Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (9 page)

“Soon as I talk to Gomez, I’m on my way.”

“You driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Call from Sacramento. I’m at Harry Poverman’s place, Homewood six three three four.”

As Hickey placed the phone on the tile floor beside him, Mac’s Latin friend stepped out of the northeast cube, wearing a floral print dress that looked to pinch her everywhere and an ermine wrap. After shimmying halfway across the room, she stopped abruptly as if twenty feet was out of range of Hickey’s gun. “So Harry, you send Mac to China?”

“Tokyo. Hey, Gloria, you’re looking
fine
.”

“Thanks. Only what am I supposed to do about it? Me and Mac was going on the town.”

“How about you take the Jag, go on over to the club, and tell Pauline I’m indisposed. Tell her, any trouble, Big Steve can handle it. Tell her no phone calls to me. For nothing.”

“Ain’t the Jaguar gonna be freezing, Harry? Being a ragtop?”

“Naw. It’s got a heater big enough for the Taj Mahal. Go on. Tyler’ll give you the keys.”

“Okay. When you see Mac, give him a big smack on the face for me.”

“I’ll do that, and you keep thinking, If word gets out Harry Poverman’s letting a guy boss him around, Gloria had better hop a plane to Brazil.”

Gloria shimmied and tugged down the hem of her dress, tossed her hair, turned, and swished toward the kitchen.

“Tyler,” Harry shouted. “Give Gloria the Jag keys and get my dinner out here!”

The bodyguard poked his head out of the kitchen. “We figured you wanted the potato cooked, boss.”

“Skin the damned thing and fry it. I’m starving.”

Hickey gave up fretting about Leo, quit wishing the old man were here to make him laugh and breathe easier, to slap him around if he couldn’t convince him with words that our fears are usually a whole lot worse than the plots our worst enemies devise.

He put the phone on his lap and dialed. On the fourth try he got a ring instead of the busy signal.

“Claire Blackwood.”

“Any luck?”

“None so far, Tom, and I’m almost down to Placerville. Have you heard anything?”

“Only my partner Leo’s on his way, first thing tomorrow, to give us a hand, in case we haven’t got her back already.”

“Tom, I’ve been thinking. Wendy’s made it through so doggone much, I just know she’ll come through this one too.”

“Yeah. Sure, babe.”

“Have you said your prayers?”

“Think that’d help, do you?”

“I don’t know, except I believe sometimes people can talk to each other, heart to heart, even when they’re distant. Maybe, if you said a prayer, Wendy’d feel it.”

“Yeah, she’d get a kick outta seeing me on my knees.”

“That would please her, all right. Only thing, Tom—remember to keep one eye on Harry while you’re praying.”

“Yeah. Claire, I got another errand. You holding up?”

“Just fine.”

“Could you run to Stateline for me? In the Cal-Neva, talk to a bartender. He goes by Speedy. He’s most always got rolls of Mexican benzedrine. Sells to the all-nighters. I’m gonna need the bennies sooner or later. And a couple sandwiches, and a thermos of black coffee would sure hit the spot. Oh, yeah, and a tin of Sir Walter Raleigh.”

Chapter Fourteen

The few clouds over the lake were small puffs marbled black and gray. They kept shifting around like pods in a shill game. Hickey stood sideways at the window, glancing at his neighbor—asleep on the couch—and back outside. His lungs and head ached from smoking half a tin of tobacco and consuming nothing else except water from the pitcher he filled himself at the sink behind the bar. Several times he’d almost broken and ordered Harry into the kitchen where they could watch Frieda brew and pour him coffee without doctoring the stuff. But then Harry’s boys might creep into the main room to hide and wait.

Hickey’s mind skittered around so fast, it seemed all at once he was charged for action, about to collapse in fatigue, both heartsick and stalwartly hopeful. He needed to keep one eye on Harry and to spot Tyler if he came tiptoeing across the room, or Mac if he tried to sneak in one of the eight doors that led to decks or cubes. He kept staring at the lake. Always before, the sight of glassy water had slowed his brain, allowed him to focus. But tonight it was no use. His nerves sparked and quivered. At least every minute, a new vision of Wendy appeared. In one, she beamed like the day she learned they’d conceived. In another she lay dreaming or dead. Far too often, she lunged at him, screaming, her eyes bugged and teeth bared in fright. Like he hadn’t seen her in three years, since the last, worst nightmare.

He turned back to the chair, slumped into it, and remained the way he fell, limp and awry as a tossed-off scarecrow, wondering how he could manage if the freaks knocked off Wendy or spooked her so bad her wits defected again, this time for good. Every life or death he imagined without her looked equally vile.

He could chase after the freaks or Charlie Schwartz, if he was the man. He could go berserk, swear vengeance against the whole Jew mob, team up with Leo against Mickey Cohen, either succeed or get smoked in the act. No matter which.

In the past, visions of revenge might’ve slightly appeased his distress. But no more, since Wendy had shaken his disbelief, gotten him crediting the idea of heaven and hell just enough so his bones chilled at the thought of serving an eternity in hell when he might’ve landed someplace else with her. Maybe this God of hers could forgive his rage. Probably not.

Forgive, he’d read somewhere, and you’ll get forgiven. Then what? Dwell in a hammock on the back porch of his place on the bay? Mooch off Elizabeth and the bum? Walk the sand, swill wine, fall onto his knees in whatever alley he wandered at 2
a.m.
and wait for the street sweeper’s machine to run him down?

One thing sure. He wouldn’t start again at forty-four years old after getting his guts kicked in twice. At some point, he mused, you’ve got to throw in the towel, figure it’s no sense to keep punching, getting clobbered, heaving yourself off the mat and making your chin a target all over again, once you’ve decided it’s a rigged fight anyway.

With his brain fervently engaged elsewhere, it took him a while to figure the cause of the sharp pain in his gut. Finally he realized and stood up, over the stockpot he’d gotten Frieda to bring. He unzipped and pissed loudly, the stream clanging on the metal. Harry rolled over, socked his pillow, doubled it over, wedged it back under his head, and muttered, “I’m waiting for one of us needs to crap. It’s gonna be a sight. How about we get Frieda to immortalize it with the Kodak?”

“Sure. Make a blowup, hang it over the bar in the casino.”

“I like that, Tom. Getting your sense of humor back?”

“Not a bit of it.” While Hickey zipped his trousers and flopped into his chair, the gambler sat up. Hickey growled, “I’d as soon you went back to dreamland.”

“Not a chance, now I caught a nap. I’m a light sleeper, especially when there’s some dick pacing around, noisy as a tap dancer. Besides, guns make me edgy. I keep some of mine locked up in the closet, back in Tyler’s room.”

“I get it. Any second Tyler could pop me.”

“Bingo! So why don’t you give it up? You being unmolested eight, nine hours now—that oughta tell you I’m on the level.”

“Or else you don’t figure it’s worth the risk crossing me, on account of you got nothing to lose by playing along, making some phone calls.”

“Nothing to lose?” Harry’s voice ascended to tenor. His fist shot up, then unclenched, leaving his palm out as though he were passing a candy. “I got nothing to lose if Cohen figures I’m siding against him?”

“Depends if you’re a front man. Are you?”

“Hell, no! The club’s
my
action. Nobody else’s.” Harry lowered his eyes, rubbed his brow, and said quietly, “I got a little help in the start. Not a dime from Mickey, though. Only thing, I don’t treat him right, he buys the lot next door, builds a place ten times as swanky as mine. Or else he puts me outta business a faster way. See, Tom, it’s why I don’t vote Republican. A big boy can take out a little guy any time he wants. Nothing to lose, you say.”

“Okay, you got that hand.”

Harry sighed, gazed around. “Wanta play rummy or something?”

“Naw.”

“Tell me a bedtime story?”

“Read a book.”

“I hate books. I hate radio. I gotta
see
stuff. Soon as they build a station we can tune in from the basin here, I’m buying a television. You ever seen a television?”

“Sure.”

“I know a guy down in Oakland, puts cellophane over the screen, it looks like it’s in color. Swear to God.”

Hickey nodded glumly, reached for the pitcher of water.

“Okay,” the gambler said, “you don’t wanta talk, I’m gonna pick your brain. What I wanta know is, how’s a fella get so stuck on one doll that he’s willing to give up fresh pussy for all time. Think about it, Tom—for all time! Awful. The whole idea sounds nuts to me.” Staring at his fingers, he wagged his head like a scientist pondering a new and disturbing cosmology. “The way I figure, you treat the broads great. Give them stuff. Tell ’em they’re gorgeous, mysterious, delightful to gab with and all. You make ’em feel like queens. Smart. Sexy. The whole deal. You even let them push you around, make like they got a ring through your nose. Give ’em a few months if you want. Four’s tops. I mean, four months of your life is a big hunk. You gotta draw the line.” He slashed the air with his hand, leaned back, and stared intently out the window.

Hickey stood up, looked outside, in case whatever had caught the boss’s attention meant danger. All he noticed were moonbeams skittering across the lake, tree shadows rippling, a skyrocket that zoomed from the deck of a cruiser that chugged across the entrance to Crystal Bay.

He stood awhile marveling that a fellow could live as long as Harry without ever looking closely enough at a woman to notice the spirit that captivates a guy more even than a darling face or luscious figure can.

“You don’t get married,” Harry proclaimed. “It’s a sucker’s game. If nothing else, it ain’t ever gonna last. One of you’s gonna go fooling around. Somebody’ll get bashed good. You ever married before?”

“Yeah. Sixteen years.”

“Then what?”

“She ran off with my business partner,” Hickey snapped.

“Bingo. Does Harry P. know what’s up? How long ago?”

“Eight years.”

“And you still got a case for her.”

“A case
against
her. She took my daughter to New Jersey, introduced her to the country club set. That’s where she met this no-good she married a couple years ago.”

“You got a kid already, huh? She still in Jersey?”

“San Diego.”

“You pals?”

Hickey shrugged. “She doesn’t much like me hanging around on account of I’m nasty to the bum she married. He’s a gin hound. She still figures she can reform him.”

“Thinks she can love him off the sauce, huh?”

“Yeah. Same old story. How many reformed juicers you know?”

“Maybe one in a hundred.”

“Meantime, she could’ve been a painter, a dancer. She always wanted to make stuff beautiful. She’s sad, though. Real sad. Can’t find a way to pull herself outta the garbage heap.”

“See what you’re doing, Tom?”

“What’s that?”

“Why, you’re making my point for me. So where do you get off thinking this marriage of yours is gonna endure?”

“Lay off,” Hickey growled.

“Naw. I’m on a roll. Gotta play it out. See, on top of the fact marriage
always
stinks, you got other factors. Fifteen years from now, you’re pushing sixty, your dick’s in traction, she runs off with the preacher. You gonna tell me that can’t happen?”

“Let’s say I’m betting against it.”

“Or else she finds a guy with a real house, while all you got’s a log cabin. Betting against that too?”

“Yep.”

“Why? Something peculiar about the gal. Tell me that—what made you so stuck on her? I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s a dish and all. But we got no scarcity of dolls around here.”

Hickey’s eyelids felt heavy as theater curtains. His nerves and brain were on overload, flashing signs that warned any second the plant could shut down. Talking might at least help him disregard the signs until Claire showed with benzedrine, or coffee, at least.

“See, you know somebody awhile, or maybe you just met her. What she says, or a look she gives”—Hickey snapped his fingers—“just like that you see you’d never get tired of her, because no matter how much you learn about her, you’re never gonna do more than scratch the surface. She goes too deep to ever fathom, but you wanta get as deep as you can. Like some explorer. Buck Rogers. It looks like she’s got more mystery than you’d find if you climbed on a rocket to Mars. You never got that feeling, right?”

“Naw, but it sounds like a kick. So what’d she look like?”

“Who?”

“Wendy.”

“When?”

“Like you said, when you first saw her this way you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah. It was just after my discharge. Fall of ’forty-five. We were driving up here on vacation to survey the lot, so over the winter I could do some sketches, make plans for building the cabin. Out of Sacramento, there was this gal talking on the radio. A Jap that spoke English just fine. She was telling about Hiroshima, day of the big boom. She said there was a flash, it felt like thick paint thrown at her. She figured heaven was falling. Said she ran for cover, pulling her son by the arm. And then her clothes were burning, and her son’s too. They started ripping clothes off and their skin turned bright yellow. And her right arm was flaming at the root. And her kid was blind.

“I heard this whimper, looked over. Wendy was sobbing, real quiet, but hard all the same. I switched the radio off. But she flipped it back on.”

“She change the station?”

“Nope.”

“Why’d she switch it on?”

Hickey shrugged. “I’ve got an idea, that’s all.”

“Hey, I’ll bet you figured half of her was a softy, but the other half was a ghoul. Makes her real complex. I know broads like that.”

“You got it wrong, Harry. I figure she switched it on because she wanted to know the truth, no matter what.”

For minutes, Hickey sat still, pictures of Wendy flashing like the frames of an old nickelodeon—as soon as he focused on each, it would vanish. Finally he caught one and held it: Wendy as she prayed, her hands folded and crooked under her chin, her head cocked a little, her eyes not quite shut, the lashes barely fluttering. Her face got so radiant, it stirred him as though seas had parted or a new star materialized before his eyes. Knowing Wendy, you didn’t long for omens or signs. She was a daily miracle. Her hands unfolded and reached down to cradle her belly.

Hickey jolted up stiff. “This kid,” he yelped. “I’m gonna do it right. This kid’s gonna grow up straight. Happy.”

“Take it easy, Tom. You fall dead of a stroke, somebody’s gonna pin it on me.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Can’t do it, pal. Mind if I use your pissoir?” Chuckling, Harry got up, walked over, stretching, unzipped, and half filled the stockpot. He requested permission to take it to the bar sink and dump it. Hickey shook his head. “Chrissake,” Harry growled. “You got a clothespin, then?”

“You want it moved, wake up Frieda or Tyler.”

“I get it. You suspect, when you follow me over to see I’m not grabbing a heater from behind the bar, Tyler’s liable to dash out the door over here, plug you from behind.”

“For all I know, Tyler might’ve rounded up his sidekicks and he’s got one waiting at every door.”

The boss chuckled grimly. “You think Tyler’s that smart? Hey, Tyler!” he yelled.

In a few seconds, the bodyguard came bounding out of the northwest cube where he and the maid slept. In flannel pajamas. Rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Yeah, boss?”

Harry motioned to the stockpot. “Dump that mess in the john. Bring the pot back. Rinse it out first.”

Tyler wrinkled his nose, grabbed the thing, and hustled off.

“Damn.” Harry groaned. “We gotta keep this under wraps. I mean, people start talking about some guy can waltz into Poverman’s own damn house, stick him up, boss him around like his name was Sachmo, make him piss in a tin can—you ever had a business, Tom?”

“Yeah. A few.”

“What kind?”

“Chris-Craft dealership. Nightclub.”

“Chris-Craft, no kidding. I’ve got four of those babies.”

“Yeah. I’ve seen them.”

“Well, then you know how it is. You wanta run a business, you gotta have respect. This gets around …” He drew a finger across his throat.

“I don’t plan to go out bragging.”

The gambler inspected his thumb and gnawed a hangnail. “Nightclub, you say? Same place I got started. Wanta hear about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad for you. See, I was a waiter, this basement gin mill in Saint Paul, nineteen twenty-three, -four. Couple times a week, me and a fella called Bucky, on account of his teeth—pointed; they oughta called him Dracula—Bucky and me, we’d drive up to the border, make a pickup out in the woods, and …”

The first time Hickey caught his head nodding, he snapped it back upright and sat vaguely feeling like a louse because he didn’t give a damn about the man’s history. Only once every few minutes did his own concerns make way for a part of Harry’s tale.

“… we headed for the coast, Bucky and me, bought a fish and grog joint on Battery Street, three blocks up from the Embarcadero. Bucky wanted to stay clean, strictly legit. We could’ve done it, made a go, all right; there wasn’t much heavy action around, nobody stepping on us. But making a go’s one thing. Cleaning up, hauling in enough to lavish it on the dames and speedboats, that’s something else, I’ll tell you. …”