The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (10 page)

"Pray a moment's silence," said Mendoza
sardonically, "while we return thanks to the Bureau of Internal
Revenue for small mercies."

“
Very damn small," said Callaghan gloomily.
"Sure, sure, about the only legal charge on some of those boys.
Only some of them. I'm not worrying about 'em— I can't, who can?—
like worrying about the bomb. I don't know the answer to the
syndicates, except it's a little bit like killing fleas on a dog—
you've got to get after the little ones so they  can't grow up
to be big ones— and you can't stop a minute because they breed
like, well, fleas. The ones here and now I got to worry about are the
syndicate agents and the boys like Bratti and the boys they hire. The
port authorities can worry about the stuff coming in, and isn't it
God's truth, they could do with ten times more men like all of us. It
gets in. This way, that way. And it gets to the agents. And they get
it to the Brattis. And the Brattis— wearin' kid gloves and takin'
great care of their respectable surfaces— they see it gets to the
pushers. Everybody making the hell of a profit every time it changes
hands— strictly cash basis, no credit— because it gets cut so
much on the way. A little deck of worth a hundred bucks raw, coming
in, by the time it gets to Bratti to distribute, it's twenty times
bigger and worth a thousand times the cash."

"This isn't news to me, friend. I've been on the
force just as long as you. All about Bratti,
por
favor
."

"I could write a book," said Callaghan,
"and what good would it do me? I don't know what kind of
background he came from, but I'd guess he's had a fair education, he
uses pretty good English. Let that go. I don't know where he got his
capital. For the legitimate business, that is— about that I know,
it's out in the open for anybody to see— ambitious young man makes
good: starts with one small hole-in-the-wall joint and builds it up.
Once in a while it does make you think— he's doing all right on the
right side of the law, you know. A lot of people saying the pros,
it's because they get branded— nobody'll give 'em a job, nobody'll
teach 'em a useful trade, so they stay pros— that's not the answer,
as any cop could tell them. They've just got a kink somewhere. I
don't know how long Bratti's been in the other business. That kind,
they spring up overnight like toadstools. And when he drops dead of a
heart attack— or when we get the goods on him— and the position's
open, somebody else'll be right there to take over. Just as he took
over— or maybe built up that business for himself. No, my God,
that's not the syndicate thing— why should the big boys worry about
organizing that low?— it's standard business procedure. And how do
I know about Bratti? I'll tell you, though God help me if I ever said
it to a judge! About eighteen months ago we picked up a pusher by the
name of Fred Ring— we thought we had some nice solid evidence on
him— but at the last minute the witness reneged and jumped bail on
us, and he had a record so the judge looked down his nose and said
the mere signed statement wasn't worth a whoop in hell, and threw it
out. But while we had Ring, we ran a tape on some of his interviews
with visitors, all underhand as hell— and of course since that
Supreme Court decision that's inadmissible evidence too— but it
gave us Bratti's name. We gathered Bratti was paying the lawyer.
Which put Ring, ten to one, as the head pusher. Bratti and the boys
like him, they don't want too many of these irresponsible underlings
knowing their names and faces and addresses. For one thing, it's not
very unusual for a pusher— the man on the street-to sample his own
goods. There's a big turnover in pushers: the personnel, as a
business report'd say, fluctuates. Some of 'em get to be customers,
on the other side of the fence, and that kind— or any of 'em—
could be dangerous to the next highest man on the totem pole. O.K.
There'll be one, usually, heading the string, taking delivery of
supplies and handing 'em out, the one who knows the middle-man. We
think Ring was it at the time. We kept a very close eye on him, but
didn't get anything. We have also been keeping an eye on Bratti, with
the same result. Ring didn't last long after that— "

"Fished out of the bay one foggy morning?"

"Why, you bloodthirsty Latin," said
Callaghan, "you ought to know as well as me we're twenty, thirty
years away from that kind of thing. Of course not— he got to liking
his own wares too much and finally passed out in the General. They
aren't gangsters any more, they're just syndicate men, and employees
of syndicate men, and customers of the syndicates. Like the big
corporations of other kinds, the syndicates deal with subsidiaries—
and it's all very quiet and business-like. They know it doesn't pay,
it's not only dangerous to their continued operation but cuts into
net profits, if they go roaring around like I've heard tell they used
to, pumping lead into anybody gets in their way. That just doesn't
happen any more. The big boys are awful leery of the law these days,
and the hell of a lot smarter— they've found out, for one thing, a
smart shyster is less expensive in the long run than the
old-fashioned cannister man you just gave orders to go out and bump
off So-and-So, and don't waste cartridges. Look at Bratti. Thirty
years ago Bratti would have been a barely literate lout— standard
type as per the Hollywood version— anybody'd know him for a
gangster minute they laid eyes on him. Today, you can't tell him from
any other man in the crowd, except maybe he's a little better
dressed. He knows how to behave in polite society, he's married and
has a couple of kids, he pays his bills on time, he's a respectable
householder. Far as I know, never even got a traffic ticket. Most of
'em are like that these days, the boys with any authority— even the
junior executives. One thing, they've got to have cover for the tax
boys in Washington, and most of 'em are running legal businesses on
the side. They've found out it's a lot nicer, quieter life havin' a
permanent home and all, not being on the run half the time. Sure,
human nature doesn't change, and there are still the feuds between
gangs of this sort and that, the jealousy and the fear and the loose—
mouths who'll tell what they know to anybody pays 'em, and the men
who'll do the same thing to pay off a grudge. But why should Bratti
or anybody else keep a hot cannon man at his elbow? Almost impossible
to tattle to the cops on one man, you know— a threat on one is a
threat on all, and all of 'em know that."

"You're lecturing," complained Mendoza.
"Now listen to me for a minute. I've got a very simple little
problem, nothing so vast as yours by a long way. Here's a dead man,
full of heroin. I don't know whether it was his first shot or whether
he gave it to himself, on the evidence, but in my own mind I'm pretty
sure it was, and he didn't. It looks, and it could be so, as if he
went down an alley to take his little jolt, took too big a one and
died there. A lot of holes in him where users stick their needles—
arms and thighs— but all put in him, the surgeon thinks, after
death. Can't swear positively it wasn't just before death, that it
wasn't him, getting up nerve. If it was, that doesn't, of course,
look like a habitual user. But it could have been his first,
voluntary jolt. O.K. His employer was one Andreas Skyros, importer,
prosperous, looks very much according to Hoyle on the surface,
¿
comprende?
He's very shocked and sad over this unfortunate misguided young
fellow led into bad ways by new acquaintances. And he says when he
reprimanded the young man for being slow at his work, the young man
mentioned the name Bratti as— by implication— one of the said
acquaintances."

"You don't say," said Callaghan. "Not
much there. Bratti wouldn't be working the street himself, making up
to potential customers, all pals together, Try a little of this for
what ails you."

"Exactly. I have the feeling that— as so often
happens— we're being underrated. Nobody else who knew the corpse
remembers him mentioning the name. So I just got to wondering about
Mr. Skyros."

"Never heard of him."

"But there was heroin in the corpse— that's
how it got to be a corpse. And— "

"Down on Carson Street," nodded Callaghan.
"I got the memo somewhere. Whereabouts?"

"In an alley just down from Carson and Main."

"You don't say," said Callaghan. "Bratti's
first joint is on that corner— he still owns it. He branched out
later in classier directions— has a place out on Ventura and
another on La Cienega now."

"
Vaya, vaya
,"
said Mendoza, "does he indeed? That makes me wonder even harder.
Have you ever sat in a game, Pat, with a pro sharp?— where the cold
deck was rung in, and cards forced on you?"

"Yes," said Callaghan, "or I got a
strong suspicion I have, anyway. I've sat in some hands of draw with
you, before you got to be a millionaire and can't be bothered to
shuffle a pack for less than five hundred in the kitty. Mind you, I
could never prove it, you're too damn smooth, but a couple of times I
had the distinct feeling that you had another deck up your sleeve."

"Slander," grinned Mendoza. "It's just
that I have more courage and skill as a gambler— you've got no
finesse, and you let the thought of the rent and the car payment
intrude and back out too soon. Fatal. What I started to say was, I
just had a feeling that that casual throwing off of Bratti's name
was— mmh— something like the dealer handing me a royal flush
first time round, out of a deck of readers. And me, it's maybe
evidence of a suspicious and ungrateful nature, but a long while ago
I learned you don't get something for nothing. I wouldn't be
surprised about the royal flush if that particular dealer owed me a
little favor— ¿como no?— but as it was, why should Mr. Skyros
hand it to me on a silver platter?"

"You think he did?" Callaghan cocked his
head at him. "I don't deny it, you get feelings about these
things, I know. Our Luis, crystal ball in his back pocket."

"I think he did," said Mendoza. "I
think he knew what card he was dealing me. And so I wondered, you
know, if maybe Mr. Skyros had some little grudge on Mr. Bratti. And
if so, why."

Callaghan got up and paced down the office. "It's
a piddling little thing .... And I might feel the hell of a lot more
inclined to take you at face value if I didn't have a suspicious
nature— knowing you— and get the unworthy idea maybe you just
haven't got the men to spare to keep an eye on this Skyros."

"You wrong me. I'm being scrupulous— keeping
you briefed on what might be your business."

"Andreas Skyros. Where?"

Mendoza told him home and office address. Callaghan
wrote them down. "You think I've got any more men to send out?"
he asked. "And on a homicide! That's your business. For a
change, I've got a hunch. End of this thing'll be a homicide charge,
nothing for me at all, and you'll be the one to get your name in the
papers— arresting officer. Talk about cold decks. O.K., O.K., I'll
have a look into it."

"
Muchas
gracias
," said Mendoza meekly.

* * *

He came back to his office and among other things
found the message about Alison's call. Quite a few other matters,
besides this nebulous business of Stevan Domokous, under his
jurisdiction; and in any case he was scrupulous about mixing business
with outside concerns. Ten-forty: she'd probably be lecturing her
current class on the proper use of mascara or something similar. He
went over a few reports on other present cases, from Sergeants
Galeano, Clock, and Schanke: cleared up some accumulated routine. It
was eleven forty-five when he called her, at her office.

"I wouldn't have bothered you," said
Alison, "it's none of your business— scarcely so melodramatic
as homicide— but really it is maddening, how even these days so
many men seem to have it firmly fixed in their minds that all females
are scatterbrained and prone to hysterics. I grant you, some of it's
our own fault— these women who make a fetish of being career girls,
twice as efficient as any mere male. I mean, a lot of it's automatic
self-defense on the part of the implied mere males, and I can't say I
blame them. Shakespeare— you know— protesting too much. Better or
worse, females are apt to be less objective about things, it's the
way we're made. Which I suppose is my excuse, automatic seeking for
sensible male advice."

"Yes," said Mendoza, "I agree with you
every time, what you mean is women jump to conclusions and call it
intuition. What— "

"And there's the pot calling the kettle black,"
said Alison. "What else is one of your famous hunches? Well,
never mind. The thing is, somebody broke into my garage last night
and apparently went over the car. As if they were looking for
something, anyway that's what it looked like to me. When I came to
get it this morning, the front seat was all pulled out— teetering
on the supports. So far as I can see nothing was taken, but— "

"I'll be damned," said Mendoza. "Look,
meet me at Federico's for lunch, I want to hear about this."

"Well, all right, but I can't take much time—
it's a little drive. Half an hour?"

"Half an hour."

He was waiting for her when she arrived. "I've
already ordered, save time. Now, go on from where you left off. What
about the garage door? I don't know that I've ever noticed the
garages— usual arrangement, couple of rows of them, single garage
for each apartment?"