“Lola,” I said again, and she stopped.
“You have bad news,” she said. “I can spot the bringer of bad news two blocks away. I know a guy who has been known to knock off bringers of bad news.”
“Just like the Greeks I remember reading about in high school,” I said.
“He is no Greek,” said Lola with a small, sad laugh.
“You talking about Lombardi?” I said, walking through the tables.
“None but,” she said, fingers poised over the keys.
I sat down and put my arm around her. She sagged next to me.
“Lombardi is dead,” I said. I could feel her shudder, and I didn’t like myself. I hadn’t told myself what I was doing, but I knew. I had been testing Lola, had held her to see her reaction, to judge if she might have punctured Lombardi or if she knew about it. I would have bet she didn’t, but then again she was an actress.
“Dead?”
“Dead,” I repeated.
“That’s the end of Lola’s comeback,” she said, hitting one key and sending the echo of its music through the darkness. “That was a selfish thing to say, but it’s what I was thinking.”
“Then you might as well say it,” I said, cradling her head. “Can you answer some questions for me?”
She didn’t speak, just leaned against me, dreaming of the movies that would never be.
“Lombardi put up the money for
“He said he owed it to me,” she answered dreamily. “But you know what I think? I think he just wanted an excuse to put the screws on Cooper to even things up. Lombardi and I were through a long time ago, but he hated Cooper for the few days I spent with him almost, hell, eight or nine years ago. He didn’t forget all that time. Lombardi is … was … the kind that wanted the score at least even, even if the game didn’t matter anymore. He thought it was a sign of weakness if you left a situation with the other guy up on you.
“The boys back East told him to forget it,” she went on. “They said it nice at first and then they said ‘or else,’ but old Chuckles Lombardi wouldn’t let go.”
“So you think somebody back East ordered Lombardi killed?”
“Who knows?” she said, pulling away from me and heading for the bar. “I’d say our dear departed Mr. Lombardi left a trail of enemies from Naples to Frisco.”
Lola went behind the bar and mixed herself something while I sat in silence, and the minutes ticked away. I started to play chopsticks, and Lola, drink in hand behind the bar, laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. She hustled back to the piano, sat at my side and joined me. We played seriously, sour, missing notes, and sat still when we finished the only piece I knew.
“And now?” I said.
She was wearing a yellow dress made of some silky material. The dress matched the color of her hair, at least in the darkness.
“The Big Bear Bar in Burbank,” she said, taking a drink. “That’s the end of the road for Lola Farmer. Can I confess something to you?”
“My pleasure,” I said.
“My name is not really Lola Farmer,” she said in a confidential whisper. “I used the name Farmer because my father was a farmer. My name is Betty Davis. I swear, Betty Davis. Now there just isn’t room in Hollywood for two Betty Davises, so I decided nobly when I was a kid to back away and choose another name. You know who picked the name Lola Farmer? Lombardi.”
“Lola, I’ll be back when I get some things settled,” I said, getting up and touching her shoulder. She shrugged, and I went on, “I’ve got to turn myself in to the cops. Maybe they’ll figure out who carved up Santucci, Tillman and Lombardi. I sure as hell can’t.”
She waved at me without looking up and started to play and sing the saddest version of “Happy Days Are Here Again” that a human could create. Off-key and all, I liked it.
On Buena Vista I found a phone booth and gave the operator the number while I watched the sun start to go down. It was still afternoon and there was still time for a miracle, but I wasn’t counting on one. I called my office and let the phone ring about fourteen times before Shelly answered.
“Sheldon Minck, oral surgeon,” he said.
“You are not an oral surgeon,” I said. “You are a dentist. You can go to jail twenty years for saying you’re an oral surgeon. How the hell do you know who’s going to call you and hear you say that?”
“I don’t tell you how to be a detective so you …” then he remembered the masquerade of his which had started the whole thing. “Maybe you’re right,” he said sullenly.
“Any calls, Shel?” I asked.
“Maybe I could become a real surgeon,” he said. “I know a place in Ventura that will give me a degree for $40. That’s pretty steep, but …”
“Shelly, any calls?”
“Yeah, just a minute.” He dropped the phone and wandered off in search of the message. I could hear cups, metal and paper being moved in a search for the message. In about three minutes he came back and said, “Here it is. A number. You’re supposed to call right away. Urgent.”
“Who is it?” I said, taking the number he gave me.
“Hayena, or something like that,” said Shelly. “Say, will you call Mildred tonight and explain to her about Carmen? I don’t think I can go home and face that”
“I’ll probably be in jail tonight, charged with murder,” I said. “Three murders.”
“They let you have a phone call,” Shelly said. “You can call Mildred.”
“I’ll think about it, Sheldon,” I said, hanging up. I answered the urgent message from the man named Hayena.
This time the phone was picked up after one ring. “Yeah?” came the voice.
“Toby Peters,” I said. “I’m returning your call.”
“I gotta talk to you, Peters,” he said. I recognized the voice. It was Marco.
“Your name is Hayena?” I asked.
“Hanohyez,” he said impatiently, “Marco Hanohyez.”
“I never knew your last name,” I said quietly.
“Well, now we been introduced formally,” he said. “Let’s get together.”
“I didn’t ice Lombardi,” I said.
“I know,” he answered. “I think I know who did. Can you rendezvous with me? I want to get this over with and get back to Chicago. I think I felt an earth tremor today.”
“Why don’t you just tell the cops who killed Lombardi?” I said suspiciously.
“Sure,” he said with reasonable sarcasm. “The cops’ll listen to me.”
“How do I know you’re not setting me up because you think I knifed Lombardi?”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
What did I have to lose besides my carcass?
“Where do you want to meet?” I said.
“That Coney Island place,” he said. “I don’t know my way around, but I am capable of getting there from here.”
“Ocean Park,” I said. “I’ll meet you on the walk outside the entrance of the Dome Pier. In an hour.”
“Hell, no,” said Hanohyez. I preferred him as Massive Marco, but truth has a way of shoving itself in your face and making your life more difficult. “I can’t get away from these guys now. Lombardi’s crew is having a council. They’re all discombobulated. I just … they’re calling me back. Midnight at that Dome Pier place.”
“Wait …” I said but he had hung up.
Midnight was my deadline for turning myself in to Seidman. If I had anything to sell in my profession it was my silence and my word, but I knew I would have to meet Hanohyez. I knew it was the one thing that might end this whole case.
I called Jeremy Butler with a message and got in my car. I had some time to kill, so I drove to Griffith Park and looked at the chimps. Looking at the chimps always calmed me down. I needed calming down. Then, suddenly, everything made sense. It was a wacky kind of sense, but it was sense. I was listening to my own song. The chimp laughed at me, and I grinned back at him. My grin frightened him and he rolled back into a corner to suck his
