Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

On the drive back to Incline, Hickey sat paralyzed and silent while Claire snapped one-word answers to the questions Harry tossed at her: where was she born, how’d she like growing up in Boston, did she go to college, where’d she go to college, where’d she meet Blackwood, what had she seen in the guy?

The road and the forest appeared to Hickey as ink blots of green, black, and white. If Claire or the gambler had questioned him, he probably wouldn’t have realized. As they crossed the state line, he noticed people swirling by, buildings upside down, neon flashing so brutally it seemed a threat to his brain. He thought, so this is what the earth without Wendy looks like.

When Claire’s Pontiac bounded into the driveway, Hickey broke out of the spell. He scanned the woods and corrals, looking for shooters. He peered at the roof of the stable and garage and at their corners. Nothing peculiar. Still, en route to the house, he cozied up to Poverman as if they were Siamese twins, his gun barrel fondling Harry’s neck.

Frieda met them at the door. “Mr. Hickey, there’s a guy wants you to call him bad. I wrote the number down. A police captain, he says.”

Hickey gazed around the main room, then roamed, inspecting behind the bar and a few sofas. Finally he ushered the gambler back to his couch by the fireplace and picked the phone off the Formica table. He sat down and called the operator, reached the captain in his office.

“Tom? You got her back?”

After three long breaths, Hickey summoned the power to admit it. “No.” Wearily, as if the heart, the hope, and the benzedrine had forsaken him.

“Nothing’s turned up?”

“Nothing except Frankie Foster,” he mumbled.

“Foster, you say? What about him?”

“He’s living in Reno, is all, and he’s got an ex-son-in-law named Jack Meechum.”

“Meechum. The guy that saw Cynthia with the beachcomber?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Pretty flimsy, Tom.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Say, I’ve been calling you since ten this morning, when I started getting worried about Leo.”

Hickey jolted to life. “What’s with Leo?”

“Well, last night, about midnight, some goon—could be one of Schwartz’s redhead boys, the fat one—he shows up at Ada’s Answering Service and slaps around this girl, Susie, till she gives him the number where Leo’s staying—I traced it to the Las Palmas Motor Hotel, in LA. Downtown on Pico. So I call the place. Leo slipped away before nine this morning, ran out on the bill.”

“Not a chance,” Hickey said.

“Sure. Something’s gone rotten. I called the LAPD. They’re supposed to nose around, get back to me.”

“Nobody’s heard from him?”

“Not a peep.”

“How about Vi?”

“Where the hell is she?”

“Beats me.” Hickey set the .45 on his knee, plucked his hat off, and sent it skating across the floor. He gripped his forehead, kneaded it hard. “Call the FBI, a fellow named Gomez. Something Gomez—I forget. He’s the kid of Leo’s old partner, Arturo. Leo was supposed to meet him this morning, only I told him to skip it and race up here, give me a hand.”

“What’s the deal with Gomez?”

“Leo’s got some half-baked idea he can shove Mickey Cohen into a corner about Guns for Israel. When Mickey comes out fighting, Leo figures he might pull something stupid, get hung for it.”

“Leo’s taking on Cohen?”

“Yeah, except he promised to drop it for now and throw in with me. After Wendy’s home, after the baby, I’ll tie him to a tree, make him promise to be good, and send Mickey an apology and a box of chocolates.”

“All that’ll do is get Mickey constipated, give him an excuse not to show for Leo’s funeral.”

“We’ll hide him out, then. Nobody’s gonna touch the old man if I can help it.”

“Sure, Tom, I know you guys, remember. Anyway, you got it right—let’s don’t worry about Leo right yet, except I’ll phone this Gomez. There’s something else you oughta know, came up after I started calling you. About noon. A lifeguard at OB found the beachcomber.”

“Teddy.”

“Yeah. He washed in this morning at high tide.”

Hickey started restlessly pounding the heel of his fist and the gun butt on his knee, losing even the tattered remains of his patience, having to check himself from snapping at his pal that none of this mattered a damn until Wendy was back at his side. “It figures,” he muttered.

“What figures? Somebody hired Teddy to torch the Sousa place, then dunked him?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re thinking the same. Yesterday I talked to Robeson, the DA assigned to burn your pal Cynthia. I laid the whole deal out for him—Angelo’s boys shooting at you and staking out Elizabeth’s place, Wendy getting snatched—so this morning when he hears the beachcomber’s dead, he gives up. Cynthia’s off the hook, for now anyway.”

“Swell. Just keep it under your hat till Wendy gets home, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well …”

“You can’t spring Cynthia, Rusty, not while they’ve got my girl. Cynthia hits the street, the punks look at Wendy, all they see’s an accuser.”

“Tom…Robeson already cut Cynthia loose.”

“Aw,” Hickey groaned. Dropping the receiver on his lap, he doubled over. His gut felt imbedded with a pickax. Surely an organ had burst. Any second he expected to reel away, unconscious. But the pain kept throbbing, and the tyrant that ruled his brain ordered it onto alert. His skin flushed, then chilled. His teeth began to chatter.

“Tom, you there?”

“Didn’t Leo call? Tell you no matter what, don’t let her go till Wendy’s back?” Hickey clamped his jaw and listened to the crackle of the line.

“You’re not all there, are you, pal? I’m saying Leo’s missing. Wouldn’t I have told you if he’d called?”

“I’m all here,” he snapped. “Last night, I told him to pass along the message.”

“Well, he didn’t. But it wouldn’t of mattered. I’d figured the same thing. I had Robeson convinced we should drag our feet, keep her around at least till the couch doctor gets a shot at her. Take another couple statements, maybe she’d spill a lead. Robeson was with me, until Mrs. Sousa showed.”

“Laurel?”

“Yeah, Laurel. She came, wearing a ton of gems, brought
two
shysters along, got her sister out before anybody said boo to me.”

“They turned her over to the Bitch?” Hickey yowled.

“That’s the one, all right.”

“They released her to the one whose house she might’ve burnt down and whose husband she killed, maybe? What, you guys got a murder quota nowadays and didn’t fill it this week?”

“Whoa, Tom. You’re the guy’s been saying all along Cynthia didn’t torch the place.”

“What I said was you didn’t have enough to hold her. Meaning if she torched the place or she didn’t, there’s no use locking her up. You know damn well, Rusty, that family’s gonna kill each other off till they’re extinct.”

“Look, I know things don’t look rosy, but Wendy got outta hell before.” Thrapp’s voice had acquired an indignant rasp. “She’s probably okay.”

“Probably,” Hickey snarled.

As if they’d squared off against each other, a minute of silence held before the captain gently offered, “How about I fly up there, give you a hand?”

Hickey slumped forward, squeezing his head between fists that gripped a .45 and a phone receiver. “Leo’s gonna be here soon. I’ve got Claire, and the sheriff’s working on it. You can do better down there.”

“Anything special you want me to do?”

“Yeah. Go talk to Laurel. Let on you figure this whole deal—the fire, the kidnapping—belongs to her. See what slips out.”

“Good enough. I’ll try that angle.”

“And you could look around for Vi. Leo’s got her hiding out.”

“Sure, that’s what he’d do. With him on a crusade, after Angelo’s boys shot holes in his welcome mat.”

“Yeah, where are they now? Angelo’s boys.”

“On bail. Keep your chin up, pal.”

As Hickey pushed the button, Claire grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “What’d he say?”

If the boss had jumped him that moment, Hickey wouldn’t have noticed until he was already on the floor, he’d submerged so deeply into his mind. To a place from where he beheld distinctly the chain of errors that led to the swamp where he wallowed, appalled by the magnitude of his stupidity. From here, the Tom Hickey who’d left his wife alone, bullied Schwartz and Paoli, got Leo into a fix because the old man pounced on Charlie Schwartz trying to clean up the mess his partner had made—that Tom Hickey looked like the foulest culprit.

About the fifth time Claire shook his arm he ventured back into the world. He told her about Leo’s beef against Mickey Cohen. That somebody’s muscled the answering service girl. That Leo was missing but probably on his way up here.

Claire sat beside him, nodding encouragement. “Then you can catch a nap,” she offered.

Hickey socked his knee. “The hell he’s on his way. The old man wouldn’t run out on a motel bill.”

“Neither would you,” Claire said. “But you did.”

“I paid the damn thing.”

While Hickey passed the news about the beachcomber washing in with the tide, his voice began to slip like a boy’s, jumping a whole octave. By the time he’d gotten to the part about Cynthia going free, he couldn’t speak a whole phrase at once. He had to stop and let his heart settle between words. He felt like a drunk who’s one shot from the blackout. Yet during each pause, he gained a morsel of strength. As his story concluded, he recalled how Wendy used to sit whole days in perfect silence, as if a whisper could waste her final breath.

“I’ve got a hunch about this Foster,” Claire said. “Him being related to the fellow who sent the girl to jail—that seems a darn good clue to me.”

Trying to see it her way, Hickey reflected how Foster was related to Meechum, who might’ve been a sidekick of Teddy the beachcomber’s at Agua Caliente—where they probably both knew Elizabeth’s no-good husband. Hickey decided to give Stuart a call, as soon as he fixed another matter. He turned to the boss, who sat pouting like a rookie on the sidelines.

“Your boy Mac’s been keeping my phone tied up.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “Mac’s a phone hound. You don’t put a leash on him, he won’t eat or sleep till there’s nobody left to call. By now, he’s probably working on China and points east, gabbing with dames. He’s got ’em all over the globe, from his navy days.”

“How about Tyler?”

“Tyler doesn’t gab much. He’s the silent, touchy kind.”

“Soon as Tyler gets back,” Hickey said, “Switch him with the cowboy.”

“I don’t know. It’d be a dirty trick, interrupting the lovebirds again. See, Tyler’s a big fan of this having some cluck hold a gun on the boss. I mean, how’s the boss gonna keep him and Miss Dustmop from making like bunny rabbits? Aw, nuts, there I go.” He turned to Claire. His voice got lower and syrupy. “Pardon the innuendo, Miss Blackwood.”

“Never mind that,” Claire snapped. “I’ll go over there.”

“Hey, I’d much rather knock Tyler outta the saddle than lose your company, Miss Blackwood.”

“I don’t like the way you say Blackwood.”

“I pronounce it wrong?”

“Yes, like a cuss word.”

The gambler managed a sheepish nod. “Habit, I guess. You hear somebody thinks you’re trash, makes you wanta return the compliment. How about I call you Claire?”

“Fine, and let’s get this straight. The Blackwoods and I don’t agree on everything, but they’ve been good to me. You want to cuss them, swell. Only wait till I’m gone.”

“Hey, I’m convinced. They’re good to you, that’s enough for Harry. I’m starting a Blackwood fan club.”

Rolling her eyes, Claire stood up. “I’ll get over to your place, Tom. You ought to be set for food and all till Leo shows up, but I’ll check in frequently.” She gave him a lingering kiss on the forehead, muttered goodbye to Harry.

As she left, so did Harry’s cordiality. His arm that’d been draped across the couch fell off, dropped the hand into his lap. He began rapping the knuckles on the back of his left hand. For a minute he sat glowering at Hickey and finally wagged his head severely. “Tom, any minute I’m liable to give the nod and watch you do the last tango.”

“Guys drawing a bead on me through the peepholes, that it?”

“Something like that.”

“I oughta call Sheriff Boggs, tell him to sweep the woods and go through the place?”

“Yeah, and remind him to bring a lotta handcuffs and be sure to dream up some charge he can lay on
my
employees for trespassing on
my
property, watching out for
me
. Disturbing the peace, maybe?” He shouted for the maid, ordered a snack and a beer.

Boots tromped the north deck, and Mac walked in. Head down, he crossed the room and stood before Harry. “You wanta see me, boss?”

“You get any rest over there, Mac, what with having your own phone line?”

The cowboy folded his hands in front of himself, drooped his shoulders. “Sure, I spent lots of time snoozing. Not much else to do.”

“Who’d you call?”

“My mom,” he mumbled. “Uncle Phil. Couple others.”

“Where they live?”

“Mom’s in Cleveland. Roy’s staying up in Idaho—Pocatello. There’s this French girl, Gigi—”

“France?” Hickey said.

“Naw, don’t worry. She lives outside New Orleans. And I rang up—”

The gambler waved his hand for silence. “Around the lake, Mac. Who’d you call around here?”

“Um …”

“You remember Barney?”

“Yeah.”

“Seen him around?”

“After you busted him cheating?” Mac asked sheepishly.

“Cheating I can live with, the first time, long as it’s penny ante. Cheating’s what makes this country great. It’s lying that steams me worst. A guy lies to me, I see red. You run into Barney lately?”

“Nope, but I heard he looks bad. Is that what you’re getting at?”

Harry shut his eyes, nodded, and grinned like an addle-brained fighter with his glove lifted high.

“Boss, I called Goldie. Once at her place. Other time down at the club.”

“Yeah. What’d you tell Goldie?”

“Just I was working, couldn’t get over there.”

“Nothing about why, what you were doing, what me and Tom were up to?”

“Well…boss, I made her swear she wouldn’t shoot her mouth. See, if I didn’t come clean, she woulda figured I had another dame around.”