I gave up thinking and called Kirby Falwell at the Sheriff’s Bureau. His two-state teletype yielded heat:
The floor stiff was Fritz Steinkamp, Chicago-Milwaukee gunsel, one conviction for attempted murder, currently on parole and believed to be a Jerry Katzenbach torpedo. Mr. Heart Attack was Voyteck Kirnipaski, three-time loser, also a known Katzenbach associate, his falls for extortion and grand larceny–specifically stock swindles. The picture getting a little less hazy, I called Howard Hughes at his flop at the Bel Air Hotel. Two rings, hang up, three rings–so he’d know it’s not some gossip columnist.
“Yes?”
“Howard, you been in Milwaukee the past few years?”
“I was in Milwaukee in the spring of ’47. Why?”
“Any chance you went to a whorehouse that specialized in girls made up like movie stars?”
Howard sighed. “Buzz, you know my alleged propensity in that department. Is this about Gretchen Rae?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“Yes. I was entertaining some colleagues from the Pentagon. We had a party with several young women. My date looked just like Jean Arthur, only a bit more . . . endowed. Jean broke my heart, Buzz. You know that.”
“Yeah. Did the high brass get looped and start talking shop around the girls?”
“Yes, I suppose so. What does this–”
“Howard, what did you and Gretchen Rae talk about–besides your sex fantasies?”
“Well, Gretchy seemed to be interested in business–stock mergers, the little companies I’ve been buying up, that sort of thing. Also politics. My Pentagon chums have told me about Korea heating up, implying lots of aircraft business. Gretchy seemed interested in that, too. A smart girl always interests herself in her lovers’ endeavors, Buzz. You know that. Have you got leads on her?”
“I surely have. Boss, how have you managed to stay alive and rich so long?”
“I trust the right people, Buzz. Do you believe that?”
“I surely do.”
* * *
I gave my sitting-in-the-dark stakeout another three hours, then raided the icebox for energy and took the Other Guy Routine on the road, a mitzvah for Mickey in case I had to play an angle to shoot Gretchen Rae to Howard–his very own teenage murderess. First I wrapped up Fritz Steinkamp in three windows’ worth of chintz curtains and hauled him out to my car; next I mummified Voyteck Kirnipaski in a bedspread and wedged him into the trunk between Fritz and my spare tire. Then it was a routine wipe of my own possible prints, lights off, and a drive out to Topanga Canyon, to the chemical debris dump operated by the Hughes Tool Company–a reservoir bubbling with caustic agents adjacent to a day camp for underprivileged kids: a Howard tax dodge. I dumped Fritz and Voyteck into the cauldron and listened to them snap, crackle, and pop like Kelogg’s Rice Krispies. Then, just after midnight, I drove to the Strip to look for Mickey and his minions.
They weren’t at the Trocadero, the Mocambo, or the La Rue; they weren’t at Sherry’s or Dave’s Blue Room. I called the DMV night information line, played cop, and got a read on Mo Hornbeck’s wheels–1946 tan Dodge Coupe, CAL-4986-J, 896¼ Moonglow Vista, South Pasadena–then took the Arroyo Seco over the hill to the address, a block of bungalow courts.
At the left side tail end of a stucco streamline job was 896¼–rounded handrails and oblong louvers fronting tiny windows strictly for show. No lights were burning; Hornbeck’s Dodge was not in the carport at the rear. Maybe Gretchen Rae was inside, armed with stuffed animals, negligee garrotes, stew pots, and frying pans–and that suddenly made me not give a fuck whether the world laid, prayed, stayed, or strayed. I kicked the door in, flipped on a wall light, and got knocked flat on my ass by a big furry mother with big, shiny razor-white teeth.
It was a Doberman, sleek black muscle out for blood–mine. The dog snapped at my shoulder and got a snootful of Hart, Schaffner & Marx worsted; he snapped at my face and got an awkwardly thrown Meeks right jab that caused him to flinch momentarily. I dug in my pocket for my Arkansas toad stabber, popped the button, and flailed with it; I grazed the beast’s paws and snout–and he still kept snapping and snarling.