Bad Samaritan (15 page)

I, too, could go back to my regular routine—but it was ladies’ day at the club. This patchwork theory, constructed of bits and pieces, kept floating around in my brain.

Tishkin had been no help. Gonzales, I was beginning to believe, might never be located. There had been no strenuous department effort to find Patty Serano. To the department, she had been only a bystander.

Lenny had lived with her for almost three years. Among today’s young people, three years was a long stretch of loyalty. He must have found some meaning in the relationship, as they phrase it.

I went back to the middle-class street where the waitress lived. Her Cadillac was in the driveway, a Camaro was visible through the open garage door.

Mary didn’t open the door to my ring. Al Pilot’s spiritual twin stood there, a broad, big-bellied man in a T-shirt, wearing a scowl.

“What are you selling?” he asked me.

“Nothing, sir,” I said. “Are you Mr. Serano?”

“That’s right.”

“Could I speak with your wife?”

“Why?”

“It’s about your daughter, sir, your daughter Patty.”

“My daughter is dead. She’s been dead for two years.”

He stared at me. I stared back.

And then, from behind him, his wife said, “What the hell’s going on, Pete? What did you say about Patty?”

“You heard me,” he said, “and so did he. Goodbye, mister.”

His wife edged past him. “Mr. Callahan! Come in, come in.”

“Maybe you had better vote on it.” I suggested. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He’s all mouth and belly. Come on in.” She turned to her husband. “Go suck up another beer and stay out of sight. Don’t we already have enough problems with the neighbors?”

He went into the kitchen. We went into the living room. “Have you news about Patty?” she asked me.

I shook my head. “I thought you might. It’s possible she could have some information I need.”

“Find Lenny Tishkin,” she said, “and you’ll find Patty.”

“Lenny was picked up by the police last night in Morro Bay, and brought back here for questioning,” I told her. “He was alone. Do you think Patty’s in town?”

“I have no idea. Thank God she wasn’t with Lenny when he was picked up. I haven’t heard from her in six months. My husband’s disowned her, but—” She gestured toward a chair. “I’m sorry. Won’t you sit down? Would you like something cool to drink?”

“No, thanks.” I sat on the chair, she on a love seat nearby. I asked, “She and Lenny were very close for a while, weren’t they?”

“Nobody can get close to Lenny Tishkin,” she said. “What was he going to be questioned about?”

“About the disappearance of a young man named Jesus Gonzales. Did Patty know him?”

“If she did, she never mentioned him to me. You’re the man who found out about that bastard who threatened me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I guess it was just a joke. A bad one, but a joke.”

“Mobsters don’t joke,” she said. “That’s what he was, wasn’t he?”

“Probably. Mrs. Serano, my only interest in Patty is information she might have. My only interest in this investigation is finding the murderer of Maude Marner. I seem to be working alone on it right now, and I don’t have any official credentials, so I could certainly use friends who could help.”

“You’re not working with the police anymore?”

“With them, but not for them.”

She looked past me, her face thoughtful. “I might be able to help. I—have friends who might know something.” She met my gaze. “But I want a promise from you.”

“Name it.”

Her voice was low, too low to be heard in the kitchen. “If you find Patty, I want you to let me know. No matter what she’s doing, or where she’s doing it, I want to know. Do you understand me?”

“Clearly. I worked on a few cases in Los Angeles where I had to lie to parents.”

“Not to me you don’t. My life hasn’t been that sheltered.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I promised. “But remember, I’m working alone.”

“Not anymore you aren’t.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

She shook her head. “My husband burned them all. Maybe I can get a picture from the high-school yearbook from one of her friends. I’ll try.”

When I went out, her husband was standing in the driveway in his sweat-stained T-shirt, with a can of beer in his hand, visible to all the neighbors.

Where now? Juanita? Moses Jones? Neither had phoned me, but I headed for their neighborhood.

I was pulling into a parking space in front of Trinity Liquors when I saw Lenny Tishkin. He was coming out of a doorway up the block a ways.

I walked up the street to the doorway, and it was what I expected, the Arden Parlor. I pushed open the door.

Directly ahead were the steps to the second floor. On my left, an archway revealed a small office. The only occupant of the office was a woman of about fifty. Her stout body was encased in a clean white nurse’s uniform, but her eyes were the blasé eyes of an old hooker.

She was sitting behind a desk and facing the archway. “Yes, sir?” she said, smiling her mechanical smile.

I made my smile embarrassed. “I was in town some time ago, visiting my brother. I had this muscle pull in my thigh and you certainly helped it. There was an operator named—Patty?”

“Patty Serano,” she said. “This is a coincidence! Another of her good friends was just in asking about her. Unfortunately, Patty went down to Los Angeles last week. But don’t you worry, sir. All of our operators are highly skilled.” She smirked. “And as pretty as Patty.”

I looked doubtful. “Gosh, I don’t know. She was sure great. Won’t she be back? I’ll be in town for quite awhile.”

“I think she might be back soon,” the old girl said, “now that her other friend is back in town. I could phone you, if you’ll be in town for a while.”

“For at least a month,” I told her. “My brother lives up on Bluff Drive, but I don’t know his telephone number.”

“I’m sure it’s in the book,” she said with brassy, sweetness. “Your name, sir?”

“Sydney,” I said. “Sydney Locum. My brother’s name is Otis.”

The smile went away and the granite eyes turned to chrome. She glared at me as I smiled at her. Her voice was harsh. “What’s your pitch, buster?”

“Just checking your connections,” I said. “Hang in there, chubby!” I waved and went out.

Moses wasn’t in his place. A tall, thin youth, tall enough to play basketball for Long Beach State, was behind the counter, ringing up a sale. I climbed into the hot car and headed for the dim coolness of Chickie’s.

Juanita was working the bar. The lunch trade wasn’t big here; she wasn’t needed in the kitchen. Her smile had some trepidation in it. She gestured toward the Einlicher spigot.

“In a minute,” I said. “I have to make a call.”

I looked up the number and used the wall phone. Mrs. Serano answered.

I told her, “I learned a few minutes ago that Patty went down to Los Angeles about a week ago.”

“Where did you learn that?”

She could take the truth, she had assured me. But I couldn’t deliver it. “From a friend,” I said. “From a reliable source. This source thinks that Patty will come back here if she learns Lenny is in town.”

“Oh, God—well, thank you. We have relatives down there and maybe she’ll look one of them up. I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Callahan, on the other matter.”

Juanita had a beaker of beer ready when I reached the bar. Her smile was doubtful. “Friends, Pancho?”

“Why not? We all have to make a living. There are some friends I’ve had to protect from the police, too.”

“I could tell you a
few
things.”

“At lunch. I’m hungry. What’s good besides enchiladas?”

“I have gringo food. A nice little steak, on toast, and maybe a salad?”

I nodded.

“You’re blue,” she said. “I have made you blue.”

I shook my head.

She smiled again. “You know who dropped in for the first time in years this morning? Skip! It was so good to see him once more.”

“I guess he’s getting reorganized. He might even go back to work.”

“I hope so. He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?”

“I never noticed.”

She gave my order to the waitress and came with me to our little corner table. She had brought a glass of beer along. She sipped it and wiped her mouth and looked at me.

“For the last month,” she told me, “the people who pay off in this town pay it to Otis Locum. If they don’t, things happen to them.”

“And before last month?”

She shook her head.

“To one of your friends?”

She shrugged.

“That’s one thing. You promised me a few.”

“Two more. A man named Leonard Tishkin gets girls for Locum. A man named Barney Leeds, who runs a liquor store, he also books and he pays Locum.”

I said, “I’m getting the feeling that everybody in this is your friend—except Otis Locum.”

Her face stiffened.

“A little joke,” I explained.

“Sometimes, Pancho, your jokes are not funny.”

The waitress brought my steak and salad and a bowl of soup for Juanita. Silence, while we ate, silence between friends. As I had told her before, we all have to make a living. Who was I to judge her? Some of the angles I’d had to work to survive in Los Angeles. …

I asked, “Does Otis give them protection, too?”

“A lawyer,” she said. “Joe Farini, usually. And bail money.”

“Do you know Mary Serano?”

She nodded.

“Does she pay off, too?”

“Never before, not Mary. But the word I get, she may have to, now.”

“I wonder why not before?”

“I could guess. There are more Chicanos down here than there are blacks. We all like Mary, even if she is Italian.”

“You mean you have a Mexican Mafia?”

“Damn you! What kind of talk is that?”

“Sour talk,” I said. “Bitter talk. I apologize.”

“You’re a strange man,” she said. “Rich now, with a lovely wife, but you can’t keep your nose out of the dirt, can you?”

“I guess not. Juanita, we’re still friends, but we live in a complicated world.”

“Whatever that means. Kiss me, friend.”

I stood up and came over to kiss her. I said, “Chin up! Both of us are better off than Maude Marner.”

She said nothing. I put some bills on the table and went out into the sun. Where now? Where else? The Padilla Grog Shop.

Barney Leeds was sitting in a captain’s chair near his display window, reading
The Racing Form.
He was a tall, fairly thin man, except for the belt-line bulge.

He looked up and asked, “Where’s your partner?”

“Catching up on his paperwork. I have only one question. Before Otis Locum came into the picture, who collected from you?”

He stared at me. “You’re not making sense. Collected what? I charge the regular retail markup. I don’t have to pay off anybody.”

“I’m not talking about your booze. I’m talking about your book.”

“Get lost!” he said. “What are you trying to pull?”

“I was hoping for the truth. Don’t keep too much cash in your register. Tishkin’s back in town.”

“Beat it!” he said. “If you want to play cop, get yourself a badge.”

He wasn’t very heavy. I could easily have thrown him through his front window. Some other violent alternatives ran through my mind—before I went quietly out.

I
WAS MAKING MORE
enemies than headway. The course should be open by now; even on ladies’ day the ladies were restricted to playing in the morning. Nobody was paying me and very few people seemed to care whether or not Maude Marner’s killer was ever brought to justice.

Untrue, Callahan, and you know it. There are people who care, but they don’t move in your circles.

Vogel would now be in court and Helms would still be laughing (and lapping) it up with the cheerful Optimists. I climbed into my clunker and drove down to the sea.

I sat on a bench and looked out at the gray, dull Pacific, the decaying kelp on the sand, the strollers and the surfers, the big-bosomed girls in their bikinis.

Locum was the obvious target. But I couldn’t believe he was a complicated man. If he planned to kill somebody, he wouldn’t gimmick it. Above (or behind) Locum, who was there? Somebody with money or somebody with clout, somebody who could read the public mind, who had met the citizens at all economic levels and sensed their apathy.

I went back to the station at three-thirty. Neither Helms nor Vogel was there. Vogel was still in court. Helms was on an emergency call; there had been a racial disturbance out at the university.

I came home to a strange sight, Jan practicing chip shots on the front lawn. A golfing wife? Dear God, haven’t I suffered enough?

She was not alone. Skip Lund was her instructor.

“You’re starting wrong,” I told her. “Your teacher is known as Shank-Shot Lund.”

“The second worst in the club,” he admitted. “How’s it going, Sherlock?”

“Badly. I have an uneasy feeling that the department is losing interest. I hear you’ve been looking up your old friends.”

“A few of them. When I hung around down there, I got to know some shady characters. I thought they might tell me things they wouldn’t tell you or Vogel.”

I said nothing, nonplussed.

“He wants to help,” Jan explained. “That’s why he’s here. He was waiting for you.”

“Knowing your jealous disposition,” Skip added, “we waited outside.”

“We can go in now and discuss it over some bourbon. I’ve gone through a hot, bad day on one beer.” I looked at Jan for approval.

“Get stoned, for all I care,” she said. “I’m going to stay out here and practice.”

In the den, I told Skip, “Thanks for nothing. You could have done me less damage in the bedroom. That’s all I need in the family, a lady golfer.”

“Every man has his own cross, muscles. It makes more sense than tennis. I’ll have Scotch over ice.”

I poured him a jolt heavy enough to loosen his tongue and matched it in good American corn for me.

We sat in the barrel chairs and he asked musingly, “Did you and Juanita ever—”

“Never,” I interrupted. “Let’s get to the business at hand. Did you learning anything today?”

“Nothing.”