. . he's . . . what's the word?"
"Impotent?"
"Yeah. No balls. Nothin' much else either. The dames laugh at him. Big guy and he falls apart in bed and bawls." He finished the other hamburger and washed it down with the coffee. "What you getting to anyway?"
"A little matter of blackmail, I think. I'm beginning to get ideas about how Maloney was killed."
"Well, if you find out, let me know first. Him and me were buddies."
CHAPTER FOUR
The first thing in the morning I called through to Chicago and got Sam Reed. In a hushed voice that always sounded scared when he was passing out a line he told me he had checked through on Popeye Gage and Carl Matteau and found out they were sent to Culver City ten days ago along with a bagman carrying a hundred grand that was going to set up an operation. The bagman came back, Gage and Matteau stayed to make sure Syndicate dough was spent like it was supposed to be. The only odd note was that although Popeye Gage was one of the "watchers," Matteau had come up in the organization the last few years and didn't take assignments like this unless he had a going interest in things. The word was that whatever the operation was to be, Matteau would run it. He was overseeing his product personally. The other bit was that Popeye had become a junkie and was pretty damn dangerous.
I told Sam thanks, said I'd return the favor and gave him the name of my motel in case anything else came up. He told me he would and broke the connection. Ordinarily Sam was closemouthed and it hurt him to get squeezed.
After breakfast I found out where Hank Feathers lived, got him out of the sack cussing up a storm until he knew it was me, then got invited over for coffee.
Hank lived alone in a small house outside of town. The old man and he used to laugh about their escapades with the women, but Hank never seemed to stick to one long enough to make it permanent. The place was small enough for him to take care of and served as a second office when necessary, and offered all the comforts a bachelor type could need.
When we got settled I said, "You did the story the night Maloney got killed at the Cherokee, didn't you?"
"Yeah, two columns. There wasn't anything to say."
"Run through it, will you?"
He watched me over the coffee cup. "Damn if you aren't your old man all over again. Get a nut in your head and you can't shake it loose."
"Well?"
Hank put the cup down and spread his hands. "Nothing. The guy was lying there dead with a knife hole in his chest. No scuffle, no nothing."
"Motive?"
"He had a five-hundred-buck watch some drunken clown gave him and a hundred eighty some odd bucks in his pocket. It wasn't robbery. He must have known the guy and didn't expect a shiv."
"Could have been something else."
"Oh?"
"Maybe he just wasn't afraid of him. He didn't expect the knife, but he wasn't scared."
"The cops had that angle too." He sipped his coffee again. "Not me though. I'd say it came as a complete surprise."
"Why?"
"He had a pack of club matches in one hand. There was a single unstruck match lying near the body. I'd say he was going to light a cigarette for somebody he knew when he got it in under the arms."
"The police reach the same conclusion?"
"Nope. Where he was were a lot of butts and some loose ones that fell out of his pocket. He always carried them loose. They say he was going to light his own and the guy caught him in that position."
I nodded, thought it through and finished my coffee. "I'd like a list of people who were there that night."
"Sure, check out two hundred reputable citizens and see what you can find. I tried it. What are you after anyway?"
"Something named Bannerman," I said. "Rudy Bannerman."
Hank Feathers grinned and leaned back into the chair. "Why didn't you ask it? He was plastered. He had just dropped fifteen Gs in the casino and got loaded at the bar. When the cops came they found him in the men's room locked in a toilet sick as a pig. He had puked his ears off and sobered up pretty fast . . . enough to get himself out of there in a hurry, but he couldn't have raised a burp far less than a knife."
"The cops ever find the weapon?" I asked him.
"Not likely. The police surgeon said it was made by a stiletto with a six inch blade three quarters of an inch wide at the base. With all the water around here to throw it into there's little chance of finding it. Whoever killed him had plenty of time to dump the knife . . . Maloney was dead twenty minutes before anybody knew about it."
"Nicely set up."
"Wasn't it though? Now you got something on your mind, boy. Get with it. I'll feed you, but let's you feed me too."
"Feel up to stepping on toes?"
"Son, that's my life."
"Okay, see if Irish Maloney ever had anything to do with Rudy Bannerman."
"Brother!"
"He had a picture of her in his room. Care to try it!"
"You just bought it, son. I hope you don't get hurt."
"I've been hurt all I'll ever be, Hank."
The Bannerman name carried a lot of weight. There was only one family of them in Culver City and whoever bore it was set apart as a special person to be considered in a unique fashion. And like all families who occupied that niche, little was unknown about them no matter what it was. From the docks to the country clubs, they knew my old man and liked him, but the rest were another breed entirely.
They knew about the bastard Bannerman too, but as long as he was part of old Max he was right and it was the in I needed. It hadn't taken long for word to get around once I planted the seed. All they wanted to know was that I was a Bannerman and I had plans.
I hit three of the largest realtors, sat through cocktails twice and a lunch and came up with a talker when I found Simon Helm and got the idea across that I was back looking to establish a moderate smokeless industry somewhere in the area. After a few drinks he showed me the maps, pointed out suitable locations, let me digest his thoughts and settled down to the general discussions that precede any deal.
Vance Colby's name had to come up. Helm asked me bluntly why I didn't go through my prospective cousin- in-law to make a buy and just as bluntly I said I didn't like him.
"Well," Helm said, "I'm afraid a lot of us share your opinion." He let out a short laugh. "Not that he's greedy or crooked . . . I'm afraid he's a little too shrewd for us country folks. For the little while he's been here he's made some big deals."
"It figures."
"Now he's got the property adjacent to the new city marina. You know what that means?"
"Prime land," I said.
"Even better. If anyone puts up a club there the expense of a water landing is saved, it's cheap filled property in the best spot around with the advantage of having access to all major highways."
"That's an expensive project."
"His commission will be enormous. It would be better still if he did it himself."
"That's a multi-million dollar project."
"It can be financed," he said.
"Is he that big?"
"No," Simon Helm said slyly, "but with Bannerman money behind him it could be done. Quite a coup."
"I'll take it the hard way."
