Cat and Mouse (17 page)

“I should and I do. My only excuse is that I’ve had a lot of bad days lately. It won’t happen again. As for Corey, he saved me from getting brained. Gertz was about to dent my skull with a heavy crescent wrench.”

He sighed. “I guess that’s cause enough for action.” He paused. “The fat kid’s name is Adonis Rey. He’s been in trouble before. He has a record. We’re holding him, crowded as we are.”

“He could be our lead to Turbo,” I pointed out.

“Possibly. We’ll hold him as long as we can. But somebody usually comes up with his bail. He must have connections. Okay, you can leave now.”

We went out. Corey said, “If you ask me, I think it would be a hell of a lot smarter to keep the surveillance on the café instead of on those kids. Turbo could run out of messengers and have to make the trip himself.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “But Corey, you’re going to have to learn to get along with cops. They’re not the enemy.”

“I know, I know! But, damn it, I get along with McClune!”

“That’s probably because he doesn’t have any kids.”

He smiled. “Is that why I get along with you?”

“So far.”

We climbed into his car. He said, “I’m going to keep an eye on that café. And I think I’ll make another check of that deserted refreshment stand. Unless Turbo spotted the deputy and me when we were out there, he could have gone back. Do you want to come with me?”

I shook my head. “I want to go home and get a couple of belts into me. I feel as tight as a violin string.”

He dropped me off at my car and gave me the phone number of the apartment where he was shacked up.

Is that why I get along with you?
At the Tomorrow Club and with the Omega Little Leaguers, I worked with kids. God damn me and my male chauvinist jock pride…

Jan was mixing a drink when I came home. “You look like you could use a double,” she said.

I nodded.

“Bad day?” she asked.

“Aren’t they all?”

She sighed. “One double, coming up.”

I
TOLD THE GUARD I
would again need round-the-clock service until further notice. I also told him to make sure all of the guards kept their cars concealed in the shrubbery bordering the driveway. Let Turbo think I was finally vulnerable.

I was in the shower, the massage spray on, when Corey phoned. He had gone back to the refreshment stand, he told me, and there was new litter in the place. “Three empty beer cans,” he said, “and another discarded Corinth cigarette package. Jesus, that bastard is dumb!”

“Did you phone Adams and tell him?”

“Hell, no! He’s got a surveillance on the café now. A real clever one, a black-and-white parked across the street! If I tell him about the stand he’ll probably send two uniformed officers to sit in front of it. I can handle this.”

“Corey, Damn it—!”

“Brock, I can handle this. There’s a lot of heavy brush on the slope above the stand. I can watch it from there. There’s a full moon tonight.”

“And you plan to sit there all night?”

“Of course not! Until about midnight.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Luck.”

He had called Turbo dumb. But Turbo had evaded the police in Santa Monica and Ventura, in San Valdesto county and city. He had also not been located by any of the Brotherhood vigilantes. Dumb he might be. But damned lucky—except with the dice.

The moon came out, the night was clear. Jan and Mrs. Casey watched an old Paul Newman movie on the tube. I went back to read again my typed history of this sordid chase from the dead cat on the lawn to today’s parking lot brawl.

Corey phoned around ten o’clock. “Another false alarm,” he told me.

“What do you mean?”

He had walked to the beach from the apartment around eight. It wasn’t far and he could think of no place nearby where he could hide the car. About an hour later, an ancient, battered Volkswagen Bug had parked off the dirt road above the beach. A couple had left it and started down the path toward the beach, carrying along a six-pack of beer.

“It was Al Gertz and some girl he didn’t introduce me to.”

“You talked with him?”

“I did. I remembered that McClune had told me both he and Taylor had lost their driver’s licenses. I reminded him of that. He got snotty—and I showed him my gun. That cooled him.”

“Corey, damn it—”

“No lectures, please. I asked him if he smoked Corinth cigarettes and he showed me his pack. I told him about Turbo and he swore to me he had never met the man unless it was the man who gave him twenty dollars at the beach to throw that sea gull on your lawn. He told me there was a possibility that Adonis Rey knew Turbo but he was sure Fred Taylor didn’t.”

“Maybe Rey and Gertz aren’t as close as they seemed.”

“It’s the impression I got. I told him I wouldn’t fink to the law about his driving without a license if he’d find out for me whether there was a Turbo-Rey connection. He said he’d try.”

“I’ll give you a hundred to your five he comes up with zilch.”

“I know,” he said wearily.

“You done good, Corey,” I said. “Keep in touch.”

“Yes, Papa,” he said. He hung up.

Maybe Turbo had never inhabited the refreshment shack. That could have been a false lead. But then I remembered that there had been discarded pork-and-beans cans in the place. Young lovers seeking a sexual sanctuary would not be likely to bring those to their trysting ground.

The Paul Newman movie was almost over. I went in to sit with Jan and Mrs. Casey for the ten-thirty local newscast.

The opening story was the shocker. A youth named Frederick Norman Taylor had been found brutally beaten and unconscious in the tall grass of the Omega marsh. He was now in intensive care at the Omega Community Hospital. No other facts were known at this time.

When the newscast switched to other subjects, I phoned the sheriff’s department on the phone in the kitchen. I knew the night commander. I identified myself and asked him if Adonis Rey was still in custody.

He was, he assured me. No bail bondsman had shown up so far.

Victim number three could now be chalked up to Charles Turbo, two young people and one old woman. I had trouble getting to sleep that night.

McClune phoned in the morning to give me hell. Cliff Adams had told him about the parking lot brawl. And also, he added, “I am almost ready to agree with your favorite police officer, Chief Chandler Harris, that your Chicano friends are beginning to be a problem.”

“Somebody has to keep order in their neighborhood,” I explained. “Harris never did.”

“That is true. But now they are operating in my neighborhood and I don’t like it.”

“May I suggest that you send a couple of your Chicano officers to a meeting of the Brotherhood: Those Brotherhood men are immune to
gringo
bullshit.”

“Bullshit, me?”

“Bullshit, all gringos,” I explained. “And probably they are even less likely to believe what a former Texan might tell them.”

“You’re walking a thin line, Brock.”

“I’m saying what I think and you should know. What neither of us must forget is that we didn’t earn this state, we
stole
it from them.”

“I didn’t steal it from them. I wasn’t even alive then.”

“That could be the theme your Chicano officers could stress when they go to the Brotherhood meeting.”

“Dear God,” he said. “The millionaire private eye now wants to be my public relations man!”

“Why not? You know how charming I can be.”

“You bastard,” he said, and started to laugh. “God damn you!”

“Keep the faith, friend. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “But you’re sure as hell crowding it. You keep me informed.”

“Don’t I always?” I asked—and hung up before he could answer.

I had another cup of coffee and drove out to the Omega Community Hospital. I identified myself as his uncle and the sweet young girl at the nurses’ station informed me that Fred Taylor was still in intensive care but his prospects were brighter than they had been last night.

I was on the way out when Al Gertz came walking along the corridor from the entrance. He stopped to stare at me. “You?”

“Me,” I admitted. “Your friend is still in intensive care. And the guy who put him there is the same man who paid you and Fred twenty dollars to throw that sea gull on my lawn.”

He stared at me doubtfully. “What guy? You mean Turbo?”

“That’s the man. Do you know him?”

He shook his head. “But I told your friend last night that maybe I could find him.”

I took two twenties out of my wallet and handed them to him. “There’s three more of those coming to you if you do.” I gave him my phone number. “But you be damned careful! Turbo is wanted for murder, one here and one in Santa Monica.”

“Man!” he said. “That’s heavy!” He took a deep breath. “Your friend didn’t tell me
that.
Are you sure he’s the guy who—” He didn’t finish.

“Beat up Fred?” I nodded. “And I’ll bet your fat friend knows him.”

“He’s no friend of mine, not any more. And if I get too nosy with him I could wind up here, too.”

“You could.” I smiled. “Take your wrench along.”

“That’s not funny,” he said. He looked at the twenties and back at me. He took another deep breath and said, “Okay, I’ll try.”

I drove out to the trailer park from there, to the trailer resting on cement blocks. The door was open. There was an old, worn leather suitcase and a tote bag on the ground near the door.

Fred’s girl friend came to the open door as I got out of the car. “You’re leaving him?” I asked.

She nodded. “He didn’t come home last night. I warned him. Now I’m taking off!”

“He couldn’t come home,” I told her. “He’s in the hospital. He’s in intensive care at Omega Community.”

“No,” she said. “No! Is he—”

“The nurse told me he’s improving. I’m sure he’s going to make it. He was beaten up last night. Didn’t anybody tell you?”

She shook her head. “Nobody. Damn it! The nearest bus stop is over a mile from here. Could you—”

“Put your luggage back in the trailer,” I told her. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

She started to cry when we were halfway there. There was nothing I could think of to say. When we got to the hospital I asked if she wanted me to wait and take her home again.

She shook her head. “I’m going to stay here until—” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thanks for the ride.”

It was eleven-thirty now. I went home to have lunch with Mrs. Casey. We had our prelunch libations as we always did when Jan wasn’t home. It was a quiet lunch, and after we finished she went up to her daytime drama and I tried to read Jan’s most recent intellectual book-club novel. It was not for me.

I decided to go down to Rubio’s and relay to him the warning McClune had given me this morning.

R
UBIO WAS ARGUING, AS
he often does, with a customer at one of the tables. I don’t know what the argument was about. English is the only language I know. His opponent was either losing or fed up with the discourse; he pointed at me.

Rubio turned and managed a smile. “Pancho!” He came over to stand behind the bar.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” I said. “What was it all about?”

He shrugged. “Nothing of importance. Who was it that said, ‘at arguing, too, he owned his skill. For even though vanquished he could argue still’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whoever he was,” Rubio said, “I think he was talking about that deadbeat over there. Beer?”

I nodded.

He put a bottle of his finest on the bar and a glass.

I said, “I got a phone call from Sheriff McClune this morning.”

His smile was cynical. “I can guess. Chicano justice,
gringo
law.”

“Rubio, Sheriff McClune is
not
a bigot. He has quite a few Chicano officers working for him.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee. “I know. Several of them are also working with us. And we’re doing better than his department is.”

“What does that mean—better?”

“Closer. Pancho, you are not involved in this. Let us talk of something else.”

“Bear with me, please? As I told your president, this is not your town or my town. It is
our
town.”

“You don’t even live in town,” he said. “And you don’t know what it’s like to live in this end of it.”

“I don’t? I’ve spent more free money in this end of town than you invested in this bar. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

“It wasn’t,” he admitted, “and I apologize. And because you did what you did and are what you are,
nobody,
including our Holy Father, is going to stop us from finding your enemy.”

“Finding—or destroying?”

His smile was even more cynical. He shrugged.

“Promise me this, if and when you find Charles Turbo, you will turn him over to the police.”

He kept a straight face this time. “What else? Do you think we are outlaws? The beer is on the house. And now I must go over and apologize to my former friend. I forgot that he is still a customer.”

Another wasted trip, except for the free beer. I finished it and went out. I drove through the mean streets to the freeway and headed for the Montevista turnoff.

I hadn’t had much sleep the night before. I stretched out on the sofa in the den and tried to nap. I was awake and adding to my records when Jan came home.

“Nothing new, I suppose,” she said.

“Nothing worth repeating.”

“I’ll make you a drink. It’s the least I can do.”

I shook my head. “My stomach is acting up.”

“Some baking soda in water?”

I nodded.

It helped a little. So did Mrs. Casey’s chicken soup. I phoned the hospital after dinner and learned that Fred Taylor was now out of intensive care.

“Another trip?” Jan asked.

“A short one. I have to visit a sick friend at Omega hospital.”

“Anyone I know?”

“A kid. One of my Little Leaguers.”

“I’ll bet,” she said. “Go!”

When I pulled into the hospital parking lot I saw an old Chev pickup truck at the far end. It looked to me like the truck Gertz and Rey were about to get into when Corey and I had come on the scene.