Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09 (23 page)

“Tell ya what, Joe—that’s what you will get…a double sawbuck…if you call me when you see him. You still got my name and number?”

He nodded, patted his pocket. “Got it right here, boss. You at the Royal Hawaiian.”

“Good. Good man.”

“He may show, anytime.”

I frowned. “Why’s that?”

“I seen another guy here from Joe Crawford’s band. So they must be takin’ a break from that Maui gig.”

His use of “gig”—a term I’d heard jazz players in Chicago use—reminded me how small the world was getting.

“Any of Crawford’s music boys here tonight?”

He shook his head, no. “But one of those commanders you was here with last time is.”

“Commanders?”

He grinned. “I call ’em all ‘Commander.’ They get a kick of that, those Navy officers.”

“You know which ‘commander’ is here tonight?”

“Let me look.” He had a clipboard hanging from a teakwood lattice. “Sure. Bradford. Lt. Jimmy Bradford.”

I thought for a second. “Joe, are the private dining rooms in use upstairs?”

“No. Earlier tonight, not now.”

“Where’s ‘Commander’ Bradford sitting?”

Joe pointed, and I moved through a haze of smoke past the Chinese woodwork of booths and the press of couples on the dance floor, weaving through the mostly
kanaka
crowd until I found Bradford, casual in white mufti but no tie, seated in a booth off the dance floor. He was with a woman whose name I didn’t recall but, from my previous visit to the Ala Wai, remembered as the wife of another officer. She was brunette and pleasantly plump and half in the bag.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” I said.

Hollowly handsome Bradford, a drink in one hand, a smoke in the other, looked up; his face went from blank to annoyed to falsely affable. “Heller. Uh, Judy, this is Nate Heller, he was Clarence Darrow’s investigator.”

Pretty, pretty drunk Judy smiled and bobbled her head at me.

“Actually,” I said, “I still am.”

“You’re still what?” Bradford asked.

“Darrow’s investigator. Sentencing isn’t for a week; we’re tying up some loose ends before going to the governor for clemency.”

Bradford was nodding. “Slide in. Join us.”

I stayed where I was. “Actually, I wondered if I could have a word with you, in private.”

“Sure.” He shrugged, grinned, nodded out toward the packed dance floor where couples were clinched, swaying to the soothing three-part harmonies and seductive rhythms of the George Ku Trio. “But where would we do that, exactly?”

“I need to get a look at the private dining room upstairs, where Thalia crashed the Stockdale party. Maybe you could point it out, and we could use that for a private chat.”

He shrugged. “Okay. If you think it’d be helpful to the cause.”

“I think it would.”

He leaned forward and touched the brunette’s hand, which was tight around her glass. “Can you take care of yourself for a couple minutes, hon?” he asked.

She smiled and said something unintelligible that passed for “yes,” and then Bradford and I were wending our way through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, heading for the front of the club. There were stairs to the mezzanine on either side; Bradford, carrying his drink in a water glass, was in the lead as we wandered toward the right.

“Don’t get the wrong idea about Judy,” Bradford said, looking back with a sickly grin. “Her husband Bob’s out on sub duty and she’s kinda lonely, needed some company.”

“I won’t.”

He frowned in confusion. “Won’t what?”

“Get the wrong idea.”

Up the stairs, past a few booths where couples cuddled and kissed and laughed and smoked and sipped their spiked Cokes, we came to the first of several small dining alcoves, not unlike the one at Lau Yee Ching’s where I’d spoken earlier with Horace Ida.

“Which one was the Stockdale party in?” I asked him.

Bradford nodded toward the middle one, and I gestured like a gracious usher toward the door; he stepped inside, and I followed, shutting the door behind us.

The walls were pink and bare but for, at left, a small plaque of a gold dragon on a black background; straight ahead, a window looked out on the parking lot; a cheap version of a Chinese chandelier was centered over a small banquet table.

“This is where Thalia was,” I said, “when you came looking for her.”

“I wasn’t looking for her.” He shrugged, sipped his drink. “She was just here already when I stuck my head in. I was, you know, socializing, goin’ around the club, table-hoppin’.”

“I think you’d noticed what a bad mood Thalia was in,” I said. “And how drunk she was getting.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You were concerned about her behavior. You were aware, that ever since you dropped her…I assume
you
dropped
her,
as opposed to her dropping you, but that is just an assumption…that she’d gotten involved with a rougher breed of boyfriend.”

He took a step toward me. “You’re supposed to be helping Tommie Massie.”

“You’re the one supposed to be his friend. I’m not the one who was fucking Thalia.”

He took a swing at me—in fairness, I should point out he might have been a little drunk—but I ducked it easily and threw a hard right hand into the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, reflexively tossing his water glass—it shattered against the left wall, splashing the dragon—and went down on all fours and crawled around like a dog, retching. What he puked up was mostly beer, but some kind of supper was in there, too, and it made an immediate awful stink.

I went over and opened the window; a breeze wafted in some fresh air. “What was it about, Jimmy? Did you want Thalia to dump her native musician boyfriend, and come back to you? Or did you just want her to be more discreet?”

He was still on all fours. “You fucker. I’ll kill you, you fucker…”

I walked over to him. “You know, Jimmy, I don’t really care about your love life, or your sense of naval decorum. So whether you were dogging after Thalia’s heels to get back in her pants, or just to settle her back down, I don’t really give a rat’s ass.”

He glared up at me, clutching his stomach, breathing hard. “Fuh…fuck you.”

I kicked him in the side and he howled; nobody out there heard it: too much booze and laughter and George Ku Trio.

“You trailed after her, Jimmy. It’s time you told the truth. What did you see?”

Then he was up off the floor, tackling me, knocking me backward into the hard wood table, scattering chairs, and I had my back on the table, like I was something being served up and Bradford leapt on top of me, and his hands found my neck and he started to squeeze, fingernails digging into my flesh, and his reddening face looking down at me would make you think he was the one getting choked to death.

I tried to knee him in the nuts, but he’d anticipated that with the twist of his body, so I dug the nine-millimeter out from under my arm and shoved the nose into his neck and his eyes opened wide and the red drained out of his face and I didn’t have to tell him to let go. He just did, getting off me, backing off, but I was getting up, too, and the snout of the automatic never left the place in his throat where it was making a painful dimple.

Now we were standing facing each other, only his head was raised, his eyes looking down at me and at the gun in his neck.

I eased up the pressure, took half a step back, and he gasped a sigh of relief right before I smacked him alongside the head with the barrel of the automatic. He went down on one knee, moaning, damn near sobbing. I’d torn a nasty gash on his cheek that would heal into a scar that would remind him of me every time he fucking shaved.

“Now, I’m not a trained killing machine like you, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’m just a slum kid from Chicago who’s paid to bring in pickpockets and other lowlife thieves, and I’ve had to learn my killing the hard way, in the street. Are you ready to tell me what happened that night, or would you prefer to retire on a disability pension after I shoot off your goddamn kneecap?”

He sat on the floor. Breathing hard. He looked like he was about an inch away from weeping. I pulled one of the chairs over that had got scattered, and sat and didn’t train the gun on him, just held it casually in my hand.

“I…I wasn’t interested in Thalia anymore. She’s kind of a…” He swallowed and pointed to his temple. “…She’s not all there, you know? After I broke off with her…you’re right, it was me that broke off with her…she started to flaunt her loose behavior, runnin’ around with this beach boy—they call him Sammy, he was here at the Ala Wai that night, did you know that?”

“Yes. Does Sammy have a last name?”

“Not that I know of. Anyway, people were talking about her sleeping around with colored trash, and when Ray Stockdale called her a slut and she slapped him, I knew things were
really
getting out of hand.”

“So you followed her.”

“Not right away. A couple people stopped me, to talk. So she was out the door by the time I got down there, but I saw her, tagged after her. She was moving quickly, not wanting to see me or talk to me, keeping out in front.”

“You followed her down John Ena Road.”

“Past Waikiki Park, yes. She was pissed off, wouldn’t talk to me…. Frankly, I think this whole business with Sammy was her wanting to get back at me, to make me jealous.”

He didn’t look like much of a prize to me, not with blood on his face and puke on his white linen suit coat.

“She was almost running, and got herself so that she was up a good ways ahead of me, and some guys in a touring car pulled up…”

“A Ford Phaeton?”

He shook his head, no, shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice. Couldn’t swear to it. To be honest with ya, I was a little drunk myself. I did notice the ragtop being torn, flapping. Anyway, these guys, these niggers, how many I couldn’t say, two or more, cruise along by Thalia and one of ’em yells something to her out the window. I don’t know what exactly, you know how those colored guys are—‘Hey, baby, wanna go to a party.’ I think one of them said, ‘Hey, Clara Bow, want some
oke?’
That sort of thing.”

“How did Thalia react?”

“Well…you gotta understand, I’d been lecturing her, as we walked along, about how she was gonna get herself in trouble, hangin’ out with this rough crowd, I mean, she was screwing this nigger Sammy, can you believe it? So I think, maybe just to show me, she said, ‘Sounds like fun’ or some such. I don’t know what she said.”

“But she sounded willing.”

“Yeah. They probably thought she was a hooker. That’s sort of a red light district along there, y’know.”

“I know. Go on, Jimmy.”

“Anyway, she looked back at me and you know what she did? Stuck her tongue out at me. Like a little girl. What an immature bratty cunt she is. So the car pulls along the curb, and two or three niggers get out, and Thalia’s kinda woozy from drinkin’ too much, and they’re kinda guidin’ her toward the car, and I just threw up my arms, said to hell with her, and turned back around.”

I sat forward. “Was it the Ala Moana boys, Jimmy? Was it Horace Ida, Joe Kahahawai…?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

He winced. “Maybe. Hell, I don’t know, I didn’t notice, they’re a bunch of fuckin’ niggers! How the hell was I supposed to tell ’em apart?”

“So you just walked off.”

“Yeah. I…and, uh…yeah, just walked off.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were going to say something else, Jimmy. Finish your story.”

“It’s finished.”

I stood up, looked down at him, the nine-millimeter in hand, not so casually now. “What else did you see? You saw a struggle, didn’t you?”

“No! No, not…not exactly.”

I kicked his shoe. “What, Jimmy?”

“I heard her kinda…I dunno, squeal or maybe scream.”

“And you looked back, and what did you see?”

“They were kinda…draggin’ her into the car. It was like, you know, she maybe changed her mind. Maybe she was just doin’ it for show, saying yes to those boys, to get back at me, and once I turned around and walked off, she tried to brush the niggers off maybe…and they weren’t takin’ no for an answer.”

“They dragged her in the car and drove off. And what did you do about it, Jimmy?”

We both knew the answer. We both knew he hadn’t gone back and reported seeing an abduction, not to Tommie or the cops or anybody.

But I asked him again, anyway: “What did you do, Jimmy?”

He swallowed. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. I figured…she was an immature little bitch and a nasty little slut and the hell with her! Let her…let her get what she deserved.”

“Is that what she got, Jimmy?”

He began to weep.

“Suppose ol’ Joe Kahahawai got what he deserved, Jimmy?” I grunted a laugh. “You know what I think? Sooner or later we all do.”

“Don’t…don’t…don’t tell anybody.”

“Do my best,” I said, putting the nine-millimeter back in its holster, almost feeling sorry for the bastard. Almost.

That’s where and how I left him—sitting on the floor, crying into his hands, sniffling, swallowing snot.

Getting back out into the smoky air of the noisy, boozy club felt damn near cleansing.

The aftermath of the trial, in Honolulu, was surprisingly uneventful. The chief of police doubled the foot patrol and armed his squad cars with machine guns and tear gas, in case of unrest; who the chief expected to riot was never exactly clear, as the
kanaka
population was fairly content with the manslaughter verdict, and the
haoles
weren’t likely to rise up against themselves. Admiral Stirling made noises about “henceforth viewing Hawaii as foreign soil,” and a group of Navy wives announced a boycott of firms employing members of the jury. That was about it.

But back home, a tropical hurricane was pummeling the Capitol dome. Letters, wires, petitions, and long-distance calls bombarded Congress and President Hoover with outrage over the verdict, stirred by the Hearst papers running day-after-day front-page boxed editorials demanding that the Massie defendants be brought home and “given the protection American citizens should be properly entitled to.”

“We have it on good authority,” Leisure told me, “that Governor Judd received a bipartisan petition from both houses of Congress, pleading for the freeing of the defendants. One hundred thirty-some signatures.”

We were seated at a small round table amid the indoor palms of the Coconut Grove Bar at the Royal Hawaiian; it was midafternoon and not very busy, more red-jacketed Oriental waiters than guests.

“If Capitol Hill wants a pardon for our clients,” I said, sipping a Coke I’d spiked from my flask of rum, “why don’t they get Hoover to do it?”

Leisure, casual in a blue open-neck silk shirt, sipped his iced tea and smiled lazily; either this case, or the balmy climate, seemed to have sapped his endless energy. “The President doesn’t have the legal authority, Nate, to issue pardons in territories.”

“So it’s up to the governor.”

Leisure nodded. “Meanwhile, back in the hallowed halls, senators and representatives are stumbling over each other in a rush to introduce bills proposing pardons…not to mention a revival of interest in the effort to place Hawaii under military rule.”

“C.D.’s got the governor in a tight spot.”

“Judd’s not easily pushed around,” Leisure said, raising an eyebrow. “In our first meeting, he spoke of not being blackmailed by the irresponsible, sensationalistic mainland newspapers.”

“Hearst? Sensationalistic? Irresponsible? Perish the thought.” I sipped my rum and Coke. “You said ‘first’ meeting.”

“We meet again tomorrow evening. Darrow’s hoping you’ll have something for him on the Ala Moana case before then.”

I hadn’t told Darrow or Leisure about Bradford’s story; I was still hoping to lay hands on Sammy, first.

“Tell C.D. I’ll meet him for lunch tomorrow at the Young. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

I caught a glimpse of blond hair out of the corner of my eye, and glanced toward the entryway where Isabel, in a summery white dress with a navy belt and navy cloche cap, stood looking around for somebody. It must have been me, because when her eyes traveled my way, they stopped and her pretty face blossomed into a smile that made her prettier still, and she came quickly over.

“I thought you two weren’t an item anymore,” Leisure whispered.

“Me too,” I admitted.

“I was just leaving,” Leisure said, with a half-grin, standing, giving Isabel a courtly nod. “Miss Bell. You’re looking alluring, as always.”

“I hope I’m not chasing you off,” she said.

“No, no. I have to meet Mr. Darrow in just a few minutes.”

Her expression turned serious. “You’re going to keep Tommie and Mrs. Fortescue out of jail, aren’t you?”

“The effort’s under way,” he said. “We’re even including the sailor boys in the bargain.”

She clasped her hands in concern. “I meant them, too, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, nodded again, and was off.

I got up and pulled a chair out for her; her lovely heart-shaped face, perfectly framed by the short blond curls, beamed up at me. Her Chanel Number Five drifted up like an Island breeze and tickled my nostrils. The image of her face, eyes closed, mouth open, caught up in ecstasy on the beach, flashed through my mind.

We still hadn’t spoken since that night.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, as I sat back down.

“No, I’ve been working.”

“I wanted you to know something.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?”

Her smile was girlish, almost gleeful; she leaned in, touched my hand, whispered: “My friend is visiting.”

“What friend?”

“You know—
my
friend. The one that comes every month.”

“Oh. That friend.”

So she wasn’t pregnant by the Jewboy after all.

“I’m sure you’re relieved,” she said.

“I’m sure you are.”

Her smile disappeared; her eyes drifted down. “I…I said some cruel things.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Awfully cruel things.”

“Yeah, well so did I.”

She looked into my eyes and hers were tearful. “I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”

She was a stupid silly girl, and a bigot, to boot. But she was very pretty and under that summery white dress were two of the most perfect female breasts it had been my privilege in my imperfect male life to encounter.

“Of course you’re forgiven,” I said.

“Are you busy?”

“Not this minute.”

“We could go upstairs to your room, or my room…”

“Won’t that be awkward, with your ‘friend’ still visiting?”

She allowed her Kewpie lips to part a little wider than necessary for speaking purposes, then she licked them with the pinkest damn tongue and said, “There are all kinds of ways for a boy and girl to have fun.”

“Yowsah,” I said.

An Oriental waiter was drifting our way.

“You want something to drink, or eat, before we go up?” I asked her.

She shook her head, no, giving me a lovely lascivious look. “If we want something, there’s always room service.”

The waiter stopped next to me and I said, “Just the check, please.”

“Uh, Mr. Heller…Chinese gentleman waiting to see you in lobby.”

It was Chang Apana, standing with Panama in hand, looking mournful and very tiny next to a towering potted palm. I sent Isabel on up to her room, figuring this wouldn’t take long.

“Have news,” he said, bowing. “Shall we seek privacy?”

We found a table on the Coconut Grove
lanai,
which faced the manicured hotel grounds, flung with palms, bursting with blossoms; but most of the guests preferred the ocean view of the Surf Porch. Chang and I were alone but for a table of women playing bridge, well down from us.

“Detective Jardine asked me to report,” Chang said, “that Joe Crawford’s band on Maui no longer counts Sammy among its members.”

I frowned. “What became of Sammy?”

“Maui police did us courtesy of making inquiry. Sammy, who seems to lack last name, is no longer in the Islands.”

“Where
is
he?”

“Thought to be in California. Los Angeles. We have just contacted Los Angeles police. Too early for results.”

“Damn. That was my only good lead on this possible second gang….”

Chang sighed, lowered his gaze. “Not so. There is other lead.”

“What?”

He was shaking his head slowly. “I feel shame for withholding information from brother officer.”

“Come on, Chang—spill, already. That hooker in Mosquito Flats told you something! What
was
it?”

He sighed again. “Please understand, Nate. Rape of white woman in Hawaii, exception not rule. No matter what mainland papers say, no matter what Admiral Stirling says, rare thing in Hawaii.”

“What’s your point?”

“Point is, only other rape of white woman by colored man in recent memory is this prisoner Jardine been seeking.”

“Yeah, the jailbird who was let out New Year’s Eve to get
oke
and never came back.”

Chang was nodding. “White woman he raped, he grab her at lovers’ lane…off Ala Moana.”

I sat up. “Not at the old Animal Quarantine Station?”

“No. But very nearby. Modus operandi all too familiar.”

“Are you saying this guy might be a viable suspect in the Ala Moana case?” I shifted in my wicker chair, smirked. “Well, hell—surely you guys checked this out long ago! Where in God’s name was the bastard the night Thalia was attacked?”

“We did check,” Chang said, “and he was in prison. Serving murder sentence.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a pretty good alibi….”

“Bad alibi like fish,” Chang said distastefully. “Not stand test of time.” He leaned forward, lifted a gently lecturing forefinger, squinted until his eyes completely disappeared. “If murdering rapist can walk out of jail on New Year’s Eve, why not do same on twelfth of September?”

“Shit,” I said. “Is Oahu Prison really as casual as all that?”

He was nodding again. “Yes. Warden Lane—recently replaced—sent convicts out working on municipal projects ’round Honolulu. Is said any prisoner who not return from work assignments by six
P.M
. get locked out of jail, and lose dinner privilege.”

“That’s some strict warden.”

Again he lowered his eyes. “Such laxity at prison well known by Honolulu police. I am ashamed for shoddy police work by my department, not following so obvious a lead. Of course, jailers at Oahu Prison, when questioned, lied to cover their own misdeeds.”

“But they turned around and let the bastard out again on New Year’s Eve! If they knew he most likely raped Thalia, why would they—”

Chang’s eyes were knife-point sharp. “To allow him to
really
escape, and take his guilt with him. Remember—prisoners usually returned when given temporary release. But Lyman did not.”

“Lyman,” I said.
“That’s
what that hooker at Mosquito Flats said to you!”

He nodded gravely. “Please accept apology. Harlot’s words hit this old man hard as brick.”

“It’s okay,” I shrugged. “You think I haven’t seen some pretty lousy things going on, in the Chicago PD? Lousy enough to make me ashamed to be part of it?”

In fact, I’d done a few.

So quietly it was barely audible over the rustle of fronds, he said, “Rumor say Lyman still in Islands.”

“How do you know he hasn’t gone to the mainland, like Sammy?”

Chang shook his head, no. “Is somewhere in these Islands, still. People help him hide, they protect him, because they fear him. He is one big mean bastard and they don’t cross him.”

“Where do we start? It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Needle in haystack give away hiding place when fat man sit down.” He dug in his pocket. “Meet Daniel Lyman.”

Chang handed me a mug shot of Lyman—blank-eyed, pockmarked, bulbous-nosed, shovel-jawed, a face designed for wanted circulars.

My laugh had no humor in it. “Well, we need to sit on the son of a bitch as soon as possible—and how likely is that, when Jardine and Major Ross and the entire goddamn Hawaiian National Guard haven’t got the job done, in how long? Four months?”

The skull-faced little man smiled. “But you forget one thing, Nate—the main reason they not find him yet.”

“What’s that?”

“Chang Apana hasn’t looked for him.”

The Ala Wai Inn was its usual smoky self, and the music its usual syrupy mixture of steel guitar and tight harmonies. The George Ku Trio was finishing its engagement tonight, according to a poster tacked next to the door, outside. Inside, my doorman friend Joe Frietas said he was sorry, he hadn’t seen Sammy yet.

“I know,” I told him.

Chang Apana was at my side; he hadn’t taken off his Panama or said a word since we’d entered the club. But for such a small man, Chang’s presence seemed to loom large with Joe, who clearly recognized him, and was obviously nervous.

Now Chang spoke: “Sammy on mainland.”

Joe grinned, nodded, and delivered a belated greeting: “You honor Ala Wai with presence. Detective Apana.”

“Pleasure mine,” Chang said, nodding back.

“Joe,” I said, “you seen any of Joe Crawford’s other music boys lately?”

He frowned at me, worried. “You’re not gonna bust up
another
dinin’ room, are ya, Mr. Heller?”

“I paid for the damage, didn’t I?” I slipped a five-spot out of my pocket, held it up casually. “Have you seen anybody?”

He cocked his head. “Other night, you talkin’ more than a
fin
, boss….”

“Sammy was worth a sawbuck,” I said. “This is what I figure a friend of Sammy’s is worth.”

Chang stepped forward and snatched the five-dollar bill from my hand; it startled me, and Joe, too. The frown on Chang’s scarred-skull puss wasn’t pretty. He shoved his face up into the doorman’s. “No money. Just talk.”

Joe backed away from the little Chinaman, holding his hands up, palms out, as if surrendering. Comical, seeing a burly guy who was at least in part the bouncer of the joint backing off from this lightweight bundle of bones.

“H-h-h-ey, boss, I’m happy to help out. There’s a guy, friend of Sammy’s, he’s here right now…”

Chang and I exchanged glances.

“…you should talk to him, half-French, half-Tahitian—I’ll point ya there. I
like
helpin’ police.”

“Thank you,” Chang said, handing the five-spot back to me. “Name?”

The guy’s name, or anyway what they called him, was Tahiti. Frail, rail-thin, in a blue aloha shirt (yellow and white blossoms) and tan trousers his toothpick legs swam in, he was up next to the bandstand, by himself, swaying to the music, singing along, smiling, a glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from sensual, feminine lips. I made him twenty, twenty-two. His dark narrow face with its prominent cheekbones was almost pretty, his eyes dark, large, half-lidded, his eyebrows heavy and dark, his eyelashes long and dark and curling. When I approached he smiled at me, as if expecting me to ask him to dance.

“They call you Tahiti?”

“That’s me,” he said, sucked on the cigarette, and blew smoke to one side. “And what’s your name, handsome?”