Spyfall Read online

  When she opened the door, I saw her blonde hair bundled up in a scarf tied haphazardly at the side of her head. One tail of a short-sleeve shirt hung out the front of her blue pedal-pushers. It was one of my shirts. There was a dust-mop in her left hand and tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her coral-blue eyes switched from surprise to mild anger. She actually said, “Eck,” and then I kissed her.

  After I finished smelling the tang of bleach on the entranceway tiles where she had put me with a hip flip, I hobbled to the low couch that sat in front of her console TV. Red Skelton was clunking around as Freddy the Freeloader, in color.

  “What are you doing here at this time of night?” She folded her arms and then unfolded them. “Without giving me some sort of warning.”

  “Hi, babe. Forgot to tell you. I almost got blown up yesterday.”

  “Damn,” she said. “I’d have paid good money to see that.”

  My ego and hip were bruised. “I’m not kidding. A federal agent got killed in the explosion.”

  She stepped over and switched off the TV, serious now. “FBI? Who?”

  I told her about Max and the way he’d died.

  “That’s terrible, Standy.” She put down the rag mop and came to sit next to me, giving my cheek a light kiss. “Who did it?”

  I decided to let it all out. “Walt thinks it was the brother of that commie-nut who died up in Santa Barbara last summer.”

  “August Reed, your old duck guy?” I nodded and she straightened the dust rag on her head and finally removed it. “Why do you believe him?”

  “Who?”

  “Walt. Why do you believe him when he tells you these things?”

  I rubbed my sore hip. “I don’t know. Because he’s Walt, I guess.”

  “I always feel that he’s not giving you the whole story.”

  “I have to agree with you there,” I said, sharing the details of this evening’s car chase and shoot out at Dodger city.

  “How do you know they won’t come here?” she asked.

  “Believe me, I made extra certain I wasn’t followed. I even parked in a church lot down the street.”

  “The Living Hope Fellowship?”

  “I guess--”

  “That’s my church.”

  “Uh, you have a church?”

  She smiled faintly, pretending not to have heard me.

  I stretched my arms and back. “Sooo, how goes your puppy-napping investigation?”

  “Not nearly as threatening as the one you’re working on for Walt. But I may have to go to the dog fights in Tijuana.”

  “You always get the easy cases,” I half complained.

  “I’m trying to keep my stress down.”

  “You’ll be out of the country,” I reminded her.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “Travel is good for you.”

  “As long as someone else foots the bill.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I’ve changed my mind. I think you’d better have a talk with Walt.”

  Before I could answer, her cat announced his entrance and I immediately protested, “I thought you got rid of that fur-ball.”

  “He came back. Didn’t you, Phooey?”

  The yellow tom heard his name and went, “Murp?”

  I sat up straight in obvious disgust. “You know I’m allergic.”

  “Why do you think I’m cleaning?”

  Phooey jumped into her lap, washed her left ear, and hopped down again to go stretch out under an end-table and thump the floor with its tail.

  “You sure that’s not a dog?”

  “Ha,” she said. “Now you’re jealous.”

  “That’s poppywash and hogcock. Why do you want me to talk to Walt? I thought you just said you didn’t trust him.”

  “I’m still not sure that I do, but you should at least warn him about what happened tonight. You want to do the right thing, right?”

  “I’m not so sure this time--”

  “You have to, Standy. For your sake and maybe his, too. It’s who you are.”

  Her earnestness caught me off guard. “You’re talking mighty strange lately, little lady.”

  I watched her try to decide something. At last she got up and pivoted on one flat-sole shoe, announcing, “I need a shower.”

  Without a thought, I said, “I’ll join you.”

  She began to loosen my belt buckle while nuzzling my neck and we were thus joined the rest of the night.

  ***

  “Hurry up,” she called, with surprising urgency. “I want you ready to go when I am.”

  Forking scrambled eggs and catsup into my mouth, I snickered, “That’s what you said last night, too.” I sat at the chrome and Formica table in my socks and shorts, eating the breakfast she’d prepared and watching a rosy sunrise through her kitchen window.

  She came in, pinning a silver broche to the left shoulder of her Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit. She was even wearing dainty white gloves and a pill-boxy hat.

  I heard myself swallow loudly. “We going somewhere?”

  “You have to get your car.”

  A ten-watt light came on in my head. “Oh, no--”

  “Come on,” she ordered, looking at her silver sliver wristwatch. “We’ll be late.”

  I’d already shaved, so it only took a few minutes for her to force me into a fresh shirt, suit, and midnight blue tie before we were out the door, walking down the sidewalk. As we approached the non-denominational church, where my car sat among half a hundred others, I thought desperately for one last reason not to go inside.

  “This is against my religion.”

  She steered my forearm toward the entrance. “You have no religion.”

  As we climbed the stone steps, I heard an off-key piano and people wailing inside.

  The Noir Man said, ‘Listen. They’re being eaten alive!’

  Suzi lead me toward the altar to sit in the sixth row on the right. I clinched my jaw. Why was I fighting this? What was I afraid of? I took a deep breath and tried to slow my heartbeat.

  There was more singing. Then scripture reading.

  I turned to look at Suzi’s face.

  She winked at me.

  A white-haired, thin man with a sash around the neck of his flowing dark robe gave us all a sermon about the coming of fall season. The old guy managed to blend in a reference to another fall and then joyfully told the congregation about the joy of redemption.

  As a group, we rose and sang again and read some lines from the litany book, or whatever it’s called.

  When the plate was passed, I opened my wallet and paused. It had been a long time since I’d been to church--ever since my parent’s passing. That’s what I’d been afraid of, I realized. I took out all the paper money I had and laid it in the plate. Suzi all but suppressed a smile.

  Then we sat quietly together with the piano playing a tune I’d long forgotten. During the silent part of the prayer ceremony, I thought about sparing Suzi and others from the kind of trials I’d lived through--that somehow the price I’d paid in losing my parents, my brother, and now Max would balance the equation in my friend’s favor.

  Suzi leaned toward me and whispered, “This is where we’ll have our wedding soon.”

  “I kinda figured that out,” I mumbled back, “’cause I’m a detective.”

  Soon the music grew louder and we were walking out, shaking hands and chatting with friendly folk whom I’d never met before. On the stroll past my car, heading back to her apartment, Suzi opened her little pocketbook. “Here, you’ll need this.” She handed me two twenties, folded to the size of a matchbook.

  Once safely back inside her place, I used the princess phone to call Walt’s office, but it being Sunday, he wasn’t there. The person who was, however, said he’d gone up to something called Golden Oak Ranch and gave me directions. At further urgings from Suzi, I decided I should go there and warn him of latest developments.

  I kissed my girl goodbye and promised to meet her that evening at the Blue Ph
rog, a special bar and grill that we favored. I caught myself whistling a hymn off key, as I walked back to my car, checked it for tampering, and drove over to Highland Avenue to catch the Hollywood, Ventura, and then Golden State freeways. I had a lot of driving and thinking to do.

  Thank God, it was a nice day.

  CHAPTER 7

  Riding with the top down under a light blue sky did wonders for my sinuses. Soft, cushiony clouds drifted off to the west. Someday, I’d have to see a doctor about my allergies, or start daily use of those four-way cold tablets. But not today, thank you. The air was clear and so was I.

  I drove north on US Route 5 and took the Sierra Highway through Antelope Valley. Usually I hated driving in California traffic, but right now, in this car--it was a true joy ride. I nudged my Thunderbird up past sixty-five mph and enjoyed the wind in my hair, until I discovered that I was lost.

  I pulled to a stop at an Esso service station to get directions and a full tank of regular. The attendant wanted to check the oil, water, and air. While he washed the windshield, I learned that he “ain’t never heard of a ranch called Golden Oak.” An older guy with an unkempt goatee at the next pump overheard our conversation. He filled me in on how to get to the ranch, before driving off in a genuine Ford Country Squire Woodie, which I almost would have traded him even for.

  Minutes later, I was streaming like an ocean liner in calm open seas along the freeway and even the rough roads that skirted the Angeles National Forest until I reached Placerita Canyon Road. Ah, the luxury of a fine American automobile. But without any sunglasses, the harsh light began flashing in my eyes. I flipped down the sun visor to dampen the glare and my mind went back to the last time I knew that the Mob had manipulated the movies and the general public.

  The average American had no idea that, only a year earlier, organized crime had put the kibosh--to use Mickey’s phrase--on Paramount’s “Road to Hollywood.” The studio was about to begin shooting the Hope/Crosby comedy when word got out that the villains in the script were gangsters infiltrating the motion picture industry. Production immediately came to halt and never started again.

  Crosby was busy with his new family and Hope was having trouble with his left eye requiring surgery, so neither star felt compelled to protest loudly. Dorothy Lamour, however, was already counting on receiving payment for her part in the film and had hired me to gather evidence so her lawyers could file suit against the studio. As it turned out, Paramount paid her off and she backed down, but the movie was shelved and the reason was pretty much the same as in Fleming’s case: publicity-shy mobsters.

  A bank of thick clouds drifted in front of the sun and I could again comfortably see down the road without squinting. I spotted the ranch’s entrance with its over-arching sign, made a slow turn, and followed a curving dirt road to a cluster of gray buildings and white fenced-in corrals.

  On first impression, the Golden Oak Ranch took me back to my youth. The sprawling hills and pastures with more than a dozen horses roaming free reminded me of the Riding, Roping, and Relaxing Ranch that I used to visit during the summers after World War II. My parents sent me there to “find myself” among the other teens at the dude ranch, who crowded the bunkhouse and stuffed themselves with fried chicken, mounds of buttered mashed potatoes, and thick slabs of hot apple pie.

  I suddenly realized that I’d just made myself hungry and involuntarily burped.

  I parked the Thunderbird under a shade tree and hoped the real birds didn’t spot it. Pausing to scan the landscape, I caught myself smiling. I’d met Suzi for the first time in a place like this. She was wrestling a calf in a corral like the one over by that huge red barn where Uncle Walt was now coming into view. He had on blue jeans with rolled cuffs and a plaid, open-collar shirt, smoking and walking and arguing with someone about something. A wide-brimmed western hat shaded his lined features and angry expression.

  “Look, Charlie,” he said, gesturing with his cigarette, “I didn’t buy this place for my health. Get those expensive lights trucked up here pronto. We’ll need them when the circus vans arrive.”

  Charlie wasn’t happy, but he nodded and hustled off to do as he’d been told. From past experience, I knew that Walt usually got what he wanted.

  I caught his eye and ambled over to where he stood fanning himself with his Stetson.

  “’Lo, Stan,” he said. “Good to see you.” A slight breeze caught his hair and made it dance, as his arm and hat rose to encompass our surroundings. “What do you think of her?

  I studied the horizon. “I think maybe I should sell my boat and move up here where it’s quiet and peaceable.”

  A rooster crowed ten feet behind us, making my last word ironic.

  Walt hitched up his belt, saying, “Glad to hear it,” in his nasally, mid-western voice. “I’ve got good news. The word is Reed’s brother, Nickolas, has lit out for the territories. He must have felt the heat bearing down and decided to go underground while he could.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I allowed. “I was attacked again last night.”

  Walt wanted to know the few details I could provide, while he chain-lit a fresh cigarette from the butt in his hand.

  “So, even if Nickolas Reed has backed away,” I explained, “he still might have left an open contract out on either of us. Which is why I drove up here. You need to be extra careful.”

  His face hardened at the thought. “So do you. In fact, it might be a good idea if you were to go off somewhere until it’s safe.”

  “Max’s death sort of rocked me,” I confessed. “I can’t help feeling that it could, or even should, have been me who died. I want to be here for his funeral.”

  “Sorry about that, but his family is having his remains shipped back to South Carolina.” He took a vicious inhale from his smoke. “You know, Stan, you can’t always pay people back for what happens. Sometimes, the best you can do is pass it forward.”

  I tried to think of a good way to get out of this conversation. And then Walt gave me one.

  “So, have you met with Fleming? I hear that he’s leaving for his place in Jamaica tomorrow. Perhaps you and your lady-friend would like a vacation. I could arrange the airfare.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I have talked to my ‘friends’ to get them to lay off, but I don’t trust Cohen to back down so easily.”

  The filmmaker took another deep drag. “I’d like you to continue acting as my special agent with Fleming.”

  “Is there some connection between the two of you that I should know more about?”

  He dropped his smoke and stepped on it. “How about this? You do what you can to keep his back safe and my ‘friends’ will do what they can to keep yours safe from Reed.”

  “Still not sure yet,” I answered. “Do you have a phone here?”

  He looked at me. “This is not the Wild West, pilgrim. Come.”

  I followed him inside the main ranch house where I found a modern, professional office and two matronly women typing on noisy Underwoods. Walt pointed to a bank of phones and then wandered off while I called the Biltmore. When Fleming came on the line, I gave him an update. He thanked me and admitted that he still felt threatened, adding, “I don’t believe that I shall feel fully relieved until I leave the country.”

  “I understand that you’re flying out tomorrow. Do you think you’d like me to come along with a friend as company?”

  He only took a second to reply that this was an excellent idea.

  “It’s not mine,” I said. “It was proposed by our mutual friend.”

  “Ah. Well, thank him for me, if you get the chance.”

  When I hung up, I found Walt standing on the other side of the desk, holding the wallet of FBI credentials and another thin blue booklet. I flipped through the passport, resisting the urge to ask if my eyes were really brown.

  “You think of everything,” I said, slipping the two documents into my pocket.

  “I try.”

  The Noir Man said, ‘S
ay it, stupid.’

  So I said, “We all try. You succeed.”

  Walt missed the reference due to a harsh coughing fit. He stabbed out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. Once he settled down, I told him, “Those things will eventually kill you.”

  “Chesterfields? They’re mild and outstanding.”

  “Uh-huh. And deadly.”

  We walked outside again toward a short young man who’d just come out of the bunk house.

  “I’m told,” Walt said, waving his cowboy hat at a fat horsefly, “that the real danger is in my house at Holmby Hills and its asbestos ceilings. But life’s too short to worry about fantastic theories like that.”

  “And getting shorter all the time.”

  He pointed to the approaching kid. “I’m going to put Kevin in a new live-action picture, Toby Tyler. Film him and the circus right here along with a batch of other projects I have in mind.”

  Another Toby, I thought. Lot of that going around lately.

  The kid came up, greeted Walt, and looked at me. I recognized the older version of “Moochie” that Walt had created for the actor, Kevin Corcorin.

  Walt asked the kid, “Have you read the new script, Toby?”

  “Goin’ over it this evening, sir, when I get home,” the teen said. “Nice place you got here.”

  We all looked around and nodded. I coughed lightly and Walt caught on, realizing he hadn’t introduced us.

  “Stan Wade?” Kevin said, screwing up his forehead. “Baseball player?”

  I coughed again. “You’re probably thinking of Musial.”

  “Oh, right, right,” he said like Ozzie Nelson. “Stan the Man. So what is it you do, Mr. Wade?”

  “Whatever Walt pays me to--within reason.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He grinned and turned to Walt. “Except I’m a little leery about working with monkeys.”