The Third Figure (12 page)

“Of course, there’s also the possibility of someone within the Outfit gaining by your father’s death,” I said. “Forgetting about any high level decision to have him killed, there’re probably a half-dozen men who benefited directly from Dominic Vennezio’s death—just as the executives in any large company move up when the head man dies. Russo, for instance, obviously profited. And …” I paused. “And Larry Sabella, probably.”

As I said it, I saw her eyes narrow. She returned my gaze with a kind of calm, thoughtful malice.

“It seems like you’ve got a pretty good parlay in Larry and me, then. Both of us profited by my father’s death.”

“I haven’t talked to Sabella,” I answered, as steadily as I could. “For all I know, he could’ve been out of town when the murder was committed.”

“He wasn’t though. He was with me. Here.”

“Then there’s no problem, Miss Vennezio. For either one of you.”

“That’s right, Mr. Drake. No problem.” She was staring at me with sullen defiance. I’d seen that expression in the eyes of a hundred hoods, handcuffed to a hundred cops.

“Who do you think killed him, Miss Vennezio?” I asked quietly. “You must have some idea—some suspicion.”

In the taut, hostile silence we watched each other. Then, slowly, she said, “I can’t help you, Mr. Drake. As we say in the movies, all I know is what I read in the papers. I’ll say this, though: Daddy undoubtedly thought he was opening the door for Mrs. Hanson instead of for his murderer. Whoever killed him arrived in her place. Think that over, Mr. Drake. Whoever killed him was …”

The doorbell interrupted her. She rose from the chair in long, lithe movement, and quickly crossed the room to open the door.

A tall man entered with the sure, confident stride of possession.

Here, I realized, was Larry Sabella. Obviously, she’d been expecting him—waiting for him.

“This is Mr. Drake,” she said with a supercilious little flourish. “The man we’ve all been hearing so much about. And this,” she said to me, “is Mr. Larry Sabella. We thought maybe he could give you some background material for your hallucinations.”

I’d risen involuntarily to my feet, facing him. As I did, I saw Charlene pick up her purse and, without a word or backward glance, leave the apartment.

“I guess she needs some cigarettes, or something,” Sabella said, mockingly smiling as he advanced to the middle of the room, unconsciously striking a pose. He was one of those narcissistically handsome men, completely preoccupied with his own rugged good looks. His dark, curly hair was worn long and carefully combed. His Italian sweater was draped with casual elegance; his slacks were meticulously pressed; his loafers were beautifully burnished.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair I’d just left. Again he gave me the smile, as superficial and mannered as his posing.

I decided, immediately, that I didn’t like Larry Sabella. Looking back, I realize that I’d chosen him as the focus for the frustrations, anxieties and downright terror I’d experienced during the past twenty-four hours. And, besides, phonies have somehow never much worried me.

“Want a drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“How about some coffee?”

“No. I’ve got to be going soon.”

“Oh, yeah? Where’re you going?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Or else you won’t tell me.”

I shrugged.

With thumb and forefinger he thoughtfully arranged his trouser creases. “I hear you saw Russo yesterday,” he said softly.

“That’s right.” I decided to light a cigarette—also deciding not to offer one to Sabella.

“Who else’ve you seen?” His smile had faded; the tone of his voice suggested a practiced intimidation.

I drew on the cigarette, considering. Finally, deliberately, I said, “Mr. Russo told me that I was supposed to report directly to him. And he warned me that I’d better remember it.”

Sabella gave his creases a final small tug, then slowly raised his head to stare at me. With a small shock, I saw that his face had completely changed—darker, with muscles taut and bunched, eyes snapping in sudden, suppressed fury. It was as if his actor’s smile had been a fragile mask now torn away, revealing a sadistic brutality.

“Russo isn’t here now. Just you and me. And I’m asking you who else you’ve seen.”

“And I’m—” I was forced to pause and clear my throat. “And I’m telling you, Mr. Sabella, that I have orders to report to Russo—and to Russo only. Now …” Uncertainly, I realized, I pointed to the nearby phone. “Now, if you want to call up your boss and clear it with him, I’ll gladly tell you all I know. But until then, I’m afraid I—”

“Listen, Drake,” he interrupted, “don’t give me this crap about clearing it with Russo. In the first place, friend, you’re a little out of your own territory down here—and a little out of your depth, too. I hear, though, that you’re a crime reporter. If you are and if you know your job, you should realize that there’s …” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “There’s a lot going on, down here. Lots that you don’t know about—and lots that maybe Russo doesn’t know about, either. Now …” He raised a slow, threatening forefinger, in a gesture similar to Russo’s the day before. “Now, if that gets back to Russo, from you, I’ll break both your legs for you. I’ll deny it, of course, to Russo. But I’ll break both your legs. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s just a threat. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I wouldn’t kill you, because it’s bad business, killing cops and newspapermen. But I would break both your legs. Then we’d put you in a car and run you into a tree. And if you know what’s good for you, you’d tell the police it was an accident—and they’d believe you.” He spread his hands, smiling his actor’s smile—adjusting the mask with practiced ease. “Clear?” he asked.

I managed to keep my eyes on his. I didn’t reply, but finally was compelled to nod.

He returned my nod. “Good. So let’s have it. What’ve you found out, about Vennezio’s death?”

“Nothing,” I answered. “Not one thing, that’d interest you. I’ve only talked with Faith Hanson and—” I waved a hand around the room. “—and to Miss Vennezio, just now. And neither one of them gave me any information that you probably don’t have already.”

“You talked to Russo, too. What’d he say?”

I sighed. Somehow I didn’t really fear him—perhaps because I’d taken an instant dislike to him. I didn’t doubt that he had the means and the capacity to break my legs—or even to have me killed. But, strangely, it didn’t worry me. Perhaps I was experiencing a delayed reaction to the fear I’d recently felt—a kind of confused, exhausted exasperation, completely irrational. Some called it courage; others called it a coward’s blind, violent protest to his own terror. I’d seen it happen often, in Korea. I’d felt it in myself.

“Russo said,” I replied, “that he didn’t know who killed Vennezio. He didn’t think it was a—a professional job, but he wasn’t sure. He’s willing to find out, though, providing the authorities don’t get the information first.”

Inscrutably he nodded. Now the smile was a private one—and as ugly as his unmarked face.

“What’d the Hanson woman say?” he asked.

“She just repeated the story she told to the police. She didn’t—”

“She knows a lot more than she’s telling,” he interrupted. “A hell of a lot more.”

“Well, is she does, she hasn’t told me. I’m no FBI man, you know. If she doesn’t want to tell me anything, she doesn’t have to.”

“Did you talk to anyone else? Besides Charlene and Faith Hanson?”

“Well …” I hesitated, remembering the strange, pale face of Johnny Hanson.

“Well, what? Who was it?”

“I talked to Mrs. Hanson’s son. Briefly.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what’d he say? Briefly.”

I drew a deep breath. For a brave moment I was tempted to refuse an answer. But finally I replied, “He said that he thought his mother had another lover, besides Vennezio.”

As soon as I said it, Sabella seemed to relax, as if he’d carefully rehearsed me in a speech I’d just delivered perfectly.

“Did he say who the guy was?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Sabella rose, standing above me.

“Well, Drake,” he said softly, “there I think I can help you. The man you’re looking for …” He paused, for the effect. “The man happens to be my boss.”

“You mean …?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Russo. For some time, now, he’s had quite a yen for Mrs. Hanson.”

He turned and walked to the door. “You’re doing better than I thought, Drake,” he said from across the room. Then, about to open the door, he paused, turning back to face me fully.

“Don’t forget,” he said softly, his voice friendly and almost fey, “don’t forget about those two broken legs, now. And don’t forget to lock up, when you leave.”

He opened the door and disappeared.

I
LEFT CHARLENE VENNEZIO’S
apartment just after two o’clock, and from a roadside phone booth called Dick Gross, an old friend and colleague, recently elevated to featured crime reporter on the
Los Angeles Advance
. He agreed to meet me for coffee at three thirty, which gave me a comfortable margin in which to cross Los Angeles, lose myself twice on the freeway and still make the appointment with time to spare.

Despite the twenty-odd years he’d spent recording the human capacity for vice, depravity and violence, Dick was a cheerful optimist. His quick gray eyes, crew-cut graying hair, ebullient disposition and pixie’s sense of wry, subtle humor seemed to reflect the successful sales manager’s view of life rather than the crime reporter’s. As we settled down to face each other across our coffee and doughnuts, Dick spoke first:

“My paid informants have passed the word that you and Big Frankie have been hoisting highballs beside the pool of his $50,000 home overlooking scenic La Palada.”

I was surprised. I’d been in town less than forty-eight hours.

“So,” he continued briskly, “I’ve decided to do a feature story on your collaboration with organized crime. My headline’ll be
Journalist Takes Services to a Higher Bidder
. The story’s in rewrite at this very moment.”

I swallowed. “You’re joking.”

“Precisely.” He bit into his doughnut. “I’m joking. You hope.”

“Come on now, Dick. I’ve got enough on my mind without playing word games.”

He waved a hand, smiling. “You blanched, old boy. You really blanched. If we weren’t drinking buddies—or if I had any suspicion that you were going to try and stick me with this coffee and these doughnuts—I’d certainly work up a story on you. After all …” He gave me a brief sidelong glance. “After all, I haven’t had a really crowd-pleasing story for more than three weeks. Ever since Dominic Vennezio got neatly shot three times in the chest.”

“You want a refill?” I asked, pointing to his empty cup.

“As a matter of fact, I do. My wife is going to her bridge club this afternoon. And that means one thing: tuna fish salad.”

“You’d better have another doughnut, then.”

“Thanks, I will.” He gave the order to the waitress, looked at his watch and then said, “How can I help you, old clairvoyant buddy?”

I grimaced as I finished my coffee.

“You still don’t like that phrase, eh?” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s because you’re a creation of mass media, my boy. Like movie actresses. Do you know what directors call movie actresses in the privacy of their lushly appointed offices?”

“No.”

“It’s just as well. Somehow, Steve, you’ve managed to retain more of your innocence than most. Perhaps that’s the secret of your success. I’ve always been very interested in the plight of the village idiot. The townsfolk think he’s in touch with the netherworld, because his mind’s uncluttered by temporal considerations. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re—”

“Come on, Dick. I told you: I’m too jumpy to play games with you.”

“I can see that. However, you’ve recovered some of your color, after my innocent little sally.”

“Do you know anyone in the local CIIB?” I asked abruptly.

“Certainly.”

“The head man?”

“Among others.”

“Well, listen, do me a favor and ask him to take his boy off my tail.”

“Who’s the boy?”

“A creep named Carrigan.”

“Carrigan?” He frowned. “There’s no Carrigan in this office. Not unless he’s a junior file clerk.”

“He operates out of Sacramento.”

He shook his head. “You’re out of luck, friend. This Carrigan probably outranks the local bureau chief—or at least they’re coequals. Are you talking about Russo and company? Is that Carrigan’s assignment?”

“I guess so. Either that, or Vennezio’s murder.”

“Could be both. If they could hang Vennezio’s murder on Russo, this Carrigan would probably be running for governor next election.”

I thought about Carrigan’s repulsive profile, but decided to let it pass.

“How’d you happen to get mixed up in all this, Steve?” For the first time his voice was serious—or at least not flippant.

As briefly as I could, I told him. When I finished he slowly nodded, absently folding and refolding his napkin.

“I’ve always felt,” he said finally, “that it’s really money that conquers all. Love might have some appeal to the very young, but in the long run money talks. As one of the characters in your narrative observed.”

“I guess I’m not in any position to argue the point.”

“No,” he answered quietly. “No, you’re really not.”

I sighed. Then, still as concisely as possible, I told him everything that I’d discovered or suspected since arriving in Los Angles. Finally, after some hesitation, I finished with a description of last night’s vision.

“Well, graphically that’s very good,” he said judiciously. “I like that bit about the woman in the long, flowing cloak. That scans.”

“Listen, Dick—”

“So now you want my theory on the murder of Dominic Vennezio,” he continued. “Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“Well, I can give it to you in one concise, quotable statement. I don’t think it was a contract job. However, contract job or not, the Outfit obviously doesn’t want the La Palada police loitering around their executive suite a moment longer than’s necessary to preserve appearances. So, as a result, the murder will probably never be solved, simply because the Outfit doesn’t want it investigated. Not, at least, until you arrived on the scene. And if you want my private, unprofessional opinion, I think Russo’s simply indulging a whim where you’re concerned. Either that, or he’s throwing a bone to Mrs. Vennezio. Or maybe, in view of his alleged attraction to Mrs. Hanson, he’s trying to run a bluff.”