Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (9 page)

She nodded, looking relieved.

I went outside and walked up the street past the responsible
people's clubhouse to my car. It was time to go to All Souls and see
if Hank had returned. As I put my key in the ignition, however, a
sudden thought came to me.

Selena Gonzalez was an illegal alien. Under state law, no weapons
dealer could sell a gun to her. No reputable dealer would. That made
Fat Herman as much on the far side of the law as Willie.

The office windows of All Souls's big brown Victorian were lit up,
in spite of it being after eleven o'clock. As I went down the central
hall, I could hear several men yelling at the tops of their lungs in
the law library. I stopped to listen, but couldn't make out the
words.

Anne Marie Altaian, a stunning blond tax lawyer whose demeanor was
as calm and restrained as her legal specialty, emerged from the
kitchen. She wore a terrycloth bathrobe and was munching on a piece
of toast.

"What's happening in there?" I asked. "Who's about
to kill whom?"

She grinned and licked peanut butter off one finger. "Oh,
that's just Harold and that idiot client of his who's running for
supervisor. And the client's campaign manager and a couple of aides,
I guess."

"But what're they yelling about?"

"Didn't you see today's paper?"

"Not all of it."

Her eyes sparkled. "Well, apparently our candidate didn't
either—not until about an hour ago. And now he's in quite a
state. It seems that that investigative reporter—J. D. Smith—
did an exposé of
his indiscretions while serving on the Planning Commission. Pretty
juicy stuff. Our candidate came over here with the idea of suing, but
from what I've heard, he's now in favor of tearing J. D. Smith apart,
limb from limb. The others are trying to persuade him it's not a good
idea. I, personally, think a straitjacket is in order."

"Not bad for a Sunday night, huh?"

"No." Momentarily Anne Marie looked mournful. "I
wanted to watch an old movie on the TV in the living room—
Godzilla
Versus King Kong
. But I can't hear a thing over that ruckus.
Guess I'll go upstairs and catch up on my reading." She wandered
off toward the stairway to the second floor, where several of the
attorneys lived in free rooms that were partial compensation for the
co-op's dismally low salaries.

I went to Hank's office and looked in. The lights were off; the
stacks of newspapers, magazines, and miscellaneous periodicals that
my boss stockpiled hulked in the darkness. McFate must still be
questioning Willie.

Rather than go to the converted closet that was my office, I sat
down behind Hank's desk and pulled an old issue of
National
Geographic
off one of the stacks. I was partway through an
article on coyotes when Hank arrived.

He motioned for me to keep his chair, then slumped in the one
reserved for clients. His face was weary and he ran his hand through
his tight curls like a cranky child. The shouting was still going on
down the hall, but he didn't appear to notice.

"What happened with Willie?" I asked.

"They booked him on suspicion."

"But why? We were together at the Oasis when Levin was shot.
A lot of people saw us—"

"You're making a false assumption. According to the medical
examiner, Levin was killed no later than five-thirty, long before you
and Willie met at the bar."

"Well, doesn't he have an alibi for that time?"

"No. Or if he does, he won't say. He claims he was riding
around alone in his truck."

"And you don't believe that?"

Hank shrugged.

"Why not?"

"Something about the way he said it. I suspect he may have
been doing something illegal at the time. That's the trouble with
having a client in Willie's line of work."

We were silent for a moment. At least, I thought, this turn of
events had driven my disgraceful behavior with McFate from Hank's
mind. "Hank," I finally said, "why do you represent
Willie anyway?"

"He's a friend, an old friend. And, anyway, I owe him
something."

"What?"

"My life."

"You mean, in Vietnam—"

"Yes. Look, Shar, I don't really want to talk about it now."

"So that's why you didn't warn me he was a fence when you
sent me to see him. You wanted me to take the job, but you knew I'd
have reservations. So you sent me to the flea market, hoping my
curiosity and Willie's charm would do the trick."

"It worked, didn't it? Let's just say I owe Willie a debt
that will never be repaid. And because of that I'll continue to
represent him, even if he did actually kill Levin."

"You can't believe he did it."

"It's late, and I'm tired, and I don't know what to believe."

"Do you want me to stay on the case?"

"Yes. If they can make this charge stick, I'm going to have
to build a defense, and I'm afraid, from his behavior tonight, that I
won't get much help from Willie."

"Okay. Tell me one thing: Did the police find the weapon?"

"Yes. It was to one side of Levin's body, under some
shelves."

"What kind of gun was it?"

"A twenty-two. When McFate showed it to Willie, he commented
that it was the 'classic Saturday Night Special.' "

That, I thought, would probably mean it was an RG-14, a gun
assembled of imported parts by R.G. Industries, a Florida firm. The
parts do not meet the U.S. specifications for size and metal, and the
gun costs under a hundred dollars—a fact that greatly adds to
its appeal. "What was Willie's reaction to the gun?"

Hank shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "He seemed
surprised."

"You mean, he may have recognized it?"

"I thought so."

"Was there anything distinctive about it?"

"A triangular chip out of the grip. McFate also commented on
that."

"All right." I stood up. "In the morning I'll start
with a man who sells weapons at the flea market. He might be able to
tell me if Willie is the owner of that twenty-two."

"The police will check that out with state firearms
registration."

"I doubt they'll learn anything. Even knowing Willie for as
short a time as I have, I'm fairly certain he wouldn't bother to buy
a weapon legally. And, if it's the kind of gun I think it is, it's a
type that is commonly traded under the counter."

"And this weapons dealer is the one Willie would have gone
to?"

"Probably."

Hank took off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of
his trenchcoat. His head drooped dispiritedly. He always took his
clients' problems to heart—often too much to heart—and
Willie's would upset him even more than usual.

"Also," I went on, "I'll talk to Rabbi Halpert and
see if I can't get him to put me in touch with the Torah Recovery
Committee. We need to know more about Jerry Levin."

"Okay. I'll expect you to check in with me tomorrow
afternoon."

I looked at my watch. "
This
afternoon; it's past
midnight." Past midnight, and Don would be wondering what had
happened to me.

I stepped out into the hall. The yelling in the law library had
stopped. When I said good night to Hank, he was holding his glasses,
staring at their polished lenses.

The next morning I went down to the Hall of Justice and gave a
formal statement. McFate was mercifully absent, and the inspector I
talked to, a man called Gallagher whose first name I could never
remember, was someone I'd known and liked for years. When I'd first
met him, Gallagher had been an earnest and idealistic young man who
admired me extravagantly. He still admired me, but every time I saw
him he looked less earnest and idealistic and more and more tired.
When I was done at the Hall, I looked up the address of Herman's Gun
Shop in the phone book and drove over there.

The shop was on a seedy block on Mission not far from the
Twenty-fourth Street BART station. About ten years ago an attempt had
been made at beautifying upper Mission; the city had planted trees
and laid ceramic tiles in bright colors that were supposed to embody
the area's Spanish character. But the palm trees had died and the
tiles were now cracked and dirty. If anything, the district had slid
deeper into poverty and hopelessness.

When I entered the small store, two youthful urban cowboys who
might have been enlisted men on leave were standing in front of a
case that housed a .44 Magnum.

"Quite a weapon," one said, nodding approvingly.

"Could tear a hell of a hole in someone," the other
agreed.

I shuddered and kept going toward the back of the store, where the
cash register was. A fat man with grizzled hair sat there, a genial
smile on his fleshy face. Without his beach-umbrella hat, I almost
didn't recognize Fat Herman.

He recognized me, though, because the smile grew wider, exposing
gapped teeth. "Hey, you're Willie Whelan's new runner. Somebody
pointed you out to me at the market yesterday."

"Yes, I am." I'd debated what approach to use with Fat
Herman in the small hours of the morning while I stared at the
bedroom ceiling and Don slept the sleep of the just beside me. He'd
barely woken when I'd crawled into bed, except to mumble something
unintelligible to me, and I hadn't known whether to feel relieved or
insulted. But his deep sleep and my wakefulness had given me plenty
of time to plot strategy, and in the end I'd decided it was best to
maintain my role as Willie's runner. That was made all the more
possible by the fact that, while the morning newspaper account of
Levin's slaying had mentioned my name, it had neglected to give my
occupation. Or, more likely, McFate had neglected to mention it. I
had a hunch the inspector didn't approve of women being private
investigators; in his mind, therefore, I wasn't one.

Herman said, "That was some trouble at Willie's place last
night, huh?"

"I guess you saw the paper."

"First thing. Did they really arrest him?"

"Yes."

"But he didn't do it."

"No." I only wished Hank had Fat Herman's confidence in
Willie. Or mine, for that matter. I didn't know why, but a gut-level
instinct told me the fence hadn't killed Levin.

"Fucking cops." Herman glanced at the two young men,
whose heads turned. They frowned in disapproval. The gun dealer
glared at them, and they looked away. "So what can I do for you?
Willie send you?"

"No, I came because… well, after what happened last night,
I'm afraid. I live alone in a ground-floor flat, and I've decided I
need a gun for protection. Selena Gonzalez told me you had helped her
choose one, and I hoped you might be able to help me too."

"Sure. What I sold Selena is a High Standard Sentinel Deluxe.
Twenty-two caliber nine-shot. You know anything about guns?"

"No," I lied.

"Well, it's not much of a weapon. Just a plinker, good for
shooting at tin cans. But Selena's a little bitty woman. She talks
big, but she's never going to pull that gun on anybody. So I let her
have it for a hundred and a quarter and she feels safe."

Herman stood up and surveyed me, his little eyes moving up and
down my body in a way that made me feel crawly. "Now, you're a
substantial lady. You could handle more of a gun, if you're serious
about protecting yourself."

"I am."

"I got an older gun you might be interested in." Again
Herman glanced at the young men, who were now examining a case full
of rifles. "British, Smith and Wesson, World War Two service
revolver. Military people like it for self-defense."

And, I thought, dealers like you favor it because usually a gun
that old can't be traced. "How much would it run?"

"For a friend of Willie's, a hundred and a half."

"That's a lot of money."

"This gun is practically a collector's item. You decide you
don't want it around, you can sell it at a tidy profit. Or I'd take
it back, refund most of your money."

And resell it at that tidy profit, I thought. "I see." I
paused. "What about the waiting period?"

"The what?"

"I heard there's a fifteen-day waiting period, so the cops
can check the buyer's record. I wouldn't want to wait—I'm
scared
now
."

Herman grinned broadly. "For a friend of Willie's? You want
the gun, you take it home with you."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure, but first I better take care of these customers."
Herman lumbered around the counter, his paunch hanging over the belt
of his khaki pants. "You fellas want anything?" he asked
the two young men.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

" 'Cause if you don't," Herman went on, "you'd
better be moving on. This is a gun shop, not a museum."

They made grumbling noises, but headed for the door.

"Soldiers. You can tell them a mile away, even now that the
military's relaxed the regs about hair." Herman went back around
the counter and through a curtained archway. "Soldiers,"
his voice went on, "they never have any money, but they're
always looking." He returned in a moment and placed a gun in my
hands.

It was snub-nosed, with a top break—a gun that would do a
lot of damage at close range. I turned it over, handling it
awkwardly, as if I had never touched one before.

"What do you think?" Herman said.

"It's… ugly, isn't it?" I didn't have to fake my
distaste. I'm good with guns, a crack shot on the range. I take a
certain pleasure in target practice, the way I would in any
professional skill. But I took no pleasure in handling this .38. It's
true that all guns are made to kill, but to a person who's familiar
with them, some guns are more deadly than others.

"Depends on your point of view, I guess," Herman said.
"To me, what you've got there is a precious instrument. An
instrument of survival."

I set the gun on the counter. "I suppose you sell to a lot of
the flea market people—like Willie?"