SHARON SIGHED and shook her head. “Now you know. And how innocent it was.”
“As it happened,” Joe qualified. “Lord, she looked stricken. I can’t mean that much to her, not in a few days. She’s dramatizing it.”
“Maybe. You with your jacket off and I in a robe, breakfast for two—what must the girl think of you?” Sharon paused. “And particularly right after I walked in on the same thing, yesterday. I can understand a tomcat like you, you see. Norah might not.”
“I’m not a tomcat, Miss Cassidy. I had some tomcat ideas last night, I’ll admit. But generally, I’m a real clean kid. Well, thanks for the breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.” She walked with him into the living-room. “Sorry things worked out as they did.”
He chucked her under the chin. “I’ll bet you are. See you.”
Outside, it was a bright, hot day without wind. He took Channel to the Coast Highway, and the bathers were already parked solidly along here.
At home, he took a hot shower and put on swimming trunks and went out to the patio. There, he connected up the record player and relaxed on a pad in the sun.
The remembrance of Norah’s scorn came to him, annoyed him, and disturbed him. Annoyed him, because it implied she had strings on him. And disturbed him because he liked her well enough to value her opinion of him.
She had come into Sharon’s place deliberately to spy, which wasn’t like her. And Sharon had brought her right back to the kitchen, which was like her. Joe smiled. That had been a nasty trick of Sharon’s, but he couldn’t hate the girl like the rest of them did. She was fighting her own battles, without allies. And without whimpering.
His doorbell rang, and he went around to the side of the house to call out, “I’m in the back. Come on back, whoever you are.”
It was Alan Dysart. He came along the stepping-stones of the side yard without looking up, watching his footing a little self-consciously, Joe thought.
When he came to the gate, he looked up, and his face was grimly serious.
“Are you alone?”
Joe opened the gate. “All alone. Something troubling you, Alan?”
“A number of things.”
“Come on in and let down your hair. Drink?” “I don’t drink.”
Joe indicated a redwood bench and sat down on the pad. “You should try it sometime. Great relaxing influence. You look all wound up.”
“I am. I’ve been accused of being a murderer and a Communist and practically a queer. And then I drive past Sharon’s and see your car there, early this morning, and—” He sat on the redwood bench, leaning forward, his young face taut. “God—”
“Some of the penalties of being artistic,” Joe consoled him. “Sharon and I did nothing wrong. Not that I owe you that explanation, but only to keep the record straight. You were kind of pinko in college, weren’t you?”
“Who wasn’t, in college? I’m a Democrat, now.”
“Well, to most of the local papers, that’s the same as being a Commie. Who called you queer?”
“Nobody directly. But the police had me before a psychiatrist and he kept bringing up the woman angle in what he probably thought was subtle interrogation.”
“That’s standard with artistic people,” Joe explained. “It’s a compliment, really.”
“Not to me. And there’s one thing more. How come Larry Puma doesn’t get any special attention from the police? He came late; his car was parked on the curve, right next to the slope, there. Larry’s never late for rehearsal.”
“Nobody’s being overlooked, Alan. I can guarantee you that. Are you sure you couldn’t use a beer? I could.”
“Oh, all right—I’m not a teetotaler, exactly. I just don’t believe in dulling what intelligence I have.”
“One beer won’t hurt it much. Drink it from the can?”
Alan nodded, and removed the horn-rimmed glasses. He bent forward over the table, cradling his head in his arms.
When Joe came out with the beer, Alan was sitting erect again, polishing his glasses with a piece of Kleenex. For a non-drinker, he took a healthy first swallow of beer.
Joe sat on the bench on the opposite side of the table. “I understand you’re the heir.”
“I’m not sure. Who told you? Sharon?”
Joe nodded. “About last night—we went out and had some liquor, and I had too much. Tangled with one of Sharon’s friends, and he did this to me.” Joe pointed toward his face. “Knocked me cold. I woke up on Sharon’s davenport this morning. That’s the word on that.”
Alan ran a finger along the crimped top of the beer can. “It wasn’t any of my business, anyway. I know what she is. It doesn’t stop the way I feel about her, but I should know enough not to expect better treatment.”
“She’s for you, eh?”
The youth nodded. “She is. I fixed up that date with my uncle for her, too. Sharon uses me. She uses everybody.”
“But you still love her?”
Alan nodded, and took another sip of beer. “That’s not very bright, is it?”
“Brighter men have had softer spots. What have you got against Larry Puma?”
Alan looked up quickly. “Not a damned thing. I wasn’t speaking maliciously. The point I was trying to make was that Larry had just as good a chance as I did to kill my uncle. And yet he went out with you and Norah, that night, even before the police had finished investigating.”
“It was the mud on your shoes, for one thing,” Joe explained. “And you were related and you had to sound off. Nobody likes a loud-mouth.”
“No cop, you mean, if you’ll pardon the frankness.”
“If you’ll pardon this frankness—if I were back behind the badge, and you sounded off like you did, I’d have done exactly as Sergeant Krivick did. Who else had a motive?”
“I don’t know. My uncle had enemies, plenty of them. He helped to clean out the Reds in two of the Guilds out here. He was an active man and opinionated.” Alan took a breath. “And rich.”
Joe smiled at him. “Another beer? You killed that one in a hurry.”
Alan managed a smile of his own. “Okay. You’re not such a bad guy.”
“We rich bastards have to stick together,” Joe said. “Soon as you get the estate, you’ll be voting Republican, too. What country club you going to join?”
“If I’m the heir,” Alan said, “I know exactly what I’m going to do with part of the money.”
“I’ll get the beer,” Joe said. “You can tell me about it when I come back.”
He came back with the beer and sat down to a one-hour monologue on the function of truly experimental theater in the current commercial world. Joe understood very little of it, though Alan was plainly trying to phrase it in layman’s terms. It still wasn’t boring; the intensity of Alan’s clear dedication came through better than the words.
When he finally paused for breath, Joe asked, “And you want to establish it out here?”
Alan nodded. “In that house the Players always talk about buying. It would convert beautifully.”
“And where will your audience come from? You say only one person in a thousand would appreciate this kind of theater. That gives you an audience of seven people from the Palisades.”
Alan took off his glasses as though about to make some important pronouncement. Only his intensity saved the next words from sounding like a pompous absurdity. “If it’s as good as I plan it to be, I intend to draw my audience from all of Southern California.”
Joe thought of Leonard Smith at that moment, bright, fat little Leonard who wanted to make some small sound before he died. Alan and Leonard, brothers under the skin.
And the rest of them, what motivated them? Working all day, rehear ing all night, receiving not one cent in compensation. Working for a clap of the hand, for a laugh or an appreciative audience murmur? Or something beyond that? Or only infantile exhibitionism?
This wasn’t the only area where they struggled or flourished. There wasn’t a state in the union that didn’t have its quota of amateur theaters. Bright spots in the dark night, interpreting or dulling life, offering barbs or barbiturates, according to the audiences and the aims of each group.
From the bicycle act to the Bard, they were brothers and sisters with one goal—communication with the people at whatever level they could share.
Alan said, “You’re mighty quiet. Digesting my polemics?”
Joe stood up. “No. I was thinking of Leonard Smith. He told me he wanted to make some small sound before he died. I was thinking your world is a world of small sounds.”
Alan’s thin nose twitched and he looked at Joe thoughtfully. “That wasn’t bad for a stinking cop. I like that.”
“Thanks. How would you go for an omelette? I’m pretty good at making omelettes.”
“I’d like one, thank you.”
“And one thing more,” Joe said. “The way you feel about the theater, that’s the way I feel about cops. So kind of lay off the cracks, right?”
Alan was quiet a moment. Then: “Right. I’m sorry, Joe. Right.”
They were eating when the phone rang. It was Jessup, the cop and part-time realtor. His voice was complaining. “Who’s that dame you got climbing in my hair, Joe, this Payne woman?”
“A realtor with a sense of justice,” Joe told him. “What’s your beef?”
“She threatens to send me up in front of the Board. I don’t get it, Joe.”
“I could do worse than that,” Joe told him. “I could bring you up in front of the Commission. Or come down and kick your fat face in. I hate a crooked cop, Jessup, even after working hours.”
“All right. No need to get hot. I’ll send you a check. This isn’t the first time this has happened out there, Joe.”
“It’s the first time it’s happened to me,” Joe said, and hung up.
Back in the kitchen, Alan was smiling. “If you’ll pardon the cliché, I couldn’t help but overhear. Didn’t you call him a ‘crooked cop’? Are there such things?” Behind his glasses, his eyes were mocking.
“There are crooked cops,” Joe admitted. “And crooked lawyers and doctors and actors and priests. Next question?”
“You’ve answered them all. Well, I’ve got to run. I enjoyed talking to you, Joe.”
“I enjoyed listening. You’ll be hanging around the Players, I suppose, as long as Sharon is?”
“I suppose. And you?”
“She’s nothing to me,” Joe said. “Yet.”
“I hope she never is,” Alan said earnestly. “For your sake, and mine.”
Joe went back out to the patio and the pad. It seemed quieter than it had before Alan came but he couldn’t relax. He listened to the record player for a while, and then went in and phoned the Point Realty Company.
Norah was in the office, and he told her, “I wanted to thank you for getting after Jessup. He just phoned.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice cold.
“It’s a nice day,” Joe went on. “The beach would be warm.”
“I’m sure it would. Was there anything else, Mr. Burke?”
“Yes. Nothing happened last night. Nothing, except for a fight.”
The line went dead.
Women. … He picked up a robe and went out to the car. He drove down to the Santa Monica beach, and it was well populated with figures to please any taste. He couldn’t shake his mind from thoughts of Norah.
I’m lonely, he told himself, that’s all. No woman could mean this much to me in this short a time if I wasn’t lonely. I haven’t learned how to loaf.
He was close to “Muscle Beach” and he could see the over-developed muscular freaks posturing and tumbling, doing handstands and flips or just standing in statuesque poses. Some of them were wrestlers, some beach bums, all of them were ugly with bunched muscle. All of them had a vacuum between the ears.
And yet there were girls watching and applauding, girls as rounded and shapely as the men were bunched and ugly. Women….
Woman. Norah, to be explicit. The three-year virgin. The real estate and doughnut seller, painter, amateur actress, set designer. The girl who wouldn’t go back to Cedar Rapids.
To hell with Norah.
The girls giggled, the muscle-bound freaks cavorted. The sun burned his back and he turned over, draping a towel over his eyes.
He dozed and dreamed of Sharon alone on a stage, doing a dance that somehow involved a snake. And then the muscle boys were in it, throwing her around like a beach ball. And then, in mid-air, Sharon changed into Norah and he charged in to protest, and one of them threw a handful of sand in his face.
Joe wakened, spitting sand, and saw one of the beach boys bending over to retrieve a ball near by.
Joe sat up and said, “Haven’t you freaks got enough beach to play on?”
The man was burned by the sun to a rich brown and his body was muscled right down to his big toes. He held the ball lightly in his finger tips and considered Joe impersonally.
“There are others on the beach, you know,” Joe went on. “Normal people.”
The beach bum smiled easily. “By the looks of your face, you’ve had enough trouble for one day, major. Simmer down, eh?”
Joe stood up. “I don’t think you’re man enough to give me any trouble.”
For seconds the man considered Joe’s two hundred pounds. Then he said, “You might be right, at that. Sorry, major.” He went away.
Next to Joe, a hennaed woman said, “He’s just too much of a gentleman to fight with you, sourpuss. You’re lucky he is.”
Joe looked at the woman and she glared at him.
Joe picked up his towel and slid into his shoes.
The pseudo-redhead said, “Good riddance, sorehead. Don’t hurry back.”
Joe smiled at her. “You can stop screaming now. The bum can’t hear you. And if he could, it probably wouldn’t do you any good. I don’t think he’s got the three dollars.”
He left her with her mouth open.
By the time she had regained her voice, he was out of understandable range, though her shrieks were audible. Women….
The Chrysler murmured at him, the sun was warm. The sky was blue and clear, the ocean flecked with white. And he was sour. Rich and single and sour; it didn’t add.
He went home and dressed and then drove to the playground. Once again he went over the scene from the incinerator to the curved parking area.
He came up to the patio and heard the sound of hammers, and went in through the kitchen to the prop room. Peter Delahunt and Leonard Smith were in there working with saw and hammer.
“Where the hell have you been?” Smith asked him. “We phoned you three times.”
“At the beach. Are these the risers?”
“No. Platforms. We have to use our own money. C’mon, you’re just the right size to saw some of these two-by-sixes.”
They finished a little before six. Pete went home for dinner. Leonard asked Joe, “Any plans for dinner? I’d like a steak.”
They washed at the clubhouse and drove over in Joe’s car to Ned’s Grille in the Santa Monica Canyon. Ned had steaks for all purses.
Over their pre-dinner drink, Leonard said, “What brought you to the clubhouse? Not that you didn’t come at the right time, of course.”
“The murder,” Joe said. “There’s something that bothers me about it, something I should see, but don’t.”
“You never left the Force, huh?” Leonard said. “Like an old fire horse.”
“I suppose. I’m going to work on it. This loafing is something I can’t handle right yet. I don’t know why it is, but I sure hate an unsolved murder.”
“There must be thousands of them.” Leonard finished his drink. “Including some that are officially solved.”
“Sure. But these tricky ones should be easy. This one looked planned and they’re the ones that are usually loaded with leads.”
Leonard started to say something and stopped. Joe looked at him curiously.
Leonard smiled. “All right. I’m no informer, but I saw young Dysart rummaging through the incinerator this morning. It probably doesn’t mean anything.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, I was driving by on Alma. He’s the Department’s favorite, isn’t he?”
“I guess. I’m not sure. He was over to see me this morning. The more I see of him, the less I dislike him. They gave him a bad time, down at the station, I guess. But his uncle’s lawyers are working for him now, so they must know he’s the heir.”
“I thought he might be. A lot of people seem to think that Bruce Dysart hated his nephew as much as his nephew disliked him. That, I happen to know, isn’t true. Alan is what Bruce would have been if Bruce hadn’t happened to have a great love for the dollar. Alan’s completely uncompromising. Bruce wasn’t.”
“Then Alan might guess he was the heir.”
Smith frowned. “I wasn’t trying to put that construction on my remarks. But I’m sure he knew it.”
Joe smiled at Smith. “Okay, Leonard, you’ve sold me. I’ll pick him up in the morning.”
“You go to hell,” Smith said. “I—kind of like him, too. Though I admit I’m glad the police have somebody besides me they’re suspicious of.”
There was a rehearsal that night, and Joe went over with Smith. From the clubhouse office, he phoned Krivick at his home.
“I wondered if you’d found the slug,” Joe asked him.
“We did. All luck, too. It was in the trunk of that eucalyptus tree on top of the slope.”
“Then the shot was fired from below. And at quite an angle. What caliber?”
“Thirty-two. You working on this, Joe?”
“I can’t seem to stay out of it. I’d have figured a bigger caliber than that. Ballistics make anything of it?”
“No, it was too battered. You going to be home tonight?”
“No. I’m phoning from the clubhouse. I’ll be here. There’s a rehearsal tonight.”
“Fine. I’ll be over. Wait for me there. That Cassidy doll will be there, won’t she?”
“Yup.”
“Great.”
Joe turned from the phone to find Larry Puma standing near one of the desks in the room. Larry said, “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Had a call to make.”
Joe smiled. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Larry. I’m not the law.”
“You were giving a good imitation of it.” Larry went past him and began to dial a number.
In the auditorium, a couple of kids were practicing from the free throw line. Smith and Sharon and Walter Hamilton were talking in a little group over near the stage.
Outside, that dry, gusty Santa Ana was starting up again. Joe glanced into the kitchen as he went past, but it was dark.
As he joined the group, Sharon made a face at him. “I’ve been telling them about last night before Norah got a chance to. They don’t want to believe we’re innocent.”
Smith said, “That’s what happened to your face. You certainly pack a wallop, Sharon.”
Joe could feel himself blushing as they all looked at him. He said, “As long as Norah isn’t here, I’ll start the coffee.” He could hear them laugh as he headed for the kitchen.
He was alone in the kitchen, reading the Times, when Krivick came. Joe looked up and gestured toward a chair. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee. You look tired, Sergeant.”
“I’ve been giving this stinking case eighteen hours a day.” Krivick slumped into a chair at one end of the table. “That Cassidy girl has some history.”
Joe was at the stove, pouring the coffee. “I’ll bet.” He turned to find the sergeant watching him closely.
Then Krivick said, “You know her, don’t you? Spent last night with her. Had a fight, too, at the Shalimar, didn’t you?”
Joe shook his head. “The other guy had the fight. You’ve got a man on me, Sergeant?”
Krivick shook his head. “I’ve been hearing things. Did you know that Cassidy girl was bedded down with Lonnie Goetz for almost two years?”
Joe stared at the sergeant, the cup of coffee motionless in his hand. “Lonnie Goetz? That gun of Brennan’s? That—little monster?”
“The same. And there’s a rumor that he’s been seen around town in the last couple months. Maybe he did a job for her, right?”
Joe set the cup of coffee in front of the sergeant and went to get himself one. “I thought he was dead. I’ve forgotten the details, but I remember reading something—”
“Look at me, Joe.”
Joe turned from the stove to face the sergeant.
Krivick’s voice was low. “You wouldn’t cover for the broad? She was here, in this room, at the time?”
“I wouldn’t cover, Ernie. You know damned well I wouldn’t. And neither would the others. None of them like her.”
“Okay, then we look for Lonnie. I know what you read, that he’d been killed in an air liner crash. But half the bodies were never identified, and his was one of them.” Krivick expelled his breath. “It was a long time ago she was shacked up with him. She was just fifteen when she moved in.”
Joe shuddered. “The poor damned kid. Ernie, what did you know at fifteen?”
“I knew about violation of the marriage bed. My folks taught me that, and the church.”
“But who taught her?”
“I guess nobody, huh? What are you, a bleeder? You sure stopped being a cop awful damned fast.” Krivick ran a finger tip around the edge of the coffee cup. “Or maybe you’re soft on the doll?”
“Maybe I’m soft on all kids fifteen years old. And you should be, if you’re fit to wear the badge.”
“You’re talking like the Daily News, Joe. Save that crap for the women’s clubs. A real big man’s been murdered.”
“Sure, and the Times is on your neck.”
For seconds there was no dialogue, and then Joe grinned. “I’ll apologize if you will.”
“All right, you son-of-a-bitch. Watch your tongue, though. Remember when you had to work for a living.”
“I’m sorry. Ernie, if I had a brother and he was a murderer, I’d bring him in, even now, off the Force.”
“Okay, okay. I watch Dragnet, too. But about this plane crash, a few bucks in the right places could change one name on the passenger list, couldn’t it? It was just a break, you know. Things were getting hot for Lonnie at the time and he might have wanted to hide in town. The passenger list could have been gimmicked before the accident, to make it look like he was simply leaving town. Or it could have been gimmicked after the accident, to make it look like he was dead.”
Joe frowned. “I’d say it would be damned near impossible after the accident. He wouldn’t hear about it until long after the papers did, and they’d want the passenger list immediately. How good is this rumor about Lonnie being around town lately?”
“It’s a little more than a rumor. A pigeon who’s been right more often than wrong.”
“Do I know him?”
Krivick shook his head.
“How about flight insurance? Most passengers take that.”
“At twenty-five cents for five thousand dollars? Who wouldn’t? All but two on this flight did. One of the two was Lonnie.”
Joe looked past the sergeant, toward the patio where the kids were playing table tennis. He said, “Sharon ought to be out here any minute.”
“I’ll wait. How about this young Dysart? Know him well?”
“Not too well. He was over at my house this morning moaning about the way you boys treated him. I like him better than I did at first.”
“Pinko, isn’t he? One of those intellectual red-hots?”
“I don’t know. I guess he was, in college. How can a man tell these days? Young men with any guts are always radical. And suckers for false fronts. The kid claims to be a Democrat now and maybe he is.”
“Not my kind of Democrat,” Krivick said, “and I’ve been one all my life.”
“And I’ve voted Republican all my adult life,” Joe told him, “and still there are fascists in my party I’d love to read obituaries on. By the American Legion standards, that makes me a Commie, too.”
“Not by my standards. Between working for Wallace and fighting fascism, there’s a wide stretch of ground, Joe.”
Joe shrugged and sipped his coffee. From the stage came the muffled sounds of the players.
Sergeant Krivick was leafing through a notebook. “How about this Norah Payne? She here tonight?”
Joe shook his head.
“Puma?”
Joe nodded.
Krivick held the book open to that page. “I understand that night was the first time he’s ever been late for rehearsal.”
“From Alan Dysart, you understand that. Alan told me that same thing.”
“So, you believe him, don’t you? You like him more than you used to. He’s an honest kid, isn’t he?”
“He’s no kid and I don’t know if he’s honest or not. I think he might be too honest for his own good, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Neither would I. Well, to get back to Puma, do you happen to know where he parked his car that night?”
Joe thought back to the night he and Larry and Norah had left. Larry had taken his car to the Melody Club; where had it been parked? And then he remembered.
He said, “It was parked on the bend, right near the corner of the building. And that seems strange.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s about the favorite parking spot, and it should have been filled by the time Larry got here.” “Uh-huh. If he got here late.”
“If he didn’t, you’d have learned it by now,” Joe thought aloud. “Because the others who came after him would have noticed his car.”
“A ‘46 Ford Tudor? There were three cars here that night close enough to the model to be mistaken for it. Ford didn’t change much from ‘41 to ‘48, you know. You’re sure the car was parked there?”
“I’m sure. I followed him over to Santa Monica.”
Krivick asked, “Get the angle I’m working on?”
Joe nodded. “I thought of it myself. Shoot Dysart, dump the gun in the car, and then come in the front door, as though you just arrived.”
“Mmmm-hmm. We checked the cars, but we didn’t lift the seats, or anything.”
“And motive?” Joe asked.
“Oh, yes. Nothing, so far. Two had motive, Alan Dysart and this Cassidy dame. But anybody could have. This could be a political kill, too, you know, Joe. Bruce Dysart was a hard worker against all the Commies in the industry. He had a fine record on that. And he was a powerful man in the business.”
“I know. And today Leonard Smith told me something else. He claims Bruce Dysart liked his nephew a lot better than his nephew liked him. Alan could have known that he was the heir.”
“I knew that.”
Joe asked, “More coffee?”
“I could use some.”
At the stove, Joe said, “Are you going to give it to the papers, about Sharon and Lonnie Goetz?”
A few seconds of silence, and then Krivick said, “No.”
Joe brought over the cup. “Going soft, Ernie?”
“No. I like kids, too. I’m not like you; I don’t make speeches about it. But I’ve been active in the Scouts for fourteen years.”
Joe coughed. “I—uh—I—”
“You’re a professional bleeding heart,” Krivick said. “The only thing that keeps me from laughing out loud is your record with the Department.”
“You checked that, too, Ernie?”
“Right. When are those uncured hams going to be finished in there?”
“I’ll go and find out,” Joe said.
But at that moment, Sharon came through the doorway from the prop room.
Joe said, “The sergeant would like to talk to you, Sharon.”
She looked from him to the sergeant and back at Joe. “It’s not mutual.”
Krivick said, “About Lonnie Goetz I’d like to talk, Miss Cassidy. If you don’t mind.”
Again Sharon’s glance traveled between them and there was something close to panic in her eyes.
Joe said, “I’ll take some coffee out for the others. I’ll keep them in the prop room.”
“You can stay, if you want,” Krivick said.
“I don’t want to,” Joe told him. “I don’t think it’s any of my business.”
Sharon was still standing stiffly near the doorway, staring at the sergeant when Joe went out with the coffeepot and a carton of paper cups.
He closed the door behind him.