Chapter 16
A man named Jack sat slumped on one of the benches in the detention cell on the basement floor of the police station. He looked up and grinned with one side of his mouth when Captain Williams stepped into the room, followed by an officer in uniform.
The captain winced at the sight of the man, massive in proportion, thick-chested and powerfully built, giving him the illusion of a giant, even though he was actually not much taller than-the captain. It was the man's eyes that startled the captain. They were fierce and they were venomous. But they fascinated and, complimented by his easy grin, it was difficult to look beyond them.
They were the source of his strength and they seemed to control even his slightest movements, movements cat-like, liquid, easy as his grin, as he slid forward on the bench, settling his shoulders back, preparing to meet the captain's eyes, to match them, to overpower them. The grin was an outward sign of his confidence and it was touched with contempt which the captain recognized-yet the captain only smiled.
Under the open denim jacket, Jack's dark skin glistened, stretched over heavy muscular breasts matted with black hair that continued over thick upper arms that bulged from his sleeveless shirt. His skin was dark, not from the sun but from a mixture of antecedents, giving him the look of a Latin, Mexican or Spaniard despite facial structure and thick bluish lips that were unmistakably Negroid.
"John William Marshell?" the captain said. The man winced slightly at hearing his name. He recovered immediately, however, and the grin returned.
"They call me Jack," he said and then he gestured slightly with one hand toward the bench opposite him. "Sit down, man."
"Thank you," the captain said. He moved to the bench. The officer remained by the door. Jack flashed him a look, but the officer did not respond. He only stared at Jack, his thumbs hooked under a wide belt that held the holster of his police revolver.
"They tell me you had a little drinking party last night," the captain said.
"I did have a few," Jack said, and he shrugged slightly.
"And then you skipped town."
"Skipped?"
"You were picked up in Indio," the captain said. "Where were you heading-L.A.?"
"Goin' to Californ-i-a," Jack said, grinning, gesturing, mimicking a song, "where everything is green."
The captain frowned. How well he knew the type! All his life he'd dealt with them. The typical small-town hood. The quick-buck artist with the smooth answers, showing a sort of brilliance when caught-but usually only when caught. And they were always caught.
How could they help but be caught? The clothes, the look, the manner, the outward contempt and the pride-especially the pride. Wearing it like a neon sign, displaying their trade. Yet there was a sort of honesty about it, a stupid honesty, this deliberate throw-off of respectability or rather the show of it.
But it was wrong nonetheless. He thought of the report he'd just read on John William Marshell. Half his life spent behind bars-how brilliant can one person be? Everything from petty thievery to prostitution. Only a week ago he'd been released from the prison at Fort Worth where he'd served five years for armed robbery. Five years-a gas station outside of town and the take not much over fifty dollars. How brilliant can a person be?
"You just got out of prison a week ago," the captain said, "Are you ready to go back now, Mr. Marshell?"
Jack stirred uneasily, but his composure was not shaken. He shrugged one shoulder slightly. "I ain't done anything," he said.
"How much did the big man pay you for your services?"
"Who?"
"You know who."
Jack shrugged. "Like I said, I met this guy Bernie at a bar. We got talking. We get a little high. The bar closes so we go over to his place and have a few more. Then he craps out and old Jack takes off."
"How much did the big man pay you?"
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Where did you meet Cy Cartell?"
"I don't know where."
"Downtown?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe at the Round-Up? You know, that little bar across the street from the Post Office? Maybe you met him there. Maybe you sat at the end of the bar and drank bourbon-"
"Look, mister, you got-"
"-and seven-up, then moved to a back booth and had two more and a cheeseburger and french fries. Is that possible?" The captain tilted his head and grinned slightly. "I mean, it is possible, isn't it?"
Jack frowned and drew himself up. He rubbed a hand slowly over his thigh. The captain watched him and he knew that behind the complacency a brilliant mind was at work.
"It was a gag," Jack said finally. "There was no money changed hands-nothing like that. This guy wanted to play a joke, that's all. Man, I love a good laugh."
"It didn't turn out very funny, I'm afraid," the captain said. "Not for the big man and not for you either."
"You can't pin that on me."
"I just want the truth," the captain said. "I want to know what happened in Bernie Evans' apartment."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Maybe nothing," the captain said. "Maybe I just want to know. What happened between you and Bernie Evans?"
"Nothing."
"That's not true."
"I don't lie, Mister," Jack said, and suddenly his grin was gone.
"That's not true either, is it?" the captain said. "Now, tell me the facts. How much did the big man pay you?"
"Nothing," Jack spat, and his eyes narrowed as he met the captain's look.
In a moment the captain was across the room. Before Jack realized what was happening, the captain had seized the front of his shirt, twisting the denim tightly, choking him, and pulled him up off the bench. "How much?"
Jack's face registered surprise at the force that suddenly pinned him against the wall. His hands snapped into fists and his arm cocked automatically, ready to strike.
"Come on," the captain hissed, "Try it!"
"Lemme go!" Jack's eyes flashed. His tone was a warning. His fists shook from the tension as his arms swelled and went hard, as though wanting to spring but unable. The cords in his neck jutted against his skin and his face became hideous, not only with fury but with repulsion at being touched, being handled, being challenged.
"I mean it," Jack whispered. "Don't touch me!"
"How much?" the captain said, and he deliberately pushed his palm against the man's face, rubbing his hand hard across his skin. Jack twisted his face away, trying to avoid the captain's touch.
"How much?"
"I said, nothing!" Jack suddenly screamed. "You're lying."
"I said nothing!"
"What happened between you and Bernie Evans in his apartment?"
"Nothing...!"
Captain Williams pulled onto the shallow apron in front of the Granada Apartments on Twentieth Avenue. He hesitated a moment before getting out of his car. His mind was still on the man he had just left sitting on a bench in the small basement room of the police station. He sat a moment, thinking of the man's face. He had stared at it for a long moment after he asked his final question. But it hadn't flinched, the look never wavered.
"What happened between you and Bernie Evans in his apartment?"
"Nothing."
The captain hadn't asked anything after that. He had only stared at the man, sleek, vicious, contemptuous-a mark of his race more significant than the color of his skin-as fierce and as crudely awesome as a panther, charged with animal beauty at once compelling and repulsive, and, like an animal governed by instinct, incognizant of moral values. Yet, even while the captain searched the man's face, he had known there was nothing more to find out. It was simple truth and the captain realized it.
He realized, too, that was all he'd wanted to learn from Jack. It was the only reason he'd entered that basement room to talk with him. Everything else he had known already. He wondered now if this were the truth he was looking for. He wondered if this were the truth that Bernie didn't know.
Captain Williams rang the doorbell of Madge's apartment. What the hell was he looking for? He wondered what the hell he wanted with Madge. Perhaps he already had a killer and had known it all along. Perhaps Bernie had known it, too. How simple it was!
Bernie had taken the rifle from Mike, had gone to the motel to find Cy Cartell, had shot him and then called the police. It was as simple as that.
Perhaps the captain was a fool for refusing to believe this was the truth. Perhaps his instincts were giving out. Perhaps he was falling into the trap that people sometimes do, believing only what he wanted. He believed Jack, but he didn't believe Bernie. Why? It should be just the opposite. Bernie had every reason to tell the truth. He didn't have to wait for the police. He could have run away.
Even if Jack were lying, what did that have to do with the big man's death? It was a separate crime. The big man had no further business with Jack. He had used him and he had paid him-or would have. Didn't he have the money in his hand? Wasn't he willing to pay? Wasn't it worth it to watch that boy crawl? He had the money in his hand....
The captain frowned. He was back to that again. He had dismissed the idea once and now he had to dismiss it again. You don't kill a man for ten dollars, then leave the money in his hand....
"All right," she said, "I'm paid!" And she threw the coin at him and laughed....
It was Madge! Suddenly he was thinking of Tony Banderro's terrible confession about his escapade with the pretty waitress in the motel room.
"Just pay me and let's do it," and she threw the coin at him and laughed.
As if it were a joke, a terrible joke about the money-Because it wasn't the money she wanted! It was something else and the money was only a means. Something else-suddenly the captain had a thought, a wild thought. It didn't fit and it didn't make sense, yet....
"Hi," someone said. The captain turned and saw a figure moving toward him across the patio. He recovered from his thoughts, pushing them aside, and nodded a greeting at Jan.
"You looking for Madge?"
"That's right," the captain said, realizing from the description by the people at the Post Bar that this was Jan, the barmaid, Madge's neighbor, Bernie's friend.
"You must be Jan," the captain said.
"Check," said Jan and she switched the drink she was holding from one hand to the other, extending her free hand to the captain. "And you must be the Law."
"How are things in the big city?" the captain said, accepting a hand damp from holding the glass. "I understand you've been in New York. Your mother, wasn't it?"
Jan nodded. "Poor old thing. She almost took the count." Jan laughed. "She's okay now, though. So, how about all the excitement? It seems like all hell broke loose for my little Bernie, didn't it?"
"There's been some trouble," the captain admitted.
"I figured there was gonna be a row when that old bastard got here," she said. "But I never dreamed it would end this way. It's kinda scary, isn't it?"
"Why do you say that?"
"You just don't think those things happen with people you know. You read about 'em in the papers. But they're just stories. You know what I mean?" Jan shook her head sadly. "I just never would've thought Bernie had it in him. I suppose he figured it was something he had to do."
"Do you believe he did it?"
"The papers say he admitted it," Jan said. "And if Bernie says he did it, then he did it. I don't know Bernie long, but I know him good, Mister. If that old son-of-a-bitch needed killing, then, by God, Bernie had it in him to do it." She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "I knew he had something-I used to wish it was for me."
"You're fond of him, aren't you?"
"Sure I am," Jan said, "But not the way you think. I haven't got time for that. I've been stung too many times. It's too expensive, if you know what I mean." She grinned suddenly and took a long drink from her glass. "That's a tip I have for young people," she said. "Don't love people who can't love you."
"Are you talking about Bernie?"
"Hell no," she said and suddenly sounded angry. "He's too smart for that. He only loves that kid and he knows the little bastard loves him. Not the way people might think, but the way Bernie wants it. He's probably in his glory now because he pulled the plug on that guy. He probably thinks he did something great and it doesn't matter if the kid knows it or not. That's love, Mister."
Jan laughed suddenly. "Poor Mike doesn't know what the hell's going on."
"But you do."
"I always did," Jan said simply. "I knew he was hot for that kid. Bernie didn't even know it himself. But I did. There's lots of nights when I knew it. That's what's driving him buggy, you know." She laughed. "You know he's a screwball, don't you?"
The captain nodded.
"He'll do anything with anybody else, but he'll never touch that kid." She shook her head. "Kinda sad."
Jan looked into her glass, then she grinned at the captain. "I guess I'm a little tight." She finished the drink. "Hey, I just had a great idea. Let's go over to my place and I'll fix you a drink."
"Thank you," the captain said, "But I'm afraid I don't have time right now."
"Hell, it's early."
"I'm afraid I'm here on business."
"Oh, that's right, you came to see Madge."
"Yes," the captain said, "but apparently she isn't in."
"Sure she is," Jan said. "She's probably still asleep. "I gave her some stuff. She's in pretty bad shape, you know."
"Oh?"
"It's what I was talking about," Jan said. "Didn't you know about her?"
"What about her?"
"Oh, that's right," she said, and she grinned. "It was me Bernie was always with. You didn't know about Madge."
"What about Madge?" the captain said, suddenly alert.
"I thought everybody knew by now," Jan said. "It wasn't me that was being hurt. I told you I was too smart for that."
The captain frowned and turned back to the door. He remembered the look in a waitress' eyes. He had known then, even though he hadn't been able to label it. He had known when he sat in that dingy parlor at the foot of the mountain and listened to a story of perversion, a story of obscenity that had repulsed even the small-time gigolo with a yen for thrills. He had known when he'd stared at Jack and Jack had said, "Nothing." He didn't know why he knew it, but he did. And now he knew something else.
"What did you give her?" he said to Jan. "What?"
"What kind of stuff did you give her?"
"Just some sleeping pills," Jan said. "I bought her a bottle this morning-"
The captain pushed himself against the door, at the same time twisting the doorknob roughly.
"Oh my God!" Jan said.
The captain stepped back, then threw his shoulder against the light, panel door. The flimsy lock gave with a sharp screech as the wood around it splintered. He stepped into the living room. From where he stood he could see her in the next room.
"Madge, Baby!" Jan cried and she ran past the captain into the small bedroom. "Madge, baby, wake up!"
Jan bent over her neighbor who was lying on the bed, her face buried in the crumpled bedspread. She turned her over and shook her roughly.
"Madge, baby, wake up, Goddam you...!"