Canvas Coffin (6 page)

“My hand hurts,” I told her, “and you two sit there and bicker like a couple of punks. Why don’t you read to me?”

“This one’s beyond you,” she said. “I’ll order the drinks and we’ll talk.”

Scotch, she had, and the boy brought me a bottle of Milwaukee beer. We talked about marriage, and where would we live?

“Here?” I suggested.

“I don’t know. So many phonies. It’s got everything, Luke, but it’s so — transient, sort of.”

“Four million people in the county,” I said. “Some of them are bound to be real. I like it, phonies and all.”

“And what would you do?”

“I don’t know. Live off you. This should be a good town for a commercial artist.”

“It isn’t. I’d live off you, and how much can you make, selling pencils?”

“I could write a sports column, or something. That should be a breeze, in this town. Or I could fight Patsy Giani and bet all the money I could borrow plus my share of the purse on him.”

“You’ve ducked him long enough. I wonder why the Commission lets Max get away with that?”

“Nobody decent wants Patsy Giani as a champ. Nobody who has any regard for boxing.”

“Giani,” she said thoughtfully. “And Bevilaqua. Both Italian, aren’t they?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. But if you think there’s a connection, you’re wrong. Harry hates the man’s guts, though he admires his power.”

“He didn’t sound that way to me.”

“It isn’t how he sounds, it’s how he is. Harry had a lot of regard for the boxing game, and he probably still has. His manager was one of the straightest noodles in the business.”

“You’re certainly a fast man with an opinion. There’s something back in that owl’s roost that we didn’t get. I can feel it; I know it. We ought to go back.”

“After my hand’s better. I’d be at a disadvantage there, with only the left hand.”

“Did you see that girl at the end of the bar? Do you think she was — a — you know — a — ”

“I don’t know. I’ll find out when we go back. Don’t be so superior, my motel miss.”

“You’re vulgar,” she said. “That’s just one of the reasons I’m afraid to marry you. You’re cruel, at times, and vulgar a lot, and you haven’t any money sense at all. And you’re not very well read.”

“Think of my body and forget the rest. Not an ounce of fat on me. Did you see me tip over that big dago?”

“Italian. That’s another thing, you’re bigoted.”

“No. I’m sorry; I was trying to annoy you. You know I’m not bigoted.”

“All right, then, not that. But vulgar and occasionally cruel and highly opinionated and egotistical, too. You think you’re something.”

“I am,” I said. “I’m champ.”

“Champ! In what kind of trade?”

“In my trade. Remember, we talked about King George, and that’s what I liked about him. He was champ in his trade.”

“Edward would have been better.”

“No. He had his chance at the title, and missed it. Never mind why; he wasn’t man enough for the job. But George was.”

“Edward gave up the crown for the woman he loved. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. I wouldn’t give it up for Jesus Christ. I earned it; the next champ is going to have to take it away from me. The man ahead of me went out on his back, and I put him there. The one who follows me will have to be as good.”

“And you want to choose your successor?” Her smile was impudent. “You’ll fight some more bums. Patsy Giani will never get the chance
you
got, will he?”

“That’s up to Max.”

“You wouldn’t be afraid of him?”

“I’m not afraid of anybody in the world.”

“You probably aren’t,” she said. “You’re too damned dumb to be scared of anything. You haven’t the necessary imagination.”

“Come on over and sit in my lap. Let’s make up.”

“You go to hell. I hate you when you’re so — realistic and certain and pseudo-logical.”

“Let’s play canasta.”

“No, I want to read. I’m all talked out and I don’t like canasta.”

“We could lock the door,” I said, “and — ”

“Shut up. I want to read.”

She read. Tires hummed. My hand throbbed. I saw Harry Bevilaqua crash and heard Noodles whimper and saw the maroon sheets and the big woman in shorts. Busy little bees, we’d been, gayly investigating this B girl’s death.

Mary Kostanic, known professionally as Brenda Vane, liked tough guys. And was I a tough guy? I suppose to her I was. To a lot of people I am. But I really never left All Saints.

Murder is a word used too easily.
Murder the bum … I’m telling you it was murder … That gown is simply murderous, Mrs. Vere de Vere …

Murder is more important than that; it’s a double death, killing the killer as well as the killed, ending the dream and staining the soul. The newspapers love it, especially if one breast or more can be exposed, along with the inside of the thigh.

That makes a good picture, and who’s got time to read? With wrestling on the television, who’s got time to read about why Brenda Vane died? Who cares?
She couldn‘t a‘been much; ya ever seen ‘er in pitchers? Or on television?

Sally turned a page and the twin tail pipes of a hot rod made music on Sunset.

I thought of Sergeant Sands, the gray-black hair, the knowing blue eyes, the free and steady and easy way he moved around this case. That was no prelim boy, that Sergeant Sands.

Somebody laughed in the hall, and Sally turned a page. I went out to the patio and got the Hemingway. I came in and stretched out on the davenport with it.

Max came in with an afternoon paper, and went through to the patio. He turned on the little radio, out there; Max can’t take his reading straight. He dilutes it with music.

Sally looked up, frowning. I smiled.

Someone knocked at the door.

Max called, “I’ll get it. It’s for me, I’m sure. One of the local reporters wants an interview, Champ.”

He opened the door, but it wasn’t a reporter. It was the slim, blasé character, the smoothie in the blue flannel, the desk clerk.

“I wonder if you gentlemen have a little time right now?” he asked.

M
AX SAID
, “You’ve got nothing to sell, skinny. You already sold it to Sam Wald.”

“Wald?” the clerk said. “I don’t know any Wald.”

“Let him come in, Max,” I said. “You’re blocking the door.”

“To hell with him,” Max said. “Let him squeak to the law.”

Sally said, “For heaven’s sake, Max, go back to your comic page. Luke and I will handle this.”

Max turned to look at her, and then his gaze shifted to me.

“I’d like to talk to him, Max,” I said. “Maybe he just wants my autograph.”

Max took a deep breath and went back to the patio.

The smoothie smiled and came in, closing the door behind him.

“What’s your name?” I asked him. I wore my tough-guy look.

“It doesn’t matter. You know who I am.”

“All right. What do you want?”

“I was thinking you might need a witness.” He’d come over to stand near the davenport, where I was still stretched out.

He didn’t look as though my tough-guy front was getting to him one bit.

“Witness?” I said.

Sally said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. — ”

“No, thanks. I won’t be here long.” He didn’t look at her. “I mean, if you should get called into court on this Brenda Vane case, you might need me as a witness to prove you came in the same time your manager did, that night.”

“Oh. And — ”

“Well, witness fees aren’t much. It wouldn’t pay me to take off from my job.”

“I see. But you’ve already told the police you don’t remember my coming in with my manager.”

“Not under oath, I didn’t.”

Sally cut into the momentary silence. “What did you figure would be a reasonable witness fee?”

Now he turned to look at her. “I thought you people could set a price. You’d know what it’s worth to you.”

I laughed, and he colored. I asked, “First time? Is this your first journey into the criminal world, cutie?”

His jaw was rigid, while color flooded his face. “I don’t see anything funny.”

“Get him a mirror, Sally,” I said. “The nameless terror. Do you realize, punk, that this is one of the better suites in this rattrap? Do you realize you’d be out of a job right now, if I should pick up that phone and call the manager? Run along, boy, somebody might want some ice water.”

His color had left, now, and his face was grimly pale. Not fear, but anger and hate. “You’re a fighter, and I don’t scare you. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Pilgrim, you don’t scare me, either. And you’re going to be damned sorry you talked to me the way you did.”

“I suppose,” I said. “But that’s life, Killer.”

I was talking to his back. The door slammed behind him as I got to the last word.

“You fool,” Sally said. “You muscle-bound loud mouth.”

“I did something wrong?”

“Couldn’t you have used a little finesse? Did you have to humiliate him? Is it necessary to make an enemy of him?”

“You always liked those smooth and superior knot-heads,” I told her. “Those slim and well-tailored mealy mouths can always get to you, can’t they?”

The book she threw missed me by a foot.

“Let’s not fight,” I said. “Let’s neck.”

She sat forward in her chair, looking like the challenger on his stool. “Luke, that was absolutely brainless. He
can
go to Sergeant Sands, you know. This
is
a murder case.”

“He can,” I agreed, “but why should he? He won’t make a dollar there. Maybe, from somebody else, he could get a dollar or two for the information, somebody like-on, Sam Wald.”

“Oh? Hasn’t he told Wald already?”

“I don’t think so. I think Sam got his information somewhere else. Or was guessing. This punk isn’t that dumb, trying to sell both sides.”

“And you want him to go to Wald?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Why?”

“So he can put the heat to me for the Giani fight. So Patsy can think I’m afraid of him, that I wouldn’t fight him unless I was forced into it. Might give him the wrong mental approach to the fight. And a good slap on the chops might throw all his planning off. Is that clear?”

“No.”

“I mean, he might not expect me to take the offensive, and when I do, he might not be ready for it.”

She shook her head. “Nobody thinks you can beat Giani, not Max, nor that big Harry, nor Sergeant Sands nor any sports writer I’ve read. Why should you?”

“I don’t. But I’ve got to fight him anyway, and I might as well use all the weapons I can.”

“You couldn’t retire undefeated, I suppose? You’ve got to prove something to yourself.”

“I suppose. Let’s not talk about it.” I stood up and went to the phone. I asked the operator, “Would you get me the west-side station of the Los Angeles Police Department, please?”

I could feel Sally’s eyes on me. I could hear Max’s feet on the concrete of the patio and then I could see him standing in the entrance way.

I said, “Could I speak with Sergeant Sands, please? This is Luke Pilgrim.”

Sands wasn’t there. Would another officer do?

“If his partner’s there,” I said. “I think it’s that big redhead.” Just a hunch I was playing.

The redhead was there, Sergeant Nolan, and I said, “I don’t know if you’re familiar with my part in the Brenda Vane case, but the night clerk at the hotel here has just attempted to blackmail me in connection with it. I thought you might want to know about it.”

“Blackmail you, Mr. Pilgrim? How?”

“He wanted me to pay him for swearing I came home with my manager that night Miss Vane was killed.”

“There weren’t any witnesses to the attempt, I suppose?”

“Two, though they’re both friends of mine.”

“I see. How clearly did the clerk word his demand?”

“I think I could give it to you almost word for word. I’ve a pretty good memory.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Pilgrim, I’ll talk to Sergeant Sands about it. He’ll undoubtedly want a statement from all three of you. He’ll get in touch with you.”

“Thank you,” I said, and hung up.

Sally shook her head. Max looked at me doubtfully.

I said, “I suppose it never occurred to either of you that Sergeant Sands, himself, might have sent that clerk here just to get a reaction?”

“Nonsense,” Sally said.

“Nuts,” Max said.

“Besides,” I told them, “I’m not a defensive fighter. I think it’s time we went on the offense. After all, I
might
be innocent.” I went back to the davenport. “How did you like that for finesse, Mrs. Forester? Smooth, eh?”

“Your brains are scrambled,” Max said.

Sally looked at him. “Maxie, honey, we’ve finally found an area of agreement, as they say. Are we friends, Max?”

“Aaahh,” he said, and went back to his patio.

“I’ll be friends with you, Sal,” I said.

“Aaahh,” she said, and came over to pick up the book she’d thrown.

My hand was still sore, but there wasn’t any more throb. I held it up and looked at it, my good right hand that would be good again, I hoped. Good enough for Patsy Giani, I hoped.

“Boom, boom,” I said, “and there goes Patsy.”

Sally turned a page.

“Whammo,” I said. “That old man Pilgrim still has a wallop. Look at Patsy reel around the ring. Migawd, he’s covered with blood. He’s out on his feet. He’s — ”

“Will you please be quiet?” Sally asked.
“I
am trying to read.”

“How can you read with the battle of the century going on? Giani’s down. He’s trying to get up. Oh, folks, this is an awful sight, this young man, bleeding from the mouth and over both eyes, trying to get up, to strike back at this terrible ring tiger, this inhuman master of the most brutal of the arts, this sneering, cold perfectionist who has, round by round — ”

“Shut up!”
Sally said.

“Okay, okay. Spoilsport.”

I arched my back, stretched my legs, and considered the ceiling. Start with the windmill; what does the windmill mean, what is it trying to tell you? It is a Dutch windmill and — wait, Dutch Krueger is Giani’s manager — No, start over. It is the trade-mark of a baker and I knew a promoter in Houston named Baker who — No.

Chimes sounded.

“That’s the door,” I told Sally. “Answer it, will you?” She glared at me.

“My hand hurts,” I said. “I’m afraid if I try to get up, I — ”

“I’ll get it,” Max said. “It’s probably that newspaper guy.” He came through from the patio as the chimes sounded again.

It was no newspaper guy. It was three men. One of them was Sam Wald, one of them was a dark, bald man over six feet high and looking almost that broad. The third man could have been related to Noodles; he had the same general build. Only he was tougher, or wanted you to think he was, at any rate. I’d have backed Noodles, with my money.

“What the hell is this?” Max asked. They’d come in without an invitation.

“We wanted to talk to you, Max,” Sam said. “Big-money talk, Max. We knew you’d be interested in that.” His insurance-salesman smile was working. “This is Paul D’Amico, Max. And Luke Pilgrim, Paul.”

Big man, out here, Paul D’Amico. Back East, pretty big, too. But out here, Mr. Big.

“Who’s the little guy?” I asked. I didn’t get up.

The little man’s fish eyes looked me over without emotion. Then he looked at D’Amico and shrugged.

“Haven’t I seen him in pictures? I see a lot of B pictures.”

The little man went over to stand near the door.

I looked over to find Sally staring at me with fright in her eyes. I winked at her, and shook my head.

Max said, “We got nothing to talk about, Sam. I told you that. You got a kick, go to the Commission. Pull any strings you want. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t try to muscle me. I got too many friends.”

The little guy leaned against the door, his hands behind him, his disinterested gaze going out straight at nothing. He fascinated me. He could have been John Doe, except for the eyes.

D’Amico said, “Don’t get riled, Max. You’re not that solvent. And you’re not getting half out of the title that a smart man would get. There could be millions in it.”

Sally said, “I’m going to my room, Luke. I’ll phone you later.”

She got up, looking sick, and took three steps to the door. The little man didn’t move anything but his head. His head was turned toward D’Amico, waiting for the
word.

D’Amico wasn’t looking at him and it wasn’t intentional, I’m sure. But the redness grew in me, the unreasonable, wild redness. I got up, and swung my feet to the floor.

I said hoarsely, “Get that God-damned pimp away from the door or I’ll rip his spine out.”

Just a flicker in the fish eyes, but a startled turn of the head from D’Amico and he said, “Johnny — move!”

Johnny moved, and Sally went through.

D’Amico looked back at me. “It wasn’t intentional, Luke. What in the hell’s the matter with you guys?”

I was trembling. The throbbing was back in my hand and sweat ran down my forearms. The fish eyes regarded me gravely. Wald coughed.

Then Wald said, “What happened to your hand, Luke?”

I sat back on the davenport, my heart hammering. Cool, calm Luke Pilgrim, always under control. Oh, yes.

Max said, “What the hell have we got to talk about? You come in here without being asked, bringing your torpedo along and start throwing your weight around. The Champ’s had enough trouble the last couple days without this kind of crap. Where the hell do you think you are, Cicero?”

Wald said, “I apologize for coming in. I didn’t think our relationship was that formal, Max.”

“Since when are we related?” Max asked.

D’Amico laughed. Even I had to laugh. Wald smiled, and Johnny yawned.

D’Amico said, “Johnny’s no torpedo, Max. He’s just an old friend. If you want, I’ll have him wait in the lobby. Sam brought me here because I have the controlling interest in Patsy Giani, and can bring the kind of promotion to the fight that’ll make us all a barrel of money.”

“I’m not interested,” Max said.

“I am,” I said. “I like money. Sit down, gentlemen.”

Wald smiled. D’Amico asked, “Johnny, too?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “The type fascinates me. I like to watch him.”

The pint-sized killer went over to sit on the chair near the telephone, a straight, uncomfortable chair. Maybe, if Max didn’t have so many friends, Johnny would have scared me. But Max had friends at all the levels, from municipal to federal and Johnny, I’m sure, was a pro. Johnny was no trigger-happy punk; he’d know how many strings Max Freeman had out.

And without his gun, what was Johnny?

Max was watching me coldly, and I could guess he was thinking of walking out on the whole deal. But habit was strong, with Max, and I was still his boy. He sat down near me on the davenport.

Wald took the chair Sally had occupied; D’Amico sat in its twin on the other side of the tier table.

“All right,” I said. “Start talking about money.”

Light glistened off Paul D’Amico’s bald head, a reflection from the diamond on Max’s little finger. D’Amico looked at Wald.

Wald said, “The kind of money we could talk about might seem ridiculous. It would depend, of course, on how well the fight was built up, and how much money was wagered. In a town where
wrestling
gets sports-page space, ink should be cheap. On the betting, of course, we could build it to five to six and take your choice. It would shape up, in the public’s mind, to that even a match, I’m sure. With the money spread right, five to six makes the handler a certain and predetermined profit, no matter who wins.” He took a breath. “That’s honest enough, isn’t it?”

He’d said “of course” twice, “I’m sure” once and “certain” once. Nothing doubtful in Sam’s careful mind.

Wald smiled, Max glowered, D’Amico watched me shrewdly, and Johnny considered the air in the middle of the room.

“Sounds very interesting,” I said. “I don’t know about this hand, though. It might not be ready for some time.”

“There’s no hurry,” D’Amico said easily. “It might never be ready,” I said.

Silence, while they studied me, all but Johnny. All but Johnny looked puzzled, too.

I said, “But the public wouldn’t need to know how bad the hand was. It might affect the odds.”

Wald smiled. D’Amico smiled. Max said, “What the hell are you saying, Luke?”