Shakedown Read online

  Shakedown

  A Joe Puma Mystery

  William Campbell Gault

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  JOE PUMA—He stalked a deadly prey that had too many eyes.

  JEAN ROLAND—She came bringing gifts, but she remained to collect what was coming to her.

  CHARLES ROLAND—This master of confidence men didn’t mind using his own daughter for sucker bait.

  PETER DEUTSCHER—He talked himself into a caper that had death for a prize.

  JOSIE GONZALES—Her love was for sale, but for certain men the price was murderous.

  MANNY RODRIGUEZ—He was a man-hunter too, but he had a license for the job.

  CAPTAIN MCGILL—He was head of the Homicide Squad and believed in giving killers all the rope they needed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I HAD TWO STRIKES on me right from the start in this Target mess. The first was a semi-trailer that had jackknifed in Cahuenga Pass. They had the truck pulled out of the left-hand lanes by the time I reached there, but it cut the gap down for traffic, and traffic was already jammed for five miles on both sides of the accident.

  That made me a half hour late.

  And then when I got to the twelve thousand block on Moorpark, I didn’t even notice the cars parked around the corner. This was the triplex where Albert Target lived and he had the rear apartment, which in this town, meant he had a backyard and a fence. His fence was high, a woven redwood deal with a seven foot gate.

  I opened the gate and looked into the eyes of Captain McGill. He was sitting on a stone bench in the garden here, talking to a uniformed officer. He looked at me for seconds.

  Then he said, “Well, Puma—Come in, come in and close the gate behind you.”

  I came in slowly and took my time about latching the gate, trying to figure the deal. McGill was head of Homicide, and we’d tangled just recently on another case involving Albert Target.

  The patrolman went away and McGill patted the stone bench. “Come here. Sit down and enjoy the view.”

  McGill was playing it cute. A chill moved through my damp shoulders. “What’s happened, Captain?”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I sat down. And sitting down, I saw the man I’d come to see. Through the full length window that overlooked the garden, I could see Albert Target. He was lying on the floor in there and there was a man kneeling over him, a man who looked like a cop.

  Sweat beaded my forehead. I wondered if Albert had talked before he died, talked about that former case in which McGill was still interested. I asked, “Dead, Captain?”

  “Dead. Rickett send for you, Joe?”

  I stared at him. “Rickett?” Rickett too had been involved in that previous case. I had saved him from jail. He was a producer.

  “Don’t act surprised,” McGill said. “This murder could very well be an extension of that Bea Condor case. Let’s have the dope, Joe.”

  “What dope?”

  “Well, to start with, why are you here? Who told you to come here this morning?”

  No animosity in the voice but I was scared. He’s a smart, hardworking man, incorruptible Captain McGill.

  I said, “Target phoned me and asked me to come over.”

  “I see. I guess you didn’t hurry enough, did you, Joe?”

  “There was a traffic snarl on Cahuenga,” I said. “Big trailer jackknifed and cut the lanes down to a crawl.”

  “Oh. Why’d Target want to see you, Joe?”

  “I don’t know. When a potential client calls for me in a hurry, I don’t ask questions, Captain. Business isn’t that good.”

  “I see.”

  Silence. There was a rustling in the geraniums to our left and a big rat came out from the cover of the flowers to stand there, staring at the big window.

  McGill said, “Geranium country, isn’t it? The geranium town, so pretty on top and all the rats crawling underneath.”

  I said nothing.

  McGill said easily, “I wasn’t speaking of you, Joe. You’ve got your job. You have to eat. But pimps like this Target, procurers, living in a nice spot with all his flowers. And men like that Rickett, rich men despoiling the sweet young kids who come out here for the celluloid dream. I’ve lived here all my life, but I can never work up any pride for this town.”

  “What has Rickett to do with this?” I asked. “You mean the producer, don’t you?”

  “I mean the producer and you know it, Joe. It’s no time to be cute.”

  I said nothing. I could feel the back of my collar getting wet and there was a tremble in one knee. Rickett and Target. If Target had talked or Rickett did talk, my goose could be cooked, but good. If, if, if …

  McGill said wearily, “Rickett’s in there now, getting his arm taken care of. Target caught him in the arm before Rickett killed him.”

  Some relief came to me. I had helped Rickett before and now he was in trouble. He’d protect me; he wouldn’t want me on the law’s side of the fence. He was a real bright guy.

  I said casually, “What’s Rickett’s story?”

  “You can sit in while he gives it to us down at the station. What, if anything, is your story, Joe?”

  “I’ve given you all I know, Captain.”

  The rat crossed over in front of us and disappeared under the geraniums near the gate. The Captain watched it quietly. Then he looked back at me. “You can understand why I’d expect you to know something. Both of these men were involved in that other case and you knew something about that case. Didn’t you work on it undercover?”

  I shook my head. “That was Pete Deutscher’s baby. He was the operative on that Condor case.”

  He looked at me doubtfully a moment. Then, “Well, I’ll want to see him, too.”

  I had been the undercover man for Deutscher on the previous case and I’d paid off the phoney witnesses. Target had been one of the lying witnesses. McGill suspected that; why all the soft and courteous talk now?

  He stood up. “Wait here, Joe. I want to see how the Doc’s coming along.”

  A couple boys in white coats were now bringing a stretcher through the gate, and McGill held the door open for them and followed them in.

  The sun beat down and the geraniums rustled behind me. Target the pimp, dead. And Rickett implicated. Target had been one of two witnesses for Rickett in the former case. The other had been a prostitute named Josie Gonzales, one of Target’s girls. If McGill got to her …

  I’d have to get to her first.

  That case had been clean, clean, clean. And now this damned fool Rickett had to come over here and maybe that would blow it all wide open again. And who’d get hurt? Not Deutscher; he’d had a stooge. He’d had me, that son-of-a-bitch. I don’t know what he’d made out of it, but I’d made peanuts, and I’d paid off the witnesses, handled the money.

  Veber came out, one of McGill’s boys. He was carrying a jacket. And then Rickett came out, his arm bandaged and in a sling. Rickett stopped when he saw me. Veber was watching us closely, and I hoped Rickett would shut up. I stared at him without recognition. He dropped his eyes, after a few seconds, and continued to walk with Veber toward the gate.

  Then Captain McGill came out, “Let’s go, Joe. I’ll want a statement from you, anyway. And you can hear Rickett’
s story. It might be interesting.”

  “All right. I’ll come down in my car, Captain.”

  He nodded and smiled and went through the gate. They were bringing the body out now. Albert Target was no loss to anybody, and for my own interests, it was just as good he was dead. Deutscher had suckered me in that deal and Target had been one of the vulnerabilities. And I wondered if it had been Target who’d phoned me. Maybe Veber or McGill? Just to get a reaction from me?

  No, that didn’t make sense. Rickett was probably being blackmailed by Target, and he’d come over here to do something about it. Target knew he was on the way; he’d phoned me—and the law.

  The old Chev went down the pass with a rattle of tappets while I tried to figure all the angles I’d need to guard against with McGill. His geniality today didn’t fool me any; he hated my guts. I had one friend in the Hollywood Station and it wasn’t McGill. It was Manny Rodriguez and I made a mental note to see him if he was down there.

  In the small room behind the squad room, I sat and listened to Rickett’s statement. He didn’t look at me through any of it. Target had been blackmailing him because of his part in the Bea Condor affair, he stated. Target had threatened to lie about Rickett’s part in it. He’d wanted five thousand dollars.

  “I went over there to reason with him,” Rickett said tonelessly. “And he pulled the gun on me.”

  McGill’s smile was cool. “He pulled the gun? It was your gun, Mr. Rickett.”

  Rickett nodded. “So I’ve been told by one of your men. I don’t know how he happened to get hold of it. I hadn’t even missed it at home. Has my lawyer come in, yet?”

  McGill shook his head. “Go on with your story, Mr. Rickett.”

  “I told Target he couldn’t scare me with lies. He’d told his story on the witness stand and if he changed it now, it would make his previous story perjury.”

  McGill asked quietly, “And was it?”

  Rickett’s chin went up and he looked at McGill as though he was an assistant producer. “I don’t know. He didn’t testify for me. He testified about this Condor girl, you’ll remember.”

  “But that Gonzales, the girl who did testify for you, she was one of Target’s—girls, wasn’t she?”

  “It’s news to me, Captain, if she was.”

  McGill’s face was growing harder by the minute. He started to say something more, and the door opened. Jennings, Rickett’s lawyer, stood in the open doorway.

  McGill said, “Who gave you permission to come in here, Jennings?”

  Jennings looked at him smilingly. “I’m not completely in, yet. Are you telling me to stay out, Captain? Are you refusing me permission to see my client?”

  “At the moment,” McGill said, “I’m telling you to close the door. From the outside.”

  “All right, Captain.” He looked at Rickett. “Refuse to say any more about it. Stand on your rights.” He stepped back and closed the door.

  McGill said, “All right, Mr. Rickett, you may continue.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell,” Rickett said. “It was simple self-defense against a criminal.”

  McGill was silent for seconds and then he looked at the uniformed officer who’d been copying the interview. “Give that to one of the typists and come back to take Mr. Puma’s statement.”

  Veber still sat in a chair near one of the windows, and McGill told him, “Take Mr. Rickett out to his attorney and stay with them. I’ll call you when the statement’s ready to sign.”

  Veber and Rickett and the uniformed man went out, and McGill turned to me with a smile. “Hollywood big shots. They worry me.” He shook his head. “Rickett’s nailed as cold as a man can be. And I’ll admit I’m glad about that.”

  “It looks solid enough,” I admitted.

  “And now we come to you, Joe,” he said. “You haven’t always cooperated with the Department like you should, I think you’ll agree.”

  I shrugged. “Privacy is one of the things I sell, Captain.”

  “Not in a murder case, Joe.”

  “Of course not. I’m not involved in this, Captain. Neither of these characters means a thing to me.”

  He took a deep breath and expelled it. “Okay. Well take your statement and then you’ll be free to go.”

  I gave them the statement straight. By the time it was ready for signing, McGill was no longer in the room. I left and went back to my office.

  It was still morning; Target had called me at home right after breakfast. I phoned Deutscher at his home and his office, but there was no response at either place.

  Rickett had been Deutscher’s client. Rickett had a yen for sweet young stars, and Bea Condor had been one of those. Rickett, it seemed, was overendowed and Bea had suffered. He’d taken her to a quack, and she’d died.

  Enter Target, who had a string of call girls for the money trade. Target had sworn on the witness stand that Bea was one of his girls and that she was famous at stag parties for a trick involving the disappearance of a beer bottle. That took care of the dead girl’s reputation, though there wasn’t a shred of truth in any of it.

  Then another of Target’s girls, Josie Gonzales, had sworn on the witness stand that Rickett had spent the night with her, the night the prosecution claimed Rickett had despoiled her. I’d paid off both witnesses. They were Deutscher’s stooges, but I’d handled the money. Deutscher had been the above-board investigator; I’d been the undercover man.

  Well, Target was no longer a problem, but I had to find Josie. Deutscher would know where to find her. He’d shacked up with her after the trial for a few months.

  My phone rang, and it was Jennings, Rickett’s attorney. “What the hell goes on, Puma.”

  “No idea,” I said. “I got a phone call from Target at home, and went over there and got there too late.”

  Silence. Then, “Don’t you want to talk over the phone?”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Jennings. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Cut it out. Three of you involved in the Condor case and you don’t know anything; I won’t accept that. Where’s Deutscher?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to get him. What’s Rickett’s story?”

  “You heard him give it, didn’t you?”

  “I heard him give one. Is that it?”

  Another silence. “Just about. Are you free to take a job, right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this then, and the police don’t know it. Rickett spent most of the night at a spot called Little Phil’s, over on Lincoln Boulevard. That’s where he was supposed to meet Target. He’s kind of hazy about what happened after that. He was drunk, I guess.” A pause. “Or drugged.”

  “Framed?” I asked.

  “It sure as hell looks like it, doesn’t it? Where did Target get Rickett’s gun? How did Rickett get to Target’s house? You could work on that. And Joe, if you know anything, for God’s sakes, spill it. I’ve given you business before and I can use you again.”

  “There’s nothing I know. And I’m sweating as much as you are, Mr. Jennings. I handled the money.”

  “That’s right. Yes. Okay, Joe. Get to work on it and keep in touch with me.”

  “I’m starting this minute. Whereabouts on Lincoln is Little Phil’s?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. Somewhere near the Santa Monica-Venice boundary, I’d say. You could find it in the phone book.”

  I could and did, and went out to climb into the Chev. Jennings was the attorney for a lot of theatrical big wheels in this town and the kind of contact I needed. He could put an end to this scrambling for nickels.

  I took Santa Monica all the way to Lincoln and turned south on Lincoln. It was a red brick building, set back from the road, the graveled parking lot in front flanked by a pair of untrimmed and dying palm trees. There was a large plate glass window on each side of the recessed doorway, both of them shaded by Venetian blinds.

  I parked under one of the palms and went up the two steps to the front door and
through to a square, dim room. The bar ran the length of one wall. The rest of the room was given over to tables and booths.

  The man behind the bar was short and thin, wearing a spotless white shirt and an undistinguished white face. At the end of the bar, the lone customer of the morning was taking a healthy pull from a tall glass of beer. He was a stocky man in a worn brown suit, a dark-skinned man with soft brown eyes and shining white teeth and the faintest scar from a knife cut under one warm eye. Sergeant Manuel Rodriguez.

  Rickett hadn’t told the police he was here, but they’d found out, evidently. Manny worked for McGill, off and on. He looked my way and I gave no sign of recognition, not knowing if he was here openly, or not. Then he smiled and said, “’Morning, Joe.”

  “Good morning, Manny. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “And you,” he said. “Out of your territory, aren’t you?”

  “I get cases all over town,” I told him, “and I had one in Venice and was driving by and got thirsty.”

  “Sure,” he said. He chuckled. “Working for Jennings? Or did Rickett hire you directly this time?”

  Manny knew I’d worked with Deutscher on the Condor case. But Manny is a friend, more or less. Anyway he was friendly. No cop is a friend of mine.

  “Just driving by,” I said. And to the bartender, “A bottle of eastern beer. St. Louis beer.”

  The little bartender went down the counter to get it. Manny said, “This is Little Phil, himself. And he knows nothing, do you, little man?”

  “A-a-a-a-,” the little man said, like a goat. “You cops—” He set the bottle of beer in front of me with a thump.

  “A glass, too,” I said, “if it wouldn’t strain you.”

  The glass made a smaller thump.

  “The little man won’t talk,” Manny said. “He’s stubborn.”

  “He wasn’t here,” Little Phil said. “And there ain’t enough money in the world to change that story. Just because he’s a big shot—”

  “Relax, Shorty,” I said.

  “It’s my place. I’ll talk all I want to. I’ll do as I please.”

  “Okay. Then please shut up.”