Joe Gores: Hammett

Could he make Laverty see what was being done? Doubtful. He’d be battling a lifetime of friendship. A true long shot. Like his stumbling against Goodie’s door. Even if she’d heard it, why should she know what it meant?

He found a grin. ‘How did he get you to do his killing for him, Preacher?’

No answer.

He probed again. ‘Let me guess what he told you. Pronzini killed Atkinson and was going to kill again if he wasn’t stopped. So it was really just an execution. Okay. But what about the woman? And a seventeen-year-old kid? Retarded, at that?’

‘What are you talking about?’

The shock in the voice, the pale cop’s eyes, was unmistakable. But then how… Sure. He said: ‘I bet he called you up, asked to use your car yesterday morning, didn’t he? His was broken down. Right?’

He saw the confirmation in Laverty’s ill-concealed reaction. So simple! So direct! The man was a genius! And so foolproof. It explained everything, justified everything. And if things went wrong, there was Laverty to take the rap.

The big detective parked at the corner of Pacific and Presidio.

Hammett was numb and beyond feeling in his arms and legs. Wouldn’t be able to run even if he got the chance. But at least the icy air had cleared most of the liquor fumes from his mind. He was glad of that. He wanted to see it coming.

‘Must be right about here that Tokzek stole that Morris-Cowley.’

The corner of his eye caught Laverty’s momentary hesitation. He tried to widen the breach in the big cop’s defenses.

‘Odd that he’d need to steal a car right here.’ He jerked his head at the fine old brown shingle houses that had survived the quake and fire so well. ‘Didn’t you ever wonder whether the tipster who called knew you, and knew how you’d react to seeing that dead little girl in the car? And knew Tokzek, knew he’d be sniffing dope and so paranoid it would be impossible to take him alive?’

‘Just… shut the hell up.’

Hammett slid out of the car awkwardly; and almost fell when his legs took his weight. He stopped on tingling feet in the middle of the deserted street. On the north side of the block were five brown-wood shingle houses, simple of design and timelessly elegant in that simplicity, backed up on the low stone wall that bounded the southern rim of the Presidio.

In one of those houses he would die.

He looked straight up. There was no fog, so he could see a few stars. The last stars he’d ever see. Dead at thirty-four. Well, what the hell? At least he’d beat Christ.

‘Come on. Let’s go.’

Laverty shoved him roughly ahead, up a narrow walk between two of the houses to a plain narrow door.

‘Didn’t it bother you that Tokzek was hooked on the nose candy?’

Laverty didn’t answer. Inside the doorway was a landing, with steps leading both up and down. They went down. At the foot of the stairs was an open area of concrete floor. They stopped in front of one of the doors opening off it. Good. Every second alone with Laverty, to work on him…

‘We wait here.’

‘Sure. But tell me, Preacher, have you ever known a snow nose who was interested in even normal sex with anyone? Let along being so sex-crazed he’d beat and rape a little girl to death?’

For a moment, he thought he’d done it. Laverty wavered as the question sank in. Because every cop knew the answer to that one. They saw it so often. Habitual use of most drugs depressed the sex drive to, often, impotence. If…

But then Laverty shook his head.

‘That’s… got nothing to do with this, anyway.’

Hammett took his final despairing shot. ‘How did he convince you that I’d sold out, Preacher? You’ve been a cop all your life, cops want evidence…’

‘I’ve got evidence. I’ve questioned Joey Lonergan.’

Joey Lonergan! Vividly into his mind shot the scene at Lonergan’s Garage, Jimmy Wright posing as the little eastern killer, Garlic, and Hammett telling Lonergan they were the spearhead of the mob back east, moving in…

‘He told me all about it,’ said Laverty. ‘You and your torpedo friend from back east knocking him around and telling him you were taking over the town.’

‘It was a con, Preacher,’ said Hammett wearily. ‘To get information.’

‘How about Boyd Mulligan pressuring me to get information about you, find out what you were up to and what you knew? Was that a con, too? He knew you were trying to move in on his operation…’

‘Get hold of Jimmy Wright and-’

But the time to get hold of Jimmy Wright was gone. A door straight ahead opened and the bulky brown-haired man with the strong, calm face came through it. He nodded to Laverty.

‘I see you were able to bring our traitorous friend along without any trouble, then,’ said Owen Lynch.

If only he’d had more time. Time to work on Laverty, make him see that they both had been used…

‘Dan, remember that Tokzek was a hophead. Remember-’

Lynch’s fist drove the words back into his teeth.

‘You goddamn Judas! I can hardly stand the sight of you!’ He looked past Hammett, over at Laverty. ‘You’d better leave him for me now, Dan. Go home, use the alley door the way you came out. You’ve been there all night. I’ll make sure this garbage has the message loud and clear for his masters back in Chicago.’

Hammett spat out blood to speak. His voice was thick. ‘Why don’t you have me down at the Hall being booked, Lynch, if I’m guilty of something?’

‘You know damned well why, Judas.’

Laverty, moving slowly toward the stairs with a troubled face, paused. ‘Maybe he’s right, Owen. Maybe he should be booked instead of just run out. He arranged for Pronzini to murder his friend — a charge of conspiracy…’

‘We can’t do that, Dan, much as I’d like to.’ Lynch’s voice, his eyes, carried sincerity. ‘What would it do to Bren politically if it came out that the man he picked to spearhead the cleanup of our police corruption was actually employed by the eastern mobs — who were out to move into the power vacuum? And if Bren goes down, it means the department stays corrupt. The department we both love so much.’

Hammett was silent. If he tried to speak, Lynch would stop him anyway. All he’d have to show for it would be a smashed face. He watched his last hope turn and start up the stairs.

‘Better leave me the handcuff key, Dan.’

‘Oh. Sure.’ Laverty tossed down the key. He looked like walking death.

‘Don’t let it bother you, Dan,’ said his friend. ‘I didn’t mean for you actually to shoot Pronzini, but at least it allowed us to unmask this vermin in time.’ He grabbed Hammett by the upper arm. ‘All right, you. Inside.’

Lynch waited until the door at the head of the stairs had slammed behind the departing policeman before he actually opened the door. When he thrust Hammett ahead of him, the lean detective knew why he had waited. This was nothing for straitlaced Dan Laverty to see. It was the damnedest thing Hammett had ever seen, that was sure. A… what?

A bower of carnality.

Huge ornate four-poster, dominating everything. Silken coverlets. Oriental carpets three and four deep on the floor. Rich folds of damask draping the walls. An ornate brass oil lamp that probably heated incense: The faint scent of musk still lingered on the air.

Pictures. Aubrey Beardsleys with their richly embellished decadence. Illustrated scenes from De Sade.

And mirrors. No matter what you were doing on that big four-poster bed, you’d be able to watch yourself doing it.

‘The room tells it all, doesn’t it, Lynch?’

But Lynch seemed untroubled by conscience. He jerked Hammett roughly toward two waist-level brass rings that hung from brackets embedded in the concrete behind a break in the damask. He rammed Hammett face-first against the wall, and kept a shoulder in the small of his back while working.