He shoved his taut face at me. “I hate gamblers,” he said in a rough voice. “I hate them the way I hate dope pushers. They pander to a disease that is every bit as corrupting as dope. You think those palaces in Reno and Vegas are just for harmless fun? Nuts, they’re there for the little guy, the something-for-nothing sucker, the lad that stops off with his pay envelope in his pocket and loses the week-end grocery money. The rich gambler loses forty grand and laughs it off and comes back for more. But the rich gambler don’t make the big racket, pal. The big steal is in dimes and quarters and half dollars and once in a while a buck or even a five-spot. The big racket money comes in like water from the pipe in your bathroom, a steady stream that never stops flowing. Any time anybody wants to knock off a professional gambler, that’s for me. I like it. And any time a state government takes money from gambling and calls it taxes, that government is helping to keep the mobs in business. The barber or the beauty parlor girl puts two bucks on the nose. That’s for the Syndicate, that’s what really makes the profits. The people want an honest police force, do they? What for? To protect the guys with courtesy cards? We got legal horse tracks in this state, we got them all year round. They operate honest and the state gets its cut, and for every dollar laid at the track there’s fifty laid with the bookies. There’s eight or nine races on a card and in half of them, the little ones nobody notices, the fix can be in any time somebody says so. There’s only one way a jock can win a race, but there’s twenty ways he can lose one, with a steward at every eighth pole watching, and not able to do a damn thing about it if the jock knows his stuff. That’s legal gambling, pal, clean honest business, state approved. So it’s right, is it? Not by my book, it ain’t. Because it’s gambling and it breeds gamblers and when you add it up there’s one kind of gambling— the wrong kind.”
“So sorry,” I said. “So very sorry you had to suffer like that.”
“Feel better?” I asked him, putting some white iodine on my wounds.
“Too bad for you, hero,” he said with a sudden cold savagery. “I could hardly help laughing when you walked into your own parlor to take your beating. I got a rise out of that, kiddo. It was a dirty job and it had to be done dirty. To make these characters talk you got to give them a sense of power. You ain’t hurt bad, but we had to let them hurt you some.”
“I’m an old tired beat-up cop. All I feel is sore.”
I turned around and looked at Ohls. “The coyotes out in the desert will get fed tonight. Congratulations. Cop business is wonderful uplifting idealistic work, Bernie. The only thing wrong with cop business is the cops that are in it.”
I turned around and stared at him. “You’re a damn good cop, Bernie, but just the same you’re all wet. In one way cops are all the same. They all blame the wrong things. If a guy loses his pay check at a crap table, stop gambling. If he gets drunk, stop liquor. If he kills somebody in a car crash, stop making automobiles. If he gets pinched with a girl in a hotel room, stop sexual intercourse. If he falls downstairs, stop building houses.”
“Next time don’t try to outguess the cops,” he said gruffly. “You think we let you steal that photostat just for laughs? We had a hunch Mendy would come gunning for you. We put it up to Starr cold. We told him we couldn’t stop gambling in the county, but we could make it tough enough to cut way into the take. No mobster beats up a cop, not even a bad cop, and gets away with it in our territory. Starr convinced us he had nothing to do with it, that the outfit was sore about it and Menendez was going to get told. So when Mendy called for a squad of out-of-town hard boys to come and give you the treatment, Starr sent him three guys he knew, in one of his own cars, at his own expense. Starr is a police commissioner in Vegas.”
“Aw shut up!”
Then Ohls’ reflection showed behind me in the mirror. He was rolling his damn unlighted cigarette along his lips, like a cat teasing a half-dead mouse, trying to get it to run away just once more.
“Sure, shut me up. I’m just a private citizen. Get off it, Bernie. We don’t have mobs and crime syndicates and goon squads because we have crooked politicians and their stooges in the City Hall and the legislatures. Crime isn’t a disease, it’s a symptom. Cops are like a doctor that gives you aspirin for a brain tumor, except that the cop would rather cure it with a blackjack. We’re a big rough rich wild people and crime is the price we pay for it, and organized crime is the price we pay for organization. We’ll have it with us a long time. Organized crime is just the dirty side of the sharp dollar.”
I went to the bathroom and ran cold water and held a soaked towel against my throbbing cheek. I looked at myself in the glass. The cheek was puffed out of shape and bluish and there were jagged wounds on it from the force of the gun barrel hitting against the cheekbone. There was a discoloration under my left eye too. I wasn’t going to be beautiful for a few days.
“What’s the clean side?”
“Nice work, Bernie. Very nice. Think he’ll get to Vegas alive, you coldhearted son of a bitch?”
“I never saw it. Maybe Harlan Potter could tell you. Let’s have a drink.”
He turned as if surprised to see me there. “They had stars,” he said shortly.
“You looked pretty good walking in that door,” Ohls said.
“You sure those mugs were deputies?” I asked Ohls.
“You looked better when Mendy pulled the knife on you.”
“God help Nevada,” Mendy said quietly, looking around again at the tough Mex by the door. Then he crossed himself quickly and walked out of the front door. The tough Mex followed him. Then the other one, the dried out desert type, picked up the gun and the knife and went out too. He shut the door. Ohls waited motionless. There was a sound of doors banging shut, then a car went off into the night.
“Shake,” he said, and put his hand out.
“You ordered three muscles,” Ohls said. “What you got was three deputies from Nevada. Somebody in Vegas don’t like the way you forget to clear with them. The somebody wants to talk to you. You can go along with the deputies or you can go downtown with me and get hung on the back of the door by a pair of handcuffs. There’s a couple of boys down there would like to see you close up.”
We had the drink and he left by the back door, which he had jimmied to get in, having dropped by the night before for scouting purposes. Back doors are a soft touch if they open out and are old enough for the wood to have dried and shrunk. You knock the pins out of the hinges and the rest is easy. Ohls showed me a dent in the frame when he left to go back over the hill to where he had left his car on the next street. He could have opened the front door almost as easily but that would have broken the lock. It would have showed up too much.
“A cross,” Mendy said to Ohls. “I heard you the first time.”
I watched him climb through the trees with the beam of a torch in front of him and disappear over the rise. I locked the door and mixed another mild drink and went back to the living room and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was still early. It only seemed a long time since I had come home.
Mendy smiled at him scornfully, looked at his handkerchief, and refolded it to hide the blood. He held it to his nose again. He looked down at the gun he had used to hit me. The man from the chair said loosely: “Not loaded, even if you could grab it.”
I went to the phone and dialed the operator and gave her the Lorings’ phone number. The butler asked who was calling, then went to see if Mrs. Loring was in. She was.
“Touch me with one finger and I’ll kill you,” Ohls said. “One finger.” Then he dropped his hands.
“I was the goat all right,” I said, “but they caught the tiger alive. I’m bruised up a little.”
Menendez lowered the handkerchief and looked at Ohls. He looked at me. He looked at the man who had been sitting in the chair. He turned slowly and looked at the tough Mex by the door. They all looked at him. There was nothing in their faces. Then a knife shot into view from nowhere and Mendy lunged for Ohls. Ohls side-stepped and took him by the throat with one hand and chopped the knife out of his hand with ease, almost indifferently. Ohls spread his feet and straightened his back and bent his legs slightly and lifted Menendez clear off the floor with one hand holding his neck. He walked him across the floor and pinned him against the wall. He let him down, but didn’t let go of his throat.
“You must tell me about it sometime.” She sounded about as far away as if she had got to Paris already.
“You got crossed up, sweetheart,” Ohls told him carefully. “I ain’t grieving a whole lot over Magoon. He had it coming. But he was a cop and punks like you lay off cops—always and forever.”
“I could tell you over a drink—if you had time.”
He jerked Menendez to his feet. Mendy’s nose was bleeding. He fumbled the handkerchief out of his white dinner jacket and held it to his nose. He said no word.
“Tonight? Oh, I’m packing my things to move out. I’m afraid that would be impossible.”
“What a talkative lad he is,” Ohls said, “when he doesn’t have three shysters with him to button his lip.”
“Yes, I can see that. Well, I just thought you might like to know. It was kind of you to warn me. It had nothing at all to do with your old man.”
“That was a plant, kiddo,” he said cheerfully. “You hurt bad? Did the nasty mans hit your facey-wacey? Well for my money you had it coming and it was damn useful that you had.” He looked down at Mendy. Mendy had his knees under him. He was climbing out of a well, a few inches at a time. He breathed gaspingly.
“Are you sure?”
He looked surprised. Then he grinned.
“Positive.”
“Take that goddam cigarette out of your face,” I snarled at Ohls. “Either smoke it or leave it alone. I’m sick of watching you. I’m sick of you, period. I’m sick of cops.”
“Oh. Just a minute.” She was gone for a time, then she came back and sounded warmer. “Perhaps I could fit a drink in. Where?”
Ohls looked at me. The other man looked at me. The tough Mex at the door hadn’t made a sound.
“Anywhere you say. I haven’t a car tonight, but I can get a cab.”
“He’s not soft,” I said. “He’s hurt. Any man can be hurt. Was Big Willie Magoon soft?”
“Nonsense, I’ll pick you up, but it will be an hour or longer. What is the address there?”
“Soft,” Ohls said. “Soft as mush.”
I told her and she hung up and I put the porch light on and then stood in the open door inhaling the night. It had got much cooler.
Then there was movement in the shadows of the hall and Ohls came through the door, blank-eyed, expressionless and utterly calm. He looked down at Menendez. Menendez was kneeling with his head on the floor.
I went back in and tried to phone Lonnie Morgan but couldn’t reach him. Then just for the hell of it I put a call in to the Terrapin Club at Las Vegas, Mr. Randy Starr. He probably wouldn’t take it. But he did. He had a quiet, competent, man-of-affairs voice.
“Don’t kill him,” he said mildly. “We want to use him for live bait.”
“Nice to hear from you, Marlowe. Any friend of Terry’s is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”
The man in the chair laughed. That staggered me. Then he stood up and the gun in his hand came up with him.
“Mendy is on his way.”
He jackknifed, gasping, and the gun fell out of his hand. He groped for it wildly making strained sounds deep in his throat. I put a knee into his face. He screeched.
“On his way where?”
I didn’t think, I didn’t plan, I didn’t figure my chances or whether I had any. I just got enough of his yap and I ached and bled and maybe I was just a little punch drunk by this time.
“To Vegas, with the three goons you sent after him in a big black Caddy with a red spotlight and siren. Yours, I presume?”
His face froze and he swung his arm back to slug me a third time and this time with the power behind it. His arm was still going back when I took a half step forward and kicked him in the pit of the stomach.
He laughed. “In Vegas, as some newspaper guy said, we use Cadillacs for trailers. What’s this all about?”
“Lennox was your pal,” I said, and watched his eyes. “He got dead. He got buried like a dog without even a name over the dirt where they put his body. And I had a little something to do with proving him innocent. So that makes you look bad, huh? He saved your life and he lost his, and that didn’t mean a thing to you. All that means anything to you is playing the big shot. You didn’t give a hoot in hell for anybody but yourself. You’re not big, you’re just loud.”
“Mendy staked out here in my house with a couple of hard boys. His idea was to beat me up—putting it low—for a piece in the paper he seemed to think was my fault.”
“A two-bit peeper,” Menendez said slowly, “figures he can make a monkey out of Mendy Menendez. He can get me laughed at. He can get me the big razzoo—me, Menendez. I ought to use a knife on you, cheapie. I ought to cut you into slices of raw meat.”
“Was it your fault?”
The gun watched me while I got one out and touched the blood on my face.
“I don’t own any newspapers, Mr. Starr.”
“I’ve got a hunch that there’s a little more to it than that,” I said. “Excuse me if I reach for a handkerchief.”
“I don’t own any hard boys in Cadillacs, Mr. Marlowe.”
He hit me again, thoughtfully. “You made me look bad. In my racket you don’t tell a guy twice. Not even a hard number. He goes out and does it, or you ain’t got control. You ain’t got control, you ain’t in business.”
“They were deputies maybe.”
“Seems understandable,” I said. “Magoon ought to know no professional gambler plays crooked games. He doesn’t have to. But what have I done to you?”
“I couldn’t say. Anything else?”
“On account of some lacquered chippie said we used loaded dice. Seems like the bim was one of his sleepy-time gals. I had her put out of the club—with every dime she brought in with her.”
“He pistol-whipped me. I kicked him in the stomach and used my knee on his nose. He seemed dissatisfied. All the same I hope he gets to Vegas alive.”
“On account of why?” I asked him, in the vague hope of getting him mad at somebody else.
“I’m sure he will, if he started this way. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this conversation short now.”
“It’s the personal touch,” he said softly, “on account of I had personal reasons for telling you. The Magoon job was strictly business. He got to thinking he could push me around—me that bought his clothes and his cars and stocked his safe deposit box and paid off the trust deed on his house. These vice squad babies are all the same. I even paid school bills for his kid. You’d think the bastard would have some gratitude. So what does he do? He walks into my private office and slaps me around in front of the help.”
“Just a second, Starr. Were you in on that caper at Otatoclán—or did Mendy work it alone?”
“How come you do your own slugging, Mendy? I thought that was coolie labor for the sort of boys that beat up Big Willie Magoon.”
“Come again?”
I could feel a trickle of blood down my cheek. I could feel the full numbing ache of the blow in my cheekbone. It spread until my whole head ached. It hadn’t been a hard blow, but the thing he used was hard. I could still talk and nobody tried to stop me.
“Don’t kid, Starr. Mendy wasn’t sore at me for why he said—not to the point of staking out in my house and giving me the treatment he gave Big Willie Magoon. Not enough motive. He warned me to keep my nose clean and not to dig into the Lennox case. But I did, because it just happened to work out that way. So he did what I’ve just told you. So there was a better reason.”
“Don’t get gay with me, cheapie. You’re out of time for all that. You got told and you got told nice. When I take the trouble to call around personally and tell a character to lay off—he lays off, Or else he lays down and don’t get up.”
“I see,” he said slowly and still mildly and quietly. “You think there was something not quite kosher about how Terry got dead? That he didn’t shoot himself, for instance, but someone else did?”
Negligently, not quite looking at me even, he slashed me across the face with the gun barrel.
“I think the details would help. He wrote a confession which was false. He wrote a letter to me which got mailed. A waiter or hop in the hotel was going to sneak it out and mail it for him. He was holed up in the hotel and couldn’t get out. There was a big bill in the letter and the letter was finished just as a knock came at his door. I’d like to know who came into the room.”
“I tripped over an enchilada.”
“Why?”
“Somebody bump into your arm, cheapie?”
“If it had been a bellhop or a waiter Terry would have added a line to the letter and said so. If it was a cop, the letter wouldn’t have been mailed. So who was it—and why did Terry write that confession?”
The man in the chair flicked his eyes. He almost but not quite smiled. The tough boy who had paralyzed my arm neither moved nor spoke. I knew he was breathing. I could smell that.
“No idea, Marlowe. No idea at all.”
“He was always soft—like his boss.”
“Sorry I bothered you, Mr. Starr.”
“Chick went soft,” he said gently.
“No bother, glad to hear from you. I’ll ask Mendy if he has any ideas.”
I wet my lips and asked one back. “What happened to Agostino? I thought he was your gun handler.”
“Yeah—if you ever see him again—alive. If you don’t—find out anyway. Or somebody else will.”
“I asked you a question, cheapie.”
“You?” His voice hardened now, but it was still quiet.
I just looked at him. There is no answer to a question like that.
“No, Mr. Starr. Not me. Somebody that could blow you out of Vegas without taking a long breath. Believe me, Mr. Starr. Just believe me. This is strictly on the level.”
Menendez held his hand out towards the slugger. Without seeming to look he tossed the gun and Menendez caught it. He stood in front of me now and his face glistened. “Where would you like it, cheapie?” His black eyes danced.
“I’ll see Mendy alive. Don’t worry about that, Marlowe.”
I rubbed my arm. It tingled a little but the ache was still there and the numbness. If I had tried to pull a gun I should probably have dropped it.
“I figured you knew all about that. Goodnight, Mr. Starr.”
I looked at him too long. There was a brief half-seen move at my side and a numbing pain in the point of my shoulder. My whole arm went dead to the fingertips. I turned and looked at a big mean-looking Mexican. He wasn’t grinning, he was just watching me. The .45 in his brown hand dropped to his side. He had a mustache and his head bulged with oily black hair brushed up and back and over and down. There was a dirty sombrero on the back of his head and the leather chin strap hung loose in two strands down the front of a stitched shirt that smelled of sweat. There is nothing tougher than a tough Mexican, just as there is nothing gentler than a gentle Mexican, nothing more honest than an honest Mexican, and above all nothing sadder than a sad Mexican. This guy was one of the hard boys. They don’t come any harder anywhere.