His smooth lips twitched. He swung the car west on Franklin. “You’re a simple-minded lad. What’s your name?”
“Carol Lundgren,” he said lifelessly.
“You shot the wrong guy, Carol. Joe Brody didn’t kill your queen.”
He spoke three words to me and kept on driving.
17
A moon half gone from the full glowed through a ring of mist among the high branches of the eucalyptus trees on Laverne Terrace. A radio sounded loudly from a house low down the hill. The boy swung the car over to the box hedge in front of Geiger’s house, killed the motor and sat looking straight before him with both hands on the wheel. No light showed through Geiger’s hedge.
I said: “Anybody home, son?”
“You ought to know.”
“How would I know.”
“Go—-yourself.”
“That’s how people get false teeth.”
He showed me his in a tight grin. Then he kicked the door open and got out. I scuttled out after him. He stood with his fists on his hips, looking silently at the house above the top of the hedge.
“All right,” I said. “You have a key. Let’s go on in.”
“Who said I had a key?”
“Don’t kid me, son. The fag gave you one. You’ve got a nice clean manly little room in there. He shooed you out and locked it up when he had lady visitors. He was like Caesar, a husband to women and a wife to men. Think I can’t figure people like him and you out?”
I still held his automatic more or less pointed at him, but he swung on me just the same. It caught me flush on the chin. I backstepped fast enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was meant to be a hard one, but a pansy has no iron in his bones, whatever he looks like.
I threw the gun down at the kid’s feet and said: “Maybe you need this.”
He stooped for it like a flash. There was nothing slow about his movments. I sank a fist in the side of his neck. He toppled over sideways, clawing for the gun and not reaching it. I picked it up again and threw it in the car. The boy came up on all fours, leering with his eyes too wide open. He coughed and shook his head.
“You don’t want to fight,” I told him. “You’re giving away too much weight.”
He wanted to fight. He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I sidestepped and reached for his neck and took it into chancery. He scraped the dirt hard and got his feet under him enough to use his hands on me where it hurt. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher. I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hipbone into him and for a moment it was a balance of weights. We seemed to hang there in the misty moonlight, two grotesque creatures whose feet scraped on the road and whose breath panted with effort.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe now and all the strength of both arms in it. His feet began a frenetic shuffle and he wasn’t panting any more. He was ironbound. His left foot sprawled off to one side and the knee went slack. I held on half a minute longer. He sagged on my arm, an enormous weight I could hardly hold up. Then I let go. He sprawled at my feet, out cold. I went to the car and got a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment and twisted his wrists behind him and snapped them on. I lifted him by the armpits and managed to drag him in behind the hedge, out of sight from the street. I went back to the car and moved it a hundred feet up the hill and locked it.
He was still out when I got back. I unlocked the door, dragged him into the house, shut the door. He was beginning to gasp now. I switched a lamp on. His eyes fluttered open and focused on me slowly.
I bent down, keeping out of the way of his knees and said: “Keep quiet or you’ll get the same and more of it. Just lie quiet and hold your breath. Hold it until you can’t hold it any longer and then tell yourself that you have to breathe, that you’re black in the face, that your eyeballs are popping out, and that you’re going to breathe right now, but that you’re sitting strapped in the chair in the clean little gas chamber up in San Quentin and when you take that breath you’re fighting with all your soul not to take it, it won’t be air you’ll get, it will be cyanide fumes. And that’s what they call humane execution in our state now.”
“Go—-yourself,” he said with a soft stricken sigh.
“You’re going to cop a plea, brother, don’t ever think you’re not. And you’re going to say just what we want you to say and nothing we don’t want you to say.”
“Go—-yourself.”
“Say that again and I’ll put a pillow under your head.”
His mouth twitched. I left him lying on the floor with his wrists shackled behind him and his cheek pressed into the rug and an animal brightness in his visible eye. I put on another lamp and stepped into the hallway at the back of the living room. Geiger’s bedroom didn’t seem to have been touched. I opened the door, not locked now, of the bedroom across the hall from it. There was a dim flickering light in the room and a smell of sandalwood. Two cones of incense ash stood side by side on a small brass tray on the bureau. The light came from the two tall black candles in the foot-high candlesticks. They were standing on straight-backed chairs, one on either side of the bed.
Geiger lay on the bed. The two missing strips of Chinese tapestry made a St. Andrew’s Cross over the middle of his body, hiding the blood-smeared front of his Chinese coat. Below the cross his black-pajama’d legs lay stiff and straight. His feet were in the slippers with thick white felt soles. Above the cross his arms were crossed at the wrists and his hands lay flat against his shoulders, palms down, fingers close together and stretched out evenly. His mouth was closed and his Charlie Chan moustache was as unreal as a toupee. His broad nose was pinched and white. His eyes were almost closed, but not entirely. The faint glitter of his glass eye caught the light and winked at me.
I didn’t touch him. I didn’t go very near him. He would be as cold as ice and as stiff as a board.
The black candles guttered in the draft from the open door. Drops of black wax crawled down their sides. The air of the room was poisonous and unreal. I went out and shut the door again and went back to the living room. The boy hadn’t moved. I stood still, listening for sirens. It was all a question of how soon Agnes talked and what she said. If she talked about Geiger, the police would be there any minute. But she might not talk for hours. She might even have got away.
I looked down at the boy. “Want to sit up, son?”
He closed his eye and pretended to go to sleep. I went over to the desk and scooped up the mulberry-colored phone and dialed Bernie Ohls’ office. He had left to go home at six o’clock. I dialed the number of his home. He was there.
“This is Marlowe,” I said. “Did your boys find a revolver on Owen Taylor this morning?”
I could hear him clearing his throat and then I could hear him trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. “That would come under the heading of police business,” he said.
“If they did, it had three empty shells in it.”
“How the hell did you know that?” Ohls asked quietly.
“Come over to 7244 Laverne Terrace, off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I’ll show you where the slugs went.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
Ohls said: “Look out the window and you’ll see me coming round the corner. I thought you acted a little cagey on that one.”
“Cagey is no word for it,” I said.
18
Ohls stood looking down at the boy. The boy sat on the couch leaning sideways against the wall. Ohls looked at him silently, his pale eyebrows bristling and stiff and round like the little vegetable brushes the Fuller Brush man gives away.
He asked the boy: “Do you admit shooting Brody?”
The boy said his favorite three words in a muffled voice.
Ohls sighed and looked at me. I said: “He doesn’t have to admit that. I have his gun.”
Ohls said: “I wish to Christ I had a dollar for every time I’ve had that said to me. What’s funny about it?”
“It’s not meant to be funny,” I said.
“Well, that’s something,” Ohls said. He turned away. “I’ve called Wilde. We’ll go over and see him and take this punk. He can ride with me and you can follow on behind in case he tries to kick me in the face.”
“How do you like what’s in the bedroom?”