Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (16 page)

Yes, there but for the grace of God went all of us, and there seemed to be plenty the grace of God had somehow overlooked. Everybody overlooked them, including the nice, clean family newspapers and the smug little moralists who devoted their oracular pronouncements to solving the vital problems of people who couldn’t make up their minds between buying a new station wagon or taking a vacation in Hawaii this season.

I walked on, thinking there wasn’t anything particularly original about my philosophy. On the other hand, there wasn’t anything particularly original about a run-down neighborhood or its run-down inhabitants, either. Maybe they were happy. Maybe they pitied
me.
Most of them would, if they knew the police were looking for me.
That
they could understand.

And remembering, I kept a lookout for squads or patrolmen. My luck held. My luck held all the way to the Harcourt Apts.

That’s what the grimy stone lettering read:
Harcourt Apts.,
in abbreviated grandeur. There hadn’t been much grandeur to begin with when they built this old three-story block of flats, and none of it remained now. The lobby was about the size of a pay toilet and looked no more inviting. To the right on the ground floor was a liquor store; the left had been retained as living quarters by someone who’d placed a sign in the front window reading
Gypsy Horoscopes.

I walked up the steps, into the lobby. There were twelve buzzers to ring, but only seven names to choose from in the adjoining panels. Three of them I could read; the other four were either illegibly written or had been rendered illegible by the action of time and grime.

There was nothing resembling the name of Dean or Juarez that I could read. Maybe I was the wrong guy for the job. Fellow name of Jean-Francois Champollion might have had better luck. This stuff couldn’t be much harder to decipher than the Rosetta Stone. Say 50 percent harder at the most.

I was still squinting, wondering whether or not I ought to start ringing doorbells at random and going into a one-eyed version of a Fuller Brush Man routine, when somebody shuffled out into the hall and leaned against the side of the wall.

“Lookin’ for me?”

She was a fat woman with almost invisible eyebrows and pale yellow hair done up in pin curlers; she was wearing a pink housecoat decorated at the throat with braid and egg yolk. I smiled at her.

“Could be,” I said.

“You after a readin’? C’mon in.”

I remembered
Gypsy Horoscopes.
Victor Herbert should see
this
little Gypsy Sweetheart. But I followed the un-corseted amplitude of her behind into the musty flat off the first landing.

The front room was dark, rankly odorous. She waddled over to a gas burner.

“Sit right down,” she said. “First I gotta make the tea.” But she didn’t move away immediately. I noticed she had her paw out. “Two bucks,” she said. “Advance.”

I gave her two dollars. She turned away and busied herself at the stove. The tea came from a cabinet. I noticed that the better Gypsies were doing their tea leaf readings with Salada nowadays.

She put the pot on, then came over and planted herself in a chair across the table from me. A lamp switched on.

“Let me have your palm,” she said. “Give you a readin’ while you wait.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m in a hurry. I don’t need a regular reading. It’s something else.”

Her eyes narrowed. She watched me as I put my hand in my pocket.

“What?”

“Do you have any experience locating missing articles?”

“Lost somethin’, eh? What was it?”

“It wasn’t a something. It was a someone. A man named Joe Dean lived here a few years ago. I’m looking for a friend of his, a girl named Estrellita Juarez.”

She stood up. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody. I just thought you might be able to help.”

“Don’t know the name, mister. I just moved in here last year.”

“But I thought you might be able to use your divination—”

“Crap!” She stood up. “You a copper?”

“No. I’m an agent. I used to work for the same studio as Miss Juarez. She’s got some money coming to her for a bit she did some while ago. They asked me to find her. All we had on file was Dean’s old address.”

“I wouldn’t know nothin’ about it.” She started to get up.

I took my hand out of my pocket. “Maybe if you concentrate on this it might help,” I told her.

She stared at the twenty I held in my palm, then sat down again.

“You on the level about having money for her?”

I nodded. “I’m no cop, you ought to know that. If I was, I’d have put the cuffs on you the minute I came in and took a sniff. That tea on the stove isn’t the only kind you serve here.”

“You’re crazy.” Her upper lip was wet.

I held out the bill. “Knock it off,” I said. “I’m just interested in saving time. All I really have to do is start rapping on doors. But like I said, I’m in a hurry.”

She reached for the money. “Yeah. But if there’s any trouble.”

“There won’t be. I’m not even going to say where I found out.”

“Crap.” It must have been an old Gypsy expression of some sort, and I wondered what it meant.

“Well, if you won’t tell me where to find her, at least you might be able to tell me something about her. What she’s doing nowadays, and—”

“Oh, ast her yourself!” she sighed. “Number eight. Second floor rear.”

I stood up and made for the door.

“You won’t say nothin’ about who told you?”

“No. How could I? I’ve never been here. Let’s both try to remember that, shall we?”

I went out and closed the door on the mustiness behind me. Then I walked upstairs.

Number eight was easy to find. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I tried the door gently, turning the knob and pushing. It was locked, all right.

Well, there was only one thing to do—wait, sit it out. And perhaps it would be safer downstairs, across the street.

I turned and walked down the hall, started down the stairs. Somebody was coming up. There was the clatter of heels, the swish of skirt, a glimpse of a broad olive face with high cheekbones surmounted by dark curls. This was type casting if I’d ever seen it. She started to brush by me. I stuck out my arm.

“Miss Juarez,” I said.

“Yaiss?”

“I’ve been looking for you. My name’s Clayburn, Mark Clayburn.”

“So?”

“Can’t we go somewhere and talk?”

“I do not onnerstand. Why for we talk?”

“We’ve got mutual friends to discuss. Such as Joe Dean.”

“You know heem?”

“He sent me.”

She hesitated, then turned. “We go to my place, eh?”

I followed her up the stairs. The view was a distinct improvement over the pink posterior of my downstairs hostess.

Estrellita Juarez unlocked her door. “Come een,” she invited.

Her parlor was a cut above the average for a joint like this: new furniture, and in fairly good taste. I noted the door to a closet and a bedroom, both shut. There was a kitchen and a bath in back.

“Seet down.” She put her purse and gloves on the table, then turned. “Now, what ees all thees?”

“Friend of Joe’s, like I say. He told me about you.”

“How ees Joe? I ’ave not seen heem for long time.”

“Funny. He talked like he’d been in touch with you regular. As if you’d know all about me.”

“No. Heem I ’ave not seen for months.”

“Quarrel?”

She didn’t answer.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Main thing is, he told me you’re the one to contact about the stuff.”

“Stoff? What you talk about?”

I tried my hands-in-pocket routine again, but this time I came out with a fifty.

“What’ll this buy?” I asked.

“I doan know what you talk about.”

“Business must be better than I thought, if you can turn down this kind of money.” I grinned and kept my hand extended. “All right, if you don’t want to help me out, there’s other places I can go. Right downstairs, for instance. She pushes a pretty good brand of weed, I hear. Or does she get her supply from you?”

Estrellita Juarez licked her lips. Then she took the money and put it in her pocket. She walked over to the closet door, opened it, and took out an upright vacuum cleaner. I watched her unfasten the dust bag attachment. She began to shake packages out on the floor.

“That’s enough,” I said. “This is all I need.” I stooped and picked up the manila-wrapped carton of muggles.

“Bot for feefty dollair—”

“This is all I need,” I repeated. “One package. So when I walk in and tell them where I got it, they’ll have evidence.”

Her mouth opened. “Why, you lousy, double-crossing stoolie!”

She came at me, trying to grab the refers. I got her arm and twisted it back.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You forgot the accent.”

“Never mind the accent,” she panted. “Give me that before I—”

“Before you what? Call the police? Or try to kill me?” I shook my head. “Better not. You’re mixed up in enough killing so far.”

“Who told you that? Joe?”

“No. He didn’t tell me. I lied to you. Joe hates my guts.” I let her arm go. “But I’m not lying to you now. And if you don’t lie to me, I’ll forget about going to the cops.”

“So that’s it, huh? Shakedown. I might of known.”

“No shakedown. All I want from you is a little information, information you should have given to the law a long time ago. You’ll have to sooner or later anyway, you know. They’re looking for you right now, Estrellita, or whatever your real name is.”

“Never mind about my real name. Suppose you tell me who you are, instead.”

“I already did. My name’s Mark Clayburn. Didn’t Joe tell you about me?”

“I haven’t seen Joe, honest I haven’t. Not since—”

“Not since Ryan was murdered?” I nodded. “That’s what I’m really here to talk about.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you. I already talked to the D.A.’s office.”

“Sure you did. But where were you when they tried to find you after Polly Foster’s death?”

“I had nothing to do with that setup.”

“Nevertheless, they wanted to question you, and you hid out here, in Joe Dean’s old apartment.”

“That’s no crime.”

“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”

She shook her head. “I tell you, not since Ryan died.”

“He didn’t die. He was murdered.” I had to keep reminding people of that, it seemed. “Was that the reason for the quarrel? Were you afraid of Dean because you knew too much about what happened?”

“I didn’t know anything.”

“Yes you did. And you’re still getting information from some place. Enough information so that you called Tom Trent the night he was murdered, warning him to get out of town.”

“Who told you that?”

“His sister.” I pushed her back into a chair. “It’s bound to come out sooner or later, just like I told you. All you’ve got to decide is whether you want to talk to me or to headquarters.”

“What’s your angle?”

“I want to solve this case, that’s all. I’ve got no axe to grind, nothing against anyone except the killer. Which means you’re safe, as far as I’m concerned, unless you happen to be the guilty party.”

Her hand went to her mouth. “No. I’m not. Honest.”

“That’s the way I want it,” I said. “Honest. All right, let’s get on with it. How long have you been pushing this stuff?”

“Two years.”

“You work for a syndicate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Quit that talk.”

“I said I don’t know. I get it from a guy. I pay him when I make delivery. He tells me where to take it.”

“You’re a runner, in other words.”

“That’s all. I don’t have anything to do with the stuff, where it comes from. They wouldn’t be fools enough to tell me.”

“What about Dean? Does he push, too?”

“No, but he knew about it. He saw me pass some to Dick Ryan.”

“Ryan was one of your customers?”

“No. He only bought once. Said he was getting it for a friend.”

“How did he know you could supply him?”

“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. He could have heard talk, though. I had a lot of customers in the industry.”

“You’re sure Ryan wasn’t a viper?”

“Positive.”

I nodded. That’s what I’d started out to clear up, a long time ago. That’s what I’d wanted: a plain statement clearing Ryan of addiction, from somebody who knew.

But I felt no satisfaction in hearing it now. Even if I could get her to put it in writing, that wouldn’t help. Too much had happened since I began my search, too many murders.

“All right,” I said. “So he bought some for a friend. Who was it? Polly Foster?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she use tea?”

“Sometimes. But she knew where to get it. Right from me.”

“What about Trent?”

“He dealt with me, too. And Ryan wouldn’t be buying for him.”

“Well, somebody was smoking at Ryan’s trailer. You were all there that night.”

“Nobody took anything when I was around.”

“Kolmar?”

“I don’t know about Kolmar.”

“Joe Dean works for him now.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, either. I told you I haven’t seen Joe since.”

“But you left Ryan’s trailer with Dean the night of the murder. You spent the rest of the night with him in a motel, didn’t you?”

“Yes. The little rat! He was always after me, and when he caught me slipping the stuff to Ryan, he made me promise to go with him or else he’d squeal.”

“That’s how it was, eh?”

“That’s how it was.” She scowled. “In the morning I kicked him out and told him to go peddle his papers. I haven’t seen the little fink since, and I don’t want to.”

“But you’re sure Ryan didn’t take weed. And you’re sure Dean didn’t kill him.”

“Positive. Somebody else must have come to Ryan’s trailer after we left. Somebody he expected, somebody who liked kicks.”

“So Polly Foster said.”

“She did?” Estrellita Juarez clenched her fists.

“I talked to her the night she died. In fact, I found her body. You must have read about that. She told me over the phone that she’d gone back to the trailer later that evening. She’d seen someone there. Whether or not she could identify the party, I don’t know. But if she could, somebody made sure of getting to her before I did. So maybe your idea is right. Why didn’t you tell the police about it when Ryan died?”