A woman opened the door to my knock. She had a good figure and maybe she’d be pretty when the swellings on her face went down and the ugly purple patches disappeared.
“What do you want?” she lisped through her swollen mouth.
“I’d like to see Albert Donato,” I said. I was about to show her my phony identification when Donato appeared behind her, wearing a scowl.
“If he’s sellin’ somethin’, get rid of him,” Donato said in his deep, gravel-coated voice.
“Hello, Al,” I said.
He stared at me, then he smiled with only half of his mouth. “Well! If it ain’t the private eye with the new face.” Chuckling, he walked to the door and pushed the woman aside. “Saw you on TV, Kent.”
“I figured you might have. I’d like to talk to you in private, Al.”
“Sure.” He looked at the woman, jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “Go for a walk, Rosie.”
Her right hand went up to her face. “I—I can’t be seen like this!”
“You should’ve thought about that last night. Out!”
She moved past me and went out the door.
“Bitch,” Donato said. “Went bowlin’ last night, but there was a fire in the bowlin’ alley and all the league matches were called off. So I come home. Rosie wasn’t here. I found her at a bar, all over a young guy. I gave him a backhander and dragged her home.”
“And beat the hell out of her,” I said.
“Well, she’s livin’ with me, ain’t she?”
“You haven’t changed a bit, Al.” And he hadn’t. He was in his late fifties but his stomach was still flat. He had a swarthy face that showed stubble immediately after a shave. There was a knife scar down his left cheek, a memento of his days in Harlem.
“Maybe I didn’t change,” Donato said, “but you sure did. Wouldn’t’ve known you if I didn’t spot you on TV the other night.” He moved closer, studied my face, ran a finger down his knife scar. “Them doctors did a real good job on you, Kent. Made you look ten, fifteen years younger. Drink?”
“Scotch on the rocks if you have it.”
“I got it all.”
Donato went behind a modernistic vinyl and chrome bar that clashed with the satin-upholstered furniture, which in turn clashed with the orange drapes and purple carpet. Two of the carved heads were in the room, standing on either side of the wide fireplace. Each was man-sized. According to the Metropolis Art Gallery’s books, Donato had also bought a four-foot high carving.
“Here you are, Kent.” Donato handed me my drink. “Here’s lookin’ at you.”
We drank.
“What brings you here, Kent?” Donato gave his one-side-of-the-face smile. “The murder case you’re investigatin’—you ain’t tryin’ to pin that on poor ole Albert Donato, are you?”
“Your name came up,” I said.
“I don’t see how. I didn’t even know the guy.”
“But you know his father ... don’t you, Al?”
Still wearing his grin, Donato eased himself onto a bar stool, smoothed out a wrinkle on his purple silk smoking jacket. “This is like one of them mystery shows on TV. Keep talkin’, Kent. I’m enjoyin’ this.”
I walked to the fireplace, rapped my knuckles against the side of one of the wooden faces. “Lester Williamson imports these from Colombia,” I said.
“That a fact?”
“It seems that Lester Williamson did some research on the Incas. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Incas, Al.”
“Saw a movie about ’em. First time they saw the Spaniards they thought they were gods. But all the Spaniards wanted was gold.”
“And precious stones,” I said. “Emeralds, diamonds, rubies. The Incas couldn’t hide much of their gold—too bulky—but they found a way to keep their most valuable precious stones out of Spanish hands. Know how they did it, Al?”
“I got no idea.”
“The Incas went in for totem poles. They’d pick a tree and cut it down. They’d remove the bark and then they’d cut the trunk to the length they wanted, say seven feet. They’d weather the wood for maybe six months and then they’d carve faces and birds and things. They’d add some paint and then they’d put up their totem pole.”
“What’s that got to do with diamonds?” Donato asked.
“One Inca priest found a way to hide precious stones inside the totem poles. When the wood was still green he cut out a core of wood, a cylinder of wood, from one end. He put the precious stones into the hole, cut off as much of the core as he had to, and slipped it back into the pole after coating it with resin and other stuff that would make it stick. When the wood weathered out there was no way of telling that the core had been removed. And that’s what’s happening in Colombia, Al. Lester Williamson has a carver who cuts out cores and sticks in dope. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of high-grade cocaine doesn’t take too much room. That much and more would fit nicely into a carved head smaller than these ... say a piece about four feet high. By the way, where is that carved head? You bought three from the Metropolis Gallery.”
“I gave it to a friend,” Donato said.
“I’m sure you won’t mind giving me his name and address.”
“His name is Joe Grandi.”
“And his address?”
“You got me there, Kent. He used to live here in Brooklyn but he moved out to the West Coast three or four weeks ago. If you want to see the other head, go look for Joe Grandi in California.”
“You destroyed it,” I said.
Donato laughed. “You’ve got to be crazy. Do you know how much I paid for that thing?”
“Seven hundred dollars.”
“Since when did I start throwin’ that kind of money away?”
“You had to. That piece of wood was evidence; it was used to smuggle in a lot of cocaine.”
“So why did I buy the other two?”
“You didn’t buy anything. Williamson gave you the money. And he probably gave you a lot more to handle the stuff. The way I see it, there’s some kind of identifying mark on each piece containing a secret compartment. You spotted the mark and bought the head, then you bought two more just in case you were investigated later ... as I’m doing now. You could always say you gave the odd piece to a friend. Al, I think maybe you’d better start talking. This isn’t just a dope handling charge, you know; it’s murder.”
Donato’s right hand came out of the pocket of his smoking jacket with a small, flat automatic in it.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I said.
“Kent, you took the words right out of my mouth. Get out of here—and don’t come back.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Why not? You’ve got nothin’ on me. Go to the cops if you want, I don’t care.”
I went. My car was parked down the street. Rosie was farther down the street, waving her arms at me. I drove to her, picked her up.
“Drive,” she said. “Get far enough away so we can talk.”
I drove five blocks before Rosie decided we’d gone far enough. I wheeled the Corvette into a parking slot, braked, turned to look at Rosie.
“I didn’t walk away from the house right away,” she said. “I stayed and listened to most of what you and Al said. I’ll fix that bastard for what he did to me! You want to know what happened to that other carved head?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He burned it in the fireplace. I walked in while he was doing it—he thought I was out shopping. He said he was getting rid of some junk. It was in pieces, but I could see it was that wooden thing. And I’ll tell you something else. Al’s in drugs. Get the son of a bitch and I’ll light a candle for you.” Rosie opened the door.
“Hold it a minute,” I said. “Who is Al working for?”
“Somebody named Williamson. That’s all I can tell you.” Rosie got out of the car and hurried away.
I drove off but I didn’t go back to the city. I killed some time in a bar about two blocks from Al Donato’s house and walked the rest of the way. A driveway that led to a garage ran alongside the house. High bushes shielded me from the front windows as I went around the back. I looked in two windows. The second was a bedroom window. Rosie sat in front of a dressing table working on her face. The bruisings and swellings had disappeared. I watched her for a while and went back to my car.