Killer Take All Read online

  I stopped for a minute, reliving the scene. It was very quiet. The cops had got everyone back inside the building; the basket wagon had been and gone. Only the scratch of French's old-fashioned pen and the buzz of neon disturbed the fog-held tranquility of the Oregon night.

  "Then I saw the car," I said. I sucked on the cigarette. It tasted like the stuff janitors use to sweep the floor. I pushed open the window, flipped it out. "Pretty well smashed up. The hood had slammed up when the car hit, I guess. Anyway, the nose was crumpled and this guy was hanging out the window. He was still alive."

  "You knew who it was right away?"

  I thought about it. Then I nodded. "Yeah. I guess I did. But it must have been because of the car. I only met him once for a few minutes so I wouldn't know him like a brother. But I'm sure I knew right away it was Donetti. Besides all night people have been accusing me of working for him, working against him. Everything but being his father."

  French grunted. His eyes, shadowed by the shelf of hard bone above them, came up from the notebook. "Which way is it?"

  "You too, huh?" I twisted on the seat. "You want to hear the rest of the story?"

  "Why don't you want to talk about it? Were you working with Donetti? Did somebody send you here to enlarge the syndicate operations?"

  "Lieutenant,. I'm tired of talking about it. I don't belong to anybody. I'm Johnny Berlin and if you'd spend a quarter on a wire to Reno you could find it out. If the county hasn't got the dough I'll pick up the tab myself. But I'm sick of having every damn joker ask me questions I haven't got any answers for. Now if you want to talk about what happened tonight, let's get with it. Anything else, book me and I'll call a lawyer."

  "Like that, huh?"

  "Just like that, friend. I'm cooperative. I got no big record —don't want one. But nobody shoves me around. That includes cops."

  For a minute I thought he was going to make me prove it. The hard planes of his face sharpened in the pink shadow and he seemed to edge forward on the seat. After a moment he was all business again.

  "Go on from seeing the car," he said.

  "Like I told you, I saw the little girl first. I thought maybe she came out to wrestle with that singer in somebody's back seat. But then I saw Donetti and I ran to the Cadillac. He was trying to say something. Trying hard. His throat was a mess and he kept looking at the girl, his lips forming words that his throat just didn't have the wind for."

  I stopped, turned to the window for a minute. The scene was still fresh; the sight of the greasy blood rolling sluggishly down the green door still behind my eyes.

  French said softly, "Okay, Berlin. It was bad. What did Donetti say?"

  "He said to get Johnny Ronns. Or Blounce. Something like that and that's the best I can do. I told you. The guy was dying, should have been dead. And I wasn't listening too closely either, if you want to know. The first name was Johnny. I'm sure of that. The last could have been anything like that. Ronns, Ronce—maybe even Brown, I don't know. But I told you before the girl was right there—right by the fender. The car must have damn near hit her. If I heard a little, she heard a lot."

  The lieutenant sighed. He closed the book, slapped it on his thigh.

  "Okay, Berlin. Don't leave town. If you find out anything, let me know. This ain't Reno. It's McKaneville. And I'm the law. Don't forget it. I'll take care of the girl. You better watch your back for a while."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  He shrugged. "Lot of people pulling in different directions in this thing. All of them, for one reason or another, seem to think you have something to do with it. I'd be careful if I were you."

  "Can I have my stuff?"

  He handed me the junk they'd taken in the pre-questioning shakedown. All but one item. The little knife. He looked at it, tossed it up and caught it. His slate eyes bore into mine.

  "This too, slicker," he said. His voice was very soft. "Take your toy. And be careful with it. Next time you cut someone it may be a citizen somebody cares about."

  I took it. The blade was crusted with blood.

  Feet crunched on wet clay and a young policeman, wide in the shoulder and very scrubbed and eager looking, walked to the car. He tapped the window. French rolled it down.

  "What is it, Tommy?"

  "Got Mrs. Donetti, Lieutenant," he said. "Took her downtown, got a positive I.D."

  I turned on the seat and wiped moisture off the window so I could see out. Gina was just walking away from a police sedan, walking with that challenging stride, head held high, hair streaming. I couldn't see her face, but I'd bet she wouldn't cry.

  French told the kid he'd be right in, to hold Mrs. Donetti. Then he turned back to me.

  "That's all, Berlin," he said. His voice was flat, without hint of feeling.

  "Look, French. I don't know what you're trying to do here, but I can damn well prove I was inside when the car hit the building. Now granted that—is there any way in hell you can tab me for this push?"

  He studied me before answering. Then he shook his head back and forth. "Granting that," he said. "But you left the table."

  "To go to the doniker, for Chrissakel"

  He opened the car door, stepped out into the parking lot. I climbed out, stretched automatically. French slammed the door, stood with his big hand on the wet metal.

  "The doniker, as you put it, has a window, slicker." His jaw jutted suddenly and he took a half-step toward me. "I'd like to prove you climbed out of it."

  Inside, I shrugged away from all the questions and moved back into the main room, looked around. It was a hushed crowd. And the room was getting smelly what with smoke and dying perfume and wet cloth. Messner and Laddy Leyton shared a table with Carla. The youngster looked a little calmer now. And Sheila. The smoldering redhead tossed her curls at me and smiled. She had lipstick on her teeth.

  I saw Dan and Bev at a table in the rear. Dan looked haggard. I suddenly remembered that we had a grand opening that night and neither of us had been to bed for something like a long twenty-four. He waved and I pushed through the bored, sleepy, still-frightened throng and set the steaming cup of coffee I had picked up in the kitchen on the table.

  "Hi," Bev said wearily.

  "We open tonight," Dan said. "New policy. Fine entertainment." He pushed a hand through his hair, blew out his breath.

  "Take it easy," I said. "This won't figure. Might help business with Layton here and all. Bunch of reporters around. They'll splash it in the local rags. Which reminds me, don't forget to take that quarter page in the daily paper like I told you."

  "Okay, Johnny." He straightened, looked at my coffee. "Wonder if we can get some of that?"

  I got a waitress. She was tired and very irritable, but I talked her into bringing coffee. For a while nobody said anything. Then Dan asked the question I'd been waiting for.

  "Johnny... did French accuse you of being—well, of working with Donetti?"

  I sipped my coffee, cursed when it burned my tongue.

  "Yes, Dan. He accused me. Does everybody think I'm a syndicate hoodlum, for Christ sake. You too?"

  He hunched his big shoulders, leaned over the table. "Look, Johnny. I like you. You know that. But there has to be some reason for all this sudden heat. I don't pretend to be well enough informed to know where it's coming from. And you, well, you did arrive just when the pressure began to mount."

  "And with Donetti," I added. "Don't forget that."

  "All right," he said. "With Donetti. What does French think? You and I can fight some other time."

  I nodded. "French thinks the little guy got it because he had been exerting pressure on the owners—that's you and O'Rourke and Carter and the rest—to get together in some sort of bloc. And he thinks Donetti was backed by out-of-town money. Maybe out-of-town muscle."

  "What kind of backing?" Dan asked, looking up from his coffee "Organized? Or just some of his hoodlum friends from San Francisco?"

  The question was too sharply asked. My friend and boss was
digging in a new direction; his eyes had hardened, grown opaque. I wasted a minute lighting a smoke, let the question hang there.

  Finally I said, "What're you trying to say, Dan? For one time let's lay it all out, huh? I'm getting tired of having people playing me for a jerk. And if we're going to work together—if you want to go ahead with the opening tonight—we'd better work a better basis of mutual trust than we have so far."

  Dan bit his lip and considered the table intently. He looked like a two-dollar better with only one ninety-eight.

  "Johnny, when you asked me the other day if anyone knew whether Donetti had his own money in the Play Spot, I told you I didn't know. That's not true. I do know. At the time I—"

  "All right. Never mind the rehash. Go on with the tale."

  He nodded. "Several of us decided a long time ago that the Devil's Lake property was beyond a man like Donetti. For business reasons we decided we should know what we were up against." The horn-rimmed glasses flashed from his pocket and he polished the lenses vigorously. The heavy jaw tightened as he talked. "We found out who was backing it.

  Rory Boise, the district attorney, helped us with it. We were naturally afraid of a concentrated influx of new money. Especially syndicate money. So we checked."

  "How?"

  Dan set his cup down, rubbed his eyes. "Private detective. We hired a good Portland agency. The reports came quickly, all authenticated. Donetti was—I think the words were percentage manager. A front organization floated the issue on a huge cash transfer to an operational account for the Devil's Lake Development Company. An outfit called Gilbertson Enterprises, Incorporated uttered the letter of transfer. The agency we hired didn't know that this outfit was a syndicate operation. That information came to us confidentially from Rory Boise."

  I didn't say anything. I didn't like this at all. I didn't like thinking about what would happen to whomever had pushed the little gambler. Not at all. Dan slipped his coffee, pushed back in the chair.

  "So," he said, exhaling, "you see why we were worried, are still worried. That's why we set up meetings, argued, fought. We knew this territory was potentially a million-dollar setup if it could be exploited correctly. When Donetti came on with his Gambler's Protective Association, we backed off quick. It smelled to us like the first step. Now it looks like we might have been right."

  I said, "You were right. But it won't do you any good."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Who do you think killed him?"

  He blinked, startled. "I hadn't thought..."

  "He didn't plink himself in the jugular, friend. Somebody set him up for a meeting. Probably close to the Carroll here. Somebody he knew. And somebody he trusted."

  "How can you know that?"

  I grinned a little. "I know," I said. "And if it was done close—and it had to be—then somebody in this room right now did it."

  That stopped conversation. Dan studied his coffee. I watched Layton and Carla. The singer wasn't charming her now. She sat there like a hard-rubber statue, not answering questions or offering anything to the talk at the table. After a while I turned away. Finally I got up and walked out.

  Dawn had come. It would be a good one. A red sun hung over the timbered mountains to the east, burning away the haze. Tops of cars glinted wetly. The canvas-shrouded shape of the green Cadillac sat still crumpled against the wall of the club. I took a breath, chased the smoke and perfume from my lungs. The air was sharp, morning clear; trees and water, mountains and mist.

  She stepped out onto the small porch beside me. I didn't turn, she didn't speak for a moment. We watched the clearing morning sky together. The scent, that maddening hint of crushed violets, came to me. It was suddenly very quiet.

  I said, "Hello, Gina," without turning.

  "Hello, Johnny."

  "Rough on you, kid."

  "When you play with fire l guess you get burned, Johnny." She said it clearly, without emotion. I don't know what I expected. Some phony collection of worn phrases, sorrowful and meaningless. I lifted my head.

  "Smell that sea air?"

  "The lake is beautiful in the morning, Johnny. The trees are reflected in the water and all the funny little waves flash the sun around." Her voice deepened. "You should see it."

  I turned then, gripped her upper arms. Her eyes were wide and clear. The mass of hair was unbound and blowing free, blacker than a gambler's heart.

  "What are you trying to say, Gina?"

  She glanced quickly at the closed door of the club, then moved frankly against me. Her lips touched my chin.

  "I made a mistake last night, running off. I don't want to make the same one again…"

  Chapter 8

  I fastened my gaze to the tiny gold pin, a crouching leopard, on the collar of Gina's suit. She was stiff against me, waiting for my reaction to her words.

  "They got you out of bed, I guess." She nodded.

  "But then you got to bed real early."

  She pulled away, her lids dropping. "Yes," she said. "Very early. I'm trying to apologize for that, Johnny. You're not making it easy."

  I spun away, walked to the edge of the small porch.

  "Don't you care who killed your old man?"

  She followed me. I didn't turn, but I could feel the magnetic force of her. I closed my eyes and I could see that impossible body, those pouting lips.

  "Johnny. Johnny, listen. Marino and I—well, we've been nothing to each other for a long time. A very long time. I guess if you made me be honest I'd have to say no, I don't care who killed him. Or why. He was a grown man, capable of doing his own thinking. You want me to be a hypocrite? You want me to be dewy-eyed? Well, I'm sorry. I'm not like that and I won't pretend."

  I turned. "Okay. Let it be like that, then."

  "Like that, then," she said. Then, "Johnny, listen. It's got to be better than that. Remember the electricity? Remember the certainty we both had? Why should we let Donetti ruin it, spoil our discovery of each other? He's dead. It's finished for him and nothing we do can hurt or help him. He's through and we're alive." She touched me lightly with her fingertips, brushing them over my face. "It was ended for me a long while ago, darling. Last night he wouldn't have mattered to you, would he?"

  I took a breath, shook my head. A head popped out of the door, withdrew again. The young cop, checking on us.

  "Then why should he matter now?"

  Her eyes searched mine. For a moment the caress in them the bold invitation bothered me. I thought of Fran Cole and her cool beauty, her almost prim facade. Then I shook the feeling. This was my kind of woman. Warm and willing, alive and available; not withdrawn behind fluttering handkerchiefs; not a statue of purity to stand back from and admire with your mouth hung open.

  "French is through with you, isn't he?" I asked.

  "Yes, Johnny. He's satisfied. I told him Marino left Devil's Lake about midnight. I didn't see him again until—"

  She broke off, turned away. I pulled her around roughly, lifted her chin with a finger. Her eyes were closed; deep blue traced the hollows. A pulse stirred at the side of her throat, pushed the skin outward with its movement. I covered the ripe lips with mine, felt them open. The crushed violets drifted up, mixed with woman-scent. Her arms started around my neck and I stopped them, gripped the slim wrists.

  "No," I said, pulling my lips away. "Get in that Ford over there." I pointed to my rented heap. "I'll clear it with French. Go. Go on."

  She wet her lips, nodded. For a moment she dropped her forehead to my chest. Then she twisted away, ran down the steps.

  I went through the door into the club. The crowd was getting restless now. A solid murmur had built up in the room, querulous and irritable. I saw French by the bandstand and set a course through the tables toward him. He had Ford Messner backed up against the stand, questioning him. A police stenographer flanked him. The dealer's funny white eyebrows were mussed, but his face was controlled as always. His glance found me, held briefly.

  French said, "You
didn't hear Donetti say anything? Call a name, maybe?"

  "No." Ford turned slowly to me as I got to the small group, stopped. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless. "And as far as I know, no one heard him say anything. The Teacher kid, Carla, was right by the car. She says she didn't hear anything."

  French slipped his own notebook into his pocket and gestured dismissal to the stenographer. "At least," he rasped, "she says she didn't."

  The lieutenant stretched, widening the broad shoulders. His red face was all angles and planes in the harsh interior light. He saw me and nodded sourly, shook his head a trifle.

  "Yeah, I heard it," I said. "Somebody's lying like a dog." I looked at Messner. "Ain't that right, chilly? Wouldn't you say someone was fibbing?"

  Messner said nothing. I turned back to French. "Where is the kid, Lieutenant?"

  "Sent her home. With Fran. Couldn't get anything out of her." He shot a look at Messner. "Except that she hadn't heard anything. How do you account for that, slicker?"

  I said, "That's a good question. Maybe you should lean on this icicle here. He shoots a pretty fair stick in that lie department."

  Messner stiffened. "What do you mean, Berlin?"

  "You know what I mean. If you came out behind me like you said, then you heard the man say something. Or try to. Because I damn sure did."

  "You say."

  "That's right, chilly. I say."

  I tried to step around French; the big cop blocked the move with a shoulder.

  "No," he said. "None of that." Messner turned away.

  I said, "Lieutenant, I'm taking Mrs. Donetti back to Devil's Lake. You can forget the car for her."

  .French looked at me for a long moment. His slab-featured face reflected none of his thoughts. The cop finally nodded, brushed me aside and bellowed for attention. He was sending everyone home. The weary crowd stirred and began moving. Messner started by me, turning sideways in the cramped space between the bandstand and the adjacent table. I touched his arm.