Buried Caesars (9 page)

We all looked over at the craggy trucker in the corner. He had his newspaper in one hand and a pistol in the other. He was chewing something and looking dyspeptic.

“What the hell?” Wylie began, the chair still raised over his head.

The trucker fired again, into the ceiling.

“I got a load of wheel parts in my rig,” the trucker at the table said in a gravely rumble. “And I got three hundred miles to hit before I stop. I want a quiet eat and a simple stomach. And I don’t want to see any blood anywhere except in my steak sandwich.”

“We can finish …” Conrad began.

The trucker fired a third time.

“I got two boys in the army,” the old trucker said. “One in North Africa. One in the Pacific. You want fighting? Join up and give my boys a hand.”

“I plan to,” said Hammett.

“You’re near old as me,” said the trucker.

“I’d say so.”

“You want me to put a hole in these lumps?” the trucker asked. “Small hole. Slow ’em down a bit.”

“No thanks,” said Hammett.

Wylie and his friend slowly put the chairs down. They’d learned enough to keep their mouths shut if they didn’t want to duck the trucker’s bullets.

Sheila was still sobbing behind the counter. The radio newsman was gone. He’d been replaced by Hedda Hopper, who was telling us what a big hit Brian Donlevy was in
Wake Island
.

I dropped two bucks on the counter and Hammett picked up the cat, nodded at the trucker and headed for the door with me behind. We pushed past Wylie and Conrad, whose face was lined with thin red scratches.

“I’ll hold these boys a minute or two and send them on their way,” the trucker said. “I got the newspaper to finish and I’d like a piece of pie, cherry, if it’s close to fresh.”

“Coming up,” Sheila said, sniffling.

Hammett, the cat and I went into the cool night. The diner door clattered behind us.

“Sometimes it feels damned good to be alive,” Hammett said, taking in a deep breath of air.

“Sometimes,” I agreed.

W
e hit Angel Springs about three in the morning. Hammett guided me to a house on a street with large, one-story ranch-style houses surrounded by wide, rolling lawns. The house was sprawling, freshly painted and very dark.

“Maybe we should look for a hotel,” I said.

“Pudge will be happy to put us up,” Hammett said. I was tired. Hammett, who was rod thin and pale, seemed to be full of energy. With me behind him holding the cat, Hammett pushed the button next to the door. A set of chimes sounded and vibrated inside. The cat vibrated in my arms.

No answer.

Hammett pushed the button again. More chimes. The sky was clear and full of stars. No one answered.

“Pudge isn’t home,” I said. “We should have called.”

Hammett pulled out a pocketknife and began to work on the front door.

“You’re going to tell me that Pudge won’t mind,” I said.

“Won’t mind at all,” Hammett agreed. “I won’t even scratch the door.”

And he didn’t.

The house was empty, if you didn’t count the furniture. Hammett, the cat and I prowled, found what looked like a guest room with two beds, and made ourselves reasonably comfortable. We fed the cat with a can of salmon from the pantry, found a cardboard box in a closet and set it up for him in our room. Hammett took a shower. I didn’t want one. I stripped down to my underwear and got into one of the beds. I was asleep in four or five minutes. I was awake an hour later. Hammett snored. I got back to sleep before dawn.

I dreamed of vague clowns and cities, greasepaint grins and brick buildings crumbling slowly with people inside. I dreamed that one of the clowns—it might have been my old friend Koko from past dreams and childhood nightmares—removed a cornerstone from one of the buildings, flew above me and lowered the stone on my chest. I caught my breath, wanted to push the acid-smelling stone away, tell him it was a lousy joke, but I couldn’t move my arms and then the awful feeling came, that I knew I was dreaming but I couldn’t quite wake up, that I might never wake up, that the stone was holding me in an eternal state between sleep and wake fulness. I groaned and opened my eyes. The cat was asleep on my chest, his tail almost brushing my nose. My arms moved and I pushed him away. The cat’s claws caught at the blanket and yanked it away from me. I sat up, trying to catch my breath again, my chest still slightly sore from the box Phil had thrown at me at the Wilshire Station, and found a pistol in my face. The man holding the pistol was toothpick thin with red cheeks and thin gray hair. He looked like an angry trout.

“Do not move,” he said.

I didn’t move. Hammett wasn’t in the next bed.

“I …” I began.

“Do not speak,” he said, holding the gun tightly and moving to a phone on a table near the bed. I needed better leverage and a few more seconds to wake up. The man didn’t know how to hold a gun and didn’t have enough sense to stay away from me.

“I’m calling the police,” he said.

“Are you Pudge?” I asked.

He put down the phone and looked at me with curiosity.

“There are those who call me that,” he agreed. “And there was a time when it seemed less ironic. What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my guest bed? Why do you have a cat?”

Pudge’s composure had dropped like a washed-up heavyweight in a mismatch with Joe Louis.

“I need a drink,” he said. “Would you like one?”

The gun was still pointed at me but the hand holding it was shaking now.

“Juice, coffee or a Pepsi,” I said.

“I don’t have those things,” Pudge sighed.

“I’ll skip the drink,” I said. “I think you should point the gun in another direction.”

Pudge looked at the gun in his hand as if he were surprised to see it. “Thinking of shooting myself when I heard you bumping around in here, you and the cat. That’s why I happened to have the gun. Not used to the damn things anymore. I haven’t been well,” he said.

“Who has?” I asked, pushing the blanket away from me slowly.

“My wife,” said Pudge. “She is disgustingly well. And at the moment is out somewhere playing tennis or golf or something equally distasteful. Have you ever played tennis?”

“No,” I said.

“Golf?”

“No.”

Pudge smiled, a soft little smile, and the pistol drooped slightly. “They don’t make sense to me, either of them,” he said. “Can’t remember the damned rules. Maybe I never wanted to learn them. Not much I want to remember.”

“How about Warmantin’s bedpan filled with gin?” Hammett’s voice came from the door. He was freshly shaven and fully dressed in dark slacks, white shirt and dark cardigan sweater.

“Sam,” Pudge said, pointing the gun at Hammett.

The cat was purring and ribbing against Hammett’s legs. He reached down and picked it up.

“Put the gun down, Pudge,” he said, moving into the room. “Mr. Peters is a friend. You weren’t home last night so we let ourselves in.”

Pudge shoved the pistol into his pocket and looked at me with suspicion. “You a publisher, a producer?” he asked. The thin coat of culture in his voice was deserting him fast.

“Private investigator,” I said.

“Sam,” Pudge said, turning to Hammett. “I thought you were ass high in bread. You didn’t have to go back to the dick business. You could have come to me. Money’s not my problem.”

“Not the money,” Hammett said softly. “I’m just helping Mr. Peters out for a few days before I head east and join the army. Let’s keep it quiet.”

“Lillian?”

“Let’s keep it quiet,” Hammett repeated even more softly.

Pudge looked at me as I got out of bed and reached for my pants.

“Sam and I go back,” he said. “We were in a TB hospital back in ’29 or ’30. Best goddam time I had in my life. Sam got all the young nurses and we partied in town. Both of us on army disability. Take a look at this.”

He opened his robe to reveal a purple scar that ran down the left side of his chest to the navel on his pink belly.

“Verdun,” he said. “Some kind of crap got in there before they sewed me up. Crap must have had TB on it. I can’t complain. If it didn’t happen I wouldn’t have met Sam, wouldn’t have had the best goddam year of my life. I got money now, Peters. Bought a little farm when I got out of the hospital. What the hell do I know about farms? Goddam dirt. Screwed it up. Then when I was going to pull out and go back to bartending I heard some auto company was planning to build a plant next door. I mortaged my place and bought land all over the place with the bank’s money. In less than three months, I sold all the land to the auto company. Made a bundle. Moved here, married Janet of the Jungle. Now I’m not well. Not well at all. Believe me.” He pointed to his chest. “The pumps are shutting down. Not much time left and nothing much I want to do with it.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Not complaining, just drinking and hoping to remember the good old days, but it’s not working. But now that you’re here, Sam, hell. Let’s have a few drinks and tell Peters about Augie and the blackjack.”

“I’m riding the wagon,” said Hammett, stroking the cat whose eyes were closed contentedly.

“I’m still a pedestrian,” Pudge said with a disappointed grin. He moved to a low wooden cabinet in the corner, opened it and pulled out one of the bottles of amber liquid. “Like to keep the guests supplied. Nunnally stayed here a few weeks back.”

Pudge poured himself a drink, straight amber, and leaned against the wall with a sigh as Hammett spoke.

“We’ve got some questions, Pudge,” he said, moving over to his bed and sitting with the cat on his lap.

“Shoot,” said Pudge, taking a small sip. I wasn’t sure what time it was but it couldn’t have been more than nine in the morning. The sun was bright even through the drawn curtains, and Pudge was brightening with it and the drink in his hand.

“Pintacki,” Hammett said.

“Pintacki?” Pudge repeated, after puffing out his cheeks. “You mean the nut in the desert? I think his name’s Pintacki. No, I’m sure it is.”

I put my arm in one sleeve of my semiclean shirt and smiled encouragement at Pudge.

“Tell us,” Hammett said.

“Don’t know much,” Pudge said with a shrug. “Supposedly has a place in the desert just east of town. Doesn’t come to town much. Costs a fortune to keep the place up, I hear. Made his money in junk. Word is he wanted to get into the movies, wanted to act, bought his way in for a while, lost a bundle backing a Western, gave up and built this castle in the desert. Supposed to be quite a place out there. Never saw it. Remember Anita with the Irish accent?”

“I remember, Pudge,” Hammett said with a smile.

“And Jose …” Pudge began and stopped himself. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Pudge,” he said, scratching the cat’s head. “I stay in touch with her and the kids. Gops here? How are they?”

“Cops.” Pudge shrugged. “Chief’s named Spainy. Pisses on the peasants. Kisses the rear end of anyone with ten bucks and a tie. Cops. It’s easier here though. Not much of a middle class. Clout’s clear.”

“How much have you got, clout?” Hammett asked.

Another shrug from Pudge who finished his drink and held his glass in search of some forgotten drop of liquid.

“Don’t know for sure,” he said. “Probably enough. Janet and I get treated real polite by Spainy.”

“Think you could pick up a phone, call this Spainy and have him check out the two guys in the DeSoto parked down the street?” asked Hammett.

I stopped tying my shoes, which needed at least one fresh shoestring, and looked up at Hammett who looked down at me.

“Wylie and Conrad,” he said. “From the diner last night.”

“How do you figure it?” I asked. “Redneck grudge?”

“Could be,” said Hammett, putting the cat gently on the bed, getting up and straightening the creases in his trousers. “But I saw that DeSoto behind us when we left Los Angeles last night.”

“Could be lots of things,” I said.

“Pudge?” Hammett said. Pudge moved to the phone, picked it up, dialed and pulled himself together.

“Chief Spainy, please,” he said in a voice much deeper than the one he had been using a few seconds earlier. “Tell him it’s G. Carl Block.” Pause. “Janet Block’s husband.” Another pause. Pudge looked at us with a what-can-you-do expression and then went on. “Chief? Yes, good to talk to you too. How’s the campaign going?… good … excellent. You know you can count on Janet and me for both our votes and a donation … as a matter of fact, there is. There’s an unfamiliar car parked just down the street from my house and two rather strange-looking characters are sitting in it and … yes. A DeSoto … well, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

Pudge hung up and toasted us with his empty glass, eyebrows raised.

“They’ll be right over to roust the enemy.”

“Thanks, Pudge,” Hammett said, getting up and straightening his trousers again.

“My pleasure, Sam, and I have few enough of them,” he said, doing for the bottle again. “TB’s weakened the system. Taking a long time and going slow at it, but I’m not complaining. It gets me a little sympathy from Janet. Not much, mind you, but a little. Got to settle for what we can get.”