The Way Some People Die (6 page)

“Maybe I can and maybe I can’t.” He squirmed in his cowboy shirt, eying the money wistfully. “I don’t know what the setup is, mister. If this is a deevorce rap or something like that, I wouldn’t want to shoot my mouth off too free.”

“If divorce comes into it, it’s news to me.” I told him it was a prodigal daughter case. But with Dowser and Tarantine in it, it was growing much bigger than that. I left them out, and tried to forget them myself.

The bartender was still worried. The bills and silver lay untouched on the black Lucite, nearer him than me. “I got to think about it,” he said in pain. “I mean I’ll try and remember his name for you.”

With a great appearance of casualness he went to the other end of the bar and took a telephone out from under it. Leaning over the bar and hunching his shoulders around the instrument so I couldn’t see him dial, he made a call. It took him a long time to get his party. When he finally did, he spoke low and close into the mouthpiece.

He came back briskly and took my empty glass. “Something more to drink, sir?”

I looked at my wrist watch, nearly midnight. “All right.”

He set the second glass on the bar beside the money. “Do I take it out of this, sir?”

“It’s up to you. It’s eating into your profits, isn’t it?”

“I don’t get you,” he said. But he waited for me to produce another bill.

I handed him a single from my wallet. “What did your friend tell you on the phone?”

“My girl friend, you mean?” he asked brightly. “She’s coming over to meet me when I close.”

“What time do you close?”

“Two o’clock.”

“I guess I’ll stick around.”

He seemed relieved. He flicked a dish towel out from under the bar and began to polish a row of cocktail glasses, humming
Red River Valley
to himself. I moved to the back booth. I sat and wondered if that was as close as I’d get to Galley Lawrence, and watched the coatless boys at the shuffleboard. Red beat blue, which meant that blue paid for the drinks. They were drinking vodka, and they were all of eighteen.

Shortly after midnight a pair of short fat men came in, ridiculous in ten-gallon hats and jeans. They were very very particular about their drinks, and filled the room with name-dropping accounts of their recent social triumphs, related in high loud tenors. They didn’t interest me.

A few minutes later a man came in who did. He was tall and graceful in a light flannel suit and an off-white snap-brim hat. His face was incredible. A Greek sculptor could have used him as a model for a Hermes or Apollo. Standing at the door with one hand on the knob, he exchanged a quick glance with the bartender, and looked at me. The tenors at the bar gave him a long slow once-over.

He ordered a bottle of beer and carried it to my booth. “Mind if I sit down? I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” His voice was beautiful, too, rich and soft and full with deep manly overtones.

“I don’t place you. But sit down.”

He removed his hat and exhibited the wavy auburn hair that went with the long dark eyelashes. Everything was so
perfect, it made me a little sick. He slid into the leather seat across the table from me.

“On second thought, maybe I do,” I said. “Haven’t I seen you in pictures?”

“Not unless you get to look at screen tests. I never got past them.”

“Why?”

“Women don’t do the hiring. Men don’t like me. Even the pansies hate me because I won’t give them a tumble. You don’t like me, do you?”

“Not very much. Handsome is as handsome does, I always say. Does it matter if I like you?”

He came to the point then, though it cost him an effort. His purple eyes were shadowed by anxiety. “You could be working for Dowser.”

“I could be, but I’m not. Whoever Dowser is.”

He waited for me to say more, leaning gracefully in the corner of the booth with one arm on the table. He was tense, though. There were wet dark blotches under both arms of the flannel jacket.

I said: “You’re scared stiff, aren’t you?”

He tried to smile. The effect reminded me of a device I read about once for making insane people feel happy. It consisted of a couple of hooks that raised the corners of the mouth into smiling position. Its beneficiaries were forced to smile, and this made them feel like smiling, at least that was the theory.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m scared stiff.”

“You want to tell me about it? I’m wearing my hearing aid tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary,” with the forced wry smile again. “You might explain how you come into the picture, Mr.____?”

“Archer. Lew Archer.”

“My name’s Keith Dalling.”

“I’m a private detective,” I said. “A Mrs. Lawrence employed me to look for her daughter.” I was getting pretty tired of that pitch. It sounded too simple and corny to be true, especially in the Palm Springs atmosphere.

“Why?”

“Maternal anxiety, I guess. She hadn’t heard from her for a couple of months. Nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Dalling.”

“If I could be sure of that.” There was a beaded row of sweat along his peaked hairline. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “I heard from a friend in L.A. that Dowser was looking for Galley. It puts me in a spot—”

“Who’s he?”

“You must have heard of Dowser.” He watched me carefully. “He isn’t the kind of person you want on your trail.”

“You were saying, it puts you in a spot.”

Once he had begun, he was eager to talk. Dalling was big and strong-looking but he wasn’t built for strain. He had bad nerves, and admitted it. He hadn’t slept the night before, and he was the kind of fellow who needed his sleep.

“What happened last night?”

“I’ll tell you from the beginning.” He took out a briar pipe and filled it, as he talked, with English-cut tobacco. He was such a perfect artistic example of his type that I began to like him, almost as if he were a creature of my own imagination. “I own this little place in the desert, you see. The place was standing empty, and I had a chance to rent it to Joe Tarantine. He approached me about it week before last, and his offer was good so I took it.”

“How do you happen to know him?”

“He’s a neighbor of mine. We live across the hall from each other in the Casa Loma apartments.” I remembered the engraved card on the mailbox, with his name on it. “I’d told him about the house, and he knew I wasn’t planning to use it myself. He said he and his wife wanted to get away for a while, someplace where the pressure would be off.”

“Galley is married to him, then.”

“So far as I know. They’ve been living in that apartment as man and wife since the first of the year. I think he mentioned they were married in Las Vegas.”

“What does he do?”

He lit his pipe with a wooden match and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “I didn’t know until yesterday, when this friend of mine phoned me. Tarantine is a mobster, or something pretty close to it. He handles Dowser’s interests in Pacific Point. Dowser has half a dozen towns on the coast sewed up, from Long Beach on down. But that’s not the worst of it. Tarantine has stolen something of Dowser’s and skipped out. Apparently he planned it ahead of time, and he’s using my place as a hideout. I
wondered
why he asked me not to tell anyone. He said if it leaked out the deal was off.”

“This friend of yours,” I said, “how does he know all this?”

“I don’t exactly know. He’s a radio producer and he does a crime show based on police files. I suppose he hears inside information.”

“But he didn’t hear what Tarantine lifted from Dowser?”

“No. Money, perhaps. He seems to have plenty of it. I rented my house to him in all innocence, and now it’s made me look as if I’m an accomplice.” He gulped the beer that had been growing stale in his glass.

I signaled for more drinks, but he refused another. “I’ve got to keep my wits about me.”

“I don’t think it’s so bad,” I said. “If you’re afraid of Dowser, why don’t you go and talk to him?”

“I daren’t show myself. Besides, if I talked to Dowser, I’d have Tarantine to worry about.”

“Not for long.”

“I can’t be sure of that, either. Frankly, I’m in a mess. I phoned up Galley, Mrs. Tarantine, yesterday after I talked to my friend. She agreed to meet me here. She didn’t realize what a chance she was taking, until I told her about her husband. She was shocked. She said she was practically a prisoner out there. She had to slip away last night while he was sleeping, and God knows what he did to her when she got back.”

“You like her pretty well.”

“Frankly, I do. She’s a lovely kid, and she’s got herself mixed up with an awfully nasty crew.” Not all of his anxiety was for himself.

“I’d like to meet her,” I said. “I never have.”

He stood up suddenly. “I was hoping you’d say that. I have a normal amount of physical courage, I think, but I’m not up to dealing with gangsters, all by myself, I mean.”

I said that that was natural enough.

CHAPTER
9
:     
My car was parked six blocks away
, where I had begun my rounds. Dalling’s was waiting at the curb. If I had been asked to guess what kind of car he had, I would have said a red or yellow convertible, Chrysler or Buick or De Soto. It was a yellow Buick with red leather seats.

As we drove out of town, slowing down occasionally for a stop sign, I asked him what he did. He had been and done a number of things, he said, chorus boy in musicals before he grew too big, photographic model for advertising agencies, car and yacht salesman, navigator on a PBY during the war. He was proud of that. After the war he had married a rich wife, but it hadn’t lasted. More recently he had been a radio actor but that hadn’t lasted either because he drank too much. Dalling was frank almost to the point of fruitiness. Starting with the assumption that no man could like him in any case, he said, he figured he might just as well be himself. He had nothing to lose.

When we got on the highway he accelerated to eighty or so and concentrated on his driving, which interrupted our one-sided conversation. After a while I asked him where we were going. “At this rate we’ll be in Mexico before long.”

He chuckled. Surely I’d heard that chuckle on the radio. People didn’t chuckle in real life. “It’s just a few miles from here,” he said. “A place they call Oasis. I suppose it’s not exactly a place yet, but it will be. This country is filling up. Don’t you love it?”

I watched the dim arid tundra sweeping by, dotted with cactus and gray sage like the ghosts of vegetation. “It looks like a sea floor. I like a sea floor with water over it, it’s more interesting.”

“It’s funny you should say that. The Gulf of California reached almost to here at one time.”

We turned right off the highway and followed an asphalt road across the lightless desert. A dozen miles to our right the town lights sparkled, a handful of white and colored stones thrown down carelessly. A few lights gleamed ahead of us, lost and little in the great nocturnal spaces. Dalling said they were the lights of Oasis.

We entered a maze of gravel roads crisscrossing like city streets, but practically uninhabited. A handful of houses scattered here and there, street-lights at most of the corners, that was Oasis. It reminded me of an army camp I had seen at a staging point in the far west Pacific, after its division had left for bloodier pastures.

“What is this, a ghost town?” I asked him.

“It almost looks like one, doesn’t it? Actually it’s the opposite of a ghost town, a town waiting to be born. It’s a fairly new development, you see. I got in at the beginning, and it’s growing by leaps and bounds.” But he didn’t sound too happy about his real estate investment.

He took a series of turns on tires that screeched and skittered in the gravel. I kept my sense of direction straight by watching the high escarpment that blotted out the horizon to the southeast. On the far edge of the skeleton town he slowed to a crawl.

“That’s my house up ahead.”

There was only one house ahead, a white frame shoebox with projecting eaves, lengthened by the garage appended to the rear. As we passed it I saw light in the front windows, leaking faintly around the edges of closed Venetian blinds.

“I thought we were going to stop and pay a visit.” The Buick had kept on rolling, on to the next intersection and beyond. He finally brought it to a stop at the side of the road.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said uneasily. “Tarantine knows me, and he doesn’t know you. Wouldn’t it be more strategic if you went in alone? I’ll stand by, of course. I’ll keep the car here with the motor running.” His voice, trying to be charming, was pretty dreary.

If Dalling had a normal amount of physical courage, he
must have used it up on me when he first came into the Lariat. I pitied him a little. “Whatever you say, Dalling.”

The pity, or the contempt that went with it, must have showed: “After all,” and the deep manly overtones had departed, “you’ve been hired to find Galley Lawrence, haven’t you? I’m doing what I can to help you, man. And if Joseph Tarantine knows I’ve given him away, you know what will happen to me.”

He made sense, in a way. If I had had an equal amount of sense of a similar kind, I might have stayed in the car and gone to work on Dalling. Two would get you twenty there was a soft spot in his story to go with the soft spot in his spine. The one thing real and certain was his fear. It hung around him like a damp contagion. It was Dalling’s fear, or my reaction against it, that made me foolhardy. That and the whisky I had drunk in line of business. Without its fading glow in my insides I might have reacted in a different way. I might even have saved a life or two if I’d gone to work on Dalling.

But I contented myself with a smiling threat: “Don’t stand me up or you won’t be pretty any more.
Or
popular.”

The invisible hooks worked on his mouth. “Don’t worry.” He switched off his headlights. “I really appreciate this, your attitude, I mean—” He gave it up and settled down for a wait.

There were more stars over Oasis than I’d seen since I left that island in the Pacific. The unbuilt street was still and peaceful as the desert was supposed to be. But I felt a hot prickling at the nape of my neck as I approached the stucco house. I transferred my gun from shoulder holster to pocket, and leaned my moral weight on it.