Cat and Mouse (16 page)

We were still staring at it when we heard the wail of a police siren on the road above the house.

“The damned creeps!” Corey said. “I hope that siren means what I think it means.”

“It could be,” I said. “I’ll phone the station later.”

I put the bird in the rubbish can and covered it with leaves. There were no marks on it; it must have died of old age.

Corey said, “It could have been picked up on the beach. Is that a clue?”

“Clue for what?”

“For where Turbo’s hiding out.”

“It might have been just a couple of kids who wanted a change from knocking over mailboxes.”

“A coincidence? First the cat and then this? Brock! Why don’t you phone McClune and tell him what happened here? Then he’ll have more reason to pick ’em up.”

I phoned McClune and told him what had happened and about the siren we had heard. He told me there had been no call from the car yet. He would let me know if one came in.

He called back fifteen minutes later. He told me the boys were being held and could I identify them? I told him I couldn’t but it was possible Corey could. I went out to ask him.

“Both of them, and also the car,” he assured me. “I’ll go up to the station.”

I took over his seat in the shade. I sat and sat and sat. Two hours later I phoned the station. McClune told me Corey and a deputy had gone out to upper Omega Beach. Corey had pointed out to them that upper Omega Beach could be the most deserted beach in the country since the oil spill several months ago from the offshore platform had made it repugnant to sight and smell. The boys had claimed that was where they had met this man who gave them twenty dollars to drop the sea gull on our lawn.

“Did they have a description of the man?”

“Hell, no! They came up with the phony story that they were sitting around a campfire out there last night when this man called them into the shadows. They’re both lying.”

“They’re scared,” I said. “They have reason to be.”

“Probably. Then Corey remembered that refreshment shack out there has been closed since the oil spill. That’s where he and the deputy are now.”

“Are you going to hold the kids?”

“As long as we can. Both of them had their driver’s licenses taken away months ago. Maybe they’ll change their minds after they sit a while. You know, Brock, that Corey is one sharp lad. I wish he’d come to work for us.”

“Not Corey,” I said. “He’s all free enterprise, just like me.”

“Sure. But he hasn’t got a dead rich uncle.”

“He won’t need one,” I said, and hung up.

Corey came back half an hour later. He and the deputy had gone over the refreshment shack carefully. The door had been forced open, the padlock still hanging on the broken hasp. They had found two empty pork-and-beans cans and one empty Corinth cigarette package.

“He couldn’t have been there long,” I said, “unless he’s a light smoker and a light eater.”

“Right! But you know something we overlooked? We haven’t checked out the stores in town that sell Corinth cigarettes.”

“Corey, think of all the stores in this town that sell cigarettes! It would take us weeks to check out all of them.”

“I know that. But how many wholesalers? I’m going to phone and find out.”

McClune had called it right. Corey was one sharp lad.

When he came back from phoning he told me there was only one place in town that sold Corinth cigarettes, a Greek restaurant in Omega.

“You’d better tell McClune about it,” I suggested.

“I just did.” He sat down on the grass. “Do you think we ought to go out there?”

“Not me, Corey. I’ve done all the traveling I’m going to. I’m bone weary, man! That bastard has finally worn me down, just the way he planned it. The next move will have to be his. If he wants me he’ll have to come and get me. This is my turf.”

“I’ll go out there,” he said. “I know that scene. A lot of the kids I went to college with out there still live there. The young ones seem to be Turbo’s best customers. I’m sure some are still on drugs.”

“That could be,” I agreed. “But this Turbo is no kid. He could be too much for you, Corey.”

“Maybe not. I’m not a muscle man. But I’m only a couple lessons away from my black belt in karate. And I’m sure as hell strong enough to pull a trigger.”

“Corey, damn it, you use your gun and you could wind up in jail again! You are not a cop. Remember that!”

He smiled. “I will. I owe you, Brock. My dad has been going to the office for me, picking up the mail and getting the messages from my answering machine. He told me he’s picked up a couple of overdue checks. From here in, I work for free.”

“All right! But keep in touch. Let me know where you’ll be.”

“Yes, Papa,” he said. “I’ll go in now and tell Mrs. Casey that I’m leaving. Don’t tell her why.”

“I won’t.”

C
OREY LEFT. A LITTLE
less than an hour later Mrs. Casey came out to tell me he was on the phone.

The owner of the Greek restaurant in Omega, he informed me, had told him that a couple of long-haired kids had bought a carton of Corinth cigarettes several days ago. “They could be the two who threw the dead sea gull on the lawn.”

“They could. Phone McClune.”

“I did. He’s sending a deputy to the restaurant with those two he’s holding to see if the owner can identify them.”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“The Athenian Café.”

“I know where it is and I know the owner. I’ll be out there as soon as I can get a guard here.”

“You’ve decided not to sit and wait?”

“I have decided this is heavy enough for both of us. You were out of town when I worked on the case of the Greek hoodlum who was murdered.”

“Chris Andropoulos? You told me about that case.”

“I’ll tell you more later. I have to phone for a guard.”

By the time the guard arrived and I had driven to Omega, the deputy and the two youths were on their way back to the sheriff’s station.

Corey was sitting in his car across the street from the café. The owner, he told me, had not identified the youths as the ones who had bought the cigarettes. He had explained that all long-haired kids looked alike to him.

“Did you learn their names?”

He shook his head. “It was one of their snotty deputies. He told me this was police business. How is the Greek here connected with Andropoulos?”

I told him how it was. He had worked for Andropoulos in Los Angeles. When Andropoulos was murdered he had come to town to take over his trade. He had run his book and sold his dope in the wrong end of town, the Chicano area. When he learned to his sorrow that it was hazardous to his health he had switched his operations to Omega.

“Let’s go in and talk to him,” I said.

He was sitting in a booth at the rear end of the place, drinking a cup of coffee, when we entered. He was a thin, short man with only a thin rim of black hair surrounding his bald pate.

He smiled at Corey. “Who’s your friend?”

“My name is Brock Callahan, Mr. Dimitri. I am the man who helped put away the murderer of your good friend, Chris Andropoulos.”

He nodded. “So I have been told, the former Ram. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me why you lied to the deputy who brought those kids in.”

He inclined his head toward Corey. “In front of a witness?”

Corey said, “I’ll wait outside.”

He left. Dimitri said, “Man to man, Mr. Callahan, I’m sure you can understand why I have no desire to cooperate with the police. Many of my young customers would desert me if I did. But I owe you and I’ll be truthful with you. They were the same two.”

“Thank you. Do you know their names?”

He shook his head. “I swear to you I don’t. But the sheriff must have them at the station.”

“That’s true. May I use your phone?”

He pointed to a narrow door in the wall opposite the booth. “There’s a phone in my office.”

It was a small and cluttered room with a sweet aroma I could only guess about. Sheriff McClune, his secretary told me, had left the office an hour ago. He was on his way to a peace officers’ convention in Los Angeles. He would be back tomorrow. Could she be of help?

I told her what I wanted. She gave me their names and addresses. I wrote them on a pad on Dimitri’s desk. I asked her how long they would be held up there.

“They’ve already been released, Mr. Callahan. We had a big narcotics raid this morning and there was simply no place to hold them.” A pause. “Oh, by the way, there’s a message here Sheriff McClune left for Corey Raleigh, but I haven’t been able to contact him. Do you know where he is?”

“Yes. He’s with me.”

“Would you please tell him that one boy we were holding also smoked Corinth cigarettes? We didn’t learn that until a few minutes before he was released.”

I thanked her and went out. Dimitri was having a cigarette with his coffee. A package of Corinth cigarettes was on the table next to his cup.

I asked him if the two boys were regular buyers of the brand.

“Not from me,” he said. “I won’t have that class of trade in my restaurant. Mostly, I get the college crowd, and most of them have stopped smoking.”

I smiled. “Stopped smoking cigarettes you mean.”

He returned my smile. “Yes.”

Corey was sitting in his car. I handed him the slip. “Do you know where those addresses are?”

He nodded. I slid into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s go.”

He swung the Camaro into a U-turn and headed toward the university campus. He said, “That Dimitri is a real cutie, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Before he took over that’s where we used to get our grass.”

“You—?”

“So I tried it and quit. This former classmate of mine got into the heavy stuff. That’s where I’m staying out here.”

“Are you paying him rent to support his habit?”

“It’s not a him. It’s a her. And she’s not on any kind of dope now, light or heavy.”

I made no comment.

“Don’t tell Mrs. Casey I’m living in sin.”

I didn’t answer. We rode past the UCSV campus and turned onto a narrow pitted macadam road that led toward the marshland near the sea.

The residence of Frederick Norman Taylor was in a trailer park that bordered on the marsh. It was the smallest and oldest trailer in the park, and the only one without wheels, resting on concrete blocks.

A fairly stout but very pretty girl was standing near the doorway of the trailer talking with an older woman who was holding an armful of groceries. The woman walked away as we drove in.

“Mrs. Taylor?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she said. “Freddie’s not home, if that’s why you’re here.”

“That’s why we’re here. Do you know where he is?”

“He told me he was going over to talk to a friend. He was only here for a couple of minutes. Are you friends of his?”

I shook my head. “We’re hoping that he can help us find a man we’re looking for, a man he might know.”

She studied me suspiciously. “If you mean Al Gertz, he’s not a man, he’s a slimy creep! All he’s ever done for Freddie was get him in trouble.”

“I can believe it,” Corey said. “We want to keep Freddie out of trouble.”

She frowned. “Are you detectives?”

“Consultants,” I said. “We’re working with the sheriff’s department.”

She sighed. “Well, he’s with Al now and I don’t know where
he
lives.”

“We do. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If Freddie’s still there you tell him if he isn’t back here in half an hour I’m taking off.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

The address of Alvin Gertz was in a shoddy small-apartment-house area at the edge of the Omega shopping district. A thin, tall lad and a much bulkier one were about to climb into the cab of a battered Chev pickup truck on the parking lot when we arrived.

“The skinny one is Gertz,” Corey told me.

“Just one minute, Al!” I called.

They both turned to stare at us. Al looked at Corey. “You again?”

Corey said, “We’re looking for Fred Taylor. We were told he was here.”

“You were told wrong. Get lost!”

His heavy companion smiled. “Is this the punk who was up at the sheriff’s station when you and the wimp were there?”

Gertz nodded.

“Fatso,” I said, “stay out of this! Our business is with Al.”

“And Al’s business is my business. You’d better leave, Pops, before you get hurt.”

Maybe it was the
Pops
that did it or maybe the past days of frustration. He started toward me and I met him halfway. He swung a clumsy overhand right toward my chin. I moved inside of it and planted a left hand deep into his belly. He doubled up and I brought my right knee up sharply into his chin. It was the decisive shot. He went face down with a thump on the asphalt parking lot.

When I turned around, Al was reaching into the box of the truck. He pulled out a big crescent wrench—and Corey nailed him with a karate chop to the neck. The wrench went flying.

And then I heard the wail of a siren—and a sheriff’s black-and-white pulled up on the lot.

Deputy Chief Clifton Adams is the man who runs the day watch at the station when McClune isn’t there, a thin, tall, sour man. He looked at Corey and me and shook his head.

“What in hell were you two doing there, playing cowboy?” He looked at me. “At least
you
should know better. We were watching the place. We planned to follow the truck when it pulled out.”

“I’m sorry. I blew it. What’s the fat kid’s name?”

“That,” he said stiffly, “is police business.”

Corey said, “Don’t tell me you were going to follow the truck in a patrol car?”

Adams glared at him. “Of course not! That’s a one-way street. The unmarked car was parked two blocks away. The patrol car was there to alert them when those two took off.”

“I see,” Corey said.

Adams continued to glare at him.

I said, “McClune gave me permission to work on this case, Cliff. And you know why. If he’s in Los Angeles now, and you have a phone number where you can reach him, you can confirm that.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “There’s no reason for me to phone him. He told me before he left to give you some leeway. But I’m sure you’ll agree with me that he was not including vigilante action. Damn it, Brock, you should know that!”