Mrs. Casey was waiting for me at the open front door when I came home. "Where is Juan?" she asked.

  "He'll be here after dinner," I assured her.

  "For how long?"

  "Until his brother and his girl friend can save enough for one of them to be home during the day."

  "Girl friend—? You mean they're not married?"

  "Not yet."

  "I won't have it!" she said.

  "You won't have what?"

  "Juan living with a pair of adulterers."

  I wanted to tell her it was none of her business and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. But where could I find another like her?

  I added the day's revelations to the record and got myself a bottle of Einlicher, a soothing potion for a busy day. I was dozing when Jan came home.

  She looked at the empty beer bottle and said, "I see you've already had your drink. I'll make my own."

  I withheld my comment, as I had with Mrs. Casey.

  When she came back to the den I told her where Juan was and why.

  "No wonder Mrs. Casey looks so gloomy," she said. "What kind of person is this Peter Chavez?"

  "Sounder and smarter than I anticipated. The people I had talked with gave me some mixed reviews on him."

  "You're going to miss Juan when he leaves, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "So am I," she admitted. "Maybe we should consider—"

  "No," I interrupted.

  We sat in silence, except for the sound of Mrs. Casey grumbling to herself in the kitchen.

  There was very little dialogue at dinner. Sarah and Pete brought Juan home as we were having our coffee. He didn't look happy.

  "It's only for a little while, Juan," I told him.

  He nodded.

  They left and he went to Mrs. Casey's room to share another Bogart adventure.

  Jan said, "Sarah is more than pretty. She's beautiful!"

  "Inside and outside," I agreed. "Is there anything worth watching on the tube?"

  She shook her head. "Let's play some gin rummy."

  I forget who won; our thoughts were elsewhere. Juan went to bed. We watched the ten o'clock local news on the tube and went to bed. It was a while before we fell asleep.

  It was the news report on the radio we listened to at breakfast that brought the grim news of the day, Christopher Andropolus had been found dead in the study of his Montevista home.

  The preliminary investigation by the Sheriffs department indicated that he had scuffled with somebody, fallen, and crushed his temple on the comer of the desk in the room.

  His wife had been visiting a friend in Lompoc. There were several suspects in the case; their names were being withheld by the department, pending further investigation.

  12

  "I suppose that's not bad news to you," Jan said.

  "It could be. The war could get hotter. I'm sure neither side is going to surrender."

  The phone rang. It was Pete Chavez. His buddy was now back at the club, working for Orlando. The chop shop, he told me, was off Lorimar Road but it couldn't be seen from the road. It was a cement block building with no address. It was called Crazy Jerry's, though he didn't know why. "That," he said, "should take some of the wind out of Andropolus."

  "He doesn't have any left," I told him. "Haven't you heard? He was murdered last night."

  "Jesus!" he said. "Now it starts."

  "My thought exactly. Thanks, Pete."

  I phoned the sheriff's department and asked for Sheriff McClune.

  When I identified myself, he said, "I suppose you're going to tell me there's another poker game at Vogel's house tomorrow night."

  "No." I relayed the information Pete had given me.

  "Are you sure of this?"

  "Yes."

  "Who's your source?"

  "A former worker there I will not name. He was working for me on an investigation I'm on. But I'm not going to put his neck on the line for the Andropolus gang."

  "Okay, you bullheaded bastard. But this had better be solid."

  "If it isn't, you can sue me," I told him. "I'll keep you in court for the rest of your life."

  "I'm sure you would," he admitted. "Thanks, Brock."

  When I came back to the table I asked Jan, "Have you ever heard of a place called Crazy Jerry's?"

  She had, through her local historian, Audrey Kay. Some kook named Jerry something had built it when the Second World War started, a solid place of concrete and steel. He had stocked it with enough dried food to last him for years. He was certain that the Germans were going to win the war; this would be his hideaway.

  Jan shook her head. "People!"

  "People," I agreed.

  It would be comforting to believe that the death of Chris Andropolus and the imminent raid on Crazy Jerry's would convince the intruders that they had come to the wrong town. But I tended to agree with Pete Chavez; the worst was yet to come. Chris Andropolus wouldn't have moved up here simply to start an auto parts store. Toledo's visit to Rubio's Rendezvous was proof enough of that.

  The coach of the instructional league team at the Boys' Club had told Juan he would pick him up from now on and bring him home. I drove down to the station.

  I went in to see Kranski first. I told him, "Pete Chavez is back in town. He gave me some information that should shut down that dismantling shop Andropolus was running. Did you know about the place?"

  "Only rumors," he said. "Where's Pete? I want to talk with him."

  "No, you don't. He was working for me. I've already given Sheriff McClune the information. Pete did both you and him a favor."

  "To hell with that! And if you withheld information about his whereabouts, you could be in trouble, too."

  "Not as much trouble as you'll be in if I tell Lois you tried to make time with Sarah Felderstadt."

  He glared at me. "If she told you that, she's a damned liar!"

  I smiled at him. "Kraz, don't play the village virgin with me. Some of your old teammates have told me what a cock hound you are. I'll bet Chief Harris would be surprised to hear that. He's a moral majority man."

  "You bastard!" he said.

  "You haven't even skimmed the depth of my bastardry," I assured him. "Have a good day."

  From there I went to Vogel's office. He was in, for a change. I related the events of the morning and my dialogue with Kranski.

  "Brock, remember he is one vindictive son-of-a-bitch."

  "I know."

  "Of course," he said, "compared with you—"

  "He's Peter Pan. Do you know a man named George Culver?"

  "I sure do.Where did you run into him?"

  "I haven't yet. He's the man who hired Chavez."

  "He's really heavy," Bernie said. "We got his record from L. A. Assault, conspiracy to commit murder, drugs, pandering. And all they ever nailed him for was pandering, when he was a lot younger. He walked on the others. He'll probably take over, now that Andropolus is dead."

  "Who were those unnamed suspects I heard about on the radio this morning?"

  "There's only one left," he told me. "Ricardo Cortez. The DA assured me that homicide's work will be light on this one. He said they caught him red-handed."

  "Which means—?"

  "He was at the house when it happened. The DA didn't tell me much more. I haven't heard Cortez's side of the story yet, but I will." He sighed and shook his head. "I thought a couple days ago that things were starting to quiet down. But with this Culver here—"

  "One game at a time, Bernie. Culver's next."

  "Oy!" he said. "Jocks!"

  "Would it be possible," I asked, "for me to talk with Cortez?"

  "Not this morning. But your good friend Stanley Nowicki is his attorney. He should have the story by now."

  A uniformed man came in then to tell Vogel that the chief wanted to see him in his office. I drove over to the ACLU.

  Only the volunteer secretary was in the office. Mr. Nowicki, she told me, would not be in until late this afternoon.

  I had one possible source of information left. I drove over to the Tomorrow Club. Orlando told me young Cortez, Ricardo, Jr., had left for home half an hour ago, but he had talked for quite a while with Pete Chavez and Pete was still in the shop.

  Pete had the story. Andropolus had phoned the senior Cortez and told him he was not responsible for the man who had shot at him. He knew who the men were but it was not information he intended to give the police. Cortez should know by now, he had pointed out, that the law was not friendly to either side in this war. And then he had suggested a truce, and asked Cortez to his house to discuss it.

  The door was partly open when Cortez got there, but he rang the bell—^just as the sheriff's black-and-white came up the driveway. McClune's office had been alerted by an anonymous phone call.

  "He was jobbed," Pete said.

  "Maybe. Unless some neighbor heard the commotion?"

  He shook his head. "I doubt it. And how much investigation do you think Sheriff McClune and Chief Harris are going to put into this?"

  "Don't compare those two, Pete. Sheriff McClune is a first class police officer."

  "For gringos, maybe." He grinned. "Nothing personal."

  "Well, I'll go and have a talk with McClune. He owes me for the information of yours I fed him. And, incidentally, I told Sergeant Kranski this morning that he had better not heckle you. I used some leverage I had on him. And I also told him that you were working for me as an undercover investigator at the chop shop."

  "Thanks, Mr. Callahan."

  "You can call me Pancho," I said.

  The sheriff's station was on the far side of town from where I was, out in Omega. I took the freeway.

  McClune was being interviewed by some local and big city string reporters when I got there. According to his secretary, the raid on Crazy Jerry's roost had been successful.

  "But I know he'll be glad to see you," she said. "He should be available in a few minutes."

  He was available half an hour later. He had a big smile for me. "Did you come for your good citizen award?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "I came here in the interests of Ricardo Cortez. I wondered if you agree with me that he might have been framed?"

  "It's possible," he admitted. "But Fm not sure Chief Harris would agree. We're working with the city on this. The DA seems to think he has a cinch case."

  "He would," I said. "He and Harris are spiritual twins."

  He smiled again. "You sound like Stan Nowicki. Are you working for him?"

  "Partly. But mostly for myself and Ricardo."

  "Well, Vogel will be working at the city end. That's where Ricardo lived. I'm putting our best man on our end. I'm sure you'll agree that Vogel is the best man they have in town."

  "And consequently overworked," I pointed out. "I was thinking that maybe you could give me some official status."

  "You figure I owe you?"

  I nodded.

  He sighed. "So do I. Brock, don't play it heavy now. I'll back you, if you need it, but not on anything heavy."

  "I will be all finesse and discretion," I assured him.

  "Get out of here," he said. "But keep us informed!''

  "Of course," I said.

  It was only a few minutes short of noon, too late for me to alert Mrs. Casey that I would be home for lunch. I drove over to the Boys' Club, less than a mile away, and took Juan to lunch at a nearby Denny's.

  He was pretty good on batting he told me, but not too hot on catching.

  "It takes time, Juan. I wasn't very good on catching, either. That's why I turned to football when I was young. At least you now have some kids to play with."

  He nodded. "How come there aren't any in your neighborhood?"

  "Most of them are out of town, at summer camp. The rest of the year many of them go to private schools out of town."

  "It's different in my neighborhood," he said. "It's the parents who leave town. Why do they have us if they don't want us?"

  I shrugged.

  "How come you don't have any kids?" he asked.

  "Because I couldn't afford them until it was too late. You're going to visit us once in a while after you move, aren't you?"

  He nodded again. "You can be my make-believe uncle."

  If it hadn't been for my macho, chauvinistic false pride, Jan had told me, we could have a couple of kids by now . . .

  I took Juan back to the Boys Club and drove down to Rubio's Rendezvous. There were only two patrons in the place, drinking red wine and arguing in Spanish.

  "No lectures," Rubio said. "Not today."

  "That's not why I'm here. I've just come from a talk with Sheriff McClune. I suggested to him that Ricardo could have been framed."

  "Any damned fool knows that," he said. "Even Sheriff McClune."

  "What we know and what we can prove are not the same, Rubio. I hope to prove it."

  "You're going to work on this?"

  I nodded.

  "I apologize for my rudeness," he said. "Beer?"

  "Coffee. Do you know a man named George Culver?"

  "I have heard of him. I have never met him." He poured my coffee. "Is he the new Andropolus?"

  "I don't know. What did you hear about him?"

  "That he's tougher than Andropolus and smarter than Toledo. Nowicki told me that."

  "The police have his record from L.A.," I said. "Nowicki could be right."

  "The police!" he said. "What do they know? What do they care?"

  I didn't rise to the bait. I sipped my coffee.

  He asked, "Did you hear about that raid at Crazy Jerry's?"

  "Yes. I'm the one who alerted McClune about the place. That's the main reason he's letting me work with him."

  "Well," Rubio said, "I admit he's fairer than Chief Harris. But who isn't?"

  "Vogel will be working the town end," I said. "He's smarter than both of them—and fair."

  "Yes," he admitted. "He's a good friend of yours, isn't he?"

  "Quite often. Do you have an address for this Culver?"

  He shook his head. "But I can get it. Pancho, be careful!"

  "I will if you will."

  "It's not your war," he said.

  "Yes, it is. As I told your friend Ricardo Cortez, this is not his town or my town. It's our town."

  He smiled. "Let's not argue. The coffee is on the house."

  Nowicki, I had been informed this morning, would not be in his office until late in the afternoon. I went home and filled in my record for the day.

  The hunt for Peter Chavez was over. So was Kranski's vendetta against Chris Andropolus. But the war went on.

  Juan should be home soon. I put on my trunks and waited for him. Maybe he could teach me how to execute a swan dive.

  13

  Sarah phoned around four o'clock and asked if she and Pete could come and get Juan and keep him over the weekend. I told her that was a good idea and then went to the kitchen to inform Mrs. Casey. I didn't want their visit to be a surprise to her.

  "I have no comment," she said coolly.

  "They're real nice people," I told her. "I'm sure you'll like them when you meet them."

  "I don't intend to meet them," she said.

  I considered explaining that her stubborn attitude might offend Juan, but decided I was already on thin ice. Losing Juan was bad enough; losing Mrs. Casey would be a disaster.

  Jan came home before they arrived and I explained the situation to her.

  "I'll get his clothes ready," she said. "You fix me a drink."

  Which we both did.

  Over our drinks, she suggested, "Maybe we could meet them out on the front lawn--if you can think of a reason for being out there."

  I told her what Juan had told me; he wasn't too good on catching. "I could be out there throwing a baseball to him," I said, "and you could be watching us. But we don't have a baseball."

  "We have some old tennis balls," she said. "I'll get one."

  And that was the way we staged it, in deference to Mrs. Casey.

  As we walked back to the house, Jan said, "You and Juan were right. She is a classic beauty!"

  "She's young," I pointed out. "I'll bet when you were—"

  "Not on my best day," she said.

  It was a quiet dinner. Mrs. Casey had no words, Jan and I very few.

  Mrs. Casey went up to her room after dinner, I to a new Elmore Leonard novel, and Jan to matching more drapery, upholstery, and carpeting samples on the dining room table.

  At ten o'clock Jan and I watched the local news on the tube. The important news of the day we already knew; Ricardo Cortez was in custody for the murder of Christopher Andropolus. The other suspects had been released.

  We went to bed before the program was over.

  Neither Orlando nor Nowicki nor Vogel worked on Saturdays; I had no place to go. Jan went to work. I had another cup of coffee and read more of the morning paper than I wanted to know. I was still there when Mrs. Casey came down to make her breakfast.

  I folded the papers on the breakfast nook table for her, preparing to leave her domain.

  "I apologize, Mr. Callahan," she said.

  "For what?"

  "For the way I've been acting. After what you did for my niece and all—My late husband used to tell me I was more Catholic than the Pope. But the church has been my solace through some very difficult times."

  "Mrs. Casey," I assured her, "I admire and envy your faith. It carried my mother through some difficult times, too. There are many ways you remind me of her. That's one of the reasons I love you."

  "Aagh, you!" she said. Her eyes were wet and she sniffled. "Thank God you're still Irish."

  I had been granted partial absolution. I blew her a kiss and went back to my notes.

  There was no pattern showing there. And then I remembered that I had told Peter it was possible some neighbor had overheard the fracas in the Andropolus house and phoned the sheriff.

  But, if my memory was sound, there had been no houses close to his on my trip up there.

  I got in the car and made my second trip to the Andropolus hilltop home. My memory had been sound; there was no house within bearable range. I went past to the nearest driveway on the opposite slope and turned back.

 

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