“I’ll call you. Where are you staying?”
“At the Beverly Hills Hotel.” I stood up. “Thanks for what you told me. I appreciate it.”
He smiled. “Would you do me one favor?”
“Name it.”
He got up and left the room. He came back with a well-worn, slightly lopsided football and a ballpoint pen filled with white ink. He handed both to me.
“What’s your full name?” I asked.
“Bolger,” he said. “Make it to Shorty Bolger.”
Which I did, the high point of my day.
From there I drove past Tessie’s Tavern on the off chance there might be a yellow pickup truck parked near it. There wasn’t. And there were no lights on in Turhan’s temple. I drove to Brentwood, planning to tell young Emil about tailing his father this morning and to warn him that he might still be in this area.
There was no red Porsche in front of the building and no answer to my ring. I went back to the hotel.
My file was getting thicker, but no clearer. I went to bed and had a weird dream. Jan and Crystal were both sitting with me on the beach and quarreling. And both of them were naked.
The radio had the standard weather report in the morning; foggy in the morning, clearing by noon, except along the coast. It was probably a taped message. It was misty in Beverly Hills.
The fulcrum in this seesaw choice of suspects was Tucker. He was Bay’s cousin; he was the muscle man and errand boy for Gillete. Our prime choice for the who was now Clauss. But what was the why ?
I voiced these thoughts to Dennis when he phoned before breakfast. He agreed with me that finding Tucker was our best choice for success.
When he picked me up, I told him where I had been last night and what I had learned.
“If Clauss is still in that end of town,” he said, “he might find out where his son lives.”
“He hasn’t up to now. And if he had learned it earlier he stayed away.”
“He hasn’t been a hunted man until now.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“I think,” he said, “that we should find out where young Clauss works and warn him. Did you learn that when you talked with him?”
I shook my head. “That was dumb of me. And I didn’t get his unlisted phone number. I could have phoned him this morning.”
He said nothing; he was a polite young man.
Neither the Bentley nor the truck were visible when we drove past Gillete’s house. But the garage door was closed. Both of them could be in there.
We sat. At twenty dollars an hour for him and zilch for me, we sat. Traffic on the street was heavier today, the weather comfortably cooler. Most of the traffic was going downhill and most of the drivers were women. The Broadway Department Store was having its semiannual storewide sale.
A few minutes later the garage door opened and a man in coveralls came out, carrying clippers and a rake. The Bentley was in the garage, but not the truck.
“Damn it!” Dennis said. “Now where?”
I shrugged. “Back to where the action is, I suppose.”
Back to the sea. We prowled through Venice and Santa Monica, then stopped in Brentwood, hoping that young Clauss was home, so we could warn him. He wasn’t.
“As long as we’re here,” I said. “Let’s check out Bay. His place is only a few blocks from here.”
The thought was good; our luck was bad. The yellow truck was coming toward us on the other side of the street when we were almost a block from Bay’s house. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. Dennis gunned the car, made a screeching U-turn at the next corner, and headed back.
The yellow truck was nowhere in sight on any of the streets we passed nor the street we were on.
“That bastard!” he said.
“Back to Bay’s house,” I said.
I went to the house and Dennis stayed in the car when we got back there.
Bay looked troubled when he came to the door. I asked him, “Was your cousin just here?”
He nodded. “He just left,” he said wearily, “two thousand dollars richer than when he
“At the Beverly Hills Hotel.” I stood up. “Thanks for what you told me. I appreciate it.”
He smiled. “Would you do me one favor?”
“Name it.”
He got up and left the room. He came back with a well-worn, slightly lopsided football and a ballpoint pen filled with white ink. He handed both to me.
“What’s your full name?” I asked.
“Bolger,” he said. “Make it to Shorty Bolger.”
Which I did, the high point of my day.
From there I drove past Tessie’s Tavern on the off chance there might be a yellow pickup truck parked near it. There wasn’t. And there were no lights on in Turhan’s temple. I drove to Brentwood, planning to tell young Emil about tailing his father this morning and to warn him that he might still be in this area.
There was no red Porsche in front of the building and no answer to my ring. I went back to the hotel.
My file was getting thicker, but no clearer. I went to bed and had a weird dream. Jan and Crystal were both sitting with me on the beach and quarreling. And both of them were naked.
The radio had the standard weather report in the morning; foggy in the morning, clearing by noon, except along the coast. It was probably a taped message. It was misty in Beverly Hills.
The fulcrum in this seesaw choice of suspects was Tucker. He was Bay’s cousin; he was the muscle man and errand boy for Gillete. Our prime choice for the who was now Clauss. But what was the why ?
I voiced these thoughts to Dennis when he phoned before breakfast. He agreed with me that finding Tucker was our best choice for success.
When he picked me up, I told him where I had been last night and what I had learned.
“If Clauss is still in that end of town,” he said, “he might find out where his son lives.”
“He hasn’t up to now. And if he had learned it earlier he stayed away.”
“He hasn’t been a hunted man until now.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“I think,” he said, “that we should find out where young Clauss works and warn him. Did you learn that when you talked with him?”
I shook my head. “That was dumb of me. And I didn’t get his unlisted phone number. I could have phoned him this morning.”
He said nothing; he was a polite young man.
Neither the Bentley nor the truck were visible when we drove past Gillete’s house. But the garage door was closed. Both of them could be in there.
We sat. At twenty dollars an hour for him and zilch for me, we sat. Traffic on the street was heavier today, the weather comfortably cooler. Most of the traffic was going downhill and most of the drivers were women. The Broadway Department Store was having its semiannual storewide sale.
A few minutes later the garage door opened and a man in coveralls came out, carrying clippers and a rake. The Bentley was in the garage, but not the truck.
“Damn it!” Dennis said. “Now where?”
I shrugged. “Back to where the action is, I suppose.”
Back to the sea. We prowled through Venice and Santa Monica, then stopped in Brentwood, hoping that young Clauss was home, so we could warn him. He wasn’t.
“As long as we’re here,” I said. “Let’s check out Bay. His place is only a few blocks from here.”
The thought was good; our luck was bad. The yellow truck was coming toward us on the other side of the street when we were almost a block from Bay’s house. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. Dennis gunned the car, made a screeching U-turn at the next corner, and headed back.
The yellow truck was nowhere in sight on any of the streets we passed nor the street we were on.
“That bastard!” he said.
“Back to Bay’s house,” I said.
I went to the house and Dennis stayed in the car when we got back there.
Bay looked troubled when he came to the door. I asked him, “Was your cousin just here?”
He nodded. “He just left,” he said wearily, “two thousand dollars richer than when he
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