Shakedown (2 page)

“No idea,” I said. “I got a phone call from Target at home, and went over there and got there too late.”

Silence. Then, “Don’t you want to talk over the phone?”

“It’s not that, Mr. Jennings. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Cut it out. Three of you involved in the Condor case and you don’t know anything; I won’t accept that. Where’s Deutscher?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to get him. What’s Rickett’s story?”

“You heard him give it, didn’t you?”

“I heard him give one. Is that it?”

Another silence. “Just about. Are you free to take a job, right now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this then, and the police don’t know it. Rickett spent most of the night at a spot called Little Phil’s, over on Lincoln Boulevard. That’s where he was supposed to meet Target. He’s kind of hazy about what happened after that. He was drunk, I guess.” A pause. “Or drugged.”

“Framed?” I asked.

“It sure as hell looks like it, doesn’t it? Where did Target get Rickett’s gun? How did Rickett get to Target’s house? You could work on that. And Joe, if you know anything, for God’s sakes, spill it. I’ve given you business before and I can use you again.”

“There’s nothing I know. And I’m sweating as much as you are, Mr. Jennings. I handled the money.”

“That’s right. Yes. Okay, Joe. Get to work on it and keep in touch with me.”

“I’m starting this minute. Whereabouts on Lincoln is Little Phil’s?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Somewhere near the Santa Monica-Venice boundary, I’d say. You could find it in the phone book.”

I could and did, and went out to climb into the Chev. Jennings was the attorney for a lot of theatrical big wheels in this town and the kind of contact I needed. He could put an end to this scrambling for nickels.

I took Santa Monica all the way to Lincoln and turned south on Lincoln. It was a red brick building, set back from the road, the graveled parking lot in front flanked by a pair of untrimmed and dying palm trees. There was a large plate glass window on each side of the recessed doorway, both of them shaded by Venetian blinds.

I parked under one of the palms and went up the two steps to the front door and through to a square, dim room. The bar ran the length of one wall. The rest of the room was given over to tables and booths.

The man behind the bar was short and thin, wearing a spotless white shirt and an undistinguished white face. At the end of the bar, the lone customer of the morning was taking a healthy pull from a tall glass of beer. He was a stocky man in a worn brown suit, a dark-skinned man with soft brown eyes and shining white teeth and the faintest scar from a knife cut under one warm eye. Sergeant Manuel Rodriguez.

Rickett hadn’t told the police he was here, but they’d found out, evidently. Manny worked for McGill, off and on. He looked my way and I gave no sign of recognition, not knowing if he was here openly, or not. Then he smiled and said, “’Morning, Joe.”

“Good morning, Manny. Fancy meeting you here.”

“And you,” he said. “Out of your territory, aren’t you?”

“I get cases all over town,” I told him, “and I had one in Venice and was driving by and got thirsty.”

“Sure,” he said. He chuckled. “Working for Jennings? Or did Rickett hire you directly this time?”

Manny knew I’d worked with Deutscher on the Condor case. But Manny is a friend, more or less. Anyway he was friendly. No cop is a friend of mine.

“Just driving by,” I said. And to the bartender, “A bottle of eastern beer. St. Louis beer.”

The little bartender went down the counter to get it. Manny said, “This is Little Phil, himself. And he knows nothing, do you, little man?”

“A-a-a-a-,” the little man said, like a goat. “You cops—” He set the bottle of beer in front of me with a thump.

“A glass, too,” I said, “if it wouldn’t strain you.”

The glass made a smaller thump.

“The little man won’t talk,” Manny said. “He’s stubborn.”

“He wasn’t here,” Little Phil said. “And there ain’t enough money in the world to change that story. Just because he’s a big shot—”

“Relax, Shorty,” I said.

“It’s my place. I’ll talk all I want to. I’ll do as I please.”

“Okay. Then please shut up.”

He glared at me and I looked at him. I looked at him as though he was a small, thin man in a white shirt, which was easy. A few seconds of that and he went down to the far end of the bar and opened a newspaper.

Manny was smiling. “Are you as tough as you look, Joe?”

“I think so. Who told you about this place?”

“Oh, we get a word here and there. And a guy like Rickett is so much out of place in a rat trap like this, it’s noticeable.”

Little Phil rattled his paper, but didn’t look up.

Manny said, “Seen Deutscher lately?”

I shook my head. “You don’t think he had anything to do with what happened this morning, do you?”

Manny shrugged. “You and Deutscher worked on that Condor case. Target and Rickett were part of that. It would be logical to think this is an extension of it, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose. Or that Target was blackmailing Rickett because of that case and tried to kill him when Rickett refused to pay.”

Manny chuckled. “With Rickett’s gun?”

“That’s the bad part of it,” I admitted.

Manny nodded. “That’s what will get Rickett the gas chamber.” He put some money on the bar. “Well, there’s nothing here. We’ll get Little Phil in court when the time comes.”

He went out but I didn’t. I said to the little man, “Another bottle of beer, please.”

He put the paper down slowly and moved along the bar to get it. As he was uncapping the bottle, I said, “I’m no cop. I pay for the information I want.”

“No kidding.” He put the bottle in front of me. “I don’t sell information. Beer and liquor I got and sell.” He went back to his paper.

“You’ll get to court, anyway,” I said, “and the D.A.’s boys will cut you up if you try to lie. I’d like to get the jump on them. That’d help you too.”

“I don’t need any help and I can do without the gab.”

“And without the money?”

“Money?” He looked up, his thin face full of scorn. “You cheap peeper, what the hell do you know about money?”

“There’s a lot of it behind me,” I said, “but I guess you’re not in the mood to sell.” I put one of my cards on the bar. “If you should happen to get smart, phone me.”

“Drop dead,” he said, and went back to the paper.

I didn’t finish the last bottle of beer. I went out before I succumbed to the urge to slap him silly. If Rickett was framed, which could be, Little Phil would be a part of it. But he hadn’t been connected with the Condor case at all. Which meant to me that Little Phil was just a stooge in this one.

It had all the elements of a frame. Rickett wasn’t dumb enough to go after Target with a gun registered to him. Unless he was drunk. Or, as Jennings had suggested, unless he was drugged. Somewhere, Little Phil had a tie-up with all of it, but he was probably just hired help.

There’s one man who might know and I meant to see him. Peter Deutscher would know. He lived in a triplex just below the Hollywood Hills section and I headed that way. From a drugstore in Hollywood, I phoned his office and got no response. I tried the house with the same result. But I went out there to wait anyway, after grabbing a sandwich at the drugstore.

We weren’t the best of friends since that Condor business, but Deutscher had a lot of strings out in this town and he wasn’t a man to fight with openly.

I turned on the radio in the car to a platter program and sat there, waiting for the man with answers. I waited two hours and then slid a note under his door.

I was gummy and hot. I headed for home. And in front of the four-unit building that includes my room, bath and kitchenette, there was a Plymouth parked that I thought I recognized.

As I left the Chev at the curb, a man climbed out from the Plymouth and came over my way.

He said, “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting over an hour.”

Big man, though not as big as I am. But better dressed and with a lot of dignity, almost pompous at times—Peter Deutscher.

I
TOLD HIM, “I’VE BEEN
sitting in front of your place for the last two hours. The law’s looking for you.”

“I know. I’ve seen them. Got any beer in your place? It’s a scorcher, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. You don’t seem worried, Peter.”

“Should I be?”

“With that Condor case breaking wide open? No, maybe you shouldn’t. But I should, shouldn’t I? I did the paying off.”

He smiled. “Relax, Joe. Both witnesses dead; what have you to worry about?”

“Both—?” I said and stared at him. “Is Josie Gonzales dead, too?”

He nodded. “A month ago. Let’s get out of this sun.”

“Sure. But look, Pete, about Josie—was she killed, too?”

He shook his head. “You might call it an occupational disease. Cancer of the uterus, Joe.”

Relief moved through me. Josie dead, Target dead; I didn’t have a damned thing to worry about.

We went into my place and I got a couple bottles of beer open before I asked him the next question. “What do you know about this Target murder?”

He took a big swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Nothing. I could guess, though.”

“A frame?”

He nodded. “You know, Jennings isn’t only Rickett’s attorney; he’s also his business manager. He handles all of Rickett’s income and doles him out an allowance.”

“That’s standard practice out here. That’s hardly grounds to suspect a man of framing his client for murder.”

“Maybe not. Except Jennings isn’t the most ethical shyster in town, you’ll remember. And I happen to know he owes three bookies some pretty heavy sugar. And he’s owed it for months.”

“It still doesn’t hold water,” I said. “He hired me to check up on the possibility of a frame.”

“A smart move. If you discover something, you’ll bring it to him. And he knows you can be bought.”

Resentment stirred in me. “He knows you can, too. And he hired you last time.”

“Mmmm-hmmm. And I hired you—and charged Jennings plenty.”

“You rubbing it in, Peter? I know you get big dough—and I don’t.”

He took another swig of beer and set the bottle on the floor. He took a pair of cigars from a case and offered me one. Big deal. I shook my head and reached into my pocket for a cigarette.

Deutscher lighted the cigar and looked at the glowing end, like the heavy in a B picture. “I’m not here to talk about nickels, Joe. I’ve got something really big for us.”

Easy,
I told myself.
Peter’s looking for a stooge, again.

He paused to smile at me. “Don’t look so cynical. To be honest, you’ve got the kind of looks I need in this deal. There’s a woman involved. There are two women involved, but one of them is the one I want you for.”

I smiled at him. “The good looking one’s for you, eh, Peter?”

He shook his head. “Not that one. She doesn’t like men.”

“Oh,” I said. “Blackmail, Peter?”

“That’s a blunt word. Her daddy’s worth over thirteen million.”

“Local man?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Ames Clifford.”

A big name, socially. Big man in the east, big man in any direction. And a clean one.

“And his daughter’s queer?” I said.

“Queer as a seven-dollar bill. And beautiful too. But that’s not for you, Joe. She’s living in town here with a girl named Jean Roland. Know her?”

I’d seen her in a few movies before she gave that up. I’d seen her in a lot of bars with some very important men in this town. A major league tramp and something to see, a leggy, busty blonde with fire and that expensive look.

“I’ve seen her around,” I said. “Her old man’s a big con operator, isn’t he? He’s cleaned up enough.”

Deutscher nodded. “Charles Adam Roland. The slickest con man operating today. He’s my in on the deal.”

“You know him?”

“I met him. I’ve done a little work for him. The thing is, he and his daughter don’t trust each other completely. Or perhaps it’s more correct to say she doesn’t trust him completely. He rooked a few of her big wheel friends—and didn’t cut her in.” He puffed the cigar.

I said nothing, trying to figure the angle.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Deutscher asked quietly.

“You must have better friends,” I pointed out. “Why should you cut me in?”

“Because I haven’t got better looking friends. You’re the type this Jean Roland sails for. She’s been serious about two men, and both of them looked like you.”

I shook my head. “You get their background, don’t you? But you’re really reaching if you think that means anything.”

Deutscher took a deep breath. “She mentioned your name. She’s noticed you here and there.”

I smiled at him. “You mean it wasn’t your idea, cutting me in?”

He didn’t answer that. He said, “I’m the one who’s telling you about it. Aren’t you interested?”

“In blackmail?” I shook my head. “Too dangerous.”

“It’s not blackmail. That was Miss Roland’s first thought, but her father has convinced her it’s crude. He’s going to handle it. And if Miss Clifford should get smart later and complain to the law, he’ll be the goat.” Deutscher paused. “But he won’t be in town.”

“And what did you have planned for my part in this production?”

“You’re an investigator, working for Jean Roland, investigating the Nevada Investment Company. That’s a uranium development corporation that old man Roland has set up. You’re not too sure of the outfit.”

“Why not?”

“Jean would have to explain that to you. Don’t you want to talk to her?”

“In bed maybe.”

Deutscher chuckled. “You’ll probably get to that with her. She seems to have a yen for you.”

I don’t know why I was hesitating, except that I didn’t trust Deutscher. I’d come out of this last one all right because the witnesses had died. If they hadn’t, I’d never be completely in the clear. People are always subject to attacks of conscience and Bea Condor had been a well loved girl.

So I said to Deutscher, “Give me a little time on it. I want to think out all the angles.”