The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance (17 page)

Sutker or Lyle shuffled behind me.

“What we want,” Sydney Larchmont picked up, “is for you to cease whatever investigation you are conducting on Charlie Chaplin’s behalf, to cease looking for our stolen money and documents unless you agree to turn them over to us for a reasonable fee if and when they are found. They could be damaging to us and embarrassing to others if made public. We are engaged in many causes, Serbo-Croatian Relief, the Irish Front, Orient for the Allies, Friends of the Occupied Nations, The Fifth—”

“Why don’t you give him a typed list of all our enterprises?” Mrs. Larchmont said, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

“Well, in any case, Peters, you must stay out of this,” Larchmont tried again. “In exchange we will stop suggesting to the police that you are responsible for murder.”

So far my trip to Compton had been very informative. I looked around the room, giving the impression, I hoped, that I was weighing the offer. I imagined the Larchmonts at breakfast across the table from each other like Citizen Kane and his wife, the years passing. They hadn’t killed Teddy. They didn’t have the papers or the money.

“Alex,” I said. “What does Alex have to do with this?”

“Alex?” asked Larchmont puzzled, then, turning to his wife, repeated, “Alex?”

She shrugged. Larchmont tried Lyle and Sutker. They looked blank.

“Did this Alex take the files and the money?” Larchmont asked.

“John Wayne,” I tried.

“John Wayne took the files and money?” Larchmont said, looking at me as if I were insane.

“No,” I said. “What has John Wayne got to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” said Larchmont, gripping the sides of his chair. “What does John Wayne have to do with this? We’ve never gotten a nickel from him, never tried really except for a letter, general mailer, but—”

“Sydney,” Mrs. Larchmont said, standing and shaking her head. “Why don’t you just give him a taped confession while you’re at it.”

“Adrienne,” Larchmont said, standing, his voice coming through clenched teeth. “If you would kindly stop interfering, I might get someplace with this, but all I get is your criticism, which, I feel, Adrienne, is completely unmerited.”

“All right with you two if I leave,” I said.

“I don’t—” Sydney began.

“No,” said Adrienne. “You are not to be trusted, Mr. Peters. We are not killers but we are not going to be …”

“Thwarted?” I suggested.

“Deterred?” tried Sydney.

“Pissed on,” said Lyle behind me.

“We sent you to Mr. Peters earlier,” Adrienne said, looking past me at Lyle and Sutker. “We wanted him immobilized. It is my opinion that we return to that plan.”

“Adrienne,” Larchmont nearly shouted, “I’ll handle this. You two,” he said pointing at Lyle and Sutker. “Do something to Mr. Peters, a limb or something.”

Lyle grabbed one arm, Sutker the other. They wheeled me around.

“I’ll see you two again,” I promised over my shoulder. I could have told them I’d be back to give them a taste of hell, but they had created their own hell together and there wasn’t much I could do to match it.

“They always like that?” I asked Lyle.

“Pretty much,” he agreed, giving my arm an unneeded pull.

“You embarrassed us,” Lyle said, opening the Chrysler door and urging me in while Sutker moved around to the front to drive. “Back in your office when your blimp friend threw us out. No blimp is going to embarrass us.”

Sutker started the car and I eyed the pistol in Lyle’s hand.

“We have our pride,” Sutker said, gently touching the bandage on his broken nose.

“If Jeremy hadn’t thrown you out, you would have stomped on me,” I said.

“So we’re gonna stomp on you now,” said Lyle. “What’d it gain you, I ask you.”

We drove down Alameda. It was dark and I had no plan.

“The hills,” Lyle said. In the front seat Sutker nodded. There were lots of dark rocks in the Dominguez Hills where a battered private detective could be left to reacquaint himself with nature.

I was thinking about how much longer it took for broken limbs to mend when you got to be as old as I was when the flash appeared in front of us on the street. It scared the hell out of Sutker and it didn’t do me any good either. Lyle was looking at me and didn’t see it.

“What was that?” Sutker said.

“What?” asked Lyle.

“Something on the street, up ahead,” I explained. “A flash.”

“Bullshit,” said Lyle, glancing out the front window to the second giant spark now about forty yards in front of us.

“What was that?” Lyle said, making it clear he had no answer to Sutker’s question.

In five more yards we could see what it was, but it didn’t make any more sense: a giant metal chain dipping out of the sky to scrape the street and send up a flare of sparks. Sutker pulled off to the side, almost hitting on oncoming Buick, which kept right on going. If we had stayed on the street, the chain would have missed us. As it was, it turned, snapping like a clanging snake, and lashed across the front of the Chrysler.

“Holy shit,” screamed Lyle, bolting out of the door. Sutker followed him. I went to the floor listening to the chain play a Gene Krupa riff on the roof. It stopped and I looked out the rear window. In the dark sky I could make out the shape of a barrage balloon, the kind that was usually moored on the coast to keep away the feared Jap airplanes, but this one had, as two or three others I had heard of, torn loose. It was losing air and dragging its chain, causing more damage and fear than a Zero on a rampage.

Lyle had left his door open. I could see him in the trees at the side of the road. I couldn’t see Sutker. I got up, dove into the front seat, and shifted the idling Chrysler into gear. I hadn’t bothered to close the driver’s door that Sutker had left open when he jumped. I should have. Sutker grabbed my arm as I hit the gas. The jerk forward slammed him against the side of the car. He held on to my arm until I jerked forward again and he had to let go to keep from hitting the asphalt of Alameda with his already broken nose. I didn’t turn around to look for Lyle. I drove. About two hundred yards down the street I stopped to close my door and reach back to close the rear door. Running down the road toward me in the distance were Lyle and Sutker, their red shirts catching the light of oncoming cars not curious enough to slow down to see what they were up to.

On the way back to Los Angeles I listened to Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians singing “Ain’t We Got Fun.” I hummed along for a few bars. When the song was over, I stopped for a hot dog and Pepsi at a roadside stand. The car hop said her name was Melinda and that she had been entered in the Car Hop of the Year contest. She also told me she was seventeen and had a brother and father in the Army. I wished them all luck and finished a second hot dog as I drove. I spilled ketchup and Pepsi on the front seat.

Back in town I parked the Chrysler on Main and hoofed it to No-Neck Arnie’s to retrieve my Crosley. Arnie wasn’t there. He had left a few hours earlier. His night man, Otto, a wiry grunter, grunted hello to me. I asked if I could use the phone. He grunted. I didn’t have the Larchmonts’ phone number but I looked up the Alhambra and called. Straight-Ahead came on about three minutes after I asked for him.

“Leave a note for the Larchmonts,” I said. “Their car is on Main near Twelfth.”

“Will do,” said Straight-Ahead. “Officers of the law are looking for you, Toby. You might check in with them.”

“No time,” I said. “I’ve got to figure out a way to find Alex.”

“No problem,” he said. “Merit Beason thinks he’s up in Room one-twelve right now. Checked in last Saturday. I did a double check on the registration book. Alex Tuster from Meridian, Mississippi. I checked Tuster’s room when he was out just on the name, nothing to lose, you know?”

“I know,” I said.

“Merit Beason found what may be one of the missing files from the safe in the desk. You want to come on over?”

“Toby Peters is on the way,” I said, and hung up.

When I reached the Alhambra, I knew something was different from the night before. Gone were the sailors and Olivia’s sisters in the profession. The place had been taken over by men and women in white pullover shirts, white shoes, and white pants. Straight-Ahead was at the entrance. A few new light bulbs had been put in the ceiling, probably to be removed when this group of starched characters departed.

“Health fiends,” Straight-Ahead explained as he motioned for me to follow him. “Three floors booked. Miracle Mineral Water all over the place. Guy over there has a booth in the ballroom. You buy ten gallons, you get one free.”

I caught snatches of conversation as I followed Straight-Ahead, who moved as always straight ahead to the elevator.

“Alkaline …” said a woman.

“Saline …” countered a man.

“Tried a glass,” said Straight-Ahead as I pushed past a pair of white even teeth surrounded by a woman who looked like a compact refrigerator. “Maybe it was imagination, but it made the bullet hole ache. Thought the stuff would come pouring out. Don’t recommend it.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

“Arthritis, acidosis, neuritis,” said a man on one side.

“No, high blood pressure, autointoxication, rheumatism,” echoed a woman on the other side.

“Magnesiac, antacid, diuretic,” came a third voice as we stepped into the elevator.

“Up?” asked a woman with teeth almost as white as the little refrigerator woman.

“Up,” I agreed. “Two.”

“These are self-service elevators,” Straight-Ahead said, turning his large body toward the woman, a rather small, straight-backed creature of no certain age, with short black hair and in uniform white.

“Dr. Miracle asked me to run the elevator as a service to the members,” she explained. “To keep track of where they are going and remind them that the convention is primarily in the first-floor boardroom. You two are not with us?”

“We’re not against you either,” I said.

“Merit Beason thinks you’d better not run the elevator,” Merit Beason said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Him,” I said, nodding at Straight-Ahead.

“Dr. Miracle—” she began.

“He can see Merit Beason,” Merit said. “The house security officer.”

We were at two and stepped off.

“Larchmonts might not like your disciplining the nonviolent paying guests,” I said.

“Tojo’s ass,” he said. “I’m getting too old for fools and fads. I have a feeling Merit Beason’s not long for the Alhambra.”

He found the right door, inserted his pass key, and stepped in.

“Your employers and I just had a short talk,” I said. “They’re worried about the files that Teddy and Alex took out of the safe Sunday. They are so worried that they want me to stay out of the whole thing, or two of their other employees named Lyle and Sutker will be sure that I stay out.”

“A pair of melons,” sighed Straight-Ahead, turning on the light. “No art to either one of them. They don’t seem—”

“A runaway barrage balloon was sent by God to rescue me from them tonight,” I said, looking around the small, obviously unoccupied room.

“Right,” said Straight-Ahead. “Heard it on the radio. Broke loose on the coast. Came to rest in Lynwood. Lots of danger. What a world.”

“What a world,” I agreed, as Straight-Ahead opened the drawer to the desk and pointed to an envelope. I picked it up, opened it, and read part of the contents.

“Son of—” I started.

“James Farley, John Nance Garner, Willie Randolph Hearst,” said Straight-Ahead. “You name ’em, the Larchmonts had ’em hooked. You’d think people like that would see through the phony fronts. They got less for their money than Dr. Miracle’s Mineral Water.”

“For a lot more per gallon,” I said. “Where are Alex’s things?”

“Gone,” said Straight-Ahead. “Nothing here but that envelope. Don’t ask why he left it. Oversight. Maybe a little teaser for us. Got a feeling that this is only the topsoil of what was in that safe.”

“Well, we’ll keep these and contribute some erosion,” I said. “No point in going over the place?”

“Merit Beason already did so,” he said. “From rolled up window shades to plumbing. Nothing else here. Did you get to the last page?”

I hadn’t. I flipped through the dozen or so stapled pages and found a handwritten note with John Wayne’s name repeated about thirty times. A third-rate cartoon of a gun in the left-hand margin was shooting a bullet at Wayne’s name. The bullet was moving. You could tell from the straight lines behind it indicating the retreating air.

“Merit Beason’s off at four in the morning and,” Straight-Ahead said, “will get himself down to Ward Bond’s house and keep an eye on Wayne and out for Alex. No real description on our Alex. Teddy checked him in. Clerk downstairs doesn’t remember him checking out. Ledger showed he paid cash. Guy who might have been him was seen checking out this morning. But it might not have been him.”

“I’ll take these,” I said, tucking the envelope under my arm.

“Okay with Merit Beason,” he said.

“Merit, I can keep an eye on Wayne in the morning. How about you getting some rest. You got shot three days ago, almost …”

“Time to rest when we’re under the ground,” he said. “People say Bat Masterson used to say that back in Kansas. Always thought he had a truth there. A job gets started, a job gets seen through to the end. You keep bulldogging Alex. Merit’ll watch your client’s back.”

I pulled out my wallet and counted off two twenties and handed them to Merit, who took them.

“Client money?” he said.

“The Duke’s,” I answered.

“Fair is fair,” he said, putting the two twenties in a wallet that looked as if it had been sewed by the Indians who greeted the first Pilgrims.

Someone screamed in the hall.

“Back to the front,” Straight-Ahead said, walking slowly to the door.

“Thanks, Merit,” I added.

His back was to me as he answered, “My business, too. Two murders in my domain and me an almost third. Finding our Alex is a mission.”

With that he went out, leaving me alone. I went over the contents of the envelope again, essentially a listing of people who had given the Larchmonts money for a variety of organizations, each one of which was listed after the investor or donor’s name, along with the amount donated or invested. Someone, probably Sydney Larchmont, had totaled the whole thing up on page three, exactly $214,327.68. Charlie Chaplin wasn’t even on the list of top contributors.