CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

 

Twelve hours later, pale golden sunlight filling my bedroom, I woke from deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of birds chirping and neighbors arguing about how someone’s business meeting could not possibly have lasted until four in the morning. Apparently, having two fights and nearly being killed was a marvelous soporific. I doubted, though, that it would replace Seconal.

I yawned, stretched, sighed, decided I felt like a million bucks. Well, maybe six ninety-five, but that was still more than the plugged nickel I would’ve given for my chances, twenty-four hours before.

I got up, showered, brushed my teeth, shaved, slapped on some bay rum, slicked back my fringe of hair, and flashed a big grin into the mirror. Bad idea. I looked like a happy buzzard.

I made a big pot of Mexican coffee with cinnamon and cloves, and put together a croque monsieur, a kind of grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich that’s been a favorite of mine since my days in Paris. I gobbled down one, found I was still ravenous, and ate a second. The way I felt, I could’ve continued on and probably devoured my kitchen, but I figured I’d better get down to it.

I poured some more coffee, and lit another of my Cuban cigars. Being alive this morning seemed a sufficiently special occasion. I pulled the telephone over and spent the next two hours making calls.

Sal had buried himself behind so many layers and veils that he was as good as invisible, the hidden puppetmaster. But the puppeteer has to pull strings, and every once in a while you can catch a glimpse of them. If you can follow them up, you might get to the manipulator himself.

I only had two links, two lines to go on—the guy who sapped me at the phony ransom drop, and the limousine. I figured they had both been hired. If I could get onto them, maybe—just maybe—they’d point me to Sal. It was pretty tenuous—lines as fine and flimsy as spider’s silk— but it was all I had.

To look into the first of these, I again contacted my favorite geriatric bookie, Barbara Twill. Babs wasn’t surprised by my call; said that after my visit she asked around a little about me and heard some curious stuff. Said she was expecting I’d be in touch. That was one sharp lady. I knew there was no point trying to dance around her, so for the first time I gave her the whole story.

After finding out about her ancient connection with Sal, I had some hesitation about telling her he was still alive, but I needn’t have worried. She just grunted at the news. Nor did she react much to the rest of it. Didn’t laugh, or whoop with disbelief, or offer meaningless after-the-fact advice. For all of which I was very grateful. That was the mark of a real friend—someone who didn’t feel it was necessary to discuss at length the foolishness of which you were already well aware. Instead, she merely asked what I wanted her to do. What a swell old dame.

I told her that I figured that the goon who had hit me had been hired for that specific task, as opposed to being a partner; that after his experience with his grandson, Sal probably wouldn’t trust anyone for anything.

“You mean, except for you,” She laughed.

“Yeah, right.”

Babs thought about it and agreed with my assumption, but pointed out that there was tons of muscle in this town, amateur and pro, and that there was enough work to keep a lot of them busy a lot of the time. Finding the one who’d done a particular job was, at best, a long shot. Still, she’d put the word out. The one thing in our favor, she said, was that the employer and the circumstances were sufficiently unusual that there might’ve been some conversation about it.

Her last remark to me was to watch out. “The word is that there’ve been a few guys who crossed Tony New—”

“Yeah?”

“And they’re now fertilizing truck farms around Fresno.”

“I didn’t realize the kid was into recycling.”

“It’s not funny, Jake.”

“Yeah, I know, but don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.”

She snorted, told me to be careful, then hung up.

I stared at the phone, trying not to think of central California lettuce fields. It was all taken care of, I told myself, and got out the Yellow Pages.

In a way, the question of the limousine was less straightforward than that of the hired thug. There were four pages’ of rental agencies in the phone book, but that was only a nuisance. The real problem was that in order to get the information I wanted, I figured I needed more than just a description of Sal and the date the limo was hired. To sound sufficiently plausible, I should also have a name.

I only had one name—Harry Winchester, the person unaccounted for in the rooming-house fire. No question; it was a tremendous long shot. On the other hand, Sal would’ve needed a new identity when he disappeared. And since Winchester’s remains were found in Sal’s room, it was not completely unreasonable to assume Sal knew that that identity was available. Whether he kept using it or not was another matter. In any event, however thin it was, asking after a Mr. Winchester was better than my other option, which was picking a name at random and trying to talk around it.

I started calling, attempting to sound like I was looking for a haystack rather than a needle. With every call I said that on such-and-such a date, a Mr. Harry Winchester had hired a chauffeur-driven car from their agency, and that I was trying to locate him. I then proceeded with a story about a lost wallet, or that Mr. Winchester had witnessed an accident, or that I had business dealings with the gentleman but had stupidly misplaced his address—whichever line felt best at the moment. Everyone was sorry, but they thought I must have made a mistake. I asked if they were sure, and described Mr. Winchester, but they again regretted they could be of no service. All very courteous. All dead ends.

I was beginning to have my doubts about pursuing this line, when the eighteenth call paid off. Yes, the Royal Livery Service told me, Mr. Winchester had hired a car on the day in question. Only considerable restraint kept me from hooting victoriously. Oh, Spanner, this is your day; you are on one hell of a roll. But, the cultured voice went on, company policy prohibited releasing any information about their clients without prior consent.

We talked about it for a while but I got nowhere. Then I said I’d come down so we could discuss it in person. I was welcome to, but I was told it would make no difference.

Don’t be too sure of that, I thought as I thanked him and hung up.

I paced through the house a couple of times, convincing myself that I was not abusing a friendship, then called O’Brien. I wasn’t surprised that he was pissed off at me when I told him about my adventures, but I was struck by the vehemence of his reaction. He sounded genuinely hurt that I had excluded him, especially after I had promised he’d be in all the way.

“Look,” I finally said, “be reasonable. Don’t be upset because you were left out of a very messy situation.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“I know that. Anyway, as it turned out, I had no control over it. It just happened.”

“Don’t shit me, Jake. Even if you’d had the choice, you would’ve kept me out.”

I sighed. “Yeah, okay. I would’ve.”

“Yeah, you would’ve. ‘Cause you’re selfish.”

Selfish. What the hell was he thinking about? That it was so much fun playing with Tony New that I wanted to keep it all to myself? Shit. O’Bee was acting very strange.

“Listen, just because I don’t think anyone else’s neck should go on the block with mine is no reason to—”

“No. It’s because I—” He broke off. “Aw, forget it.”

There was silence for a long thirty seconds before spoke. “You want to do something, I got something for you to do. That’s why I’m calling.”

There was another long pause, then he said, “You bastard,” and started cursing me. I felt better. Everything was back to normal.

When he stopped for a breath, I told him to put on his most disreputable-looking clothes, and that I’d pick him up in about half an hour. He was well launched into another assault as I hung up.

I put on a starched white shirt, knit tie, and the dark blue suit that I saved for funerals. I hadn’t worn it for quite a while. Not because friends had stopped dying but because a few years before, I had realized that the dominant activity in my life had become watching people get buried, and I had decided that I’d go to only one more funeral.

I was almost out the door when the phone rang and I found out that I might not have that long to wait.

“Jesus, Spanner, I thought you’d never get off the phone. I was just about to send someone over.” It was Nicholson.

“What’s up, Sergeant?”

My number, apparently. Luck was still running with me, but it had turned rotten. The national debt had been paid off. In short, Tony New had made bail.

“I thought it was all taken care of,” I said. Yeah, and Mrs. Bernstein enrolled in a cordon bleu class.

Nicholson, to be fair, was genuinely embarrassed and apologetic and angry. He was also pretty worried. “Novallo’s still acting real weird. I think he’s gone around the bend so many times he’s running circles. I tell you, it’s kind of scary. When he was checked out, there was an old guy sitting on the bench, just sitting there, not doing anything. Tony spotted him and ran over and started screaming ‘Fucking old men! Fucking old men!’ His lawyer had to literally pull him away.”

I made some kind of sound in acknowledgment.

I heard Nicholson sigh. “I think he’s liable to come after you. There’s a lot of talk about what he’s done to guys that crossed him.”

“So I’ve heard. What do you suggest?”

“We’ll give you protection. Twenty-four hours. He wont get near you.”

I thought about it, then thanked Nicholson but refused. If the kid wanted me and was really crazy, the cops wouldn’t deter him a second. If the kid wanted me and wasn’t so crazy, he’d wait until the guard was lifted, which it would be before very long. Either way, the result was the same. That’s what I told Nicholson. What I didn’t tell him was that full-time protection would kind of get in the way of my search for Sal.

Nicholson tried to get me to change my mind. I wouldn’t. After I agreed several times that I was a damn stubborn old fool, he gave it up. “Okay, Spanner. I’ll save my breath. It’s your funeral. I just don’t want to go to it.” It sounded like he really meant it. Hell, he wasn’t so tough.

I left the house, not quite as chipper as I’d been. Outside, my innocent little neighborhood suddenly seemed sinister, oppressive, an assassin in every shadow, a sniper behind every bush.

I went back inside. I got my old Browning out of the closet, checked the load, then went to my car and put it in the glove compartment.

Funny. It didn’t help my uneasy feeling.

As I drove away, I remembered it never had.