Eureka

CHAPTER 16

The rain that had started as a quiet mist developed into a full-fledged storm by the time I drove the length of the town to the diner. The wind had picked up, bringing with it dark clouds creased with lightning and heavy with a steady downpour.

My sessions with Howland and Culhane had yielded little. Howland’s take on the massacre at Grand View House and the trial of Arnie Riker for the murder of Wilma Thompson was passable but shaky reportage at best, laced with sour mash and the kind of myths old-time newsmen like to spin over dinner or drinks at the bar. Culhane had completely avoided talking about the Grand View massacre and the Riker murder case and Eddie Woods.

The diner’s red, flashing neon sign promised comfort from the storm. It was a classic-chrome-trimmed, with leather booths, and a long counter half circling the kitchen. The odor of cooked meat and onions and strong coffee stirred my appetite. I took a booth in the corner; ordered a rare T-bone, soft scrambled eggs, sliced potatoes and onions, hot rolls, lemon meringue pie, and a Muhlenbach beer; commandeered a crumpled but readable afternoon edition of the Times from the seat of an abandoned booth; rolled a cigarette; and smoked while I scanned the headlines and waited for dinner.

The story I was looking for was buried back in the second section in the obituaries, three paragraphs under the headline: woman drowns in bathtub accident. It told me less than I knew already and ended with two lines: “The name of the deceased is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. No funeral arrangements were available at press time.” Jimmy Pennington was smart enough to open the door in the event there was more to the accident than I had indicated. That’s why he was the best reporter in town.

I put the paper aside when my dinner arrived, and dug in. Culhane was right: the steak was an inch thick and cooked to perfection, the rolls crumbled in my hand when I buttered them, and the beer was served in an iced mug. I was too busy devouring my meal to notice the black Pontiac pull into the parking lot and the two guys in the front seat who did not get out.

I finished a leisurely meal, ordered a second cup of coffee, had a smoke. I knew my quest for facts about Verna Wilensky’s mother lode was wasted time, and the rain was showing signs of letting up. Then there was Rosebud, waiting for his dinner and bone. It was only 7:30, I could be home by 11:00, so I decided to head back to town. The waitress wrapped the bone in cellophane and put it in a paper bag for me. I tipped the waitress a buck, probably the largest tip she had ever received, turned up my collar, pulled my hat low over my eyes against the rain, and quick-stepped around the corner of the diner toward my car.

As I reached the door a voice behind me said, “What’s yer hurry, bohunk?”

As I turned, an arm the size of a steam pipe wrapped around my chest, pinning both arms to my sides. The bag with my dog bone fell at my feet. A second man, a mere outline in rain and darkness, stepped in close and threw an arcing jackhammer punch deep into my stomach. It doubled me over. My hat flipped into the mud at my feet. Air whooshed out of my lungs. Sparks dimmed my eyesight for a moment. Pain swelled upward from my stomach and my dinner soured the back of my throat. I swallowed hard as he stepped in closer and landed another rib-bender. My knees buckled and I sagged toward the ground, but the guy holding me dragged me back up and growled, “Go home to your mama and stay there, big shot.” As the muscleman swung his arm back for a third shot at my gut, I kicked him, with everything I had left, in the groin. I felt muscle, bone, and tissue smash under the kick. It lifted him an inch off the ground and sent him backward, doubled over and screaming.

As he fell to his knees, I swung my head forward, then threw it back as hard as I could. It smashed into the face of the thug holding me from behind. I smacked him with the back of my head a second time. He yowled, and his grasp loosened enough that I could swing around and break loose of his grip. Facing him, I smacked his face with the top of my head. The back of his head shattered the car window. His arm dropped to his side, and I threw a hard, straight jab into his face, ruining what was left of his nose. Then I saw the empty sleeve of his other arm tucked in his coat jacket.

He had held me with the only arm he had. He made a funny little sound and fell straight down as I turned to the other attacker, who was gasping for breath and trying to scramble to his feet in the mud. I stepped in close and threw a haymaker down to the side of his jaw just below the ear. Both his hands splashed into the mud, and I hit him again with a roundhouse right that knocked him up and over on his back. He lay there, arms flung out at his sides, his mouth open and gobbling rain.

I turned back to the first guy, who was on his hand and knees, and finished him off with another right, straight down to his temple. He fell face forward and splashed into a mud puddle without another sound.

The whole melee took less than two minutes.

When I rolled my first attacker over, to keep him from drowning in mud, his coat flopped open and I saw the badge pinned to his vest and the. 32 under his arm.

I had been doing battle with my old pals Laurel and Hardy. I took a closer look at One-Arm’s partner and stared at an empty eye socket. I looked around in the rain for a minute but didn’t see his glass eye.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself.

I was doubled over from the blows to my stomach but not too unsteady to reach down and rip the badge off the big guy’s vest. Then I relieved him of his pistol, picked up my hat and paper sack with the dog bone, got in the car and drove off, leaving them both staring up at the rain.

I drove around the corner and past the park. Rain and wind had pretty much washed away all evidence of the noontime picnic, and the red words on the sandwich boards advertising fireworks tonight 9 p.m. ran down the length of the boards like streams of blood. I stopped in front of the municipal building, took the bone out of the paper sack, and put the gun and badge in it.

My ribs were throbbing and I had trouble standing up straight, but I made it up the steps and entered the police department. Rosalind had been replaced by a tall, slender rail of man in a blue uniform. He was smoking a cigar and reading Life magazine. He looked up through bored eyes as I put the bag on the counter.

“This is a gift for Captain Culhane,” I said. “Please see that he gets it.”

“Who shall I say it’s from?”

“He’ll know,” I said, and got out of there. I aimed the car for L.A. and got the hell out of Dodge.

When I got to 101 I turned on my flasher and pushed the gas pedal close to the floor. Rain bubbled through the shattered car window and sprayed on my neck. My ribs felt like they were broken. Just the touch of my hand when I reached down to check brought tears to my eyes.

I turned off the flashing light and slowed down going through Santa Barbara, then flicked it back on and leaned on the gas again. I drove straight through to Sunset and headed east. The streets in L.A. were bone-dry. I was home by 10:30.

I pulled into the drive and sat for a minute. My gut was still throbbing. I got out of the car carefully, swinging my legs out the door first and then pulling myself to my feet with my hands on the doorsill. The pain didn’t get any worse; it couldn’t have. Stooped over, I made the door, unlocked it, and got inside. I went in the bedroom, pulled off jacket and tie, and opened my shirt and checked my torso in the bathroom mirror. Two dark red bruises the size of dollar pancakes formed a sideways figure eight at the bottom of my rib cage. The one-eyed man could hit.

I got the Ben-Gay out of the cabinet and went back in the bedroom. Rosie was scratching the back door, so I put the bottle on the night table and groaned my way to the back door. He was so happy to see me he jumped up on me and gave my a sloppy kiss. His paws hit me right at ground zero and added new pain to my aching gut.

“Jesus,” I yelled. He jumped back, looking like I had whacked him on the rear.

“It’s okay,” I said, and got down on my knees and held my hand out to him. He came over and leaned against me, and the heat of his body felt good against the bruises.

“The old man took a bit of a beating,” I said.

I fed him, gave him a bone, left the back door open, and went back to the bedroom. I lay down on the bed and eased my pants off. The Ben-Gay burned as I carefully spread it over my abdomen, but then it began to work its magic. I lay there looking at the ceiling until the pain eased. I don’t know how long I lay there, thirty minutes maybe, long enough for Rosie to finish with the bone and come back in. He put his front paws up on the bed and looked down at me, his nose twitching from the pungent odor. I scratched him behind the ears and took deep breaths and waited for the ache to subside.

When I could move I got up, locked the front door, got the Canadian Club and a water tumbler, dropped a cube of ice in the tumbler, and went back to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, poured myself a half-glass of whiskey, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. Just inhaling hurt.

Rosie sat at my feet, looking concerned. I patted the bed.

“Come on up,” I said. He jumped on the bed and sat down and looked down at me with concern.

“I’m okay, pal, nothing broken,” I told him. That seemed to satisfy him and he went to his side of the bed, did his little circle thing, and lay down.

My trip had earned me more than a sore stomach. I was sure now that the Wilensky woman’s death was no accident.

I swallowed half the drink, smoked awhile, finished off the drink, and doused the cigarette. The whiskey soaked up a little more of the pain. I lay down on my back, worked my way under the sheet, and turned off the light.

It had been a very long day. I was asleep before Rosie started to snore.