Denise Hamilton: Los Angeles Noir 2

Doolin said: “What about Martini?”

“For Christ’s sake—shut up!” Halloran grinned cheerlessly, finished his drink. “Riccio shot Martini.”

Doolin stood up slowly, said: “Can I use the phone?”

Halloran smiled at Mrs. Sare, nodded.

Doolin called several numbers, asked questions, said “Yes” and “No” monotonously.

Halloran and Mrs. Sare talked quietly. Between two calls, Halloran spoke to Doolin: “You’ve connections—haven’t you.” It was an observation, not a question.

Doolin said: “If I had as much money as I have connections, I’d retire.”

He finished after a while, hung up and put the phone back on the low round table.

“Martinelli,” he said, “not Martini. Supposed to have been Riccio and Conroy’s partner in the East. They had the drug business pretty well cornered. He showed up out here around the last of November, and Riccio and Conroy came in December 10th, were killed the night they got in….”

Halloran said: “I remember that—they were talking about the trip.”

Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to take a drink. “Martinelli was discharged from St. Vincent’s Hospital January 16th—day before yesterday. He’s plenty bad—beat four or five murder raps in the East and was figured for a half dozen others. They called him The Executioner. Angelo Martinelli—The Executioner.”

Mrs. Sare said: “Come and get it.”

Doolin and Halloran got up and went into the little dining room. They sat down at the table and Mrs. Sare brought in a steaming platter of bacon and scrambled eggs, a huge double-globe of bubbling coffee.

Doolin said: “Here’s the way it looks to me: If Martinelli figured you an’ Winfield an’ whoever else was in the private room had seen Riccio shoot him, he’d want to shut you up; it was a cinch he’d double-crossed Riccio and if it came out at the trial, the Detroit boys would be on his tail.”

Halloran nodded, poured a large rosette of chili-sauce on the plate beside his scrambled eggs.

“But what did he want to rub Coleman an’ Decker for?”

Halloran started to speak with his mouth full, but Doolin interrupted him: “The answer to that is that Martinelli had hooked up with the outfit out here, the outfit that Riccio and Conroy figured on moving in on….”

Halloran said: “Martinelli probably came out to organize things for a narcotic combination between here and Detroit, in opposition to our local talent. He liked the combination here the way it was and threw in with them—and when Riccio and Conroy arrived Martinelli put the finger on them, for the local boys….”

Doolin swallowed a huge mouthful of bacon and eggs, said: “Swell,” out of the corner of his mouth to Mrs. Sare.

He picked up his cigar and pointed it at Halloran. “That’s the reason he wanted all of you—you an’ Winfield because you’d get the Detroit outfit on his neck if you testified; Decker an’ Coleman because they could spot the L.A. boys. He didn’t try to proposition any of you—he’s the kind of guy who would figure killing was simpler.”

Halloran said: “He’s got to protect himself against the two men who are in jail too. They’re liable to spill their guts. If everybody who was in on it was bumped there wouldn’t be a chance of those two guys being identified—everything would be rosy.”

They finished their bacon and eggs in silence.

With the coffee, Doolin said: “Funny he didn’t make a pass at you last night—before or after he got Winfield. The same building an’ all….”

“Maybe he did.” Halloran put his arm around Mrs. Sare who was standing beside his chair. “I didn’t get home till around three—he was probably here, missed me.”

Doolin said: “We better go downtown an’ talk to the DA. That poor gal of Winfield’s is probably on the grill. We can clear that up an’ have Martinelli picked up….”

Halloran said: “No.” He said it very emphatically.

Doolin opened his eyes wide, slowly. He finished his coffee, waited.

Halloran smiled faintly, said: “In the first place, I hate coppers.” He tightened his arm around Mrs. Sare. “In the second place, I don’t particularly care for Miss Darmond—she can goddamned well fry on the griddle from now on, so far as I’m concerned. In the third place—I like it….”

Doolin glanced at Mrs. Sare, turned his head slowly back towards Halloran.

“I’ve got three months to live,” Halloran went on—“at the outside.” His voice was cold, entirely unemotional. “I was shellshocked and gassed and kicked around pretty generally in France in ’eighteen. They stuck me together and sent me back and I’ve lasted rather well. But my heart is shot, and my lungs are bad, and so on—the doctors are getting pretty sore because I’m still on my feet….”

He grinned widely. “I’m going to have all the fun I can in whatever time is left. We’re not going to call copper, and we’re going to play this for everything we can get out of it. You’re my bodyguard and your salary is five hundred a week, but your job isn’t to guard me—it’s to see that there’s plenty of excitement. And instead of waiting for Martinelli to come to us, we’re going to Martinelli.”

Doolin looked blankly at Mrs. Sare. She was smiling in a very curious way.

Halloran said: “Are you working?”

Doolin smiled slowly with all his face. He said: “Sure.”

Doolin dried his hands and smoothed his hair, whistling tunelessly, went through the small cheaply furnished living room of his apartment to the door of the kitchenette. He picked up a newspaper from a table near the door, unfolded it and glanced at the headlines, said: “They’re calling the Winfield kill ‘Murder in Blue’ because it happened in a blue bathtub. Is that a laugh!”

A rather pretty fresh-faced girl was stirring something in a white sauce-pan on the little gas stove. She looked up and smiled and said: “Dinner’ll be ready in a minute,” wiped her hands on her apron and began setting the table.

Doolin leaned against the wall and skimmed through the rest of the paper. The Coleman case was limited to a quarter column—the police had been unable to trace the car. There was even less about Mazie Decker. The police were “working on a theory….”

The police were working on a theory, too, on the Winfield killing. Miss Darmond had been found near the door of Winfield’s apartment with a great bruise on her head, the night of the murder; she said the last she remembered was opening the door and struggling with someone. The “best minds” of the Force believed her story up to that point; they were working on the angle that she had an accomplice.

Doolin rolled up the paper and threw it on a chair. He said: “Five hundred a week—an’ expenses! Gee—is that swell!” He was grinning broadly.

The girl said: “I’m awfully glad about the money, darling—if you’re sure you’ll be safe. God knows it’s about time we had a break.” She hesitated a moment. “I hope it’s all right….”

She was twenty-three or -four, a honey-blonde pink-cheeked girl with wide gray eyes, a slender well-curved figure.

Doolin went to her and kissed the back of her neck.

“Sure, it’s all right, Mollie,” he said. “Anything is all right when you get paid enough for it. The point is to make it last—five hundred is a lot of money, but a thousand will buy twice as many lamb chops.”

She became very interested in a tiny speck on one of the cheap white plates, rubbed it industriously with a towel. She spoke without looking up: “I keep thinking about that Darmond girl—in jail. What do you suppose Halloran has against her?”