he was in danger of a stroke. So he suggested a deal. I was to rake up ten thousand in cash, treat his hypertension, and get the two of them a cottage at the Tennis Club. I imagine it was the weirdest deal in history.'
'I don't know. Spillman once won a man's wife in a crap game.'
'So he told me. He's full of little anecdotes. You can imagine how I felt injecting a man like that into my club. But I had no choice, and he was willing to pay nearly ten thousand dollars.'
'It didn't cost him anything.'
'It cost him ten thousand less the value of my services.'
'Not if you paid him the other ten thousand in cash. He'd save more than enough in taxes to make up the difference.'
'You think he was dodging taxes?'
'I'm sure of it. They're doing it all the time in Vegas. The money they hold back is known as `black money,' and that's a good name for it. It runs into the millions, and it's used to finance about half of the illegal enterprises in the country, from Cosa Nostra on down.'
Sylvester said in a chilly voice: 'I couldn't be held responsible, could I?'
'Morally, you could. Legally, I don't know. If everybody who collaborated with organized crime was held responsible, half the boobs in the country would be in jail. Unfortunately that won't happen. We treat the crime capital of the United States as if it was a second Disneyland, smelling like roses, a great place to take the family or hold a convention.'
I stopped myself. I was slightly hipped on the subject of Vegas, partly because the criminal cases I handled in California so often led there. As this one was doing, now. I said: 'Did you know that Martel left town with Spillman seven years ago?'
'I heard you tell me. I didn't understand what you meant.'
'He was a student at the local college, working part-time as a flunky at the Tennis Club.'
'Martel was?'
'In those days he called himself Feliz Cervantes. He met Ginny Fablon, or at least saw her, at a gathering of French students, and fell for her. He may have taken the job at the club so he could see her more often. He ran into Spillman there.'
Sylvester was listening closely. He was quiet and subdued, as if the building might collapse in ruins around him if he moved. 'How do you know all this?'
'Part of it's speculation. Most of it isn't, But I've got to talk to Leo Spillman, and I want your help in reaching him. Have you seen him recently?'
'Not in seven years. He never came back here. I didn't urge him to, either. Apart from my professional contact with him, I did my best to avoid him. I never invited him to my house, for instance.'
Sylvester was trying to rescue his pride. But I suspected it had been permanently lost, within the past half- hour, in this room.
23
THROUGH THE DOOR behind me I heard the telephone ring in Sylvester's outer office. About twenty seconds later the telephone on his desk gave out a subdued echo of the ring. He picked it up and said impatiently: 'What is it, Mrs. Loftin?'
The secretary's voice came to me in stereo, partly through the telephone and partly through the door. It was just loud enough for me to hear what she said: 'Virginia Fablon wants to talk to you. She's in a state. Shall I put her on?'
'Hold it,' Sylvester said. 'I'll come out there.'
He excused himself and went out, shutting the door emphatically behind him. Refusing to take the hint, I followed him into the outer office. He was standing over the secretary's desk, pressing her telephone to the side of his head like a surgical device which held his face together.
'Where are you?' he was saying. He interrupted himself to bark at me: 'Give me some privacy, can't you?'
'Please step out into the hall,' Mrs. Loftin said. 'The doctor is advising an emergency patient.'
'What's the emergency?'
'I can't discuss it. Please step outside, won't you?'
Mrs. Loftin was a large woman with a square determined face. She advanced on me, ready to use physical force.
I retreated into the hallway. She closed the door. I leaned my ear against it and heard Sylvester say: 'What makes you think he's dying?'
Then: 'I see.. Yes, I'll come right away. Don't panic.'
A few seconds later Sylvester emerged from the office in such a blind rush that he almost knocked me over. He was carrying a medical bag and still wearing his white coat. The prosthetic telephone was no longer holding his face together.
I walked beside him toward the front door of the clinic. 'Let me drive you.'
'No.'
'Has Martel been hurt?'
'I prefer not to discuss it. He insists on privacy.'
'I'm private. Let me drive you.'
Sylvester shook his head. But he paused on the terrace above the parking lot and stood blinking in the sun for a moment.
'What's the matter with him?' I said.
'He was shot.'
'That puts him in the public domain, and you know it. My car's over here.'
I took him by the elbow and propelled him toward the curb.
He offered no resistance to me. His movements were slightly mechanical.
I said as I started the car: 'Where are they, doctor?'
'In Los Angeles. If you can get onto the San Diego Freeway - they have a house in Brentwood.'
'They have another house?'
'Apparently. I took down the address.'
It was on Sabado Avenue, a tree-lined street of large Spanish houses built some time in the twenties. It was one of those disappearing enclaves where, in a different mood from mine, you could feel the sunlit peace of prewar Los Angeles. Sabado Avenue had a Not a Through Street sign at its entrance.
The house we were looking for was the largest and most elaborate on the long block. Its walled and fountained grounds remind me a little of Forest Lawn. So did the girl who answered the front door. I would hardly have recognized Ginny, she was so drawn around the mouth and swollen around the eyes.
She started to cry again into the front of Sylvester's white coat. He patted her shuddering back with his free hand.
'Where is he, Virginia?'
'He went away. I had to go next door to phone you. Our phone isn't connected yet.'
Her sentences were broken up by hiccuping sobs. 'He took the car and drove away.'
'How long ago?'
'I don't know. I've lost track of time. It was right after I phoned you.'
'That makes it less than an hour,' I said. 'Is your husband badly hurt?'
She nodded, still clinging to Sylvester. 'I'm afraid he's bleeding internally. He was shot in the stomach.'
'When?'
'An hour or so ago. I don't know exactly what time. The people who rented the house to us didn't leave any clocks. I was taking a siesta we were up most of the night - and somebody rang the doorbell. My husband answered it. I heard the shot, and I ran down here and found him sitting on the floor.'
She looked down at her feet. Around them on the parquetry were rusty spots that looked like drying blood.
'Did you see who fired the shot?'
'I didn't actually see him. I heard the car drive away. My husband ' She kept repeating the phrase as if it
