The Duchess of Skid Row (3 page)

She went into her apartment and slammed the door.

I
LEFT
the Blue Beagle by the back door and walked through the dirty blackness of the alley to the rear of the Gay Nineties. My watch read five-fifty. I decided I had just time enough to look over Archibald Archer.

The rear door of the restaurant let me into a service hall. I followed it past a busy kitchen to an office. I looked in the doorway.

The office was empty except for the usual desks, chairs, and filing cabinets. I could hear faint sounds but I couldn’t see anyone. I stepped farther into the room.

An opening gaped in the wall to my right. I could see the top of a flight of steps leading downward. I went to the opening. The sounds grew louder. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Down below?”

A deep, pleasant voice called back, “Come on down.”

I went down. The air grew cooler after I made the bend in the stairway. I reached the bottom. I was in a large cellar. The air was almost chill and had the faintly sour scent of a wine storage house. Large kegs sat on racks at one side of the room, drip pans beneath their bungs. Two of the other walls were covered with wire and wood racks holding bottled wine. The fourth wall was hidden by stacks of shipping cartons.

A man came out of dimness toward me. He threw a shadow that made me feel small. He was tall and he was wide. His shoulders were the kind that have to swing sideways to get through an ordinary doorway. He tapered down to a narrow waist and a solid pair of legs. He had a broad face with a bulldog jaw and a pair of shrewd blue eyes with crinkles of good humor at the corners. His hair was sandy and slicked down to hide a thin spot on top. He was just good-looking enough to excite a lot of women. I had the feeling that under different circumstances I could like him.

I said, “Archibald Archer?”

“Just Arch,” he said. “You must be McKeon.”

“You get around. When did we meet?”

His grin was friendly, showing a lot of expensive bridgework. “A mutual friend described you. Griselda Cletis.”

“When did you meet Griselda?” I let suspicion clog my voice.

He kept his grin. “She told me you weren’t the jealous type, McKeon. Don’t go making her out a liar.”

“Whether I’m the jealous type or not has nothing to do with my question,” I said.

He shrugged and walked over to one of the wine racks. He took a notebook out of his pocket. He began to check the contents of the rack against entries in the notebook.

“This is a poor time to come calling, McKeon. The dinner rush is about to start.”

“I could get all my questions asked in the time you take to dodge one answer.”

He looked over his shoulder at me. He was still grinning. “I met Griselda in L.A. She came to my restaurant a few times. I was busy winding up my affairs. I had to go out of business to make room for another new freeway. Griselda liked the food. I guess she liked talking to me. She found out I was selling and she peddled me the idea of coming up here. She’s a good salesman. That answer enough, McKeon?”

I said, “Where does the Combine fit in?”

He turned slowly. The grin began to fade at the edges. He said with quick harshness, “What’s the Combine got to do with anything up here?”

“I hear they sent a man up from L.A. to buy a legitimate business as a front for a racket,” I said.

He went back to checking his notebook. “And that’s me?” He gave a gusty laugh without much humor in it. “The Combine tried to buy into my restaurant about a year ago. They liked the location. They thought it was perfect for a wire service operation. We had words about it. I got a little sore when one of their hoods tried to rap my bridgework loose with his gun. Guns make me nervous. I scarred him up a little.”

“You look healthy enough.”

“Why do you think I bought your girlfriend’s idea? I got tired of dodging those punks. This part of the country seemed like a long way from them.”

“It makes a good cover story,” I remarked.

He put his notebook in his pocket. “Have it your way,” he said indifferently.

“For a man with the Combine breathing down his collar, you don’t seem worried that they might have moved up here.”

“I’ve been on Hill Street long enough to know it’s a rumor mill. And there hasn’t been any rumble about the Combine or even about any strangers coming in. I’ll start worrying when it’s time to start worrying.”

“What kind of rumors have you picked up about your neighbors, Arch?” His voice was quick.

“Which neighbors.”

“Let’s try Nick Calumet. About the same time you remodeled this place, he jumped from owning a two-bit amusement parlor to running the biggest one in town.”

Arch dismissed Calumet with a grunt, “A punk,” he said. “A grifter. From his own mouth, he’s a big man with the ladies. And tough, too. But he carries a knife, and the only dames he seems to get sneak into his place through the alley.”

His contempt for Calumet made me grin a little. “Any other reason you don’t like him?”

“I don’t like his business,” Arch said flatly. “This is a damn screwy part of the country. You can’t buy a drink on Sunday, not even a beer. But you can play low-limit poker in public, and you can walk into a dump like Calumet’s, feed a dime into a machine, and watch a movie of some dame strip raw.”

He grunted, and I went on. “Let’s talk about Hoxey Creen.”

His voice was even quicker this time. “What about Hoxey Creen?”

“I hear he works for Calumet now,” I said. “But he still lives with Teddy Jenner.”

Arch moved toward me. “You’ve got dysentary of the mouth, McKeon. Hoxey doesn’t live with Teddy. He lives in the same building she does. There’s a difference.”

I realized that I was looking at a man who had fallen in love. I should have laughed—Arch and Teddy Jenner! Only I didn’t have time to laugh. I had to get out to Johnny Itsuko’s by six-thirty. I had the feeling that fighting Arch would take me an hour or two.

If I lasted that long.

“You make friends fast, Arch.” I started backing toward the stairs. “Which one are you defending, Hoxey or Teddy?”

I figured that I had him angry enough to say something worth my hearing. I was wrong. He didn’t waste breath on talking. He just came across the basement after me.

I reached the steps and started climbing. I kept moving until I was outside.

I headed my car southeast toward the new suburb where Johnny Itsuko lived with his wife Kay and Johnny Junior. I followed Southeast Boulevard and made good time through the thin night traffic.

I drove with one eye on the rear vision mirror. I couldn’t spot anyone following me. The November night was cloudy and dark with a light, raw wind whipping off the Sound.

I turned off the Boulevard and dropped down a hill into the new suburb. It had recently been an area of small chicken ranches and subsistence farms. Some of the old outbuildings were still standing on several of the properties. Johnny Itsuko’s tool shed was one of these. It faced a narrow graveled road that the real estate developers had turned into a service alley. It was too small for Johnny to make into a garage, so he had built a carport alongside. He used the toolshed for a workshop and as a refuge from Kay’s favorite TV programs.

I saw how smart Johnny was in having me meet him there. The alley was lined with old firs. Even in clear weather there was little light after dark. It was about as safe a rendezvous as he could have picked.

But I played it safe. I parked on a sidestreet, a half block from the alley mouth. I lit a cigaret and smoked it through while I waited. Nobody came.

I left the sedan. I walked to the alley and down it. The farther into the alley I went, the thicker the darkness got. I reached Johnny’s toolshed before my eyes began to adjust to the gloom.

I could see the tail end of his small car sticking out from the carport. There was no sign of life in the toolshed. The one grimy window was black. Light from Johnny’s house was filtered by fifty feet of yard and two tall, old cottonwood trees.

I squinted at my watch. Six-thirty-five. I lifted the latch on the door and went in.

The room was about ten feet square. It had a dirt floor. The smell of dust hung in the air. I shut the door and darkness closed in heavier than that outside.

Something stirred to my left. I said, “Johnny?”

The sound came again. The dusty smell grew stronger, as if someone had pitched a handful of dirt toward me. I fumbled out my cigaret lighter and snapped it down. The tiny flame danced in an almost imperceptible draft. I saw the lightswitch. I reached for it.

A burst of redness like a rocket exploding burned my eyes. I thought at first the light bulb had exploded. Then I smelled the dirt and I felt the throbbing pain radiating from the back of my head. The red flash had been behind my eyeballs, not in front of them.

Someone had clubbed me down from behind.

I heard a car motor gun up. I listened to Johnny’s car moving fast out of the carport and into the alley. The sound began to fade. I lifted my head. My mouth was full of dirt. I spat it out and pushed myself to my knees.

I located the workbench with one groping hand. I pulled myself to my feet. I felt sick to my stomach from the pain at the base of my skull. I fumbled once more for the light switch. This time I got results.

A single, bright overhead bulb came on. The worktable was beside me. Across the room was Johnny Itsuko’s old daybed with a crumpled blanket on top. I started toward it.

Then I saw the hand. I staggered to the daybed. I picked it up and threw it across the room. I looked down at Johnny Itsuko. His face was twisted into a tight grimace of pain. I could see blood under his head. His face was bruised, the nose flattened.

I didn’t see how he could still be alive, but his battered lips moved. His eyes tried to open and failed. The lips moved again.

I said, “Johnny. It’s Jeff McKeon.”

His mouth tried to form words. I lowered my head. His voice barely brushed my ear. He said something that sounded like, “Report. Tape. Kay.” Or maybe it was DA instead of Kay. I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t ask him a second time. The voice stopped I rocked back on my heels. I was squatted that way when the explosion came. It was a strange sound, as if someone had splintered one of the wooden walls with an axe.

The window blew inward. So did the far wall. Chips of wood and dirt and cobweb rained down. I smelled smoke and heard the vicious crackle of fire.

Flames were racing up the dry left wall. The smoke billowed in, choking me. Whoever had set the explosive had done a professional job. The tiny, ancient building wouldn’t last ten minutes.

I fumbled through the smoke for Johnny’s body. I scooped it up in my arms. The ugly flickering red light from the flames showed me the door leading to his yard. I reached it. I lifted a foot, kicked it open, and staggered out into the fresher air.

I walked as far as I could manage toward his house. I made about half the distance when the sickness swallowed me. I dropped to my knees and laid Johnny on the damp grass. I stayed where I was, leaning over.

Suddenly a woman was beside me, trim, dark-haired, neat in her housedress. She went to her knees. She looked at me from soft, beautiful eyes.

She said in a wondering voice, “Johnny?”

“He’s been hurt, Kay. Take it easy. And call for help.”

She said, “Johnny,” again, her voice unbelieving.

I looked past her at the rear door. Three-year-old Johnny Junior was toddling toward us. I said, “You’d better take care of the boy, Kay. And call an ambulance. And the police.”

She rose and turned toward her child. She scooped him in her arms and carried him quickly into the house.

The flickering light from the burning shed washed over everything. One wall collapsed, sending a rocket of sparks into the air. In the near distance a fire siren howled.

I looked down at Johnny’s battered face again. I said, “Johnny, what happened? Who did it?”

I stopped talking to him. His mouth wasn’t moving any more.

I was still kneeling there when the firemen roared up and doused out the last embers of the fire. I was still there when the police came. Kay was with me too. She was crying softly as she looked down at the quiet body.

L
IEUTENANT
M
ASLIN
, Homicide, looked past me at the crowd that flowed from the alley into the yard. The fire was down to hissing embers. The firemen had satisfied themselves that no other place in the neighborhood was in danger and were putting away their equipment.

Johnny Itsuko had been taken away in the police ambulance. Kay was in the house under the care of a police matron. And that left me with Maslin.

I said, “Let’s talk about Johnny, Lieutenant. I want to get home and cleaned up.”

Maslin watched me without expression. None of his usual friendliness showed as he spoke. “I heard about your fight with Itsuko in the Real Estate Records room, Jeff.”

“He was faking it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have hidden something in that file drawer and then told me to get it. And he wouldn’t have called and left me a message, either.”

Maslin was a man who knew how to reserve judgment until all the evidence was in. He said, “A toolshed is a funny place to meet an old friend.”

“I explained that.” We had talked for a half hour. My throat was beginning to hurt. The back of my head still throbbed. Small spots on my face and hands smarted where exploding embers had hit my bare skin.

He said, “Why all the secrecy, Jeff? What or who do you think Johnny was hiding from?”

I had an idea but I wasn’t ready to tell it to Maslin. Not yet. I said, “I can’t answer that. I’ve been away, remember.”

“If he pushed something down in that file drawer and then told you to get it, where did it go?”

I hadn’t told him about Hoxey Creen yet, either. Johnny Itsuko had been Ritter’s man. Maslin would tell Ritter everything he knew, out of courtesy to a fellow cop, if for no other reason. I had no intention of handing Ritter my best chance of breaking the frame I could see shaping against me.

“That one beats me, Lieutenant.”

He grunted. He started to say something and stopped. Captain Ritter was charging toward us like a bull hunting someone to gore.

“You, McKeon!”

I said sharply, “Get off my back, Captain. Johnny Itsuko was my friend.”

He swung his big head toward Maslin. “Did McKeon tell you about the fight he had with Itsuko today?”

“He told me,” Maslin said. His voice gave none of his attitude toward Ritter away.

“Did he tell you that Itsuko was the man in charge of investigating him?” Ritter demanded.

“Investigating him for what?”

Ritter pushed his face at me. “Tell him, McKeon!”

I tried to keep my feeling about Ritter out of my voice. “Someone sent the Captain here an anonymous letter accusing me of trying to help set the rackets up in Puget City again. He didn’t stop to think. He grabbed onto that letter as irrefutable evidence of my guilt. He wants the DA and me out so badly it makes him drool.”

Ritter was breathing like a stallion after a mare. “Your lawyer lingo won’t do you any good, McKeon. The evidence is good enough. And if it isn’t, I have more.”

I said, “All you have is hope, Captain.”

“What you did to Johnny Itsuko is evidence enough!”

I looked at Maslin. He still showed no expression. Ritter’s reasoning would have been laughable in any other situation. But it wasn’t now. And there was no doubt he meant everything he said. I couldn’t doubt, not when I saw the hatred in his eyes, the harsh lines of his mouth.

I said, “While you hamper police work with your accusations, Johnny Itsuko’s killer could be getting away, Captain.”

Ritter ignored me. He said, “Well, Maslin?”

Maslin said quietly, “Are you charging McKeon, Captain?”

“Yes, by God!”

“On what evidence. Your circular reasoning?” Maslin was quiet and patient as always. He was a lean, gray man with a soft, dangerously calm voice.

Ritter started to speak but Maslin said, “Captain, you accuse McKeon of guilt on the basis of an anonymous letter. You seem to think that the letter proves he killed Itsuko because his killing Itsuko proves the truth of the letter. I’ll need more evidence than that to book a man with McKeon’s record.”

Ritter flushed. “I’ll find all the evidence you need, Lieutenant. McKeon killed Johnny Itsuko, and I’m going to prove it!”

I said, “Johnny was the top judo man on the force. Do you think he’d stand still long enough for me to get close enough to beat him up if he believed I was guilty of selling out to the Combine?”

“That’s a point,” Maslin said. “And it appears he was beaten to death, Captain.”

I said, “And then why was his car stolen? Why was the shack blown up? What reason would I have for doing those things?”

“I’ll find out,” Ritter said.

“While you’re at it, find out why I would haul him out of the shack. If I’d killed him, I’d have let him burn.”

Ritter wasn’t buying it. “I say you killed him, McKeon. I don’t care what kind of smoke screen you make with words. You killed him to try to keep him from turning in his report.”

“A report that would incriminate me?”

“Yes, by God!”

“Have you got that report?” I demanded.

Ritter said with thick satisfaction in his voice, “He wound up his investigation this evening. The report will be in the mail. I’ll have it in the morning.”

Maslin said, “Why should he mail you a report, Captain? Why didn’t he just put it on your desk?”

Ritter was almost smiling as he looked at me. “My men use portable tape dictating machines, Lieutenant. They use them in their cars. They dictate their reports as things happen. At the end of the day they either take the tape to the office or drop it in the mail.”

“Very clever,” Maslin said. “Did you know about this, Jeff?”

I nodded. “I was working with the I Squad when they started the idea. I knew about it.” I paused. “Maybe that explains why the car was stolen. The killer could have been taking a chance the tape was still on the machine or in the car.”

“You should know,” Ritter said.

I said, “Captain, do you really believe all this or are you just shooting off your face because one of your men got killed?”

He tightened his fists and took a step toward me.

I said, “Or maybe you’re willing to sacrifice anything to have the satisfaction of destroying something you can’t understand: the intelligent, forward-looking law enforcement the DA stands for.”

Maslin sounded tired of our bickering. He said, “That’s enough out of both of you.” He turned to Ritter. “I’m in charge of this investigation, Captain. If you have anything to say, make a statement to Paul Horst.”

He turned his back on Ritter. The Captain swung around and strode away. He headed for the rear of the Itsuko house. I hoped that the police matron could keep him from spilling the acid of his hate all over Kay.

Maslin said, “Go home and get cleaned up, Jeff.”

I said, “You aren’t sure of me, are you?”

“Let’s just say I’ll want you handy.”

I said angrily, “If you think I killed Johnny, then book me!”

He said quietly, “I might have if Ritter hadn’t showed off his prejudice the way he did. I’m not saying he’s wrong; but I can’t buy his theory without more proof.”

He paused for a moment and added. “But it won’t take much more proof, Jeff. Then I’ll have to book you. Ritter can put on the pressure. If he makes a public issue of this, I’ll have to act.”

• • •

I had only one idea in my mind as I hiked the dark street to my car: to get home and clean myself up. I didn’t want to think. Not until I built up a little more energy. Because to think right now would mean getting mad. That would be futile in my present condition.

But I had a three-mile drive through nearly empty streets. I made a check to see if anyone was following. No one was. After that I had nothing to do but think.

And I couldn’t think of anything but Johnny Itsuko, the bloody broken head, the battered lips twisting in an agonized effort to squeeze out vital words.

“Report. Tape. DA.” Or had he said “Kay?” The words
report
and
tape
had obvious meaning after what Captain Ritter had said. But
DA
or
Kay
made no sense in connection with the other two.

I worried it all the way down Southlake. I was about ready to make the turn-off into my parking lot when I remembered my date with Stephanie. My dashboard clock read eight-ten. I thought I’d be smart to call her and apologize. I needed all of Stephanie’s good will right now. She was the only person who could prove that I had had a message from Johnny Itsuko.

I swung onto the gravel strip that formed the parking lot in front of the moorage where I lived. My houseboat was moored at the end of the dock that thrust out into the big salt-water lake we call the Inlet. I walked slowly over boards made slippery by a drizzle that had started from the low November clouds.

The dock was dimly lighted. All of my porch except the area by the front door was in shadow. I took out my door key and bent to locate the lock.

A voice out of the shadow on my right said, “Let’s go inside, McKeon. And keep both hands busy where I can see them.”

It wasn’t a voice I’d heard before. I didn’t argue with it. I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “How about a light?”

“Let’s get inside first.”

I went inside. The owner of the voice was on my heels. He didn’t give me a chance to step to the side and come around on him swinging. He let me feel a gun against my backbone.

I heard someone else come in behind us. The door closed, making the darkness thicker. Then there was a click and the two floor lamps controlled by my doorside switch came alive.

The voice said, “Just look straight ahead, McKeon.”

I said, “What’s this all about? Deal me a few cards in this game, friend.”

“Glad to oblige,” the voice said. “Pooly, deal McKeon a card.”

I couldn’t see Pooly, but I could feel him. He had a rough set of knuckles. He brought them down hard just below the point where I had been slugged earlier. I went forward, my balance gone.

“That’s enough for now, Pooly.”

“Just give me two minutes. That’s all I ask, Minto.”

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Minto said. “We can’t have him too banged up. It won’t look good. And I want him in shape for a while yet. He’s got some singing to do.”

Pooly sounded unhappy. He said, “Why don’t we do it so I can smash him up a little? Like fixing it to look like a car wreck.” Pooly didn’t sound too bright, but he didn’t sound dumb either. I didn’t think I was going to like Pooly.

I wasn’t going to like Minto very much either. He said, “No, we have to make it look like he did it himself. Remorse, see. He can’t stand what he did to Itsuko. He hates himself. So he does the Dutch.”

He paused as if awaiting applause for his mental prowess. “Get him in a chair and give him a drink, Pooly. Bring him all the way alive.”

Pooly put hands under my arms. He grunted and pulled. I came up from the floor. He rammed me into a chair. I couldn’t keep my head up. It kept flopping down toward my chest.

Pooly fixed that. He got a hand tangled in my hair and jerked my head back. He had a bottle in the other hand. He shoved the neck down my throat. I had to open my mouth fast or he would have pushed a few teeth along with the neck of the bottle. He seemed to enjoy this kind of work.

I had a glimpse of two faces: one lean with a dusting of pock marks on the cheeks, the mouth hard and flat, the eyes cold, empty and dark; the other round and the color of suet, battered like a boxer’s face gets battered.

Pooly had trickled a good three ounces of rye into me. I could feel its warmth flowing through my muscles.

Minto stood directly in front of me. He was about six feet, narrow in the shoulders, narrower in the hips, his chest sunken. His padded coat couldn’t hide the way he was strung together. He wouldn’t be much of a man without that gun in his hand.

But with the gun, he was God. He was the ruler of the universe. No human could touch him. His face and his eyes shone with his power. It made me a little sick to watch him.

Pooly was a good six inches shorter than Minto and about twice as wide. Thick arms, thick legs, thick fingers. Pooly wore blue trousers and scuffed brogans in contrast to Minto’s neat, conservative pinstripe suit. And Pooly’s sport coat was a loud horseblanket check. His sport shirt was louder, purples and yellow.

Minto said, “You’ve had your look, McKeon. Now let’s hear you talk. What were you doing at Itsuko’s tonight?”

I waggled my jaw and worked my tongue. Both seemed to be in operating condition. “I went to play pinochle. I always play pinochle on Wednesday’s. In November, that is. In December, we play whist.”

Minto said, “Pooly, fatten his ear.”

Pooly waddled happily around behind me. He clouted my left ear with his palm. He put enough into his swing to tip me and the chair briefly onto two legs.

Minto said, “All right, McKeon.”

“I went for a visit. What’s wrong with that?”

“In his toolshed?” Minto demanded. “Why not the house?”

I could feel excitement stirring inside me. It was obvious that he, at least, had been out to Johnny Itsuko’s tonight. And Pooly was the type who would beat a man to death.

“Why all the questions if you killed Johnny? What difference does it make to you why I went there?” I asked.

“Did I claim I killed Itsuko?”

“Someone beat him to death. Who does that sound like?”

“We were a little late, me and Pooly. We saw you leaving the place. We saw the fuzz around. We didn’t get too close. Now let’s start over. What did you and Itsuko talk about?”

“The price of real estate I’ve been thinking of investing in some Hill Street properties.”

If my words meant anything to Minto, he kept it out of his expression. He just said, “Both ears this time, Pooly.”

Pooly pulled back his short arms. He opened his palms. He brought them toward my head, aiming for the ears. A crack like that, delivered just right, can deafen a man permanently by rupturing his eardrums. I wanted to keep my hearing. I shot my head down and forward.

Pooly’s hands slapped painfully together. He let out a yell. I reached up and clamped my fingers on his wrists. I went down on my knees, pulling him over the back of the chair. His stubby legs were flailing. One caught Minto on the thigh. He staggered sideways and swung his gun at me.