The Third Figure (5 page)

I decided not to reply, but instead looked out the window. We were entering the freeway. Montez held the car in a long, graceful curve, expertly. Obviously he enjoyed driving, as only a young man with expensive dreams can enjoy handling a big, powerful automobile.

“Not too far now,” he said, his eyes on the road. “Eight, nine miles. No more.”

“What did you do before you worked for Mr. Russo?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I was in and out of jail. I was a real nowhere kid. Tough, you know what I mean? Tough and dumb. The last time I did, it was for knifing some guy I’d never seen before in my life. And you know why? Because a girl just wanted to see us fight.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen. And it cost me almost three years, that fight. And it was hard time, too. My juvenile record went against me, plus I stayed dumb on the inside. I still thought I had to be tough. Then, just about six months before I got out, I met this guy Danny Frichetti, who’d worked for Mr. Russo back in Kansas City. We were cellmates, Danny and me. He was older than me, but he liked me. He said I could get somewhere, if I’d only cool down and use my head. He told me to see Mr. Russo when I got out. Danny’d heard that Mr. Russo had just come out to the Coast.”

“That was just about a year ago, then.”

“Right. I first got a job in a dry cleaning plant, through parole. But I saw Mr. Russo, and he got me fixed up right away. I’m supposed to be working in a cigar store. Technically.” He half-turned his head and smiled. “You know.”

I nodded. Then, casually, I asked, “Did you always work for Mr. Russo? Or did you really work for Dominic Vennezio?”

He shot me a cautious glance. But the answer came readily enough.

“I guess you’d say that we all worked for Vennezio, until—a few weeks ago. But the only one I ever saw was Mr. Russo. Vennezio was someone I just heard about, and used to see once in a while. But I drove for Mr. Russo, right from the start. And did—other things. You know.” Again he glanced at me, thought about it for a moment and then asked, “Are you from the East?”

“No. I’m from San Francisco. I just got in last night.”

He nodded, but didn’t reply. The car was slowing, and ahead I saw a sign marking the La Palada freeway exit. Briefly I considered more leading questions, but then decided against it. Montez would willingly talk about himself, but my first mention of Vennezio had brought a wary question in return. Until Montez knew more of my credentials, he would tell me nothing.

So, instead, I asked, “Have you lived in Los Angeles all your life?”

I saw his eyes flicker in a spasm of opaque bitterness.

“That’s right. All my life. Some life.” He pointed up ahead. “Here we are.”

We’d been traveling on a narrow concrete road, and now we turned off on a graveled road marked “Private.” The road climbed for perhaps a quarter-mile, through a grove of eucalyptus trees. Then, suddenly, we were pulling into a parking area topped with crushed rock, gleaming sparkling white in the warm September sunshine. The car came to a stop before a long, low, three-car garage. I got out, aware that my first reaction was a sense of relief. Unconsciously, perhaps, I’d been expecting a tall, foreboding fortress of a house surrounded by a high cyclone fence, guarded by vicious dogs and electric eyes. Instead, I saw the shake roofs and the expansive redwood-and-glass architecture of California’s upper middle class.

“We can go through here,” Montez said, leading the way down a graveled path and through a gate set into a grape stake fence. “Mr. Russo’s out by the pool. He said you should come out there.”

The pool, like the house and grounds, was more than merely adequate, but not ostentatious. Two men, both wearing bathing trunks, sat together in the shade of a small cabana. Both men were heavy-set and deeply tanned. One man, balding, wore heavy black-rimmed glasses; the other had thick, wiry gray hair, carefully groomed and trimmed. Both seemed common poolside types, paunchy and prosperous, relaxing in the sun.

As we approached, neither rose. The balding man gestured to a nearby metal chair, which Montez pulled up for me.

“Mr. Drake?” the balding man asked.

“Yes,” I answered, still standing.

“I’m Frank Russo. This is Martin Franklin. Sit down.”

“Thank you.” I sat facing the two men. As I did, I realized that Montez, without speaking, had already disappeared. And now Martin Franklin got to his feet. He paused to drain the last of a tall drink, then said to Russo, “I’ll have everything ready for you to sign by tomorrow afternoon, Frank. Shall I send the papers over to the office, or here?”

“Send them to the office. If I’m not there, Gloria’ll know where I am. She’ll get them to me.”

“Good. Why don’t you bring them home with you tomorrow evening? I’ll pick them up after work.”

“All right. Fine.”

“I’d better be going.” Franklin glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Right.” Franklin nodded to me, smiled automatically and began walking across the lawn toward the house. As I turned my gaze to Russo, I realized that he’d been studying me. His dark, quick eyes were small and intent behind his heavy glasses. His face, even with a Sunday’s growth of beard, had the smooth, bland, well-barbered look of the successful, fortyish businessman. The relaxed lines of his body, reclining in a cord-and-metal lounge chair, projected a semi-indolent aura of affluence and command, comfortably assured. His face was broad and swarthy, his jowls were beginning to sag. His torso, thickening, was still well-muscled. In his twenties, I decided, Frank Russo must have been a powerfully built young man.

Now he gestured to a nearby table full of bottles, glasses and an ice bucket.

“Drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Usually I never drink before five o’clock. Never. On Sundays, though, it’s different.” As if to make the point, he sipped from the glass at his side, then once more resumed his open appraisal of me.

“You look different than I’d figured,” he said finally. “You look just like anyone. Anyone at all.”

Something about the candid, almost ingenuous bluntness of the remark made me smile, involuntarily.

“That’s the way I feel,” I answered. “Just like anyone else.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Slowly he put the highball aside, with the air of a man whose thoughts were half-regretfully turning to business instead of to swimming or sunbathing.

“I hear you’re a crime reporter up in San Francisco.”

“That’s right.” I tried to keep my eyes steady as I met his narrow, dark gaze.

“I also hear,” he continued, “that you’re one of these guys who can figure out where the body’s buried just by closing your eyes and getting a picture about it.” He paused, obviously waiting for a reply.

“That’s right, too.” I decided not to elaborate. As long as he was asking the questions, I was content to answer, hopefully in a firm, quiet voice.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he said bluntly, “that stuff’s all a bunch of crap.”

I shrugged. “I know just how you feel. A few years ago, I’d’ve said the same thing myself.”

He nodded, chewing reflectively at his lower lip. “That’s not a bad answer. I guess I’d say the same thing myself, if I was you.”

I didn’t reply. Over the past few years I’d watched many people try, in many different ways, to bait me on the subject of clairvoyance. My best defense, I’d learned, was complete honesty.

“Aidia Vennezio is a religious nut,” he said abruptly. “She’s superstitious. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“She wants to find out who murdered her husband. That’s what she told me.”

“Did you tell her that you’d do it?” Now there was a certain watchful stillness in his manner.

“I said I’d come down and talk to you.”

“Did she pay you for coming?”

I nodded. “She paid me a thousand dollars.” I’d already decided to tell him, because I was sure he must know.

Now he smiled, apparently in genuine good humor. His mouth was full and wide, and the expression was almost a pleasant one.

“You’re honest, anyhow. It’s hard to find an honest man these days.”

“I know. I feel the same way.”

“What’ll you do if I don’t like the idea of you nosing around?”

“I’ll go back to San Francisco.”

“Did you tell Aidia that?”

“I’m not sure whether I did or not, in so many words. But that was the understanding. I can go back to San Francisco any time I like.”

“And you’ll be a thousand dollars richer.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not bad dough. A thousand dollars a day. I could live on that.”

“It doesn’t come along often, though.”

He reached for his highball, then raised the glass to me. “Sure you won’t have one?”

“No, thanks.”

For a long moment he sipped the drink, watching me. Then, putting the glass aside, he sat up straighter. His manner became crisper as he said, “What d’you write about, exactly, when you report on crime?”

I thought for a moment before saying, “Mostly, I suppose, it’s murders. That’s what the people like to read about. So that’s what we write.”

“Ever write much on gambling?”

“Not much. Most people gamble, one way or the other. So they don’t enjoy reading about it. It’s not news.”

“Are there many bookie operations going in San Francisco?”

“Yes,” I answered, as steadily as I could. “San Francisco’s no different than any other city. There’s always a place to put down a bet.”

“Do you ever write anything about that?”

“No, I never have.”

“What about cops? Don’t you write about how they should close down the books?”

I sighed. I thought I could see where the conversation was going. I didn’t like it, but I’d passed the point of squeamish scruples the day before. It seemed very long ago.

“We get our news from the police,” I said. “You can’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“Have you ever heard of cops up in San Francisco taking payoffs?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. I’ve been on the crime beat for five years. I’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Have you heard about me?”

I realized I was gripping the arms of my chair. With a conscious effort I relaxed my hands, then settled back.

“Yes, I’ve heard about you.”

“What’ve you heard?”

“I heard that you took over Dominic Vennezio’s job.”

He nodded, almost benignly.

“What else did you hear?”

I felt the barb of a quick impatience. I’d never liked being quizzed. I didn’t like it now.

“I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you. Some of it I believe, some of it I don’t. I know that Dominic Vennezio had the reputation for being the head of the Outfit down here. If you’ve taken his job, then I imagine that’s what you’re doing. But I don’t really much care, if you want the truth. I’m not making any judgments. I’m a reporter, not a cop. I’ll admit that I wanted to talk to you—very much. You’re news, and that’s—”

“What’d Aidia say about how Dom got killed?” he interrupted.

“She doesn’t know who did it. And she doesn’t think you do, either,” I answered promptly. I realized that, surprisingly, I’d taken courage from my own waspish monologue.

“Do you believe her?”

“How should I know?” I was aware that my voice had slipped to a plaintive note. I wished he’d go for his Sunday swim and let me go back to San Francisco.

“How about this ESP?” he was asking. “How’s it done? I mean, do you go into a trance, or what?”

“No, I don’t go into a trance. It’s difficult to explain in a few words, but basically it’s a simple matter of being in contact with your own subconscious. Or, at least, that’s what the experts say. As far as I’m concerned, I just—just wait for it to happen. And hope. It’s a very unpredictable thing, believe me.”

“I read an article about you two or three years ago, in
Newsweek
.” He seemed to stress the title. “I was interested. I really was. I remember they said something about the subconscious, too, like you say. They said it was like an iceberg. The 90 per cent that’s under the water, that’s the subconscious. The other part is the way we think, just about anything.” He paused, frowning. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “Did you go to college?”

“Yes. I studied journalism.”

“That fella that was just here …” He pointed to the empty chair. “He’s my lawyer.”

“I gathered that.”

He nodded, staring at me with eyes narrowed and jaw thrust forward. I was remembering the remark Montez had made about the college graduates Russo employed.

I realized that I was beginning to squirm. And then, surprisingly, I realized that I wasn’t squirming from fear or nervousness, but rather from irritation and impatience. Russo, in the flesh, didn’t intimidate me. He was just another forceful, aggressive, self-made man who couldn’t manage his syntax as well as he managed his bank balance.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice a little louder. “You know, I like you. You’re all right. The trouble with my business, you never have a chance to meet guys with any real class. Everyone’s either yessing you or else they’re out to get you. And you get tired of it. I been on my own since I was twenty years old. And I’ve done all right, too. But all my life I haven’t had anything but third-rate guys around me. Tough guys. That’s all they think about, how tough they are. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

“Like Dominic. He was a tough guy. And look what it got him. Dead.”

I decided not to answer. If he was ready to talk, I was ready to listen.

“You know what I’ve got a good mind to do?” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve got a good mind to let you go ahead and see what you can find out. I’d like to see what happens.” Then, frowning, he added, “If you didn’t do this other—this crime reporting—you wouldn’t even be here, believe me. But when I heard about it, I figured you must be a guy who knows how things are. Right?”

I felt myself nodding. I knew how things were. Larsen knew, too.

“What I mean is,” he continued, his voice lowering to a more purposeful, more confidential note, “I’ve talked with a few reporters in my time. And I’ve talked to a few cops, too. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. And it’s like you said a little while ago, you’ve got to live and let live. But if someone gets out of line, no matter which side he’s on, he gets his knuckles rapped. Right?”