Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (11 page)

Chapter 8

Thursday, June 26th, 1947, 4:00 a.m.

Stanwyck kept asking me where I'd gotten the bullets and I kept telling her: I
couldn't
tell her. Investigator-client privilege. She said I was obstructing justice and threatened to arrest me.
I
said she was obstructing my sleep and if she was going to, she should haul me off to the station and throw me in a cell then and there so I could get some.
She
could deal with Greenstreet.

It had taken almost an hour for the ME to get to my office, then examine and photograph Gloria's body, and another hour for Stanwyck's technicians to finish enough of an inspection of the murder scene to make it clear: They weren't going to find anything resembling a clue—no bullets, no footprints, no
mene mene
predicting the killer's doom—unless some stray fingerprint was revealed to be from someone unexpected. I considered that almost as likely as Gloria coming back to life. Whoever had killed her knew exactly what he was doing
and
how to make sure the police would be starting behind a thoroughly opaque eight ball. Just where they'd started with Bugsy's murder.

Amid the ruckus, there was no point in trying to talk; I agreed to come down to the station to make my statement as soon as Stanwyck was ready to leave. It was almost two thirty when that happened.

Bacall, who looked just as alert as the corpse had, served us both coffee, and Stanwyck sent him home. “He's been here since eight,” she explained. “He's young; he's still working on building his stamina.”

“I am, too,” I told her, “and I'm pushing forty. Let's do this.” Stanwyck nodded. She called in a stenographer, asked me questions, and I gave her answers. What few I had to give. The stenographer took them down with a blank look on her face, but Stanwyck kept frowning. Cops always think PIs know more than they're willing to admit. That's because, usually, we do. Just not this time. I told her everything—except where the bullets came from. I told her again: I wasn't going to give her that.

Despite the hour, the precinct house was, as usual, a volcano of activity when we came out of the examination room. An eruption of ringing phones, harried cops, shouting reporters and their photographer sidekicks met us. The cops were busy trying to solve a few thousand crimes, most of them a lot more important than the only one the newshawks and picture-takers cared about: Bugsy Siegel's killing. I knew one reporter on a first-name basis. Judy Taylor was a dame Mike Shayne met when he was on jury duty. The three of us—or the four of us, when there were four of us—had drinks together now and then. Judy was okay, and she was a good reporter, but she had a knack for getting on my nerves: If something wasn't gonna make headlines, it didn't matter to her.

Stanwyck and I were both exhausted. We offered “no comments” to the throng's harangue of questions and popping flashbulbs. “Reporters remind me of buzzards,” I muttered under the cries of the crowd. “They flock at the scent of dead meat.” Stanwyck nodded. She was grim. So was I. Her eyes were as red as mine, and neither of us had shed a single tear.

No one answered the phone at either Yellow or Checker; I suppose the dispatchers were probably asleep at their desks and I didn't blame them one bit. It took me a while to find a taxi on the street. I didn't see Brown Hat anywhere; maybe he'd given up for the night, though I doubted it. Whoever he was working for, guys like him slugged along, twenty-four hours a day if they had to: Their bosses didn't give them time off for good behavior. Or anything else.

It was a quarter to five when I finally walked through the peeling paint and chipped tile in my lobby. I ignored the mailbox and went straight to the elevator. The door and the grille screeched when I closed them; the cage screeched
and
shuddered as it went up to five—at the speed of molasses in January, as my father used to say. I pried open the grille, then the door, yawned, took the dozen steps to 503, and unlocked it.

I was met by a pitiful but furiously offended yowl, above Billy Eckstine's voice crooning The Song on the radio. I turned that off and turned the fan to high. I dropped my jacket, holster, and tie on the sofa, sat, pulled off my shoes, and left them in front of it. Greenstreet stayed at my heels, loudly announcing his displeasure. I went into the kitchen, opened two cans of cat tuna, and dumped them into either side of his dish. I yanked off the two keys taped to its underside and put the dish on the floor. Greenstreet leaped to it. He was halfway through one by the time I put the fresh bowl of water next to it. The cat denounced me with a glare, then returned to the task at paw.

I tossed both keys to the broken file in the garbage and poured myself a drink. The elevator was screaking its way up again, but I didn't pay it much attention. A few of my co-tenants were also nighthawks, and anyway, I wanted that drink.

I was reaching for the ice cube tray when I heard the knock. I closed the fridge softly and listened. There were feet shuffling in the uncarpeted hallway. They were right outside my apartment.

I went into the living room quietly and slipped the Colt out of its holster. On tiptoe, I moved to the door. The knock was repeated, this time louder and more insistently.

There was nothing timid about my visitor's approach. He—or she—clearly had no intention of leaving. That meant he knew I was home, which meant Brown Hat—or someone else—had followed me here or been waiting in the shadows when the cab pulled up. Someone like Scott, for example. Either way, I'd been too tired to notice.

* * *

I didn't think it was Scott. He was way too big to follow me, or anyone else, without being seen. But there was his entourage: Tweedledum, the voodoo doll, and Tweedledum-dum, Gargantua's pet giant.

I didn't figure it to be Lizabeth, either. I'd called her from the office, once she'd had time to settle herself in, to let her know I'd be delayed. I didn't tell her why. She was scared enough as it was. I figured she might call anyway, but she didn't know where I lived. I wasn't ready to trust her
that
much. Yet.

The living room was dimly lit, just the sixty watts through the green shantung shade of the floor lamp in the corner, another gift from a client. I was used to the dark, inside as well as out, and for the most part, I liked it. You had to watch your step, but you were on the lookout for things that went bump. During daylight, those things always seemed to stay out of sight. Or pop up out of nowhere.

The third knock was still louder. Then a whiny male voice said, “Grahame. Open the door.” Pounding. “
Grahame
.”

“Who is it?” I stood just to the side of the door, my gun ready.

“Come
on
,” the voice said. “If I was gonna kill you, you'd be dead already. Just open the
ferkockta
door.”

I lowered the gun.
Sedway
.
Nuts.
“I'm tired, Moe,” I called.

“Yeah,” Sedway called back. “So 'm I. And I just rode the slowest elevator in Los Angeles to get up here.”

“And the noisiest. Whattaya want. I'm going to bed.” I took the few steps into the kitchen, picked up my iceless drink, and came back.

Sedway cleared his throat loudly. “I heard about your problem.”

“My ‘problem'?”

“With your secretary.”

I clenched my teeth. “If you had anything to do with it, Sedway, I'll make what happened to Bugsy look like something out of a Judy Garland picture when they find
your
body.”

“Take it easy. That wasn't us. We
were
gonna make a return trip, but it hadda be when you were there.”

“That why the guy in the brown hat's been following me?”

“Yeah. He called me when you got here.” He knocked again, a tap. “C'mon: Open up. I don't want to shout back and forth. It'll only take a minute.”

I sighed. It was true: If Sedway'd wanted me dead, I'd probably be lying in the deep freeze next to Gloria right now. Moe had a way of getting things done, especially when he wanted to commemorate a late friend, of which he'd had many.

I swallowed some bourbon and opened the door. The little man, still wearing the panama and the mismatched tie and suspenders, stood there, hands folded politely in front of him. His suit was wrinkled, and the carnation in his lapel was more brown than white. “It
wasn't
us, Grahame,” he said.

“I'm glad to hear that. All right, come in.” I shut the door behind him and kept the gun poised. “I hate violence. Especially when I'm the one doing it.”

“I figured you'd think it
was
. Us. After what happened this morning. And at The Pickup.” Sedway took off his hat, dusted the brim, and dropped it on top of the phonograph.

“Yeah, well. I may not be the most imaginative guy in the world, but it doesn't take too much imagination to add two and two and come up with four.”

“And”—he cleared his throat again—“I figured I owed you an apology.” I looked up. I was sure I'd heard wrong. “I was gonna call, but I figured this way was better.”

I took another slug of bourbon; it helped relieve the shock. “I'm know I'm tired, and this is my sixth or seventh of the evening, but I thought I heard you say you were gonna apologize to me.”

“Yeah.” Sedway stood there, staring, as I finished the drink. “You gonna offer me one?”

“An apology?”

“A drink.”

I snorted. “You'll drink
my
liquor in Hades, Sedway.” A bead of sweat ran down my forehead and dropped onto the front of my shirt. I wiped my face with the sleeve. “Which, I suppose, it's hot enough in here to be, anyway. Just a second.” I walked into the kitchen where Greenstreet was still munching contentedly—he'd forgive darn near anything so long as there was enough food—refilled my own glass, poured one for Sedway, and returned with the bottle. I set it on the coffee table and held out a glass. “Here. No toasts.”

Sedway took it. “Thanks,” he said, and swallowed half, then wiped his neck and big ears with the silk display hanky from his breast pocket. “You gotta get air-conditioning.”

“Yeah, there's a lotta things I gotta get. Including sleep. Say you're sorry so I can go to bed.”

Sedway took another gulp. “What happened yesterday morning, at your office? That
was
us. The big putz and the broad. They're ours. They worked for Siegel.”

“There's that name again.”

“You mind?” Sedway took off his jacket and sat on the sofa without waiting for an answer. Even in the weak light, the glare from his suspenders was almost blinding. I shielded my eyes and sat on the stuffed chair across the coffee table from him. I laid my gun beside my leg, within easy reach. Moe Sedway was Moe Sedway, and I trusted him as far as I could throw him. Tired as I was that wasn't very far, even if he was only a little bigger than Wilma. He loosened his tie and undid two shirt buttons and let the fan's breeze dry his neck. “We got a call—don't ask me who from, I don't know. Somebody's got it in for you, Grahame.”

“No kiddin'.”

“This guy, whoever he was, he said you're the one did Benjamin.”

I put down my drink. “I didn't like him much, Moe. Nobody did, not even his wife and daughters, from what I hear. Except you. And—maybe—Virginia Hill. But then nobody likes you much, either. Including me.” I looked Sedway straight in the eye; he chuckled. I was glad
he
was in good humor. I wasn't. “But I didn't kill him.”

Sedway just nodded. “Yeah, we know that. Now.”

“Oh?”

He crossed his short legs and draped a short arm across the back of the couch. He looked like a comfortable mouse with acne. An ugly-tempered, scrawny, comfortable mouse with acne. “Chief says,” he squeaked, “looks like your girl and Benny were maybe done by the same guy. Somethin' about missin' bullets. And it don't figure you go around shootin' secretaries. 'Specially your own.” Sedway sighed wistfully. “We went back a long way, me and Benny. Since 1925 in New York.” He looked up. I couldn't tell whether it was at my ceiling or heaven. If it was heaven, he wasn't going to see Bugsy Siegel. “Me and him, and the Lanskys, Lucky Luciano, and Frankie Costello. We all hung out together.”

“The good old days? You gettin' sentimental on me?”

He sat up and looked at me. “Be a mensch, Grahame. You know me. It's about business. And lettin' some schmuck get away with it is
bad
for business. People lose confidence in you. Y' know what I mean?”

“I can guess.”

“Anyway,” he went on squeaking, “the guy who called—he talked to Victor Bianco. Vic, right away, he calls me, Tuesday night, it's almost midnight and he's all excited. Rattles it off, like he can't stop to breathe: He got a call saying you shot Benjamin, you retrieved the bullets you fired, all nine of 'em, and you got 'em in a package in your office. Then he gasps: Two seconds after he tells me
that
much—
two seconds
, I'm not kiddin' you—Vic has a heart attack. Didn't even get to tell me the guy's name. Which the guy prob'ly didn't tell him anyway. Just”—Sedway grunted “
Unnhhh
,” screwed his face into a pandemonium of pain, clutched a hand to his heart, and sprawled across the sofa, skewing his tie; I had seen better acting in cartoons—“and bang. Lights out.” He sat up and picked up his drink.

“Bullets? So that's what they were lookin' for.”

“Yeah.” Sedway straightened the tie. I wished he would take it off. The stripes were making me dizzy. “You
didn't
have 'em, did you?”

“You know
me
, Moe: If I had 'em, they'd be in the police's hands.”

“I figured.” He tilted a salute and drank. “Anyway—I'm sorry about your office. And your girl.”