Bonded dead, p.5
Bonded Dead, page 5
“That’s the secret of hard work. Make it look easy. You’ve got a good eye for dolls, Buck. Why don’t you go after some of them yourself?”
“My wife wouldn’t like it. She’s narrow-minded about some things.”
The loudspeaker squawked into life and I was being paged for a phone call. I crossed the room and picked up the receiver of the house phone.
“This is Wayne Dillman,” he said. “How are you doing, Milo?”
“Plugging along. You turn up anything?”
“Nothing. How come you stole that photograph from my desk when you were down here?”
“I thought you were giving it to me. You want it back?”
“No. I’ve got others. Why did you want it?”
“I had some copies made this morning. I sent one to Jack Daly and one to Angelo Bacci. There should be some interesting reactions to that.”
“You’re a damn fool, Milo. What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” I said drily. “It’s just my way of working. I’m not like you, Wayne. I can’t pick up a phone and have fifteen squad cars racing to the rescue. All 1 have going is a license, a gun permit and myself. And I’ve learned that if you can make people think they have to get rid of you, they’re bound to make a few mistakes. The more they make the better for me.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, “but it’s a pretty risky way to work—especially when someone like Angelo Bacci is involved.”
“That’s why I get paid as much as I do. Don’t worry. I only seem to be interested in nothing but booze and broads.”
“I hope so,” he said. “You’ll keep in touch?”
“Just like you were my old worried mother. See you around.” I hung up and went back to the bar.
“A broad?” Buck asked.
“No. A cop who’s worried about my health.”
“I’m worried about your health, too. There’s reason to worry when you fool around with a guy like Angelo Bacci. He’s no Boy Scout.”
“I passed them up, too. Not enough money in that racket. Are you going to stand around worrying or are you going to give me another drink?”
He brought the bottle over and poured me another shot. “You’re a hardheaded bastard,” he said.
“I resent that,” I said indignantly. “I’ve got the bumps to prove I’m not hardheaded.”
Two other customers showed up and he went to serve them. Then someone else entered the room. I looked around. It was Betty Carlson.
“Good morning, Betty,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Good morning, Milo,” she said. She sounded like she had a hangover. “I guess so. Maybe a whiskey sour.” She took the stool next to me.
Buck came over and I gave him the order. He mixed the drink and brought it back. She took a sip of it and made a face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Too much vacation last night?”
“I think so,” she said. “I was watching television and I guess I drank more than I realized.”
“I’ve always said that television would ruin the country,” I said. “Gulp that down and we’ll get you some more medicine.”
She swallowed it and Buck came over and refilled it quickly. She began to sip on it.
“How about having lunch with me?” I asked.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” she said. “Maybe after this one . . .”
She finished that drink and we went out on the patio and got a table. “I think I’d better have another drink, then maybe I can manage some soup but no more than that. I’m really not used to drinking that much.”
“I sort of guessed it,” I said. The waitress came over, and I ordered a whiskey sour and a dry martini. She brought them from the service bar on the patio.
“You’re beginning to look a little healthier,” I said.
“I feel a little better but not much. I think I’ll just have soup for lunch. I’m sorry, Milo.”
“Think nothing of it. Happens to all of us at some time or other.”
I beckoned to the waitress and she came over. I ordered soup for her and a creamed chicken dish for myself. Coffee for me and tea for her.
We didn’t talk much during lunch. She was occupied with getting her soup down and keeping it there, and I was watching the girls who were sunning themselves around the pool. Whenever I visit a place I like to watch the natural fauna of the region.
“Well,” I said when we were finished, “do you feel any better?”
“A little but not much,” she admitted.
“Think you might feel like going out to dinner with me tonight?”
“I’d love to, Milo, but I’m not sure I’ll be up to it. I think I’ll go up and take a nap now. Maybe that’ll help. If I’m not down at cocktail hour, call my room and we’ll see.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I paid the check and walked her to the elevator. After it had gone up, I stood there for a minute. I decided it was time to make some more preparations. I went out and found a taxi. I had him drive me to a rental place I knew from other visits.
I rented a nice, modest Cadillac sedan. If there were going to be any excitement, I didn’t want to depend on taxis. I stopped ofT and bought some more manila envelopes and some stamps. Then I took a short drive up to the island where Angelo Bacci lived. I parked opposite it for a few minutes. It was an impressive-looking house. His name was on a mailbox beside the street and there were stairs leading down to a boat dock. A phone was in plain view on the dock. I decided that was probably a house phone so you could call him, and if you were someone he wanted to see, he’d send a boat for you. Neat and gaudy.
I’d driven about two blocks, heading back for the hotel, when I first became aware that I was being followed. The car was an Olds and there was only one person in it, but I couldn’t get a good look at him. I’d have to remember not to be careless about such things again.
I drove straight back to the hotel and turned the car over to a boy who would park it. I went inside, made a right turn just past the desk and walked down a flight of stairs. There was another restaurant down there and just beyond it a side exit covered with shrubbery. It came out on a side street where taxis parked. I walked out far enough to be able to see both streets, but I was still pretty well concealed by the foliage.
He was parked across the street. He looked to be about thirty, with a surly-looking face and blond hair. I turned and went back to the lobby and up to my room. This time I addressed three envelopes. The third one went to Tony Antonio in Hollywood, Florida. I found his address in the phone book. I put stamps on them and went down to the lobby and mailed them. I stepped into a phone booth and called Lieutenant Wayne Dillman.
“Milo March,” I said when he answered. “Those two gunmen that Bacci keeps around. Do you know them?”
“Like the back of my hand. But I can’t do too much about it. They have very few convictions but long sheets of arrests. We’ve arrested them four or five times ourselves, but that’s as far as we got. Why?”
“Is one of them a slender guy, about thirty, with blond hair?”
“Yeah. That’s Carl Ketcher. Strictly a psycho. He’s a
killer because he gets his kicks out of it. He’s about as safe as a rattlesnake—maybe less so. You’ve met him?”
“He’s following me today. At the moment he’s parked just outside of my hotel. I just wondered about him.” “You want to make a charge against him?”
“For what? You know it wouldn’t stick.”
“You’re right, of course. But watch yourself, Milo. He’s dangerous.”
“So is the bathtub if you don’t watch where you step. The good thing about this is that I’ve got them stirred up. I’m going to keep stirring.”
“How about me assigning a man to work with you?” “No, thanks, Wayne. It wouldn’t scare them off and it might hamper my way of working. I’ll keep in touch.” I hung up and went into the bar. I ordered VO and water.
I sat there, brooding. I was beginning to get somewhere. They were stirred up. The question was what would they do first. They might try to grab me and find out how much I knew before they killed me. Or they might try to lure me to some place where they could kill me without any witnesses around. The third possibility was that they might try to kill me when I was driving through an area that wasn’t too congested. The last seemed the most likely. They would think they were getting me off guard, and the odds were that there would be nobody to identify them. Lieutenant Dillman might know who did it, but that would be a long way from proving it.
“What’s wrong with you?” Buck asked.
“I always look this way when I’m working,” I said. “That’s work?” he asked scornfully. “I’ve seen bums that worked harder than that.”
“Each to his own, Buck. Maybe you can help me. I want to find somebody who has a boat and would take me over to the rear of Bacci’s house sometime at night if I want to go. Somebody who also won’t talk about our deal.”
He thought for a minute, then his face brightened. “I know just the man for you. He’s a nut and will probably enjoy doing it, but give him some money anyway.”
“Of course.”
“He has his boat docked not far from where Bacci lives. His name is Aristotle Murphy. He lives on the boat. I guess he has some small income, because he never works. He either goes out in the boat all by himself or he stays at the dock and reads. About once a month he goes out on a drunk, and that’s how I met him.”
“Sounds good. How do I find him?”
“You go south from that island where Bacci lives and it’s the first dock on this side. His boat is named Aristotle, too.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Hey, I just thought of something else. You want someone who might give you some information, too, don’t you? I think I have somebody. He needs the money, too. Ever hear of Speed Harris?”
“The name sounds familiar, but I don’t place it.”
“He used to be a jockey, one of the best. Two things put him out of business. Too much booze and too many horse bets. Speed could always ride winners, but he never could pick them. And if he only has two bucks in the world, he’ll put it on the nose of some plowhorse.”
“He doesn’t sound like he’d have much information.”
“He picks up a lot more than you’d think. He’s always hanging around horse players, either at the track or at the bookie joints. Most of the mob remember him from the times they won big money on him, so they slip him a few bucks. And they talk in front of him as if he couldn’t hear.”
“It might be worth a try. Where do I find him?”
“He lives in a mission over in Miami. Just a minute. I got the address somewhere.” He pulled out his wallet and fumbled through it until he came up with a slip of paper. “Here it is. I’ll write it down for you.” He got a pad and a pen from back of the bar and wrote on it. He shoved it over to me.
I glanced at it and put it in my pocket. “I’ll see both of them sometime tomorrow. Make me another drink. I’ll be right back.” I went out to the desk and sent a telegram to Martin Raymond. I told him I was making progress and I needed more expense money. I didn’t exactly need it yet, but I was sure I would, and it was better to have it in reserve than to have to wait for it.
I finished my fresh drink and went upstairs. I took off my jacket and stretched out across the bed. I was pleased with the fact that I was already getting reactions. Now all I had to do was continue pushing—and keep my eyes open. I fell asleep shortly afterward.
Two hours later I awakened. I stripped off my clothes and took a shower and shaved. I got dressed and checked my gun again before I put it in the holster. I slipped the safety off before putting it away. There might be a small amount of danger of shooting myself, but if anyone started gunning for me I didn’t want to waste time.
I went downstairs, through the lobby and down the steps to the side exit. He was still parked across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the hotel entrance. I returned to the main floor and entered the bar. It was the cocktail hour, but I managed to find a stool. I told Buck to bring me a martini.
“Been working again?” he asked.
“No. Taking a nap.”
“Some job. All you do is sleep, hang around with broads and drink booze. And you get paid for it.”
“I get time and a half when somebody shoots at me.” “I guess I wouldn’t like that part of it,” he said. “How’s it look?”
“I guess I’ve made somebody nervous. There’s a little man following me around. We’ll see some action soon.” “Not in here, I hope,” Buck said. “All those hoods are bad shots.”
“But think of the publicity if it happened. There would be headlines about ‘Hapsburg House shot up— bartender wounded.’ It would double business for the hotel, and think of the tips you’d get for telling the story.” “Yeah,” he said gloomily and moved away.
I looked around. Betty Carlson wasn’t anywhere in sight. Leaving my drink on the bar, I went over and picked up the house phone. I asked for her. She answered right away, sounding half asleep.
“Milo March,” I said. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible,” she wailed. “I think I’d better stay in my room and be miserable all by myself. Can I have a rain check, Milo?”
“Sure, honey. Get well tonight and we’ll have that dinner tomorrow night. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Thank you, Milo.”
“Take care, baby.” I hung up and went back to the bar. I had one more martini, then went out front and waited until the boy brought my car. The blond guy was still parked across the street.
I got into the Cadillac and headed downtown. The other car fell in behind me. I made several martini pit stops and finally ended up in one of the more expensive joints. I went in and had a wonderful dinner. I took my time over it and the coffee, but finally paid the check and got up.
I told the flunkey up by the door that I wanted my car brought from the parking lot. He stepped out to get one of the boys, and I saw him make a gesture with his right hand. I looked through the glass door and saw Carl Ketcher sitting in his car on the other side of the street. As I watched, he got out, hurried to a phone booth and put in a call.
He was just leaving the phone booth when my car arrived. I took my time tipping the boy and getting into the car. I didn’t want the blond to get worried about losing me. Then I drove straight back to the hotel. I looked in the bar but Buck wasn’t there, so I went up to my room.
I took off my jacket and hung it in the closet. I loosened my tie on the way over to the television set. I turned it on and stood there for a minute, making a big decision. Finally I decided on one nightcap before going to sleep. I called room service and asked them to send up a bottle of VO and some ice.
When I turned to go back to the bed, I saw that something new had been added. There was a gift-wrapped package on the dresser. I walked over and looked at it.
There was a card on top. On it was written: “From a friend. Good luck.”
I thought about it for a minute. First, I didn’t really have any friends in Miami. Second, anyone I knew would have put his or her name on it. And, third, why was it in my room instead of waiting for me down at the desk?
Foolish questions deserve foolish answers, so I didn’t even try to answer them. I picked up the box and gingerly carried it out on the balcony. I looked down. There was no one on the beach. Nor was there anyone out on the adjoining balconies. I lifted the box and threw it as hard as I could. I stepped back a couple of paces and waited to see if anything would happen when it hit the ground. Nothing did, except that it rolled several feet toward the ocean.
Feeling slightly foolish, I went back into the room. Then I decided I’d wait awhile to see how I should feel. There was a knock on the door. I quickly took off my shoulder holster and stuffed it in the desk drawer. But I took the gun with me as I opened the door.
It was the waiter. I stuffed the gun into my pocket before he saw it and signed the check. I let him out. Then I got undressed, made a drink, lit a cigarette. I got into bed and turned out the light.
There was a late movie on television. A bunch of cowboys were chasing another bunch over some hills. It wasn’t very exciting. If you’ve seen one horse run, you’ve seen them all. But I was too lazy to get up and change the channel. I propped a pillow behind my neck and leaned back. I sipped at the drink and smoked a cigarette and waited.
Half an hour later, cowboys were still chasing each other. I couldn’t tell whether it was the same cowboys or not, but it certainly looked like the same scene. I lit another cigarette.
Then it happened.
5
There was a loud explosion and with it a brief flare of light beyond the balcony. The windows rattled. In a way it still caught me by surprise, and I glanced at the television set. They were firing guns there, but no six-gun ever made that much noise. I jumped up and ran out on the balcony.
The package was no longer where I’d last seen it. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere in sight. There were wisps of smoke drifting up from the sand. I could hear voices from the other rooms and I suddenly became aware that a few people were starting to come out on the balcony. I was hardly dressed for the occasion, so I scurried back into my own room. I turned off the television set and got back into bed. There was still the solace of my unfinished drink. I lit a cigarette to go with it.
There was no doubt about one thing. The explosion had come from the package I’d thrown on the beach. The gift from a friend. I’d been suspicious of it, without being too certain of what I was suspicious about, and I’d done the first thing that came into my mind—get rid of it.
