Death in Donegal Bay (5 page)

“If it’s grounds for divorce,” I explained, “he can have it. I didn’t like those even when I needed the money.”

“If you really thought it was only grounds for divorce,” she went on in a realistic way she has, “you wouldn’t have gone up to Donegal Bay yesterday. Brock, follow your instincts! What else do you have?”

“An acerbic wife.”

“Acerbic but adoring,” she said. “Go, man!”

Go where? She went to work. I poured myself a third cup of coffee and read the
Los Angeles Times
all the way through to the more interesting obituaries. Indolence is the curse of the leisure class.

The San Valdesto phone book had a Donegal Bay section. I leafed through it to
Eller, Christopher, 1481 Ranch Road.

Ranch Road was the road that led off the highway. Fourteen-eighty-one would be high on the final rise, close to the road that fronted those big homes along the bluff.

And what could I do with this information? Phone the Ellers and ask them if Anthony had been at their party? No. Perhaps I could identify myself in a falsetto voice as the society editor of the
Sari Valdesto Chronicle
and ask them for a guest list of their recent party? No.

There might be an account of it in yesterday’s edition of the
Chronicle.
The paper was still in the living room, but it held no account of the party.

To hell with it. It was Corey’s case, not mine.

The financial station on the tube informed me that the Dow Jones Industrials were now down over nine points, the entire market heading lower. Gold had reached a new high for the week, the dollar a new low. It was caused, most analysts agreed, by new trouble in the Middle East.

What had they done with their old troubles—held a garage sale? Those anxious buyers of gold had better invest some of their money in guns, ammunition, and a radiation-proof fort if they hoped to protect their capital from the hungry hordes when the showdown came.

I considered phoning Bernie to ask him what was new on the Farini surveillance and then decided I wasn’t in the mood for quibbling. I remembered that Corey’s maternal uncle was also a police officer. I had met him once but had forgotten his name.

I phoned the Raleigh house, and Mrs. Raleigh answered. Her brother’s name, she told me, was Einar Hovde and he was on the swing watch this week. She gave me his home phone number.

When I identified myself to him, he said, “It’s about Corey, I suppose. What trouble is he in now?”

“None, I hope. But just between us, Lieutenant Vogel told me the department has a surveillance on Joe Farini and I wondered if you knew about it?”

“Very little. Corey isn’t sticking his big nose into that, is he?”

“Not yet. Bernie is a good friend of mine, but he doesn’t always confide in me.”

“I can believe it. He’s all cop. Too much, sometimes. I don’t know why they’re watching Farini, but I do know the name of their informant. You didn’t get it from
me—remember that!”

“Of course.”

The man’s name was Luther Barnum, he told me, and he lived in the Travis Hotel on lower Main Street. He added, “If he decides to tell you anything, don’t take it as gospel. He’s lied to us before and he hates Farini. Joe sold him out to the DA on a drunk and disorderly charge.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m not involved in any case with Corey, but I do like to keep an eye on him.”

“He can sure as hell use it,” his uncle said. “Good hunting.”

I stopped at a liquor store on the way downtown and bought a pint of blended whiskey. I didn’t want to shock Luther’s palate with good vintage corn.

The Travis Hotel was almost as old as the city, a four-story stucco building in the meaner section of town. The lobby held two dusty rubber plants in redwood tubs and a row of straight-back chairs in front of the big window facing the street. The odor of the place was a blend of disinfectant, sweet wine, roach powder, and decayed dreams. Two guests were sitting in the chairs, one of them asleep.

The clerk behind the scarred mission oak desk was thin and old and black. He was wearing a clean white shirt and shiny blue serge trousers.

“Is Luther Barnum in?” I asked him.

He glanced at the numbered board that held the room keys and nodded. “He might be sleeping, though. He sleeps a lot. Room two-twenty-three.”

Room 223 was at the end of a long, narrow, uncarpeted hall on the second floor. I knocked.

“It’s not locked,” a voice from within called. “Is that you, Al?”

I opened the door. A few feet from the open window that looked down on a side street, a small gray-haired man with a mottled complexion and bloodshot eyes sat in a wicker chair. He was wearing a soiled blue flannel bathrobe. His feet were bare.

He stared at me suspiciously. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Lee Hawkins,” I said, “and I’m looking for an ally.”

“Make sense, man!”

“I’m talking about Joe Farini,” I told him. “That bastard got me eighteen months on a rap that should have got me three.”

“You don’t look that poor,” he said. “Farini never sells out guys who can afford him. What was the rap?”

“Con. Small con. The pigeon drop.”

His smile was scornful. “This could be the only town in the state where that will still work. What you got in your hand?”

“Whiskey.” I handed it to him.

He looked at the label. “I’ve drunk worse, I guess. What do you figure to buy with this?”

“Whatever you want to give me. I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

“Sit down,” he said. “We’ll talk.”

There was no other chair in the room. I sat on his unmade bed.

“Who told you about me?” he asked.

“A cop I know. I’m not going to mention his name. But if you have something I can use against Joe, it could be worth a few bucks.”

“How few?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen.”

“Could you go twenty?”

“If it’s something I can use.”

“How do I know if you can use it? Let’s see the twenty.”

I took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and held it up. I said, “Give me a hint.”

“It’s about Cyrus Reed Allingham. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Oh, yes.” I handed him the twenty. “Go on.”

“My cousin is a maid,” he said. “She was Joan Allingham’s maid when she was married. When Joan divorced her husband, my cousin stayed with her. I think I know why, but that’s a different story. Joan lives with her father now, a real mean old bastard. So I get this letter from my cousin. She’s really fretting. She thinks old man Allingham is being blackmailed. She knows I hate Farini. So guess who the go-between is.”

“Your buddy, Joe Farini.”

“Right!”

“Does your cousin know what the blackmail is about?”

He spread both hands, palms up. “If she does, she didn’t tell me. What I told you, that’s all I know.”

“What’s your beef with Farini?” I asked him.

“He sold me out, same as you. He ran me up from a night in the drunk tank to three months at Gaspar. That is one crummy cage, Gaspar.”

“Why does he do it?”

“You’re
asking why? He throws all his small fish to the DA to build up Brownie points. Joe likes friends on both sides of the law.”

“Where does Allingham live?” I asked.

He didn’t get a chance to answer. The door opened and a wide young man stood there. He was only about five nine, but almost that wide.

“Who you squeaking to now, Luther?” he asked.

Luther looked at me, back at the man in the doorway, and again at me.

“Who’s the punk?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “One of Farini’s muscle freaks. I don’t know his name.”

“You got a name, punk?” I asked him.

“Stand up and say that,” he challenged me.

I stood up. “Make your move, punk, and die before your time.”

The jerk moved in on me like the Incredible Hulk, arms wide. He wanted to grapple. I grapple only with Jan. I put a right hand into his nose when he got within range. I kicked him in the groin when he backed off. When he bent over to grab for his affected parts, I put my knee into his chin. He went down with a thump.

He lay there, comatose. I said to Luther, “I suppose we had better call the law before the desk clerk does.”

He stared at me. “Here? Are you crazy? Nobody ever calls the law down here. Let’s throw him out the window and see if he bounces.”

I
STAYED WITH LUTHER
until the muscle man woke up and limped out.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I know a couple of cops that are on my side. They’ll give him the word.”

“There are some cops who aren’t on your side, too,” I told him. “You have a … doubtful reputation for veracity.”

“If you mean I lied once in a while, I did. I can’t live on air. That’s why I wound up with Farini.”

“I’m not following you, Luther.”

“Figure it out. Where would I get enough money for him? I always wound up with a public defender. That last time, on a penny-ante drunk and disorderly charge, who walks in to defend me but Mr. Big! And he throws me to the wolves. I found out later that the fuzz set me up. Sort of a revenge, see? I made ’em look bad in court a couple of times with phony tips. They forgot all the good ones I gave ’em.”

“I get it.”

He frowned. “Wait a minute—how did you know there are some cops who aren’t on my side? You a cop?”

“No. Nor a con man, either. I am only an interested spectator. How do you think Farini learned you put the law on him?”

He took a swig from the bottle. “I don’t know. Who cares?”

“I do,” I said, and gave him another twenty.

I stopped in at the station on the way home, and Bernie was in his office. “Social visit?” he asked. “Or informative?”

“Neither. I’ve just come from a talk with Luther Barnum. Who framed him?”

“What do you mean, framed him?”

“Sending Farini in to defend him on a drunk charge and poor Luther winds up with three months in Gaspar.”

“Oh, that!” He sighed and shook his head. “That was a long time ago. I guess they thought they owed him. Why were you talking with Luther Barnum?”

“That’s none of your business. You tell your redneck buddies if they want to play nasty, they should pick on someone their own size. Give ’em my address.”

He said quietly, “Sit down and calm down.”

I shook my head.

“We’re friends, Brock.”

“Not today.”

“Today,” he said, “or never. I mean it.”

I sat down.

“First of all,” he said, “those men you called rednecks were never
my
buddies, and they are no longer with the department. I was partially responsible for their leaving. Now, second, why were you talking with Luther Barnum?”

“Because I thought there might be some connection with your watching Farini and Baker’s visit to his office. I found out there was.”

“And who put you onto Luther?”

“I’d rather give you some more interesting information. Sort of a trade? I have to protect my sources, Bernie, just as you do.”

“Oh, God,” he said wearily. “All right!”

I gave him a full account of my trip to Donegal Bay, added a few of Corey’s discoveries, and finished with my kayo of the muscle freak.

He stared at me for seconds after I had finished. “Did you get the man’s name?”

I shook my head. “Luther told me he was one of Farini’s stooges.”

“A young fellow, not very tall, wide as a barn door?”

“That’s the man.”

“You put
him
down?”

“Ten seconds into the first round. Luther wanted to throw him out the window, but you know me—I don’t believe in violence.”

“Oi!” he said. “I’ll never be able to understand you. If I had your money, I wouldn’t even go slumming down on lower Main Street.”

“Cut out the poor-man crap, Bernie. I used to believe it—until Elly told me about your real-estate holdings. You
love
to play cop.”

Elly is his wife. “She’s got a big mouth,” he said, “like you. Would you care to give me one of your dumb Irish hunches about what is going on between Baker and Farini and …” He paused.

“And Cyrus Reed Allingham?” I finished for him. “I know about that connection, too. You know, of course, that Baker used to be married to Joan Allingham.”

“I do. And he got a couple million in the divorce settlement. But what in hell has that got to do with Donegal Bay and Mike Anthony?”

“There might be no connection. Anthony used to go with Mrs. Baker. Maybe she’s still hot for him.”

“How do you know that?”

“From Jan. She went to high school with Anthony. On the Allingham end, if Baker got a big settlement from the old man, he must have had something to sell. Otherwise, Allingham’s lawyers could have kept him in court until doomsday.”

“That makes sense. And now Baker probably wants more. What could he have on Allingham? Hell, Allingham is the kingpin of the moral-majority movement in this state. He’s financed a couple of those pukey movies they turn out.”

“There has to be a skeleton in his closet. Why don’t you ask Luther’s cousin if she knows anything.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Who is Luther’s cousin?”

“An Allingham maid. She used to work for the Bakers. But when they were divorced, she stayed with Joan. Both of them are living with the old man in that fortress he built up in Veronica Village. Luther got his tip from his cousin.”

“That bastard!” Bernie said. “He never told
us
that.”

“Maybe,” I pointed out, “he’s lying again. Or maybe he doesn’t want a lot of cops bulling in and losing his cousin her job. I guess I shouldn’t have told you about it.”

“Don’t sulk. We’re not going to bull in. Cyrus Reed Allingham lives outside our jurisdiction. Are you going to stay on this case?”

“I am not on it,” I said evenly. “Corey is working on that end of this tangle. And it comes under the heading of proper work for a private investigator. I mean the domestic part of it concerning Felicia Baker and Mike Anthony. The part that concerns Alan Baker, Joe Farini, and Cyrus Reed Allingham shapes up as proper police work. And you know how many times you have warned me to stay out of that.”