You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You (13 page)

Stanze picked up the wallet. He went through it, found the permit and studied it.

“You know this is no good in the state of California,” he said.

“I know.”

“And yet you were carrying a gun.”

“I was gonna come in and register it,” Jerry said, “but I got busy.”

“Uh-huh. With Marilyn Monroe?”

“I’m just helpin’ Miss M.”

“Do what?”

“Stay safe.”

“Why did you point your gun at those two Palm Springs cops—
after
they identified themselves?”

“They was bein’ assholes.”

“They could have taken you in, you know.”

“They was out of their jurisdiction.”

“Oh, you know the law?”

“Some.”

“Well, I’m not out of my jurisdiction.”

“I ain’t carrin’ it now.”

“But you were, earlier today. You admitted it.”

“I’d be stupid to deny it,” Jerry said, “with them two Palm Springs dicks tellin’ you I pointed it at them.”

“For being assholes.”

“Yup.”

Stanze looked at me.

“They were,” I said. “I was there.”

Stanze put the wallet back on the table. He didn’t put the items back into the envelope. I took that as a good sign.

“What have you done about finding Danny Bardini?” I asked. “Have you been back to that motel?”

“I talked to the owner,” he answered. “He says he checked the records. There’s no sign of anyone by that name signing in.”

“Somebody could’ve erased it,” I said. “Did you check the airport?”

“Yes, your friend did fly into L.A. on the same flight with Miss Monroe. That’s the reason I believe you, that and I’m sure that clerk I talked to was lying through his teeth.”

“Is he still around?”

“He is. I saw him there earlier, when I talked to the owner.”

“He’d be silly to run,” Jerry said. “That’d prove he was a liar.”

“Very good, gunsel,” Stanze said.

Jerry took the name-calling impassively. The only one he really didn’t like was “torpedo.”

“Okay,” Stanze said, “pick up your stuff and go.”

Jerry collected his belongings and pocketed them.

“You never answered my question,” I said.

“What question was that?”

“Were you havin’ us followed until we left L.A.? And did your guys lose us?”

“If I was having you followed it was for your own protection.”

“That’s what the Palm Springs dicks said,” Jerry said.

“You fellas going to be at Miss Monroe’s house, even though she’s not there? I mean, if I want to reach you again?”

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” I said. “She gave me a key. We got permission.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “If I find out anything about your friend, I’ll call you there.”

“Thanks.”

He walked us out of the cell block and upstairs to the main floor. Before I could leave he grabbed my arm.

“You did drop Miss Monroe off at Frank Sinatra’s, right?”

“Why would I have done that, Detective?” I asked. “Didn’t you hear? They broke up.”

W
HEN WE WALKED INTO
the office of the motel the skinny girl behind the desk looked at Jerry with wide eyes. He was big, and was wearing a sports jacket. Even though I was used to the heat—being from Vegas—I had taken my jacket off and left it in the car.

“Who owns this joint?” Jerry demanded loudly.

“Um, um, Mr. Cohen,” the frightened girl replied.

“Where is he?”

“Um, he’s in—in the back.” She jerked her finger toward a doorway.

“Thanks.”

He stormed past the girl toward the doorway.

“Uh, you can’t—” she started, but I stopped her.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “You’ll just make him mad.”

I followed Jerry through the door, found him facing a guy in a tank top seated in a leather lounge chair. The guy was in his sixties, with buzz-cut white hair and white stubble. He had good biceps on him for his age, but his gut hung over a cheap belt.

“What the hell—” he started.

He tried to get up but Jerry put a massive hand on the guy’s chest and shoved him back down. He kept his hand on the man’s chest. The guy grabbed Jerry’s wrist with both hands and strained, but despite the good biceps he couldn’t budge it.

“Whataya want?” he demanded.

“Just answer a few questions,” I said to him, “and we’ll go away.”

The guy looked at me.

“You his keeper?” he demanded. “Tell him to stop crushing my chest.”

“I ain’t his keeper,” I said, “but I might be able to persuade him, if you’re willing to talk to us.”

“I ain’t gonna be talkin’ to nobody if he crushes my damn chest!” He looked up at Jerry. “It’s a crime I should breathe?”

“Okay, Jerry,” I said. “Let him breathe.”

Jerry removed his hand.

“Jesus!”

“Are you Cohen?”

“Yeah, Stanley Cohen. Who’re you? I don’t owe no bookies.”

“We’re not collectin’ on the debt, Mr. Cohen,” I said.

“Well, you ain’t cops.”

“No, not cops.”

“Then what?”

“I told you. Somebody with questions.”

“I ain’t answerin’ no questions—oof—” He got cut off when Jerry clamped his hand back on Cohen’s chest. “Jesus, awright already.”

Jerry removed his hand.

“Whataya wanna know?”

“The cops were here talking to you about one of your desk clerks.”

“Yeah. So?”

“We want his name and address.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s lyin’ to the cops, and to you, and we want the truth.”

“Max don’t lie to me.”

“Okay, then you’re lyin’, too,” I said. “Jerry, the man’s lyin’. Make him tell the truth.”

Jerry reached down for the guy, this time with both hands. Cohen squawked, put his hands up in front of his face and said, “Awright, awright, call ‘im off!”

“Jerry.”

The big guy backed off.

“Johnson, Max Johnson,” Cohen said. “That’s his name.”

“We need his address.”

“Can I get up?”

“Sure,” I said.

Cohen eyed Jerry warily as he got to his feet. He walked to a cabinet, opened it and removed an index card. Turning, he held it out to me.

“Here, take it. I’m gonna fire his ass anyway.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he brought you guys here,” Cohen said. “He brought the cops here. This I don’t need.”

“So what about Danny Bardini?” I asked. “Was he registered here or not?”

Cohen put his hands out, as if to ward us off, and said, “I really don’t know about that. Max said he never registered, and I believed him. When the cops showed up askin’ questions I didn’t know what the hell was goin’ on, and now that you guys are here I still don’t. What’s the big deal if the guy stayed here or not?”

“He’s missing,” I said. “That’s what the big deal is.”

“Well, I don’t see no record that he was ever here. I’m sorry.”

“Max Johnson told me he was here for four days.”

“Well then, Max musta got rid of the registration card.”

“Let’s go,” I said to Jerry. I looked at Cohen. “If you call
Johnson and warn him we’re comin’ we’ll be back—and I won’t hold my friend here back.”

“I got it,” Cohen said. “Believe me, I got it.”

“And don’t let your girl out there make any calls, either.”

“She don’t know nothin’,” Cohen said.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “We need to talk to two of your other clerks. Hilary? Is that the girl outside? And Harry.”

“I got no Hilary and no Harry,” Cohen said. “I guess Max really was a liar.”

I looked at Jerry and we turned and left.

“Well, we didn’t get anything to prove to Stanze that Danny was here.”

“It sounded to me like he believed ya already,” Jerry said, leaning against the car.

“Maybe,” I said, “but let’s find this Johnson guy and confirm it.”

“You got it, Mr. G.”

W
HEN WE GOT IN
the car Jerry asked, “What’s the address?”

I read it off for him.

“How do we get there?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“We could ask directions.”

“We’re from Brooklyn,” I said, “we don’t ask directions.”

“Well, then … how are we gonna get there?”

I looked at him. “We’ll ask for directions.”

After we stopped at a gas station for help we drove to an apartment building on the outskirts of Brentwood.

“I thought Brentwood was all rich people and movie stars,” Jerry said, parking in front of the building.

“So did I.”

“So where did this block come from?”

“This must be the Brentwood slums.”

“I’m glad I have my gun,” he said.

“You do?” I asked. “But … in the police station …”

“I left it in the trunk.”

“The trunk?” I said. “Of my car?”

“Well, I didn’t think they’d search your car,” he said. “Why would they?”

“Yeah,” I said, “why would they?”

Trying a second look at the building, I decided it probably was a good thing that Jerry had his gun.

We opened the trunk and he dug the .45 out of the wheel well, stuck it in his belt.

“No holster?”

“That would’ve looked suspicious,” he said. “I mean, if I was wearing an empty holster?”

We started toward the building, and I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

“When exactly did you put the gun in the trunk?”

“Before you drove to the police station.”

“Why?”

“I had a bad feelin’.”

“A bad feelin’?”

“Yeah, that they was gonna pick me up. I figured those assholes from Palm Springs was gonna squeal.”

We walked to the building. There were doorbells, but only a few had names on them.

“Jerry.”

“Yeah, Mr. G.?”

“The next time you have a bad feelin’ will you let me know?”

“Sure, Mr. G.”

We tried the front door and it was unlocked. In fact, the lock was broken.

“Mr. G.?”

“Yeah.”

“This is it,” he said. “I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

“Mmm, me, too.”

We went in. The urine smell was enough to make my eyes sting.

“What apartment?” he asked.

I looked at the index card.

“Two-C.”

“Second floor.”

We went up the steps, walked past only one apartment that seemed to be occupied. A radio was playing, and a child was wailing. When we got to 2C Jerry drew his gun.

“Me first, Mr. G.”

I nodded.

He reached for the doorknob and it turned easily.

“This has got to be a phony address,” I said.

“Why?” Jerry asked. “When the guy got the job at the motel why would he give a phony address?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe …”

He pushed the door open and went in quickly with the gun held out in front of him. I waited until he waved me in.

I left the door open and looked around. There was a sagging sofa with one broken leg and an armchair with half the stuffing sticking out. Off to the left was a folding table with a slightly limp fourth leg.

“Nobody even bothered to try and make it look lived in,” Jerry said.

“There’s a kitchen, and another room. Bedroom?”

“We better check,” he said.

I nodded.

“You take the kitchen, Mr. G.”

“Right.”

No body, I thought, thank God there was no body.

I entered the kitchen. Cabinet doors were hanging off their hinges or missing completely; there was a kitchen table but no chairs. The stove was minus two burners. I opened the oven and looked in, found it empty and dirty.

No bodies. I went back into the living room.

“Jerry?”

“Yeah?”

“Anything?”

He came out of the bedroom, tucking the .45 into his belt.

“Nothing, Mr. G. There’s a chest of drawers, but nothing’s been in them for a long time.”

“So it’s a phony address.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Who gets a job at a fleabag motel and gives a phony address?”

“When was he hired?” Jerry asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering the index card. “He was hired … a week ago.”

“Before Danny got to L.A.”

“Yeah.”

“Odd,” he said.

“I think so.”

“Can we get out of here now, Mr. G.?” he asked. “My eyes are burnin’ something bad.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, “before a body falls from the ceiling.”

We stopped at a Chinese takeout and brought two greasy bags of food and a six-pack back to Marilyn’s guesthouse.

“Before we go inside,” I said, “we’ve got something to decide.”

“Like what?”

“Whether or not we believe the house is bugged,” I said. “And if the house is bugged, is the guesthouse bugged?”

“What do you say?” he asked.

“I think if they bugged the main house there’s no point in bugging the guesthouse.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“Well, no … but I want to eat this Chinks hot. I gotta think if one house is bugged, so’s the other one, Mr. G.”

“Good point,” I said. “We’ll just have to watch our p’s and q’s then.”

“Sure, Mr. G.”

C
HINKS?” I ASKED INSIDE
. “When did you start callin’ it that?”

Jerry shrugged. “Did it since I was a kid. I probably heard somebody else do it. Why?”

“My grandmother use to call it that,” I said.

We opened all the containers, got some plates and sat down at the table to demolish the food along with bottles of Schlitz. And just in case the house was bugged, we kept the water running in the sink for background noise.

“I was hoping we’d find out something from the desk clerk,” I said.

“Maybe we should go back,” Jerry said. “Maybe the owner was lying.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “not with your hand on his chest.”

“Well, he’s gotta have a good phone number to reach the guy at,” Jerry said. “It’s gotta be on that card. Maybe we should call it and see?”

“Good idea.”

I swallowed the egg roll I was chewing, went to the phone
and fished that index card out of my pocket. I dialed the number. After twenty rings I hung up.

“No answer,” I said, sitting back down. “We’re lookin’ at a brick wall, Jerry.”

I watched Jerry pick up a wonton with his chopsticks. I was using a fork.