Джо Горес: Mostly Murder: A Short Story Collection

“So is California Citizens Bank.”

“Oh!” She stood up abruptly. “I suggest you leave this house.”

Driving back, Ballard knew he had made the right move to bring parental pressure on Jocelyn Mayfield, but the knowledge gave him scant pleasure. There had been a framed picture of her on the piano; somehow his own thoughts, coupled with the picture, had made his memory of their brief meeting sharper, almost poignant.

Same day: 5:15 p.m.

Dan Kearny lit a Lucky. “I think you know why I had you come back in, Ballard. The Mayfield case. Are you proud of that file?”

“No, sir.” He tried to meet Kearny’s gaze. “But I think she broke her promise to pay because this deadbeat talked her into it.”

“You took a week to find that out?” Kearny demanded. “Giselle found out that the subject walked off her job at Welfare last Friday night — took an indefinite leave without bothering to leave any forwarding address.”

Kearny paused to form a smoke ring. He could blast this kid right out of the tank, but he didn’t want to do that. “I started in this game in high school, Ballard, during the Depression. Night-hawking cars for Old Man Walters down in L.A. at five bucks per repo — cover your own expenses, investigate on your own time. Some of those Oakies would have made you weep, but I couldn’t afford to feel sorry for them. This Mayfield dame’s in a mess. Is that our fault? Or the bank's?”

“No, sir. But there are special circumstances—”

“Circumstances be damned! We’re hired to investigate people who have defaulted, defrauded, or embezzled — money or goods — to find them if they’ve skipped out, and to return the property to the legal owner. Mayfield’s contract is three months delinquent and you spin your wheels for a whole week. Right now the bank is looking at a seven-thousand dollar loss.” He ground out his cigarette and stood up. “Let’s take a ride.”

Later, ringing the bell at 31 Edith Alley, Ballard warned, “This Victoria Goodrich is tough. I know she won’t tell us anything.”

Vikki opened the door and glared at him. “You again?”

Kearny moved past Ballard so smoothly that the girl had to step back to avoid being walked on, and they were inside. “My name is Turk,” he said. “I’m with the legal department of the bank.”

She had recovered. “You should be ashamed, hiring this person to stir up trouble for Josie with her folks. Okay, so she’s two lousy payments behind. I’ll make one of them now, and next week she can—”

“ Three payments. And since the vehicle is in the hands of a third party, the contract is void.” He shot a single encompassing look around the living room, then brought his cold gray eyes back to her face. “We know Miss Mayfield has moved out. Where is she living now?”

“I don’t know.” She met his gaze stubbornly.

Kearny nodded. “Fraudulent contract; flight to avoid prosecution. We’ll get a grand-theft warrant for her seven-thousand dollar embezzle—”

“Good God!” Vikki’s face crumpled with dismay. “Really, I don’t know Hank’s addr — I mean I don’t know where she’s gone. I—” Under his unwinking stare, tears suddenly came into her voice. “His wife’s on welfare; he’s no damn good. Once when he’d been drinking he — he put his hands on me. I guess she’s with him, but I don’t know where.”

“Then what’s Hank’s last name?”

She sank down on the couch with her face in her hands and merely shook her head. Ignoring her, Kearny turned to Ballard. “Sweet kid, this Mayfield. She steals the woman’s husband, then a car, then—”

“No!” Vikki was sobbing openly. “It isn’t like that! They were separated—”

Kearny’s voice lashed out. “What's his last name?”

“I won’t—”

“Hank what?”

“You’ve no right to—”

“—to throw your trashy roommate in jail? We can and we will.”

She raised a tear-ravaged face. “If you find the car will Josie stay out of prison?”

“I can’t make promises of immunity on behalf of the bank.”

“His name is Stuber. Harold Stuber.” She wailed suddenly to Ballard. “Make him stop! I’ve told everything I know — everything.”

Kearny grunted. “You’ve been most helpful,” he said, then strode out. Ballard took a hesitant step toward the hunched, sobbing girl, hesitated, and then ran after Kearny.

“Why did you do that to her?” he raged. “Now she’s crying—”

“And we’ve got the information we came after,” Kearny said.

“But you said to her—”

“But, hell.” He called Control on the radio. When Giselle answered he said, “Mayfield unit reportedly in the hands of a Harold Stuber — S-t-u-b-e-r. Check him through the Polk Directory.” He lit a cigarette and puffed placidly at it, the mike lying in his lap.

“The only listing under Harold Stuber shows a residence at 1597 Eighteenth Street; employment, bartender; wife, Edith.”

“Thanks, Giselle. SF 6 clear.”

“KDM 366 Control clear.”

Driving out to Eighteenth Street, Ballard was glad it had been Vikki, not Jocelyn Mayfield, who had been put through the meat grinder. Vikki wasn’t soft, yet Kearny had reduced her to tears in just a few vicious minutes.

The address on Eighteenth Street was a dirty, weathered stucco building above the heavy industrial area fringing Potrero Hill. It was a neighborhood losing its identity in its battle against the wrecker’s ball. Inside the apartment house, the first-floor hall wore an ancient threadbare carpet with a design like spilled animal intestines.

“Some of this rubbed off on your true love,” remarked Kearny.

Ballard gritted his teeth. Their knock was answered by a man two inches over six feet, wide as the doorway. His rolled-up sleeves showed hairy, muscle-knotted arms; his eyes were red-rimmed and he carried a glass of whiskey. He looked as predictable as a runaway truck.

Kearny was unimpressed. “Harold Stuber?”

“He don’t live here no more.” The door began to close.

“How about Edith Stuber?”

The hand on the door hesitated. “Who’s askin’?”

“Welfare.” When Kearny went forward the huge man wavered, lost his inner battle, and stepped back. The apartment smelled of chili and unwashed diapers; somewhere in one of the rooms a baby was screaming.

“Edie,” yelled the big man, “coupla guys from Welfare.”

She was a boldly handsome woman in her thirties, with dark hair and flashing black eyes. Under a black sweater and black slacks her body was full-breasted, wide-hipped, heavily sensual.

“Welfare?” Her voice became a whine. “D’ya have my check?”

“Your check?” Kearny’s eyes flicked to the big man with simulated contempt. He whirled to Ballard. “Johnson, note that the recipient is living common-law with a Caucasian male, height six-two, weight two-twenty, estimated age thirty-nine. Recipient should—”

“Hey!” yelled the woman, turning furiously on the big man, “if I lose my welfare check—”

Kearny cut in brusquely, “We’re only interested in your legal spouse, Mrs. Stuber.”

Her yells stopped like a knife slash. “You come about Hank? He ain’t lived here in five months. When he abandoned me an’ the kid—”

“But the Bureau knows he gets in touch with you.”

“You could call it that.” She gave a coarse laugh. “Last Wednesday he come over in a big Continental, woke us — woke me up an’ made a row ’bout Mr. Kleist here slee — bein’ my acquaintance. Then the p’lice come an’ Hank, he slugged one of ’em. So they took him off.”