Death in Donegal Bay (2 page)

“No. I asked him, while we were having a snack after the game, if he knew of an honest private investigator in town. He told me that you were the only one he knew of, but that you were retired. He mentioned the three cases you had worked on with him, and he told me about the inheritance from your uncle. He made it clear that you weren’t active any longer. But I took the chance and phoned you, despite that.” He sipped his beer. “Next question?”

“Did you tell him that you knew me?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to explain to a police officer why I knew you. You can understand that, can’t you?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “Vogel probably figured he owed me something. He got into me for four hundred dollars. He’s a whiz at poker, isn’t he?”

I nodded again.

He smiled again. “Speechless? You?”

“I can’t think of any other questions,” I explained. “Well, maybe one. This job you hired Corey for—is it dangerous?”

“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “My wife seems troubled about something lately. There were two times she lied about where she had been. The chance of there being another man involved is remote, but—”

“That’s enough,” I said. “It’s Corey’s case and none of my business.” I stood up, getting ready to leave, when a woman appeared in the doorway.

“I don’t like to interrupt, Alan,” she said, “but our appointment is for four o’clock.”

He frowned. “What appointment?”

“With the attorney,” she said. “With Mr. Farini.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Felicia, this is Brock Callahan, an old friend from Los Angeles who lives up here now.”

She smiled at me. “We’ve met before, but you probably don’t remember it.”

“Guilty,” I admitted.

“It was at a party at Jan Bonnet’s house in Beverly Glen,” she explained, “years ago. Weren’t you a baseball player at one time?”

“Football,” I said. “I find it hard to believe that I would ever forget you, Mrs. Baker.”

She sighed. “You had eyes only for Jan that night. My name was Rowan then. Mike Anthony brought me to the party. You remember him, I’ll bet.”

“I do. He was ranked number three in the middleweight division at the time. Whatever happened to him?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. And Jan?”

“She married me,” I said.

“Lucky, lucky girl!” she said, and winked at me.

“Enough,” Alan said petulantly. “We’ll be late for our appointment. It was good seeing you again, Brock. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

D
OWN THE LONG DRIVEWAY,
back to Reservoir Road. How could I forget a svelte redhead with green eyes and high cheekbones? They had flooded the dreams of my adolescence. Was I getting senile?

Alan had seemed confident that there was no other man involved in Felicia’s lies. Was he getting senile, too?

They had an appointment with Joe Farini, the most expensive and least reputable criminal attorney in town. Why?

Our brief respite from the heat was over; the wind was coming from the desert again. I considered driving down to the station to have a talk with Vogel or over to Corey’s to counsel him. But it was too damned hot. My car, like Corey’s, was not air-conditioned.

Jan was back in the pool when I got home. I went to the den, which was air-conditioned, and dialed Corey’s number. There was no answer. I dialed his parents’ number and Mr. Raleigh answered.

He didn’t know where Corey was, he told me, but he had said he would be home for dinner. He asked, “Is he in any kind of trouble?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“With him, that’s my standard question. I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets home.”

I phoned the station and Bernie was there. I asked him, “Who appointed you my public-relations man?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Giving Alan Baker my name and history. Do you know what he is?”

“The second worst poker player I’ve ever met, after you. What else is he?”

I was about to relate my history with Alan but decided that wouldn’t be cricket. I said, “He was known as a very slick operator down in Los Angeles.”

“So were you. Calm down, you hothead! I told him you were no longer active. I made that clear to him. I had no idea he would try to hire you. By the way, did he hire you?”

“You know better than that.”

“And you know more than you’re telling me. What’s going on, Brock?”

“Only my petty annoyance. It must be the heat. I apologize, Bernie.”

“For the second time, what is going on?”

“Nothing, I hope. If I learn more, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I had better be. Your apology is accepted.”

“I’m so glad!” I said, and hung up.

Jan was again in the shade of the overhang when I went out. “Well, Hawkshaw,” she asked, “what did you learn?”

“I learned that Baker is married to the former Felicia Rowan. Do you remember her?”

“Only by reputation.” She frowned. “Wait—I think Mike Antonio brought her to a party at my house one night.”

“He did. She remembers it, and me. Why did you call him Antonio?”

“Because that was his name at Hollywood High. He was president of our senior class. He changed his name to Anthony when he started to box.”

“And her reputation?” I asked.

“At the level where she operated, I guess you would have to call her a
demimondaine.
At the less expensive level, a hooker would be the word. How is it that she remembered you?”

I shrugged.

She studied me suspiciously. “Was Mr. Baker home?”

“Of course! How high did Anthony go? He never got a title shot, did he? He never fought the champion of his division?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “I didn’t follow his career. The last I heard, he was a bartender somewhere.” She mopped her forehead with a towel. “Is it too early for a drink?”

“Not if we drink them slowly.”

We sat and sipped our vodka and tonics and thought our separate thoughts. Jan was probably wondering if Alan had been home. I was worrying about Corey. He could be in over his head.

He phoned when Jan was taking her shower. “What’s on your mind?” he asked me.

“You. I don’t like that set-up. I understand Baker hired you.”

“That’s right. I start tomorrow. What’s wrong with the setup?”

“I’m not sure. I’m … just uneasy about it.”

“Brock, I’m a big boy now. How am I ever going to get a downtown office with the penny-ante jobs I’ve been working? He gave me a five-hundred-dollar retainer!”

“Okay. Keep your wits about you. You are dealing with a slippery man. And if the going gets sticky—”

“I’ll call on old Uncle Brock, natch. Where else can I find free help? I’ll be careful. I promise.”

What was he to me? I was too young to be his father and he already had a father. I guess Arthur Miller said it best: They are all my sons.

Night came on, but the temperature in the house dropped very little. There was no breeze, the air too ominously quiet—what the superstitious natives call earthquake weather. Brush fires all over the southern counties dominated the eleven o’clock news on the tube. Thirty-eight homes had been destroyed in Los Angeles County, twelve in Orange County, none (so far) in San Valdesto County.

Jan and I slept in the den that night, one of the two air-conditioned rooms in the house. The other was Mrs. Casey’s room, one of the many fringe benefits of her employment. She knew how to take advantage of my addiction for Irish stew.

Was I worried about Corey, or was it envy I was feeling? Getting grounds for divorce had never been my favorite assignment—only slightly more interesting than credit checks. This case was shaping up to be more interesting than either of those.

A con man who had married an heiress under duress, divorced her and married a high-echelon hooker? Investigating that had to be more fun than splashing around in a backyard pool. And Baker may have been telling the truth; grounds for divorce may not have been his reason for hiring a private detective. Nobody lies
all
the time. Why, then, was he having her followed? That was the intriguing question.

I didn’t dwell on the questions over the weekend. I played golf. But maybe in my unconscious mind I was thinking about them. For whatever reason, I shot my worst eighteen-hole rounds of history. Which made Monday the wrong time for Jan to ask, “Golf again today?”

“Not in this heat.”

She smiled. “And not after the way you played with me yesterday. You’re restless, aren’t you?”

“Yup. The weather and the golf combined, I suppose. Do you have to go to work today?”

She nodded. “I have an appointment with a client at ten o’clock. Maybe you should have said yes to Mr. Baker.”

“Maybe.”

“Why,” she asked, “would any man marry a prostitute, especially a man as cunning as he seems to be? Could it be compassion, maybe love?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she told him, ‘No more until we’re married.’ It’s even possible that he was telling the truth; it might have nothing to do with infidelity.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, isn’t it? You used to relish those kinds of cases.”

I studied her suspiciously. “Why this sudden urge to get me back to work? You never approved of my trade before we were married.”

“I understand you better now,” she said. “And I love you even more. I want you to do anything that will make you happy.”

“Don’t fret about me, honey. Once this absurd weather goes away, I can get back to golf.”

“Golf will never be enough for you,” she said. “The real golf addicts play in typhoons and hurricanes. Why don’t you catch up on your reading?”

“A very sound idea.”

The work ethic, that is the curse of the middle class. If I had inherited ten times the money I had inherited, I still would be a middle-class middlebrow. As Heinie had explained to me during a philosophical interlude in his bar, no matter how much wealth some men accumulate, their shoes still turn up at the toes.

There were a half dozen current best-sellers in the den that I had sampled and found wanting. Some sage should explain to these hacks that sex is not a spectator sport, except to voyeurs. Their sales figures would indicate the voyeur population in this country is enormous.

Back to the legendary heroes of my formative years, back to Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. I was deep in my umpteenth reading of
The Great Gatsby
when the phone rang.

It was Bernie. “I’ve been checking the background of that Alan Baker and his wife.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You were the man who alerted me. Some history they have, right?”

“Nothing that should interest a homicide detective. I don’t remember mentioning his wife to you.”

“You didn’t need to. She’s famous—in her way. And I got report this morning that they went to see Joe Farini yesterday.”

“Who would report that to you, and why?”

“We have a reason, at the moment, for keeping him under surveillance.”

“What reason?”

“That would be police business. I phoned to find out if you recommended any other agency in town to Baker.”

“That would be private investigator business,” I said. Thanks for calling, Bernie, and good-bye.”

“Wait, damn you!” he said. “What’s with you lately? You got boils or something?”

“I’m allergic to police arrogance,” I explained. “I tell you everything. You tell me nothing. I pay your salary, buddy.”

“No, you don’t,” he said in his patient voice. “You live in the county. I work in the city.” A moment’s silence.” All right! We don’t know what Farini is up to, if anything. All we have are rumors, so far, from a possibly unreliable snitch who has reason to hate Farini. If we learn more, and you want to know, I’ll tell you about it over some of your expensive Scotch some evening. Now you.”

“I recommended Corey Raleigh.”

“That punk?”

“He is not a punk. He is a mature and perceptive private investigator who learned his trade under a master.”

“You?”

“No. Hercule Poirot. Is there some other master you can think of in this hick town? He learned under me.”

“Do you know if Baker hired him?”

“He did. To shadow his wife.”

“Are you going to pay the kid’s bail if he gets out of line?”

“I’m sure Mr. Baker can scratch up enough money to pay for a bail bond. Is that all? You interrupted me in the middle of a good book.”

“I apologize, sir. When will I learn not to annoy the citizens of the upper class?”

“Screw you,” I said, and hung up.

Bernie always has to play cop. He is a cop first, a friend second. But I guess that is the way it has to be if you’re a good cop, and Bernie is certainly that.

There was no reason to connect the Bakers’ visit to Joe Farini’s office with Alan’s husbandly suspicions. There was a reason to suspect Alan had not completely retired from his larcenous profession. Joe Farini confined his practice to criminal law. And also to something more dangerous than that, as an intermediary between the law and the lawless.

That could involve some hairy characters. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had sent a boy out to do a thug’s work. Corey was equipped to handle a case of wife watching. He was neither physically nor emotionally equipped to handle violence. I tried to ease my sense of guilt by telling myself that Alan was a con man and con men rarely indulge in violence. I didn’t convince myself.

I climbed into my car and headed for Reservoir Road. There was no Plymouth parked in the shelter of the eucalyptus trees on either side of the Baker driveway. I drove down to the station, but Bernie wasn’t there.

I went home and finished
Gatsby,
and those four last paragraphs knocked me on my ass as they always had. The twenties, that had been America’s golden age—and they had happened twenty years before I was born.

Mrs. Casey and I ate lunch in the cool den, along with a glass of good Irish whiskey for her, bourbon for me. When Jan isn’t home, Mrs. Casey and I live it up.

Then I stayed in the den to make another futile attack on William Faulkner. She went to her air-conditioned room to watch her soap operas on the nineteen-inch color television set that Jan and I had bought her for Christmas.