James Gabriel - Jake Thorne 01 - Dead is Dead, page 3
part #1 of Jake Thorne Series
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about that. Is there another way out?”
He hesitates a second, looking worried. Then self-preservation kicks in.
“Follow me,” he says and he’s off at a quick trot. We go through a door at the back of the library into a butler’s pantry and then a hallway. That leads to a back door. Langston puts his ear to door like a man cracking a safe, then swings it open and we’re through. It’s a gravel area outside, surrounded by a wooden fence. One end is lined with garbage cans. We keep going through a wooden gate into service ally behind the house. It’s dark here. Langston’s whispering out of the side of his mouth, telling me about this beach house, friend of his in Malibu, he’ll hole up there a few days, let this thing blow over.
I know different.
I want him under wraps all right, but not where he thinks. The problem is that he won’t want to go where I’m going to take him, and he’s jacked up enough to make a scene. Luckily, I’ve got a solution in my pocket. From behind I whisper urgently: “Hold it, Cliff, don’t move!” He freezes mid-stride like there’s a rattler in the bushes. His voice rises as he bites off the words one at a time: “Don’t call me Cli..” But that’s as far as he gets before I cold cock him.
I carry a lead sap, a few ounces of metal inside a black leather sleeve. It saved my ass lots of times when I was in the shore patrol, cleaning sailors out of bars in Olongapo. I swing it now and hit him just below the temple, the contact sending a shiver down my arm like when you’re a kid and connect with a fastball on the sweet spot. He falls into some bushes.
I mean to hit him just hard enough to do the job, with maybe a little extra kick for his sins. But I hit him harder than that �� so hard that it scares me a little, and I lean over to check his breathing. He seems to be managing alright, but even in the dim light I can see a mouse the color of eggplant rising on his cheek.
Did I have to hit him? That’s what Carnesi’s going to ask. The real answer is, no. I didn’t have to hit him. At least, not like that. He wasn’t about to give me any real trouble, and if he had, a quick backhand would have settled his hash. So why did I sap him down?
Old scores. That’s the truth. I told you I had history with the guy. But I’ll have to think of better story before I talk with Lou.
I leave Langston propped against the fence, walk down the alley and out on the street. The Caddy’s parked where I left it. A couple of cops are lounging around, smoking and chewing the rag. I give them the high sign, they give me a wave and I’m in the car. Nobody yells ‘stop’ when I turn up the ally.
Langston’s mumbling to himself when we pull up to a guard shack in front of a fancy wrought iron gate. On either side of the gate, a high hedge stretches out into the night. There’s no sign to tell you what’s behind the hedge. The inmates would rather you didn’t know. A couple of spotlights switch on from the top of the guardhouse, glaring in my eyes. A guard in a pretend uniform leans out his little window and sees it’s me. He ducks back inside, the lights go out and the metal gate rolls out of the way.
As I drive in, I glance at the back seat. Langston’s awake staring up at the stars and looking confused. The mouse is bigger, making his head a little lopsided. I feel a surge of satisfaction.
There’s no one to meet us when we pull under the portico in front of swinging glass doors, so I haul Langston out by his satin lapels, put his arm around my shoulder and we shamble in like the losing team in a three-legged race.
If you’re important to the Studio and your sins have found you out, you end up here. It’s a clinic and sanatorium all in one. There are nice rooms overlooking the courtyard with fresh flowers every morning, and other rooms, in the back, with floor drains and rubber wallpaper. The boss has a major piece of the place, and I do a lot of business here, so there’s no questions asked as a couple of orderlies take Langston off my hands and half-drag him through another set of swinging doors and out of sight.
Connie Martinez is at the desk. She’s a pretty lady in her early 30’s, slim with dark brown hair and little crinkles by her eyes when she smiles. We’ve been circling each other for a couple of months now.
“Making your nightly delivery, I see,” she says as I walk back over to the reception desk. “Any more in the truck?”
“Just one package tonight.” I lean elbows on the desk and smile back at her, wondering, as I always do, whether she’s just being friendly. She puts her coffee down and picks up a pen.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Broke his crown.”
“What happened to Jill?”
“I don’t think he goes for Jills.”
“I see.” She pretends to write that down. “Is he allergic to any drugs?”
“He’s spent a lifetime trying to find out.”
She laughs. “We’ll check him out. What name should I use? Something new, please. We have too many Doe’s already.”
I think a minute. “How about Cornelius Sweeney, Jr.?”
She laughs again. “Is there a Cornelius Sweeney Senior?”
“Chief of mine in the Navy – big hairy guy, mean as a snake. Called him ape neck behind his back, but told the new guys he liked the name Cornelius. Took a lot of casualties that way.” She laughs again. She’s humoring me.
“Just between us, does our patient have a real name?”
“It’s Clifford Langston.”
“Oh, sure. I know him. He’s a regular. Didn’t recognize him with his mug rearranged like that. What did he do?”
“Jaywalked.”
“So you let him off easy.”
We’re eyeing each other. It’s my move. But before I can decide to make it, a tall man comes out of the examining room and heads in our direction. He’s dressed in white lab coat over plaid pajama bottoms, shuffling along in leather house slippers with the heels stuck out at an angle. He doesn’t look happy. Dr. Zachariah Berrigan runs this place and lives in a bungalow on the grounds. I know he has a standing order with the nurses to be called whenever I show up. Where I’m concerned, he likes to keep tabs. He beckons me across the polished linoleum to an empty waiting room. I smile ruefully at Connie, who’s pretending to look down at some papers, but smiling to herself.
“You did quite a job on this one, my friend,” Berrigan says when we’re alone. “A little more wrist in that shot and we would have sent him out of here in an urn.”
“Who said I hit him?” He stands back a little and looks at me.
“Now that you mention it, nobody. Except him, that is. And who’s going to believe a junky with a cracked head? So what did he do?”
“Missed bed check.”
“He wasn’t going to do much sleeping anyway, wired as he was. We about had to club him again to get him sedated.”
“So?”
“So he’s in there babbling about a dead girl, about how he’s guilty — how we’re all guilty. Very philosophical. Me, I’m putting things together. Raving hop head, dead girl, Jake Thorne — red light! You wanna fill me in?”
“Tell you what, Doc,” I say. “Let me make a phone call, we’ll get this thing straightened out.”
That’s OK with him, so I walk back to Connie’s desk. She’s off somewhere, but I lift the phone from behind the counter and dial Lou Carnesi. I get the night lady again, and give the number penciled in the center of the dial. This time it’s thirty seconds before Lou calls me back. Behind me, Berrigan’s craning his neck a little to hear what I have to say.
“What”? Lou’s voice is not happy. There’s snoring in the background, which must be Mrs. Lou, a moneyed lady he married thirty years ago when she probably looked less like W.C. Fields than she does now. I tell him what’s happened, keeping it short, explaining about keeping Langston away from the police and the press. I tell him about Langston’s babbling, and the fact that Berrigan is getting antsy.
“Was the dead girl one of ours?” He means somebody from the Studio.
“Langston says so. A contract girl.”
“What’s the name?” That brings me up short. I don’t know her name, and that’s what I tell him. “Jesus,” he says. I don’t think he’s praying. There’s a pause. I can almost hear the mental gears turning. “We’ll have to tell the police where Langston is,” he says.
“I leave that to you,” I tell him. “Can you cover me downtown?”
“If we don’t wait too long. I’ll call Fitts and offer to have Langston in his office tomorrow afternoon.” Buron Fitts is DA in these parts.
“Make it day after tomorrow. He’ll be feeling better by then.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I had to use some muscle. Nothing fatal.”
“I thought we talked about that, Jake.”
“No choice, Lou.” Which is not much of an explanation, of course, but I haven’t had time to think up a better one.
There’s another pause. All I can hear is Lou’s wife in the background snoring like a drunken lumberjack. Then he says: “OK. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be with him, of course. You be there, too, in case Fitts wants somebody to abuse. That should square it. But the boss won’t be happy. Now let me talk to the Berrigan.” He doesn’t ask me whether Langston killed the girl or not. Lou likes to stick to the point.
I motion Berrigan to the phone, where he listens for a few seconds, then says: “Looks like couple broken bones in his cheek. Nothing permanent.” He listens again, then he talks: “We can’t get mixed up in this sort of thing, Lou. You understand. There are liability issues. And the scandal.” he trails off, listening again He looks even less happy than he did before. “OK”, he says finally. “I understand. Forty-eight hours. We’ll take care of it.” Another pause. “Sure, Lou, I’ll tell him.”
He hangs up and turns to me. “Lou wants you in Mr. Mayer’s office, tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock.” It’s the only thing about this business that seems to cheer him up.
But now I know Berrigan will play along, which is all that matters. I wave a hand and head for the door. I’m hoping Connie will be back at the desk. She isn’t. Then something occurs to me. “Hey, Doc,” I call out. He’s halfway through the door back to the examining room. “Any scratches on Langston?”
He’s wary. “What do you mean, scratches?”
“Like with fingernails for instance.”
He shakes his head. “Not that I saw. Got some needle tracks on his arm, a hickey or two. But no scratches.”
“Thanks, Doc.” I’m on my way out.
“Hey, Jake.” It’s Berrigan’s turn to call after me. “Lou tells me the boss is a going to run your balls through the ringer over this.” I don’t turn around. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
It’s true, of course, the boss won’t be happy. But he’ll get over it. Langston’s head will hurt, but he deserves the pain. The murdered girl, whoever she is, won’t spring back to life, but it’s a town full of sorrows, and anyway that’s for the police to sort out. I can go home, have a drink and forget the whole thing.
Which shows you what I know.
Chapter Four
It’s summer in LA, so the sun doesn’t come up. The muck just gets lighter and lighter until the city emerges from the haze as if God’s shooting it through a filter to hide the scars. By the time I get home, it’s pushing six, and I feel like I’ve had my clothes on for a week.
Home is the Patria Apartments on Santa Monica. From outside, it looks pretty much like twenty others on the same block, but I like it because the walls are thick and there’s parking in the basement. I leave the Caddy in my usual spot and take the elevator up.
I doze on the short elevator ride, jerking awake when the bell rings for my floor.
At my apartment, the door jams on something. I put a shoulder against it, but that jams it tighter. It’s the last goddam straw. I curse and heave harder against the door, which opens enough to let me in. That’s when old lady Conover comes out from across the hall, holding her bathroom close up around her scarecrow throat. She must have left her teeth in the glass, because in this dim light it’s like I didn’t so much wake her up as resurrect her.
“Anything wrong, Mr. Thorne?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Conover.” I am sorry, too. She’s a nice lady. Lent me an egg once. “It’s been a long day.”
She looks me. “Well, young man,” she says. “It’s tomorrow now.”
In the bedroom, I strip, throwing the shirt in the trash. I lie back on the bed naked and kick the covers on the floor.
Usually I don’t dream. Tonight I do. It’s one of those dreams where you wonder later whether it was real, like maybe you were sleep walking. That’s how clear it is, and when I wake up - sun beginning to show through cracks in the drapes — I lie there a few minutes thinking about it, trying to shake it off.
In the dream, I’m following Doogin the coroner down a corridor. All I can see is the bald back of his head. It’s cold. I’m shivering. We’re headed toward a closed door, and I don’t want to get there, but I keep walking anyway.
At the door, Doogin grabs my arm.
“Time to take a look, Jake,” he says, and pushes me through. I can see him grinning at me as I go by.
I’m in the autopsy lab. There’s a table in the center of the room, with a body under a shroud. Something makes me lift the shroud. Underneath is the dead girl, beautiful face cold and blue as if I’m looking through a sheet of ice.
There’s a tear on her cheek, then another. I realize they’re mine. I reach to brush them away, and as I touch her, her lids open and she’s looking up at me, her eyes filled with every regret I ever had
That jerks me straight up in bed. I flop down again, but it’s no good, so I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the shower cold and stick in my head. That gives me enough of a boost to make for the kitchen, dump grounds in a pan and boil up some coffee. I’m sitting at the kitchen table clearing the mail pile off to the side so I can set down the cup when I notice a cheap envelop scrunched all to hell from last night, which wouldn’t be enough to get my attention necessarily. But the handwriting does. It’s careful, with all the loops made just so. No man would write like that. And it’s slanted backwards like a southpaw would do it. A left-handed woman, then. But not just any left-handed woman. Oh, no. One in particular.
I leave the envelop lying there, get up and pour the last of the coffee out of the pan. I’m circling around the table like a coyote circles bait, but I catch myself at it and sit down. Then I stare at the handwriting until I’ve drunk the last of the coffee and I got no excuse not to rip the envelop open. Inside is a single sheet of white paper with more of the handwriting on it, but that isn’t what jammed the door. What did was a lock of hair – a whole long curl of hair which shines in the light as I hold it up. The note is short. “I need your help” it says. There’s an address out in Compton, and that’s all. Except her name at the bottom: Beth.
So, she’s alive after all, that’s all I can think, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or not. The hair is the same color I remember, but if it’s hers, she must have cut it off a while ago. A long while.
I’m up again, into the bedroom for my smokes. There’s one left in the crumpled pack, and I fish it out. But I can’t find my zippo, which turns out to be on the stove. Now I’m mad at myself for wasting ten minutes tossing the goddam bedroom for the goddam lighter.
I sit back down at the kitchen table, light the fag and I’m about to snap the lighter shut but I don’t. Instead, I pick up the letter again and stick the flame from the lighter under one corner. The paper catches and I hold it like that as long as I can, the flames licking toward my fingers, then drop it on the linoleum where it curls up black and goes out.
For good measure, I burn the envelop, too. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling taking my memories with it. Then I walk out in the hall to the chute and toss the hair in, trying not to let the lid slam. See, the thing is, I’m done with all that. Finished. She’s dead. At least to me.
When I wake up again, it’s full daylight. I lie there for a few minutes trying to convince myself I’m still asleep, but eventually I curse, stuff my feet into slippers and shuffle off to the bathroom.
My dad taught me how to shave. I was twelve or thirteen, beard just beginning to show. He stood there in a ratty purple bathrobe that smelled of piss, feet splayed out white and hairy on the bathroom tile while he twirled a shaving brush around in the coffee mug where he kept his soap. He lathered up and let the lather work while he stropped his straight razor, using a leather belt that hung from a hook over the toilet. I couldn’t help flinching when he reached for that belt but I don’t think he noticed. While he shaved, he craned his chin toward the mirror, taking long strokes and rolling his fierce eyes over to the side to make sure I was paying attention. He shaved with the grain, then lathered up again and shaved against the grain, all the time muttering to me about how you had to get the razor sharp and pull the skin tight. I stood as still as I could, trying to stop my legs from trembling. I knew he was trying to do something nice for me sharing one of the few things he’d learned about being a man. But his mood could change fast, and sure enough he saw me shaking and got mad. His anger was always like that, like opening a furnace door. What the hell was wrong with me, what kind of goddam coward was I couldn’t stand there and learn something without crappin’ my pants? He grabbed my shoulder hard and jerked me tight against his side. It hurt like hell. Now watch, goddam it! I was crying by this time, but that just made him more determined. So we stood there, father and son, him shaving and me crying, until he was done.
He died when I was in the Navy, and I don’t remember anything else he taught me. He was right about shaving, though.
I shave that way now, staring at myself in the mirror. My father’s face, blunt and jowly, stares back. But a long hot shower later I feel more like myself, and once I’m dressed the transformation is complete. I got a Jap downtown makes my shirts; I choose a light blue broadcloth, enjoying the clean smell of the starch. The suit’s a cream flannel, this real thin wool from England like you can’t get here, and it’s cut full - a kinda half zoot, but classy. Add a dark blue tie and pocket hanky and I’m ready to go out. I stop to admire the effect in the full length mirror I got on the back of the front door, give myself a little salute and have my hand on the door knob. But I change my mind, go back in the bedroom to get my gun.
