,” he said, “if you wish.”

I sat down on the straight chair next to his desk.

“For two days,” he said, “Otis Locum has been spreading the word around town that he’s out to get you. So, three hours ago, when we found him dead, it’s logical to guess that you might have got to him first. Is that logical to you?”

“Dead? How? Knife, gun …? How?”

“He was found dead at the foot of that cliff across the road from his house. We have a witness who told us that she saw somebody push him off the cliff. Then that somebody drove away in a yellow car. You have a yellow car, do you not?”

“So does that hoodlum who threatened Mary Serano. Don’t you think he might be a more logical suspect?”

“The woman said this was a
small
yellow car.”

“Did she also notice the size of the man who pushed Locum?”

“No. She couldn’t even be sure he was a man. It was foggy out there.”

“That’s some case you’ve got,” I said.

“I didn’t say I have a case. Right now, all I have are questions.”

“I don’t think I’d better give you any more answers,” I said. “I think I need a lawyer.”

“I’ll phone one for you. Who do you want? Nowicki? Farini?”

I shook my head—and watched for his reaction when I said, “I want Paul Pontius.”

All I could read on his face was surprise. “Pontius? He doesn’t practice law anymore. He’s retired.”

“He’s still licensed in California. Call him.”

“Call a retired attorney at one o’clock at night?” He handed me the phone book. “The pleasure’s all yours.”

When Paul answered the phone and I told him what had happened, he said simply. “I see. I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t. At least he didn’t while I was at the station. But Dahl’s phone rang in about five minutes.

Dahl said, “Yes, Chief.” Pause. “Yes, he told me he was out of town, but he didn’t tell me that.” Pause. “Yes, sir.”