Backup Men

22

THE OLD Criterion Theater was located near Fifth and Howard in the heart of the area that countless winos and derelicts had shuffled through in their aimless pursuit of oblivion. I noticed that a lot of the old buildings had been torn down and if you liked to look at parking lots, you might say that the neighborhood had been improved.

The Criterion long ago had showed its last fourth-run double feature and now its marquee spelled out its latest attraction in carelessly spaced black letters which read, “Crists Own Home Gospil Mission Open 6 A.M.” Whoever operated the mission either couldn’t spell too well or couldn’t locate the needed letters or just didn’t think that it mattered. It probably didn’t.

The Criterion Building itself was a seven-story brick affair that looked as if it had a long overdue date with the wrecker’s ball. There seemed to be nothing about it either architecturally or historically that would cause anyone to protest its demolition. It was one of those buildings that cities tear down every day and when you pass by after they’re gone you have to think hard to recall what had once been there.

The three of us sat at a table in the window of a cheap bar and grill across from the building and stared at it as we drank some suspicious-tasting Scotch. It was half past ten and I wondered who was working late in the lighted offices on the third and seventh floors and whether they were making any money.

“I didn’t learn anything back there,” Wanda Gothar said to Padillo. “I still think Gitner and Kragstein killed my brother.”

“Think what you like,” Padillo said.

“Who else could have?”

“McCorkle,” Padillo said, not smiling.

She almost smiled, but not quite. “Not McCorkle. Not with a garrote. He’d get the ends confused and then say to hell with it and go back to the kitchen for a drink.”

“That eliminates McCorkle. What about the people I used to work for? You remember Burmser. He didn’t have much use for your brother. But more important was that the king wouldn’t have anything to do with official protection. So Burmser has your brother killed in McCorkle’s apartment and then pressures me into signing on. That gives him a man on the scene.”

“That seems a little farfetched,” I said. “Even for Burmser.”

“I guess it does,” Padillo said.

“Well, what about the king and Scales?” I said. “They may be a little short on motive and opportunity, but if we put our minds to it, we could probably work something out.”

They both ignored me as Wanda Gothar took a sip of her Scotch, shuddered slightly, and said, “So whom does that leave?”

“It leaves you, Wanda,” Padillo said.

“You’re forgetting Kragstein and Gitner again.”

“Your motive’s just as good. You’re also one of the few people who Walter would let get behind him. With him out of the way, you’d get the entire pie, not just half. Then you could hire me—or someone like me—for nickels and dimes. It’s the perfect motive. Money.”

“You’re forgetting my alibi.”

“The ‘high Government official’ you were shacked up with while Walter was getting himself killed?” Padillo made his voice put “high Government official” in quotes. “Maybe he’d been at the track too often and was down on his luck. He’d give you an alibi for a price.”

She looked at me. “Where does he get them?”

“From a wholesaler,” I said.

“There’s only one thing wrong with your theory, Padillo,” she said.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t kill Walter and you know it.”

He nodded. “There’s that.”

“I still think it was Kragstein and Gitner.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

“What?” she said.

He nodded toward the Criterion Building. “You can go ask them.”

“That’s what you’ve had in mind all along, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t we just wait for them to come out?” I said. “The king and Scales ran out on us. Maybe they’ve hired some new babysitters—Kragstein and Gitner. Maybe nobody wants them dead anymore. Maybe all four of them are sitting up there right now playing dominoes and chuckling about how dumb we are.”

“You think it’s all been dumb, don’t you, Mac?” Padillo said.

“Not dumb. Just less than brilliant.”

He nodded. “I can’t argue with that. But I’ll go in there, knowing it’s dumb, because I have to find Gitner and because once he leaves that building, my chances of finding him again will be next to nothing. Wanda’s going because of her brother. You don’t have any reason to go and if you want to sit here and drink your Scotch until it’s over, nobody’s going to object.”

“You make a nice little talk,” I said.

Padillo turned to Wanda. “That means he’s going with us.”

She shook her head slightly as if puzzled. First she looked at me and then at Padillo. “Why?”

Padillo shrugged. “Ask him.”

She looked at me again. “Why?” she said and there was real wonder in her voice.

“I don’t like to feel left out,” I said.

The lock on the front door of the Criterion Building was broken. It could have been broken that night or the month before and I bet myself it would stay broken until they tore down the building which didn’t look as if it contained much worth stealing anyway.

The lobby had a white tile floor with some black tiles that spelled out Criterion Building and it probably had looked neat and businesslike back in 1912, but now the titles were a dirty gray and some of them were chipped and broken and a lot more were missing.

The two elevators wore OUT OF ORDER signs that looked almost as old as the building. To the left Was a cigar stand, its glass case empty, its shelves bare. A man was curled up behind the case asleep, a half-empty wine bottle clutched to his chest.

“We walk,” Padillo said.

“There were lights on the third and seventh floors,” Wanda said.

We stopped at the building directory. The overhead light for the lobby was out—permanently, it seemed—and someone had rigged up an extension cord with a forty-watt bulb that dangled over the building directory. The second and third floors still had some occupants—a novelty company, a manufacturer’s representative, a collection agency, all last-gasp businesses with no need for much of a front nor the ability to pay for one. There were no occupants listed for any floor above the fourth.

“I’ll bet on seven,” I said.

“We’ll check out three first,” Padillo said. “Kragstein may be having one of his clever nights.”

At the third-floor landing Padillo, his gun drawn, opened the door cautiously to peer down the corridor. He opened it wider and slipped through. Wanda and I followed. She held the Walther in her right hand, her purse in her left. I decided to take the thirty-eight out of my jacket pocket.

The light that we’d seen from downstairs came from an office at the far end of the corridor. We tiptoed toward it, skirting a broken desk, three old wooden file cabinets, and a collection of mismatched office chairs that some former tenant had moved as far as the corridor before he said to hell with it.

The lighted door was half frosted glass and half wood. Carefully lettered in black on the glass was “The Arbitrator, Miss Nancy deChant Orumber, Editor.” Padillo motioned us to the other side of the door where we flattened ourselves against the wall. He took up a similar position next to the door knob, reached for it, turned it, and flung the door open. It banged against something inside the office. We waited, but nothing happened. We waited some more and then a woman’s voice asked in a cool, polite tone, “May I help you?”

She wore a gray leghorn hat with a wide brim and a narrow white band that had some artificial flowers attached to it. Pink roses, I think. She sat behind an old but carefully polished oak desk which was covered with what seemed to be galley proofs. Two sides of the room were lined with bookshelves that contained bound copies that had The Arbitrator lettered on them in gold ink and below that the year of their issue. They went all the way back to 1905.

She looked at us with unwavering bright blue eyes that were covered with gold-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was white and she held a fat black editor’s pencil in her right hand. Next to her on a stand was an L. C. Smith typewriter. There was a black phone on the desk and against the outer wall were three cabinets that the door had banged against. Everything was spotlessly clean.

She asked again if she could help us and Padillo hastily stuck his automatic back in his waistband and said, “Security, ma’am. Just checking.”

“This building hasn’t had a night watchman since nine-teen-sixty-three,” she said. “I do not think you are telling the truth, young man. However, you seem too well dressed to be bandits, especially the young lady. I like your frock, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said.

“I am Miss Orumber and this is my last night in this office so I welcome your company although I must say that well brought up young ladies and gentlemen are taught to knock before entering. You will join me in a glass of wine, of course.”

“Well, I don’t think that—” Padillo didn’t get the chance to finish.

“Nonsense,” she said, rising and moving over to one of the filing cabinets. “There was a time when we would have had champagne, but—” She let her sentence trail off as she brought out a bottle of sherry, placed it on the desk, returned to the file cabinet, and produced four long-stemmed wineglasses which she polished with a clean white cloth.

“You, young man,” she said to me. “You look as though you may have acquired a few of the social graces along the way. There’s character in your face. Some would probably call it dissipation, but I choose to call it character. You may pour the wine.”

I looked at Padillo who shrugged slightly. I poured the wine and handed glasses all around.

“We will not drink to me,” she said, “but to The Arbitrator and to its overdue demise. The Arbitrator.” We sipped the wine.

“In nineteen-twenty-one a man sent me a Pierce-Arrow. A limousine. The only condition was that I include his name in that year’s edition of The Arbitrator. A limousine, can you imagine? No gentleman would present a lady with a limousine unless he also provided a chauffeur. The man was a boor. Needless to say his name was not included.”

She had a lined, haughty face with a thin nose and a still strong chin. She could have been a beauty fifty or sixty years ago, one of those tall imperious types that Gibson once drew.

“What is The Arbitrator,” Padillo asked, “San Francisco’s social register?” I think he was trying to be polite.

“Not is, young man, but was. It ruled San Francisco society for nearly forty years. I have been its only editor. Now society in San Francisco is no more and after this edition, neither is The Arbitrator.”

She finished her drink in quick, tiny sips. “I shan’t keep you,” she said, moving around her desk and lowering herself into the chair. “Thank you for coming.”

We turned to go, but she said, “Do you know something? Today is my birthday. I had quite forgotten. I am eighty-five.”

“Our best wishes,” I said.

“I’ve edited The Arbitrator since nineteen-o-nine. This will be the last edition, but I said that, didn’t I? May I ask you something, young man? You with the brooding eyes,” she said, nodding at Padillo.

“Anything,” he said.

“Can you think of a more ridiculous way to spend a lifetime than deciding who should or should not be considered members of something called society?”

“I can think of several,” he said.

“Really? Do tell me one to cheer me up.”

“I’d hate to spend a lifetime worrying about whether I belonged to something called society.”

She brightened. “And the bastards did worry, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Padillo said, “I’m sure they did.”

We started moving up the stairs again, checking each floor as we went. There was nothing on any of them but dust and dirt and discarded furniture.

We stopped before taking the stairs that led to the seventh floor. Padillo turned to look at Wanda and me. “I don’t think we’re going to be much of a surprise,” he said.

“It’s a set-up?” I asked.

“When Kragstein dropped the name of this building,” Wanda said, “he didn’t drop it casually.”

“Well?” Padillo said.

“Let’s go,” I said. He looked at Wanda. After a moment she nodded.

“I’ll take the center of the corridor,” he said. “McCorkle will take the right.” He glanced at Wanda. “You take the left. If something happens, dive in the nearest office. If not, we’ll bust into the office with lights just like we did before.”

The seventh-floor corridor was much the same as the others. There was dust and some untidy piles of abandoned office forms. Two scarred desks on broken legs tilted toward each other. Next to them was an old-fashioned water cooler minus its glass bottle. Light shone through the frosted pane of a closed door toward the end of the corridor.

We moved slowly, checking each office. They were all empty. Once more we took up positions flat against the wall on each side of the lighted door. Padillo turned the knob and gave the door a hard shove. It swung in, banging against the wall. Padillo crouched as he darted in, his automatic extended like a fat steel forefinger. I followed, going in low and fast and then scuttling crablike to my left. I needn’t have bothered. There was nothing in the office but the king and Scales.

They were seated on the floor leaning against the right wall. Their legs were tied at the ankles with what appeared to be steel wire. Their arms were behind them, apparently bound at the wrists. Broad strips of white surgical tape were plastered across their mouths. Their eyes were as wide as they could get them.

Wanda Gothar stood next to me as Padillo moved over to the king and reached for the strip of surgical tape. He grasped one end and gave it a hard yank. The king yelled. A voice behind me said, “Don’t turn, Padillo.”

He turned anyway, his move incredibly fast, but it wasn’t any use. Something hard jammed itself into my right kidney. Padillo stopped his turn, bent forward, and placed his automatic on the floor next to his right foot. He straightened and shrugged.

The voice behind me said, “I didn’t think it would be so easy, Mike.” It was Gitner’s voice.

“There was a time he’d have tried for your legs,” another voice said. I’d heard that one before, too. It was Kragstein’s. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Michael?” His voice came from behind and to my left. I assumed that Wanda Gothar had a gun in her kidneys, too. I didn’t turn my head to look.

“Slowly and carefully, McCorkle,” Gitner said. “Bend down and put your gun on the floor, just like Padillo did.”

“You do the same, Wanda,” Kragstein said.

I did as I was told and when I straightened, Gitner said, “Turn slowly to your left, McCorkle. Very slowly. Walk over to the wall and lean against it, arms and legs apart, just like on TV.”

“Padillo goes first,” Kragstein said.

“All right, Padillo, move,” Gitner said.

Padillo headed toward the wall opposite the king and Scales. He moved past my line of vision. I had nothing to look at now but the bound pair on the floor. The king smiled at me tentatively, but I didn’t smile back. I didn’t feel like it.

“All right, McCorkle. Your turn.”

He prodded me over to the wall. Padillo and Wanda were already leaning against it. I assumed the position, something I’d never done before, and found that I didn’t like it. Gitner ran his hands over me, but discovered nothing that he wanted.

“Why aren’t they dead?” Padillo said.

“That should be obvious, old friend,” Kragstein said. “They’re far more valuable alive. We’ve come to an understanding.”

“You get a cut of the five million, right?”

“Let’s just say that under the new arrangement we now work for the king.”

“There’s nothing new about that,” Padillo said.

“I don’t follow you, old friend.”

“I may be getting slow, Kragstein, but you’re getting dumb. You’ve always worked for the king. You just didn’t know it.”