Dead Seed (10 page)

“I see. And you will add the twelve dollars to your regular two-hundred-percent markup.”

“Shut up,” she said, “and go make me a celebration drink.”

I added an extra celebration ounce of vodka to her glass of tonic and did the same to mine. I had to be part of her celebration; I was her most fervent fan.

She had her shoes off when I came back with our drinks. “And what did you accomplish today?” she asked.

I told her about Vogel’s argument with the uniformed man and about Carl Lacrosse’s birthday gift to his son.

“A Hasselblad,” she said, “for a seventeen-year-old boy? Maybe a Leica or a Konica if the boy is ready for it. But not a Hasselblad. Do you know what they cost?”

I yawned, and said in most superior and knowledgeable voice, “Not too much. You can pick up that new Hasselblad 2000 FC with an eighty-millimeter lens and one magazine for about three grand.”

She stared at me suspiciously. “Corey told you that.”

I shook my head. “Not all of it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Polaroid One-Shot.”

“I am not lying. I was leafing through my latest copy of
Popular Photography
this afternoon, and I came across their lab report on the model.”

She laughed. “Your latest copy and your first copy and undoubtedly your last copy. Joel lied, Brock. He must have stolen it.”

“Joel or his mother,” I agreed. “I lean toward the mother theory.”

She nodded. “So do I. And that’s all that happened today?”

“That’s it.”

She sipped her drink. “You’re nowhere, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been there before. Vogel seems more interested in collaring Kelly than in learning who killed Morgenstern.”

“Help him with that then,” she said. “He’s your friend. And remember, Mr. Morgenstern could have been killed by a mugger. His wallet was stolen.”

The six o’clock news confirmed that theory. A vagrant had been picked up in Pismo Beach and was being questioned by the police up there as a possible suspect in the Morgenstern murder.

The parents that Kelly had used as his alibi lived in Pismo Beach. Was that only a coincidence?

Apparently it was. The eleven o’clock news reported that the suspect had been released after questioning.

On the same newscast there was a picture of the boy who had died in the fire, one Juan Garcia, a smiling, beautiful boy with curly black hair and warm brown eyes.

It had been a Boys’ Club outing, and Juan had been the last in line as they fled the fire. He was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. José Garcia of Torrance. They would not have another; Mrs. Garcia had recently returned from the hospital where she had undergone a hysterectomy.

The Morgenstern case seemed to have dead-ended, at least for now. As Jan had suggested, I could still help Bernie on his Kelly mission. If Penelope had something more substantial than rumors or hearsay, that could be the route. And it still could connect with the murder.

I phoned The New Awareness next morning and Penelope answered. I asked her if the boss was within hearing range.

“No,” she said. “He’s down at the gate, talking to the guard. You may speak freely.”

I told her what Corey had told me and asked her if she had any solid evidence that her boss and Kelly worked together.

“Nothing you could take into court,” she said. “Only gossip I’ve picked up around here. Our stalwart guard, the man Mr. Sarkissian is talking with now, is your best approach.”

“Is he the same man who was there when I came up?”

“That’s the man, Gus Ketchum. He’s a horseplayer and a bottle-baby. He does his off-duty drinking at the Alamo Cafe, down on lower Main Street. He told me there were a couple of bookies in town who are threatening him with physical violence if he doesn’t pay up. He tried to borrow the money from me.”

He sounded like a man who could be bought. I said, “Thank you, lovely one. Are you and Corey serious?”

“Almost. But he is a little quirky. I mean, I have this feeling that I’d be working all our lives to support us.”

“Never! He’s a very shrewd man around a dollar. He’s drawing two salaries right now on the same job and he’s only twenty-one.”

“That’s true. And he does have a kind of offbeat charm, doesn’t he?”

“Well—? Let’s stick with quirky and shrewd.”

She laughed. “Don’t be rough with Gus. He has this idea he is one tough guy. But underneath, he’s a dreamer. All horseplayers are.”

She and Corey should make an ideal match, the quick and the quirky.

Going to the Alamo Cafe tonight on the off chance that I would run into Gus Ketchum was probably a dumb idea. But I had been housebound too long. I went to the bank and picked up a couple hundred. Then I went to the station to ask Bernie what he thought of it.

His desk was loaded with paper, as usual. I told him what I had learned from Penelope and what I planned to do tonight.

“Muscle again?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course not! I could buy him a drink and feel him out, maybe find out what he knows about Kelly. Call it an exploratory trip.”

“Kelly,” he said, “did not kill Morgenstern.”

“I know. But we’ve gone as far as we can with that investigation for now. Unless you have something new on it?”

He shook his head. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m getting the picture. You’re doing this for me.”

“Partly. But remember—Morgenstern did phone Kelly’s house.”

He still looked doubtful.

“You could clean up your paperwork,” I explained, “while I’m out working for you.”

“I can’t give you the nod on this,” he said finally. “I can’t be connected with it. But there’s no law to prevent you from going to that joint. Now, damn it, play it cool!”

I promised him I would. Cops can play it cool; they had the law behind them and their uniformed brothers. The private eye was all alone in the swampy jungle where his vocation too often led him.

My explanation to Jan was that I had to go to a board meeting at the club. What I was doing was not only dumb, it was dangerous. She would understand the dumb part; the dangerous part would disturb her.

I am not sure she heard me; she was working on a list of all the expensive furnishings her latest client so sorely needed. Another victim. Nobody takes twelve dollars away from Jan Bonnet Callahan without risking retribution.

The Alamo Cafe was an ancient, weather-stained stucco building in one of the meaner parts of town. The interior was dim and smoky, decorated mostly with colorful posters advertising various brands of wine and beer. About half of the men at the bar were Chicanos, the rest of mixed ancestry. The few women in the place were sitting in booths with their escorts.

I was in luck. Gus Ketchum was all alone in a corner booth, nursing a beer and studying
The Racing Form.
I bought a bottle of beer and took it with me to the booth.

He looked up and scowled at me. “The galloping ghost! You lying bastard! The boss warned me about you this morning.”

“I had to lie,” I said quietly. “I wanted Sarkissian to think Joel Lacrosse was a relative of mine.”

“And why did you want to see him?”

“I’d rather not say. Can I buy you a drink?”

He looked at his beer and back at me. “You could bring me a double bourbon to go with this chaser.”

“Any particular brand? Wild Turkey?”

“If they got it and you can afford it.”

They didn’t have it. I bought a double slug of the best they had and brought it back to the booth. I put it in front of him and slid into the booth on the opposite side.

He sipped some whiskey and washed it down with a swallow of beer. He asked, “What’s on your mind? Your name is Callahan, right?”

I nodded. “And yours?”

“Gus Ketchum,” he said. “You can call me Mr. Ketchum.”

I smiled. “Another bad day with the ponies?”

“No worse than usual. I asked you—what’s on your mind?”

“Dwight Kelly. I don’t like the way he operates. He’s no deprogrammer. He’s a kidnapper. All he does is bust kids loose. Who deprograms them?”

Ketchum shrugged. “The way I hear it, some woman works with him. You know a—a—”

“Psychiatrist?” I supplied.

“No. It sounds like that, though.”

“Psychologist?”

“That’s the word. What have I got to do with Kelly?”

“You must know how he operates. He and Sarkissian are in cahoots, aren’t they?”

He didn’t have time to answer. Two men were standing next to the booth, looking down at us. They weren’t big and they weren’t scary, two medium-sized men in vested business suits. They looked like broker types, horse brokers.

“We want to talk with you, Gus,” one of them said.

“He’s talking with me,” I said. “Take a number and stand in line.”

The other man said, “We want to talk with him outside. You can wait for him in here.”

I shook my head. “If he goes out, I go out. That could mean that both of you might go home crippled. Does he owe you money?”

“One hundred and ten smackers. And we owe him some lumps.”

I reached into my jacket pocket. I took out five twenties and a ten and handed them to the nearest broker. “Now buzz off,” I said, “while you’re still vertical.”

The man took the money and smiled. “You’re real tough, aren’t you?”

“Let’s find out,” I said, and started to slide out of the booth.

They studied me—and walked quietly away.

Gus expelled his breath. “Wow! You’re nuts, man.”

“Why? Because punks don’t scare me? I crippled men twice their size when I was with the Rams.”

“You’re
that
Callahan? The Rock?”

I nodded.

“Sarkissian told me you were a private eye.”

“I was for a while, after I left the Rams. That was down in L.A. I’m retired now.” I pointed at his glass. “Want another jolt?”

“Why not?”

I bought us both a double and him another glass of beer. I said, “Sarkissian can’t run that scam forever. Then you’ll be out of work. I have several friends who run research and electronic firms in this town. They’re always in need of security guards. If—”

He held up a hand. “Take it slower. You’re beginning to sound like Sarkissian. What’s your angle on all this?”

I took a chance on the truth. I said, “There is a police officer who is a very good friend of mine. I figure I owe him.”

“You owe him what—Sarkissian?”

I shook my head. “Kelly.”

“This cop friend of yours got a name?”

“Lieutenant Bernard Vogel. Kelly was a crooked cop. Vogel hates crooked cops even more than he hates crooks.”

“And this Vogel knows that Sarkissian and Kelly work together?”

“Hell, every cop at the station knows that. But they’ve never been able to prove it.”

He took another sip of whiskey, another swallow of beer. “To tell you the truth, Sarkissian ain’t my all-time favorite boss. He gave me hell again this morning. But—” He frowned and took a deep breath. “Give me some time to think about it, huh? Are you in the phone book?”

“I am. You go along with me and you won’t regret it, Mr. Ketchum.”

“You can call me Gus,” he said.

I
T WAS STILL SHORT
of ten o’clock when I came home. I phoned Bernie and related my conversation with Ketchum.

“Nice work,” he said. “Thanks. If he comes through, I hope you have some friends who are willing to hire an alcoholic gambler.”

“I don’t think he’s an alcoholic—yet. And my guess is that he’s a five-dollar horseplayer. You could check to see if he has a drunk tank record.”

“I did, after you left,” he told me. “He’s clean there, not even a 502. Did you get the name of Kelly’s deprogrammer?”

“No. It shouldn’t be impossible to get.”

“I’ll try tomorrow. And thanks again.”

I had done Bernie a favor and he had thanked me for it, a new high in our relationship.

Jan was in the dining room, putting away her furniture price lists. “And what,” she asked, “did the all-male board of directors of our chauvinistic little club decide tonight?”

“We decided it was time to put some women on the board.”

“Finally! How noble of you!”

“And also to eliminate the women’s tees.”

“Like hell they will!”

“We have to, Jan, if we’re going to be consistent. From now on, we’re all equals in the club, male and female alike.”

She looked at me suspiciously. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “I was simply giving you a consistency test.”

She sniffed. “What have you been drinking? It smells like canned heat.”

“It’s a new whiskey we’re thinking of buying. We sampled it tonight. It could double our bar profit.”

“Dear God!” she said. “You had better get some women on that board as soon as it can be arranged.”

I had my father dream again that night. His face was hazy, as usual, his body larger than life. We were walking through a desert and he had a camera that he was showing me how to operate, a complicated machine. It looked expensive to me but he told me it had cost him only nineteen dollars.

Then Jan was nudging me. “Stop muttering.”

“Sorry. What was I saying?”

“Liar, liar, liar. Were you dreaming?”

“Yes. Go back to sleep.”

A hoodlum had taken my father from me. What was Carl Lacrosse’s excuse?

Bernie phoned while we were having breakfast. He told me he had the deprogrammers’s name and address.

“Good! Do you want me to go with you when you talk with her?”

“Well—I mean—I still have all this paperwork—”

“I understand. You are authorizing me to interrogate her.”

“You know I can’t do that. Come on, buddy!”

“What if she asks for my credentials?”

“I don’t tell my grandmother how to suck eggs. You’ll know how to handle it.”

Of course I would. Liar, liar, liar. He gave me her name and address.

When I came back to the breakfast room, Jan told me, “There’s a piece on Mr. Morgenstern in the Calendar section. He handled some famous names, didn’t he?”

“I guess.”

“You’re down again,” she said.

“Yes. ‘This, too, shall pass away.’ Who said that?”

“Abraham Lincoln in a speech in Wisconsin in 1859.”

Four years of high school for Jan, four years at Stanford for me. But Jan hadn’t wasted her time playing football.