Off the Mangrove Coast (Ss) (2000) (22 page)

When she left, I offered the best reassurances I could dig out of a mind that was running pretty low on hope. Reardon was careful, and if he couldn't find anything on Larry Craine, there was small chance I could. My only angle was one that had been stirring in the back of my mind all the time.

Where did Larry Craine get his money? He had been living in Hollywood for several months. He lived well and spent a good bit. That meant that wherever he had come into money, it had been plenty.

To cover all the bases I sent off a wire to an agency in New Orleans.

My next move was a shot in the dark. There was only one person I knew of who had known Craine before he came to Hollywood. I was going to see Pete Ravallo.

He was in a hotel on Ivar, and it didn't take me but two hours and twenty dollars to find him. I rapped on the door to his room, and he opened it a crack. His eyes studied me, and I could see he vaguely remembered my face.

"What'd you want?" he demanded. He was a big guy, and his voice was harsh. "Conversation," I said.

He sized me up a minute, then let the door open and I walked in. He waved me to a seat and poured himself a drink. There was a gun in a shoulder holster hanging over a chair back. He didn't offer me a drink, and he didn't look very pleased.

"All right," he said. "Spill it!"

"I'm a private shamus and I'm investigating the murder of Lawrence Craine."

You could have dropped a feather. His eyes were small and dark and as he looked at me they got still smaller and still darker.

"So you come to me?" he demanded.

I shrugged. "One night down on the street, I heard you say something about knowing him in New Orleans. Maybe you could give me a line on the guy."

He studied me. Somehow, I felt sure, there was a tie-up, a tie-up that went a lot further than a casual meeting. Ravallo had been too pleased at seeing Craine. Pleased, and almost triumphant.

"I don't know anything about the guy," he said. "Only that he used to be around the tracks down there. I knew him by sight like I knew fifty others. He used to put down a bet once in a while."

"Seen him since he's been here?" I asked carefully. Ravallo's face tightened and his eyes got mean. "Listen," he said. "Don't try to pin that job on me, see? You get to nosing in my business and you'll wind up wearing a concrete block on your feet! I don't like cops. I like private coppers a lot less, and I like you still less than that! So get up and get out!"

"Okay." I got up. "You'd better tell me what you can, because otherwise I'm going back to New Orleans ... and Dallas!"

"Wait a minute," he said. He went over behind me to the phone and spun the dial.

"Come on over here," he said into the phone. "I've got a problem."

The hair on the back of my neck suddenly felt prickly and I turned in time to see the sap descending. I threw up an arm, catching him above the elbow. I grabbed his wrist and jerked him forward into the back of the chair, then I lunged forward, hit the carpet with my knees, and, turning, stood up.

Pete Ravallo threw the chair out of his way and came toward me; his voice was cold. "I told you, and now I'm going to show you!" He cocked his arm and swung again.

It was a bad thing for him to do. I hit his arm with my open palm and at the same time I knocked his arm over, I slugged him in the stomach with my left.

He doubled up, and I smacked him again, but the big lug could take it, and he charged me, head down. I
sidestepped quickly, tripped over a suitcase, and hit the floor all in one piece. The next thing I knew I got the wind booted out of me and before I could get my hands up, he slugged me five or six times and I was helpless.

He slammed me back against the wall with one hand and then swung the blackjack. He brought it down over my skull, and as everything faded out, I heard him snarling: "Now get lost, or I'll kill you!"

When I came out of it, I was lying in a linen closet off the hall. I struggled to my feet and swayed drunkenly, trying to get my head clear and get moving. I got out in the hall and straightened my clothes. My face felt stiff and sore, and when I put my hand up to my head, I found blood was caked in my hair and on the side of my face. Then I cleaned myself up as best I could and got out.

It was after eleven, and there was a plane leaving for Oklahoma City at about twelve-thirty. When it took off, I was on it. And the next morning, Tuesday morning, I was standing, quite a bit worse for wear, in front of the Dallas Morning News.

When a crook comes into a lot of money, it usually makes headlines. What I had learned so far was ample assurance that what had happened had happened near here. I went to the files of the paper and got busy.

It took me some time, but when I had covered almost two months, I found what I was looking for. It was not a big item, and was well down on an inside page. If I had not been covering it with care, I would never have found the piece at all.

*

Police today announced they had identified the body of the murdered man found in a ditch several miles south of the city. He proved to be Giuseppe Ra-val lo a notorious racketeer from Newark, NJ. Ravallo, who did two terms in the New Jersey State Prison for larceny and assault with a deadly weapon, was re-; ported to have come here recently from New Orleans where he had been implicated in a race-fixing plot.

Ravallo was said to have come to town as the advance man for eastern racketeers determined to move into the area. He was reported, by several local officials whom he approached, to be carrying a considerable amount of money. No money was found on the body. Ravallo had been shot three times in the back and once in the head by a .38-caliber pistol.

So there it was. Just like that, and no wonder Pete Ravallo had wanted to keep me out of the case!

The photo coupon was still in my pocket. At the photographers shop it took me only a few minutes to get. it. When I had the picture, I took one look and headed for the airport.

In Los Angeles there was a few minutes' wait to claim my luggage, and then I turned toward a cab. I turned, but that was all. A man had moved up beside me. He was small and pasty-faced, and his eyes were wide and strange. There was nothing small about the feel of the cannon he put in my ribs.

"Come on!" he said. "That car over there!" There are times for bravery. There are also times when bravery is a kind of insanity. Tonight, within limits, I was perfectly sane. I walked along to the car and saw the thick neck of a mug behind the wheel, and then I was getting in and looking at Pete Ravallo. There were a lot of people I would rather have seen.

"I can't place the face," I said brightly, "but the breath smells familiar!"

"Be smart!" Ravallo said. "Go ahead and be smart while you got the chance!"

The car was rolling, and Pasty Face was still nudging me with the artillery.

"Listen, chum!" I suggested. "Move the gun. I'm not going anyplace!"

Pasty Face chuckled. "Oh, yes, you are! You got some things to learn."

We drove on, and eventually wound around in the hills along a road I finally decided was Mulholland Drive. It was a nice place to dispose of a body. I'd probably wind up as part of a real estate plot and be subdivided. In fact, I had a pretty good idea the subdividing was planned for right quick.

When the car pulled in at the edge of the dark road, I knew this was it.

"Get out!"

Ravallo let Pasty Face unload first, and then he put his foot in my back and shoved.

Maybe Pasty Face was supposed to trip me. Maybe Ravallo didn't realize we were so close to the canyon, but that shove with his foot was all I needed. I took it, ducked the guy with the gun, and plunged off into the darkness.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was a steep slide off into the dark, brush-filled depths of a canyon whose sides were scattered with boulders. I must have run all of twenty feet in gigantic steps before I lost balance and sprawled, headfirst into the brush.

Behind me a shot rang out, and then I heard Ravallo swear.

"After him, you idiots! Get him!"

Kicking my feet over, I fell on the downhill side of the bush and flame stabbed the night behind me, but I wasn't waiting. This was no time to stand on ceremony and I was not going to take a chance on their missing me in the darkness of that narrow canyon. I rolled over, scrambled to my feet, and lunged downhill.

Then I tripped over something and sprawled headlong.. A flashlight stabbed the darkness. That was a different story, and I lay still, feeling for what I'd tripped over. It was a thick branch wedged between the sprawling roots of some brush. Carefully, I worked it loose.

Somebody was coming nearer. I lay quiet, waiting and balancing my club. Then I saw him, and he must have moved quietly for he was within two feet of my head!

He took a step and I stuck my club between his feet. He took a header and started to swear. That was all I needed, for I smacked down with that club. It hit him right over the noggin and I scrambled up his frame and wrenched the gun from his hand.

"Stan?" Ravallo called.

I balanced the gun and wet my lips. There were two of them, but I was through running.

I cocked the gun and squared my feet, breaking a small branch in the process.

He fired, but I had been moving even as I realized I'd given away my position. I hit the dirt a half-dozen feet away. My own pistol stabbed flame and he fired back. I got a mouthful of sand and backed up hurriedly. But Pete Ravallo wasn't happy. I heard him whispering hoarsely, and then heard a slight sound downhill from me.

I turned, and Ravallo's gun stabbed out of the dark and something struck me a blow on the shoulder. My gun went clattering among the stones, and I knew from Ravallo's shout that he knew what had happened.

Crouching like a trapped animal, I stared into the blackness right and left. There was no use hunting for the gun. The noise I would make would give them all they needed to shoot at, and Pete Ravallo was doing too well at shooting in the dark.

Fighting desperately for silence I backed up, then turned and worked my way cautiously back through the brush, parting it with my hands, and putting each foot down carefully so as not to scuff any stones or gravel.

I was in total darkness when I heard the sound of heavy breathing, and close by. It was a cinch this couldn't be Pete Ravallo, so it must be the thick-necked mug. I waited, and heard a slight sound. I could barely see the dim outline of a face. Putting everything I had into it, I threw my left!

Beggar's luck was with me and it smashed on flesh and he went sliding down the gravel bank behind him. Instantly, flame stabbed the night. One bullet whiffed close by, and then I began to run. I was lighter than Pete, and my arm was throbbing with agony that seemed to be eased by the movement even as pressure seems to ease an aching tooth. I lunged at that hill and, fighting with both feet and my one good hand, started to scramble back for the top.

Ravallo must have hesitated a moment or two, trying to locate his driver. I was uphill from him anyway, and by the time he started I had a lead of at least forty yards and was pulling away fast. He tried one more shot, then held his fire. A light came on in a distant house.

Tearing my lungs out gasping for air, I scrambled over the top into the road. The car was sitting there, with the-motor running, but I'd no thought of getting away. He still had shells, probably an extra clip, too. I twisted into the driver's seat and threw the car into gear and pointed it down the embankment. There was one sickening moment when the car teetered, and then I half jumped, half fell out of the door.

In that wild, fleeting instant as the car plunged headfirst downhill, I caught a glimpse of Pete Ravallo.

The gangster was full in the glare of the headlights, and even as I looked, he threw up his arms and screamed wildly, insanely into the night! And then all I could hear was the crashing tumble of the car going over and over to the bottom of the canyon.

For what seemed a long time I lay there in the road, then crawled to my feet. I felt weak and sick and the world was spinning around so I had to brace myself to stand. I was like that when I heard the whine of a siren and saw a car roll up and stop. There were other sirens farther off.

Reardon was in the third car to arrive. He ran to me.

"What happened? Where's Ravallo?"

I gestured toward the canyon. "How'd you know about him?"

While several officers scrambled down into the canyon, he helped me to the car and ripped off my coat.

"Joe McCready," Reardon said. "He knew you'd gone to Dallas, and he heard the cabbies say that Ravallo was watching the airport. So, I wired Dallas to see if they knew anything about Craine or Ravallo. The paper told me that you found a story about Giuseppe Ravallo's body. So I had some boys watching Pete at this end while we tried to piece the thing together.

"They had gone for coffee and were just getting back when they saw Ravallo's car pulling away. A few minutes' checking and they found you'd come in on the plane. We thought we'd lost you until we got a report of some shooting up this way."

Between growls at the pain of my shoulder, I explained what had happened. There were still gaps to fill in, but it seemed Ravallo had been trying to find out who killed his brother.