Straight No Chaser (24 page)

“Bold as brass.”

“They didn't exactly make me welcome.”

Annie raised her left hand with the four fingers pointing up and the thumb tucked in.

“One,” she said, “the guy, name of Darnell Gant, about your age, fortyish, he's black.”

Annie brought down her forefinger.

“Two, Darnell is big, even bigger than I remember Fenk being.”

The middle finger came down.

“He just flew in, some time in the last couple of days, from his home base, which is none other than Los Angeles.”

Only the little finger remained up.

“That's number three, about Los Angeles. Number four, Darnell Gant, the large black man from Los Angeles, was grumpy.”

No fingers.

“He was grumpy with Trevor?” I asked. “Or grumpy in general?”

Annie paused for reflection.

“Both,” she said. “He was really mad about something, and he was laying it on Trevor because Trevor was maybe part of the cause. It was more than Trevor just happened to be handy.”

“And you think,” I said, “this new arrival, Mr. Gant, might be Fenk's confederate, the man described to me as large and black and he left the new saxophone case for Dave Goddard?”

“At the place near Los Angeles with bistro in the name.”

“Alley Cat Bistro in Culver City.”

“That's who I decided it must be when I was thinking about it in the cab over here.”

“The other deduction,” I said, “you think the reason the guy's angry is he's just heard his buddy Fenk is murdered.”

“Isn't it wonderful when we're on the same wavelength?”

“Well, your theory's not bad at all.”

“Come on, way better than not bad.”

I went around to Annie's side of the table and lifted her up in a hug. She let herself go loose in my arms.

“I'm just starting to come down, you know?” she said after a minute. “So much's been happening. That awful man strangled. Your client's involved. You're in it even deeper. All the stuff I picked up tonight. I mean, holy cow.”

Annie was talking into my chest. She leaned away and looked up at me.

She said, her voice less speedy than it had been from the time she arrived, “You think it's useful, about Darnell Gant from L.A. and the rest? In the cab, I kept going back and forth in my mind. First it was far-fetched, then it was crystal clear. Crystal clear was my final decision, but now . . . what the hell?”

“Sweetie,” I said, “you were the one, I seem to recall, wanted me to ring the police. All of a sudden, you're out there digging up leads. I love it. It
is
helpful. More than helpful. But, you involved this way, I'm grateful and stunned.”

“You started it, buster.” Annie slid out of my arms. “Asking me to check out the people from the other five California movies. Don't forget that. The rest, well, it's kind of fascinating, and I know you're not going to let go till everything's straightened out anyway.”

“So you declared yourself in for the long haul.”

“Not quite. I still think you should get on to the police with all these developments, facts, suspicions, you name it.”

Annie picked up her wine glass in one hand. I took the other hand and led her into the living room.

“Let's let it ride for now,” I said. “We keep talking about theories, suspects, whether to call the cops, we'll never get any sleep tonight. This kind of thing—you notice—has a tendency to race the blood.”

“I noticed.”

Annie sat at the end of the sofa and curled her legs under her dress. It was wheat-coloured and clung smashingly to her body. I went over to the record player and looked through the albums in the section where I kept vocalists.

I said, “I have a man here, he'll take away the tension.”

I put a record on the player, and Dick Haymes began to sing “Mam'selle.”

I sat beside Annie on the sofa, and she said, “With a voice like that, the guy has to be incredibly gorgeous.”

“He was.”

Annie went to sleep on my shoulder after Haymes sang “What's Good About Goodbye?” I waited until the album finished. The last song was “When Lights Are Low.” I carried Annie into the bedroom and undressed her on the bed. She made small noises but didn't wake up. I crawled in beside her. First I took off the Larry Bird T-shirt.

27

B
EFORE ANNIE GOT UP
, before the
sun
got up, I was on the phone in the kitchen.

No, the operator at the Silverdore Hotel told me, nobody named Darnell Gant registered there.

Too much to expect I'd get lucky first time out.

I opened the telephone book's Yellow Pages. Entries under “Hotels”. Nineteen pages of them. Intimidating, but Darnell would probably book into a midtown establishment. Or downtown. Some place handy to Trevor Dalgleish's home or office. That cut down the possibilities.

I got a pen and made check marks opposite the likely hotels. Plaza II. Hampton Court. Carlton Inn. Further downtown, the Holiday Inn behind City Hall, the Royal York. When I finished, I had thirty-six check marks and started dialling.

I snagged Darnell on the nineteenth try.

“I'm putting you through to Mr. Gant's room, sir,” the operator said.

“No, no.” I was almost screaming into the receiver. “Don't ring him, operator. I just wanted to know if Mr. Gant was at the hotel.”

“Yea-hus,” the operator said and clicked off.

Darnell had put himself up at the King Edward.

“Making a big racket in here,” Annie said from the doorway. “For a heck of an early hour.”

It was just coming up to six-fifty.

“I'm hot, kid,” I said. “Getting together a little scheme here that ought to wrap up my troubles. Our troubles. Dave Goddard's troubles.”

Annie yawned. It was her turn to wear the Larry Bird T-shirt. I had on the maroon dressing gown.

Annie said, “Think you can climb off that high you're on long enough to make coffee?”

Before I answered, Annie wandered toward the living room. Her walk was of a person who wouldn't object to another ten hours of sleep. I put the kettle on the stove and measured four cups' worth of Folger's into the Mr. Coffee. Before the kettle boiled, Annie was back in the doorway.

She said, “I don't suppose, since this time yesterday, you bought a typewriter?”

“I'm hanging on for Christmas.”

“'Fraid of that.”

Annie went back to the living room.

Ten minutes later, when I took her a tray of orange juice, toasted bran bread, and coffee, she was sitting on the sofa, alert, and scribbling in the ever-present notebook.

“Not yet,” she said. “Don't tell me about the scheme yet.”

I turned for the kitchen.

“And, hey, thanks,” Annie shouted after me. “This smells scrumptious.”

I had a shower. Annie finished her piece for
Metro Morning
. I drank coffee in the kitchen. Annie had a shower. I looked out the living-room window into the park. Annie put on the wheat-coloured dress and called a cab.

“Thumbnail sketch,” she said to me. “And slide over any parts where you might get your head bonged again.”

“Simple,” I said. “I'm getting all the suspects together in one room and let the guilty party reveal himself.”

“Just like Hercule Poirot.”

“Maybe not that cut-and-dried,” I said. “But the clues are falling into place.”

“I hope you're not banking on the guff about the voices in the other room at the hotel.”

“Hum, now you mention it, these Vietnamese guys I was having a drink with yesterday, they talk in a range that might get them tryouts with the Vienna Boys' Choir.”

Annie put her hands on her hips and gave me a ray of a look that might have withered lesser men.

“Just kidding,” I said.

“What's this about all the possible guilty parties in one room?” Annie said. “That's not such a sterling plan. Suppose the guilty parties outnumber you?”

“Here's the part you should go for,” I said. “The cops'll be in on this one.”

Annie took my face in both hands and kissed me on the lips.

When she was finished, she said, “You've seen the light.”

“I was seeing stars for a minute there,” I said. “You want to practise your kissing technique some more?”

“Give me details,” Annie said, ignoring my question. “Where's the room you're collecting everybody together? And who's everybody? And how about the police? Is that who you were phoning at the ungodly hour?”

A horn honked three times from outside the house. Annie walked across to the window and looked out.

She said, “First cab driver who actually gets out of his car and rings the doorbell, I'm gonna give him a fifty per cent tip.”

“Only if he holds the car door open for you.”

“Come on, I'm not asking the moon.”

I watched Annie gather up her notes for the morning's radio show. And did my best to keep the edges of guilt and relief off my face. She'd asked too many questions I wasn't ready to answer yet. Saved by the honk of a horn. Annie hoisted her bag, and I followed her down the stairs.

“I'll be on the tear all day,” she said, talking to me over her shoulder. “The radio program, two movie screenings, a press conference.”

“The interview with good old Day-Lewis.”

“Of whom you're no longer jealous.”

“Switched my angst to Ted Koppel,” I said. “But, look, have I told you about me and Sonia Braga?”

Annie stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“What's that got to do with anything?” she said. “If it's my opinion you want, I think Sonia Braga's in the top five of the world's sexiest women.”

“I think you just stole my thunder.”

Annie opened the front door, and we stepped on to the porch.

“I'll phone you between screenings and things, here and at your office,” she said. “When we connect, tell me what's happening. Okay?”

“I might be hard to reach myself.”

Annie looked at her cab and back to me.

She said, “Just so I know, Crang, no bullshit, whatever you're cooking up, promise me absolutely the police are going to be present and accounted for.”

“Cross my heart.”

Annie brushed her cheek with mine.

“If all else fails,” she said, “if I can't reach you, here's the fallback position—meet me at the Belair any time after eleven tonight.”

“Agreed,” I said.

Annie brushed my other cheek with her other cheek, and crossed the sidewalk to the cab. I watched as the driver performed a screeching U-turn and barrelled north on Beverley. Annie's arm was waving from the window.

Before she was out of sight, a car pulled into the space at the curb that the cab had vacated. It was a small-sized black Mercedes. Cam Charles stepped out from behind the wheel, and walked briskly around the car and up the three stone steps to my porch.

“An opening question, Cam,” I said, pointing at the Mercedes. “Sun Myung Moon give you that thing?”

“Don't be absurd.”

“Just wondering.” I was still wearing my maroon dressing gown. “Come on up. It's fantastic timing you dropped by. I've got a little assignment for you.”

“The shoe's on the other foot, Crang.” Cam didn't give the impression he intended to come in off the porch. “It's I who am bringing you a word of advice.”

“Just a quick stop on the way to the office?”

“Your phone was busy for forty minutes when I tried earlier,” Cam said. His voice sounded put out. “And I need to bring you up to date before you make a complete hash of things.”

“Could we just take my déshabillé upstairs and have the discussion?”

Cam trailed after me up to the living room. His eyes darted around the place. I couldn't tell whether he found it wanting.

Cam said, “Trevor intends to have Stuffy Kernohan invite you to his office for questioning about the Fenk murder.”

“You can beat Trev to the punch,” I said. “That's the assignment I'm talking about.”

We were still standing in the middle of the living room.

“We might as well sit,” Cam said. He chose the sofa. Recognized quality when he was next to it. I stayed on my feet and spoke first.

“You get to your pal Stuffy,” I said. “Tell him this. Tell him to organize a police raid for tonight on a booze can—I'll give you the address— and tell him he'll come up big.”

Cam took a long time crossing his legs. He had on a glen plaid suit that put my Cy Mann to shame. Even when my Cy Mann was dry cleaned.

“In the first place, Crang,” Cam said, “raiding a so-called booze can isn't in the line of duty for a homicide detective like Stuffy.”

“I bet he'll think so if you tell him he can scoop up Fenk's killer in the process.”

“Will he? Arrest the person who strangled Raymond Fenk?”

“Got my word on it.”

Cam stared at me.

I said, “My unadorned guarantee isn't the standard you're looking for?”

“Hardly.”

“Try this for size, Cam,” I said. “A bunch of Vietnamese cocaine salesmen run the booze can. Fenk funnelled them a supply of coke from Los Angeles. Indirectly he did the funnelling. But something fouled up the transaction, and that made the Vietnamese very upset. After a while, they got even by putting the choke on Mr. Fenk.”

I allowed time for Cam to absorb the first blizzard of facts. He managed it calmly. Didn't uncross his legs.

I said, “Stuffy gets in there fast enough, into the booze can, he'll find himself enough evidence against the coke people, no defence lawyer could get them off. Including you.”

“Do I assume,” Cam said, “that Trevor is involved in what you've just described?”

“In the cocaine end,” I said. “And his involvement is as tight as . . .”