against the windshield. Rusty pulled up behind my car and stopped. He leaned back with a sigh, his hands locked behind his head.
Culhane said, “You’re a smart cop, Bannon. I appreciate that. But I say again, there’s nothing here for you to learn. You ought to head back before the rain gets serious.”
“Why did you take me on that little cruise?” I asked. “To let me know that there are a lot of rich people on the Hill with connections all the way to the governor’s mansion and probably to the White House?”
“I don’t want you to have the wrong impression about San Pietro.”
I understood the veiled warning in his remark.
“I don’t,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ve put up with politics and money in my time.”
I started to get out of the car. “I think I’ll grab a bite before I head back to L.A. Where’s the best steak in town-that I can afford?”
“The diner. A buck and a quarter. I’ll give them a call; it’s on the county.”
“No thanks. I have ten bucks expense money. If I don’t spend it Moriarity will cut me back to five the next time out.”
“I’ve been a cop almost all my life,” Culhane said. “I know about cops. I’ve known good ones, bad ones, crooked ones, stupid ones, and some so rotten it would make you sick to your stomach you ever put on a badge. You’re a bloodhound. You stick your nose up in the air and get a whiff of something and then you bite it and don’t let go. Just be careful, Cowboy. Don’t get your nose stuck up the wrong dog’s ass.”
And they drove away.
CHAPTER 16
The rain that had started as a quiet mist developed into a full-fledged storm by the time I drove the length of the town to the diner. The wind had picked up, bringing with it dark clouds creased with lightning and heavy with a steady downpour.
My sessions with Howland and Culhane had yielded little. Howland’s take on the massacre at Grand View House and the trial of Arnie Riker for the murder of Wilma Thompson was passable but shaky reportage at best, laced with sour mash and the kind of myths old-time newsmen like to spin over dinner or drinks at the bar. Culhane had completely avoided talking about the Grand View massacre and the Riker murder case and Eddie Woods.
The diner’s red, flashing neon sign promised comfort from the storm. It was a classic-chrome-trimmed, with leather booths, and a long counter half circling the kitchen. The odor of cooked meat and onions and strong coffee stirred my appetite. I took a booth in the corner; ordered a rare T-bone, soft scrambled eggs, sliced potatoes and onions, hot rolls, lemon meringue pie, and a Muhlenbach beer; commandeered a crumpled but readable afternoon edition of the Times from the seat of an abandoned booth; rolled a cigarette; and smoked while I scanned the headlines and waited for dinner.
The story I was looking for was buried back in the second section in the obituaries, three paragraphs under the headline: woman drowns in bathtub accident. It told me less than I knew already and ended with two lines: “The name of the deceased is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. No funeral arrangements were available at press time.” Jimmy Pennington was smart enough to open the door in the event there was more to the accident than I had indicated. That’s why he was the best reporter in town.
I put the paper aside when my dinner arrived, and dug in. Culhane was right: the steak was an inch thick and cooked to perfection, the rolls crumbled in my hand when I buttered them, and the beer was served in an iced mug. I was too busy devouring my meal to notice the black Pontiac pull into the parking lot and the two guys in the front seat who did not get out.
I finished a leisurely meal, ordered a second cup of coffee, had a smoke. I knew my quest for facts about Verna Wilensky’s mother lode was wasted time, and the rain was showing signs of letting up. Then there was Rosebud, waiting for his dinner and bone. It was only 7:30, I could be home by 11:00, so I decided to head back to town. The waitress wrapped the bone in cellophane and put it in a paper bag for me. I tipped the waitress a buck, probably the largest tip she had ever received, turned up my collar, pulled my hat low over my eyes against the rain, and quick-stepped around the corner of the diner toward my car.
As I reached the door a voice behind me said, “What’s yer hurry, bohunk?”
As I turned, an arm the size of a steam pipe wrapped around my chest, pinning both arms to my sides. The bag with my dog bone fell at my feet. A second man, a mere outline in rain and darkness, stepped in close and threw an arcing jackhammer punch deep into my stomach. It doubled me over. My hat flipped into the mud at my feet. Air whooshed out of my lungs. Sparks dimmed my eyesight for a moment. Pain swelled upward from my stomach and my dinner soured the back of my throat. I swallowed hard as he stepped in closer and landed another rib-bender. My knees buckled and I sagged toward the ground, but the guy holding me dragged me back up and growled, “Go home to your mama and stay there, big shot.” As the muscleman swung his arm back for a third shot at my gut, I kicked him, with everything I had left, in the groin. I felt muscle, bone, and tissue smash under the kick. It lifted him an inch off the ground and sent him backward, doubled over and screaming.
As he fell to his knees, I swung my head forward, then threw it back as hard as I could. It smashed into the face of the thug holding me from behind. I smacked him with the back of my head a second time. He yowled, and his grasp loosened enough that I could swing around and break loose of his grip. Facing him, I smacked his face with the top of my head. The back of his head shattered the car window. His arm dropped to his side, and I threw a hard, straight jab into his face, ruining what was left of his nose. Then I saw the empty sleeve of his other arm tucked in his coat jacket.
He had held me with the only arm he had. He made a funny little sound and fell straight down as I turned to the other attacker, who was gasping for breath and trying to scramble to his feet in the mud. I stepped in close and threw a haymaker down to the side of his jaw just below the ear. Both his hands splashed into the mud, and I hit him again with a roundhouse right that knocked him up and over on his back. He lay there, arms flung out at his sides, his mouth open and gobbling rain.
I turned back to the first guy, who was on his hand and knees, and finished him off with another right, straight down to his temple. He fell face forward and splashed into a mud puddle without another sound.
The whole melee took less than two minutes.
When I rolled my first attacker over, to keep him from drowning in mud, his coat flopped open and I saw the badge pinned to his vest and the. 32 under his arm.
I had been doing battle with my old pals Laurel and Hardy. I took a closer look at One-Arm’s partner and stared at an empty eye socket. I looked around in the rain for a minute but didn’t see his glass eye.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself.
I was doubled over from the blows to my stomach but not too unsteady to reach down and rip the badge off the big guy’s vest. Then I relieved him of his pistol, picked up my hat and paper sack with the dog bone, got in the car and drove off, leaving them both staring up at the rain.
I drove around the corner and past the park. Rain and wind had pretty much washed away all evidence of the noontime picnic, and the red words on the sandwich boards advertising fireworks tonight 9 p.m. ran down the length of the boards like streams of blood. I stopped in front of the municipal building, took the bone out of the paper sack, and put the gun and badge in it.
My ribs were throbbing and I had trouble standing up straight, but I made it up the steps and entered the police department. Rosalind had been replaced by a tall, slender rail of man in a blue uniform. He was smoking a cigar and reading Life magazine. He looked up through bored eyes as I put the bag on the counter.
“This is a gift for Captain Culhane,” I said. “Please see that he gets it.”
“Who shall I say it’s from?”
“He’ll know,” I said, and got out of there. I aimed the car for L.A. and got the hell out of Dodge.
When I got to 101 I turned on my flasher and pushed the gas pedal close to the floor. Rain bubbled through the shattered car window and sprayed on my neck. My ribs felt like they were broken. Just the touch of my hand when I reached down to check brought tears to my eyes.
I turned off the flashing light and slowed down going through Santa Barbara, then flicked it back on and leaned on the gas again. I drove straight through to Sunset and headed east. The streets in L.A. were bone-dry. I
