Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 (43 page)

Patsy closed her eyes; she might have been asleep.

“Now, all through this time, Beth Short is still actively trying to raise that money—perhaps with visions of running off with your Bobby—and Arnold Wilson may have seen her as a blackmail threat. But Wilson wasn’t the one, of course, who initiated the murder plan. That is where you come in, Mrs. Savarino.”

Her head swiveled on a dime, green eyes flashing. “Me? You’re a fucking lunatic!”

“Hey, it got me out of the Marines. We’re up to where Bobby and his pal Henry are arrested, and Bobby starts shooting his mouth off about Dragna trying to hire a McCadden Group hit on Cohen. Your husband wanted to make a deal with the cops, but all he succeeded in doing was spurring Dragna’s rage—that’s when the onslaught of death threats began. You and the rest of the McCadden Group and their families were targets for mob retaliation, if your idiot husband did not shut up, and soon. That’s when you went to Arnold Wilson with your plan.”

“My plan to do what? I did no such thing.”

“You suggested to Wilson that if Elizabeth Short were to turn up dead, in an apparent mob-style execution, Bobby would read it as a warning . . . and, at the same time, your competition for your husband’s affections would be eliminated.”

“That . . . that ‘Black Dahlia’ wasn’t a gangland killing; she was murdered by a sex fiend!”

“It was both those things, Patsy. You see, when you expressed an interest in having Beth Short removed, Arnold Wilson already had his friend Lloyd in place—settled in as a good little physician’s aide at the abortion mill, the very clinic where Beth Short was a patient. As I said, Wilson is a conniving sociopath of the first order: everything he did had sinister layers. He and Lloyd gleefully committed a sick sex crime that would send the police down the wrong road, even as the informer’s ‘smile’ they gashed
in the girl’s face sent your husband a message. Then Wilson had the body dumped in a place where both Dragna and the abortion doctor could be implicated.”

She frowned, truly puzzled. “Why would he do that?”

“Since Arnold Wilson’s relationship with Lloyd was a secret one—a pact between human malignancies, a relationship acted out in the depths of human society, skid row bars and flophouses and the like—should Beth Short’s murder ever be traced back to Lloyd, it would be Lloyd—a known psychopathic murderer—who would take full blame.”

“Why wouldn’t this . . . ‘Lloyd’ . . . tell the police about his friend, Arnold Wilson?”

“Because Lloyd likes to take full credit for his depravity. He has an ego as big as it is bizarre, which for example compels him to send taunting postcards to the detective tracking him. Wilson was suspected as Lloyd’s apprentice in those torso murders in Cleveland, ten years ago—but Lloyd steadfastly refused to implicate his friend . . . either out of loyalty, or a desire to hog all the ‘glory.’ ”

That was why Wilson—who obviously had recognized me and remembered my role in the original Butcher case—had maneuvered my wife into that abortion clinic today. Wilson had no doubt heard from Watterson that Eliot and I had cornered him—and released him, supposedly believing Lloyd’s story—but Wilson would easily have guessed that we’d be keeping Lloyd under surveillance, and that I would be informed immediately when Peggy went into that clinic.

The diabolical bastard knew, too, that I was likely to kill Watterson, if I burst in on him either aborting my child or butchering Peggy (didn’t matter to Wilson which), thereby closing off any investigatory avenue that might have implicated Arnold Wilson in the murder of the Black Dahlia.

“But, Patsy,” I said to the lovely pregnant redhead, “you didn’t just suggest this murder—you hired it done. Lucky devil, that Arnold Wilson: a murder he had been thinking about doing anyway, and somebody pays him to do it!”

She had a glazed expression, now. “What . . . what makes you think I paid Wilson to kill her?”

“Well, hell, that’s where your money went, your husband’s share of all that Mocambo heist loot. It was the Ringgold brothers who paid Bobby’s bail, after all. And yet you and Bobby were willing to tell a stranger anything he wanted to know, for a lousy hundred bucks.”

She mustered up a sneer. “And that makes me somebody who hired a murder? Is that what you call detective work?”

“Actually, it was Mickey Cohen who got me thinking like a detective again. . . .What did Elizabeth Short do to deserve her fate? Not a damn thing, he said—if a gangster like Dragna wanted to send your husband a message, he’d have hit another member of the McCadden Group, some deserving crook, not a civilian dame who happened to be somebody’s mistress. So—why Beth Short? Who would benefit from her death? How about Bobby’s wife—Bobby’s pregnant wife.”

I’d said my piece.

We sat there for perhaps two minutes, maybe three—a long time to sit in silence. A horn honked. A dog barked. Some kids squealed in play. Two minutes, maybe three, of no conversation—a prisoner to your thoughts, in the presence of another, who has appointed himself your accuser.

Still, I was surprised, even startled, when she blurted, “All I wanted to do was shut my husband’s stupid mouth, before he got us all killed!”

I grunted a humorless laugh, then said, “You might have come up with another way.”

“Not one that would get that bitch Beth Short out of our lives!”

That was when she broke into tears. I got a hanky out for her and she wept into it, and blew her nose a couple times, then offered the hanky back to me, which I declined.

Patsy Savarino had probably lived a tough life—I had no idea what her background was . . . Strippers came from everywhere, everywhere that was hard or abusive, that is. Good-looking girls with nice bodies like Patsy—who found themselves on burlesque stages with their talent hanging out, who ended up with guys who ran con games or gambled or did crimes—came from
hardscrabble farms in West Virginia and Chicago slums and Podunk orphanages and even wealthy suburban homes where daddy liked to keep incest in the family.

But somewhere, at some point, Patsy had no doubt been a little girl with a doll, or anyway a little girl who wanted a doll, and maybe she had a dog or a fucking kitty, and played with blocks and jumped rope and, like all of us, started out as an innocent kid.

And while I knew that Patsy Savarino had initiated the murder of Elizabeth Short, I also knew that the horrendous depravity committed upon that girl by Arnold Wilson and Lloyd Watterson far exceeded Patsy’s worst wishes for the black-haired angel-faced woman in black-seamed stockings who’d been trying to steal away her husband.

“I never . . . I never meant. . . . So savage, so cruel, so sick, so twisted . . . how could they . . . and make me part. . . ?”

Then she was crying again. I went to the bathroom and got her a big wad of toilet paper and she used that for her tears and to blow her nose in. I put an arm around her. This went on for quite a while.

“I . . . I have terrible . . . nightmares. . . . I see that girl. . . . I see terrible things being done to her. . . . Sometimes I’m standing there . . . in the dreams . . . watching myself do them. Cutting her . . . butchering her. . . .”

“You can’t make a bargain with the devil,” I said, “and not get your ass burned.”

“What . . . what are you . . . ?”

“Patsy, sweetheart, when you decided to have that girl murdered, all bets were off—all nicety, all morality, all decency, went out the window. You can’t commit a little murder just like you can’t be a little pregnant. When you let Arnold Wilson into your life—maybe the most evil son of a bitch I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few—when you invited him in, his sickness became your sickness.”

“What . . . are you saying? That I’ll . . . feel like this . . . fucking sick-in-my-gut-and-my-heart guilty like this . . . with these awful terrible nightmares . . . as long as I live?”

I patted her shoulder. “It’ll let up, some. I only dream about
combat once or twice a week, now. But to some degree, yeah—you’re going to carry this with you. That guilt. ’Cause it’s yours.”

The lipstick had been rubbed off by the hanky and toilet paper, but the lips remained full, and sensual, trembling now. “How can I . . . how can I go on living?”

I put my hand on her swollen belly—gently. “Because you have to. You have to put this behind you, much as you can, and raise this kid better than you were raised.”

She studied me for a moment, searching my face, then asked, “What are you going to do to me?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“A wife who kills to keep her husband, there’s worse crimes.”

Those almond-shaped green eyes were wide with astonishment, and relief. “You’re not going to . . . no police?”

“No police. Not in this town.” I sighed deeply, shook my head. “I’m goddamn sorry Elizabeth Short is dead—she really was a nice girl, somewhat screwed-up, like most of us . . . but she didn’t deserve what she got, not that anybody would, except maybe Arnold and Lloyd. But sending you to jail, Patsy, to have your kid inside . . . what good would that do? Anyway, I have a friend who needs this kept quiet . . . He’s the one who’s taking Lloyd back to the Crazy House . . . and me, I don’t much care to be in the middle of this, anymore.”

“What about Wilson?”

I pointed a thumb at myself. “That’s the deal you’re going to strike with this devil—when you talk to your husband, if he knows where Wilson is, find out and let me know.”

The green eyes narrowed. “You’re going after Wilson?”

“If it takes me the rest of my life.”

“What . . . what are you going to do to him?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll think of something . . . appropriate. And it sure as hell won’t involve any cops.”

She was shaking her head, the red mane shimmering. “Mr. Heller . . . how can I thank you?”

I grinned at her. “If your marriage breaks up, and my marriage breaks up, maybe I can think of something. Otherwise, let’s skip it.”

“That another compliment?”

“I never saw anybody with better reverse-tassel action than you, Patsy.”

Her smile surprised me; her laugh was a shock to both of us.

Downstairs, as I was about to go out, she touched my arm and looked up at me. That pretty face—stripper hard but still alluring—softened, suddenly, and I could see the child she’d been. I hoped her child turned out better than she had—like I hoped mine turned out better than me.

The gorgeous pregnant redhead seemed almost embarrassed as she gazed up and said, “I was just . . . just trying to hold my marriage together.”

“Hey,” I said, tipping my hat, “I know the feeling.”

24

The following Monday I called Richardson and told him I was heading back to Chicago, midweek, and wouldn’t be available to work on the Dahlia story any longer. I did hope to get that puff-piece interview about the A-1, “Hollywood’s detective agency to the stars,” wrapped up before I left.

“Stop by tomorrow morning,” Richardson said on the phone, a twinkle in the eye of his voice. “Something may turn up to change your mind about goin’ home.”

There was nothing ominous about the way he said it, but considering I alone knew that the Dahlia case had been privately solved, and would remain (if I had any say in it) publicly unsolved, the city editor’s words made me uneasy.

I spent much of Sunday and Monday leading the L.A. A-1 staff of operatives (including Fred) in looking for Arnold Wilson, checking out the twilight world of the various skid rows of their city, of which there was no shortage.

The primary skid row was Main Street, with its low-end burlesque houses and stripper bars, and a platoon of B-girls who made Elizabeth Short seem innocent, in joints like the Follies Village, the Waldorf Cellar, and the Gay Way. Fred checked out the taxi-dance halls, Roseland (owned by Mark Lansom, incidentally) and Dreamland; and Teddy Hertel scoured the
neighborhood around East 31st, where Lloyd had been living, and of course fine-tooth-combed Lloyd’s shabby flat.

Me, I worked Fifth Street from San Pedro to Main, where winos sold their blood to buy booze and slept it off in all-night movies, and where you could see more soldiers and sailors than on your average military base or aircraft carrier. Finally, late Monday morning, the guy behind the counter at the cigar store at 5th and Gladys—a corner where you could buy anything from a policy slip to a reefer to a chippie—recognized Wilson’s distinctive description (we didn’t have a photo). By Monday afternoon I found the flophouse on Main where Arnold Wilson had been living.

He had cleared out Saturday, around noon—leaving no forwarding address.

On Tuesday morning, I told Fred what I wanted done. We would contact agencies with whom we had reciprocal arrangements and have Wilson looked for in both San Diego and San Francisco, two prior known haunts of his (according to Patsy Savarino). Concentrate on skid rows, I said, and bars catering to sexual deviants. Fred thought that was a good plan—but what did I want done if somebody finds him?

“Sit on the son-of-a-bitch,” I said, “and call me. I’ll fly in from Chicago, immediately.”

Fred had a sick expression. “We’re kinda asking for them to . . . you know, abduct the bastard.”