Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

Flavin shrugged and returned to his chair. Gandara lighted a cigarette, holding the match deliberately close to Channing’s sweaty face. “Listen, Chan. Jack Flavin is a good citizen of Surfside. He owns a store, legitimate, and Rudy works for him, legitimate. I don’t like people coming into my town and making cracks about the citizens. If they step out of line, I’ll take care of them. If they don’t, I’ll see they’re let alone.”

He sat down again, comfortably. “All right, Chan. Let’s get this all out of your system. What did little brother have to say about me?”

Channing’s dark eyes flickered with what might have been malice. “What everybody’s always said about you, Max. That you were too goddam dumb even to be crooked.”

Gandara turned purple. He moved and Jack Flavin laughed. “No fair, Max. You wouldn’t let me.”

Budge Hanna giggled with startling shrillness. The blonde had come in and sat down beside him. Her eyes were half closed but she seemed somehow less drunk than she had been. Gandara settled back. He said ominously, “Go on.”

“All right. Hank said that Surfside was a dirty town, dirty from the gutters up. He said any man with the brains of a sick flea would know that most of the liquor places were run illegally, and most of the hotels, too, and that two-thirds of the police force was paid to have bad eyesight. He said it wasn’t any use trying to do a good job as a decent cop. He said every report he turned in was thrown away for lack of evidence, and he was sick of it.”

Marge Krist said, “Then maybe that’s what he was worried about.”

“He wasn’t afraid,” said Channing. “All his letters were angry, and an angry man doesn’t commit suicide.”

Budge Hanna said shrilly, “Look out.”

Max Gandara was on his feet. He was standing over Channing. His lips had a white line around them.

“Listen,” he said. “I been pretty patient with you. Now I’ll tell you something. Your brother committed suicide. All these three people testified at the inquest. You can read the transcript. They all said Hank was worried; he wasn’t happy about things. There was no sign of violence on Hank, or the pier.”

“How could there be?” said Channing. “Hard asphalt paving doesn’t show much. And Hank’s body wouldn’t show much, either.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you. There’s no evidence of murder, no reason to think it’s murder. Hank was like you, Channing. He couldn’t take punishment. He got chicken walking a dark beat down here, and he jumped, and that’s all.”

Channing said slowly, “Only two kinds of people come to Surfside—the ones that are starting at the bottom, going up, and the ones that are finished, coming down. It’s either a beginning or an end, and I guess we all know where we stand on that scale.”

He got up, tossing the packet of letters into Budge Hanna’s lap. “Those are photostats. The originals are already with police headquarters in L.A. I don’t think you have to worry much, Max. There’s nothing definite in them. Just a green young harness cop griping at the system, making a few personal remarks. He hasn’t even accused you of being dishonest, Max. Only dumb—and the powers-that-be already know that. That’s why you’re here in Surfside, waiting for the age of retirement.”

Gandara struck him in the mouth. Channing took three steps backward, caught himself, swayed, and was steady again. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Marge Krist was on her feet, her eyes blazing, but something about Channing kept her from speaking. He seemed not to care about the blood, about Gandara, or about anything but what he was saying.

“You used to be a good reporter, Budge, before you drank yourself onto the scrapheap. I thought maybe you’d like to be in at the beginning on this story. Because there’s going to be a story, if it’s only the story of my death.

“I knew Hank. There was no yellow in him. Whether there’s yellow in me or not, doesn’t matter. Hank didn’t jump off that pier. Somebody threw him off, and I’m going to find out who, and why. I used to be a pretty good dick once. I’ve got a reason now for remembering all I learned.”

Max Gandara said, “Oh, God,” in a disgusted voice. “Take that somewhere else, Chan. It smells.” He pushed him roughly toward the door, and Rudy Krist laughed.

“Yellow,” he said. “Yellower than four Japs. Both of ’em, all talk and no guts. Get him out, Max. He stinks up the room.”

Flavin said, “Shut up, Rudy.” He grinned at Marge. “You’re getting your sister sore.”

“You bet I’m sore!” she flared. “I think Mr. Channing is right. I knew Hank pretty well, and I think you ought to be ashamed to push him around like this.”

Flavin said, “Who? Hank or Mr. Channing?”

Marge snapped, “Oh, go to hell.” She turned and went out. Gandara shoved Channing into the hall after her. “You know where the door is, Chan. Stay away from me, and if I was you I’d stay away from Surfside.” He turned around, reached down and got a handful of Budge Hanna’s coat collar and slung him out bodily. “You, too, rumdum. And you.” He made a grab for the blonde, but she was already out. He followed the four of them down the hall and closed the door hard behind them.

Paul Channing said, “Miss Krist—and you too, Budge.” The wind felt ice cold on his skin. His shirt stuck to his back. It turned clammy and he began to shiver. “I want to talk to you.”

The blonde said, “Is this private?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe you can help.” Channing walked slowly toward the beach front and the boardwalk. “Miss Krist, if you didn’t think Hank committed suicide, why did you testify as you did at the inquest?”

“Because I didn’t know.” She sounded rather angry, with him and possibly herself. “They asked me how he acted, and I had to say he’d been worried and depressed, because he had been. I told them I didn’t think he was the type for suicide, but they didn’t care.”

“Did Hank ever hint that he knew something—anything that might have been dangerous to him?” Channing’s eyes were alert, watchful in the darkness.

“No. Hank pounded a beat. He wasn’t a detective.”

“He was pretty friendly with your brother, wasn’t he?”

“I thought for a while it might bring Rudy back to his senses. He took a liking to Hank, they weren’t so far apart in years, and Hank was doing him good. Now, of course—”

“What’s wrong with Rudy? What’s he doing?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. He’s 4-F in the draft, and that hurts him, and he’s always been restless, never could hold a job. Then he met Jack Flavin, and since then he’s been working steady, but he—he’s changed. I can’t put my finger on it, I don’t know of anything wrong he’s done, but he’s hardened and drawn into himself, as though he had secrets and didn’t trust anybody. You saw how he acted. He’s turned mean. I’ve done my best to bring him up right.”

Channing said, “Kids go that way sometimes. Know anything about him, Budge?”

The reporter said, “Nuh-uh. He’s never been picked up for anything, and as far as anybody knows even Flavin is straight. He owns a haberdashery and pays his taxes.”

“Well,” said Channing, “I guess that’s all for now.”

“No.” Marge Krist stopped and faced him. He could see her eyes in the pale reflection of the water, dark and intense. The wind blew her hair, pressed her light coat against the long lifting planes of her body. “I want to warn you. Maybe you’re a brilliant, nervy man and you know what you’re doing, and if you do it’s all right. But if you really are what you acted like in there, you’d better go home and forget about it. Surfside is a bad town. You can’t insult people and get away with it.” She paused. “For Hank’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m in the phone book if you want me. Good night.”