Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Wrath by Peter Brandt

The act was vicious and violent. The vengeance was bitter-sweet.

The bar was empty.

The customers were either at the tables or in the hard-backed chairs on either side of the bandstand. Most of them were young and very serious and they listened quietly to the musicians. There was no dancing.

Three men came in and sat down at the bar. All three wore pinstripe suits that were a size too small. Two of the men were short and heavy set. The other was tall and well built. There was a constant twitch in his left eye. He ordered three old fashioneds.

“What the hell, Carl,” said one of the men. “What kind of spook joint is this?”

Carl’s eye twitched rapidly. “Take it easy, Rocco. The smog’s getting you.”

The other man laughed. Rocco grunted.

“Besides,” said Carl. “This is the only joint in town where you can get a decent drink.” He nodded towards the bartender. “Joseph comes from Milan. He makes a real drink.”

Joseph smiled and set the old fashioneds on the bar.

“Here’s to business,” said Carl. They drank.

“Not bad,” said the other man. He had short kinky hair and he wore horn-rimmed glasses.

“The liquor’s okay,” said Rocco. “But I wish to hell I was out of L.A. and back in K.C. listening to real jazz. This cool stuff turns my stomach.”

“You mean you miss that dumb broad of yours.”

“Shut up, Frank.”

Carl stuck a cigar in his mouth and Joseph fired it with a silver lighter and moved off to the other end of the bar.

“You’ll both forget Kansas City when this blonde chick comes out to sing.”

Rocco nodded eagerly. “Nice stuff, huh?”

Carl blew a smoke ring. “Long blonde hair and a sharp figure. Yeah, she’s a nice package.”

Rocco licked his lips. “You know, Carl, I’m real hot for a dame.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Frank scowled. “Lay off the women. We got a business deal to talk over.”

“Pipe down, Frank. What do you say, Carl? Do we meet her?”

Carl studied his reflection very seriously in the mirror behind the bar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s swell. And lay off me, Frank. Pleasure first and then we talk deals.”

Frank laughed contemptuously, but said nothing.

The three men ordered another round of drinks. And then another. They were feeling very good. They laughed at each other’s jokes. A few of the jazz lovers gave them cold stares and then turned hastily away when they saw Rocco.

Carl turned on the bar stool as a tall, extremely thin man approached them. He had a large hawklike nose that gave him the look of a carnivorous bird.

“Hello, Carl.”

“Evening, Harv. Meet a couple friends of mine from back East. Rocco Cavoli and Frank Misano. Boys, this is Harvey Dunn. He runs The Black Cat.”

Harvey smiled and stuck out a bony hand. It remained empty. Rocco and Frank looked at him without smiling.

“Nice place,” said Rocco.

“Say, Harv...” Carl leaned forward with a confidential air. “You know this chick you got singing here. Well, the boys would like to meet her.”

“You mean Cathy Rain? I don’t know, Carl. There isn’t suppose to be any fraternizing between patrons and employees.”

Carl nodded. “Yeah. That’s the way it is. We want a nice table ringside. And after she finishes a set you introduce us to the chick.”

“But, Carl...” Harvey Dunn pulled his nose with a nervous gesture.

“You’re a nice guy, Harv. You’re gonna stay that way ain’t you?”

Harvey Dunn led them to a table by the bandstand, marked “Reserve.” He put the reservation in his pocket.

Carl smiled. His left eye twitched. “You’ll come back, won’t you Harv?”

“Yes, Carl.”

“But not alone?”

Harvey Dunn shook his head and smiled.

In a few minutes Cathy Rain was introduced. The hard spotlight was reflected in her blond hair. She wore a black strapless that was tight in the right places.

Carl smiled and lit another cigar. Rocco licked his lips. Frank scowled and began cutting his nails with a penknife.

The blond girl began with a rhythmic, finger snapping version of “Old Black Magic” and then when the lights dimmed she softly sang the lyrics to “Willow Weep for Me.” She ended the set with “The Man I love.”

Rocco stared at her hungrily.

When Harvey Dunn introduced her, the three men rose in unison. She smiled graciously and sat down. The three men sat down. Carl looked hard at Harvey Dunn and the tall man disappeared.

Cathy would accept nothing stronger than a coke.

“You sing real nice,” said Rocco.

Cathy smiled. “Thanks. This is my first job.”

“Yeah, you’re real good,” said Frank. He was no longer cutting his nails.

The smile stayed on the girl’s face but she was nervous.

Carl leaned forward confidentially. “The boys and I thought maybe after you’re done tonight we could all have dinner together.”

Rocco and Frank nodded.

“I’m flattered. Really I am,” she said. “But I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

“It’s okay,” said Rocco. “We talked to your boss. It’s all right with him.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Listen baby,” said Carl. “These are my friends. They asked for you. Nobody, not even a cute chick says no to Carl Rieger.”

Cathy stood up. “You’re a big man, Mr. Rieger. But the answer is still no. It would ruin my career to be seen with you or you’re hoodlum friends.”

Rocco pounded the table with his fist. “Hoodlums! God-damn you. You ain’t so hot you cheap floozy!”

But Cathy Rain turned on her heel and walked away. Everyone in the club was watching them.

“Who the hell is she? Calling us hoods.”

“Forget it,” said Frank.

“Not me,” said Rocco. He laughed harshly. “I’m going to defrost that iceberg.”

Cathy Rain said goodnight to the man at the door and stepped out into the hot August night. The air was full of the smell of exhaust fumes but now the streets were silent. She had changed her gown for a white summer dress that she wore without any jacket.

She walked around the corner and up the block toward the taxi stand. Her high heels echoed down the street. She passed a parked sedan with its motor idling. Then there were footsteps behind her and she was not alone.

Cathy walked faster, afraid to turn around. The footsteps were still there. She started to run and then suddenly an arm hooked her throat and a rough hand pushed a sweet smelling rag over her nose and mouth. The fumes from the cloth burned her nostrils bringing tears to her eyes as she kicked and flung her arms wildly but the fumes were stifling. Her eyelids fluttered as a numbness swept over her. She felt herself lifted into the air.

“Git the dam door open,” someone said.

The voice seemed to come from a long way off but it sounded faintly familiar. Then a dark cloud pushed all the breath out of her. She was conscious of being flung on the cushions, and inhaling deeply, she passed out.

Carl drove the car. Frank sat beside him and Rocco sat in the back seat with the unconscious girl.

Frank said angrily, “What a dumb stunt. They give cyanide for jobs like this in California.”

“Shut up. Drive where it’s quiet, Carl. Up in the hills.”

Carl nodded and soon they were on the winding roads in the Santa Monica Mountains.

The girl moaned. Rocco watched the dark outline of her face and fingered the yellow hair.

“Hey! I’ll bet she ain’t no real blond.”

The men in the front seat said nothing. Rocco chuckled to himself and played with her hair.

It was a long drive into the mountains and by the time they reached their destination Cathy had come to. She was sick and Rocco held her arms behind her while she vomited in the bushes.

“Let me go,” she begged.

Rocco laughed and released her. Cathy tried to run and he tripped her. He yanked her to her feet by her hair and when she whimpered he hit her in the stomach.

“You ain’t so high and mighty now,” Rocco said. Someone else hit her again in the stomach and then they dragged her back to the car.

“We’ll use the back seat,” said Carl. Rocco and Frank nodded. The full realization of what they were going to do finally struck her and she began to scream. But the smell of chloroform filled the back of the car and when the rag was taken away Cathy was still.

Rocco grinned and began to undress her.

The motel was plastered with pink stucco. It was very long and low and the cleaning girl did not reach number twenty-six until after her lunch break. She stuffed a half-eaten candy bar in her pocket, knocked on the door twice, and when there was no answer she let herself in with a passkey.

The rooms were still dark. She opened the Venetian blinds in the living room and began dusting the furniture with an oiled rag, transferring the dust from one spot to another. After a minute she stopped and wiped her nose. There was a nasty odor in the air. She stuck her nose up in the air like a bird dog and sniffed her way to the bathroom.

For the first time she noticed that the light above the mirror was on, burning weakly. There was a shaving brush, stiff with congealed soap and a razor on the rim of the wash basin. The frosted glass door to the shower was closed.

She coughed. The smell turned her stomach. She started to leave and then curiosity got the best of her.

She opened the shower door.

A patrolman heard the girl’s screams. When he reached number twenty-six he found the girl sitting in the doorway giggling hysterically. When the girl saw him she started to cry.

“There’s a dead man in there,” she sobbed.

The patrolman was young and new to being a cop. It made him gag.

The man was squatting in the shower stall. He was fat and hairy chested and his flabby throat had been punctured like a sieve. The blood had flowed over the body and mingled with the water on the tile. The young patrolman had never seen so much blood. The corpse looked like an over-ripe tomato that had burst its skin.

The patrolman used the phone in the motel office to call his station. Two plain clothes detectives were followed by the homicide department. Flash bulbs popped and finger prints were dusted as the assistant coroner officially announced that the man was dead from wounds inflicted by a sharp instrument such as an ice pick. Off the record he commented that someone had done a hell of a thorough fob.

An assistant D.A. appeared when the police learned the identity of the murdered man. He had registered as Richard Carter.

The police in several states knew him as Rocco Cavoli.

Mrs. Maule was a widow. It left her with a great deal of free time and nothing to do but gossip, stroke the fur of her cat, or go to the movies. Tonight she had seen a musical and she nervously hummed the tunes from it as she hurried home along the deserted street. The night was sultry and she carried her coat over her arm.

She felt much better when she had unlocked her door and switched on the lights. She turned on the fan and went into the kitchen to make coffee. While she waited for the coffee to percolate she put away the dishes she had left on the sink to drain.

It was then that she looked out of the kitchen window and saw a blaze of light from the vacant lot adjacent to her own property.

It was a fire.

Mrs. Maule quickly laid down the saucer in her hand and ran out into the backyard. She fumbled in the dark for the pail and filled it from the water faucet. As she ran towards the vacant lot water from the pail sloshed on her dress but she was not conscious of it.

The fire came from a mound in the center of the lot and although it burned fiercely it did not spread. Hurriedly she emptied her pail. The water made an arc through the flames and suddenly Mrs. Maule jumped back.

“Oh my God!” she wailed.

Outlined in the fire was a human head the color of charcoal and as the water sizzled all the hair fell out. A blackened tongue protruded from the mouth and then the flames closed over it.

Two fire extinguishers were used up before the fire could be put out. The odor of burnt flesh and clothes was very strong.

Mrs. Maule had to be given a sedative.

It was not until a week later that the police were able to identify the thing in the vacant lot.

His name was Frank Misano.

The Black Cat was just beginning to fill up when Carl Rieger came in and sat down at the bar.

Behind the bar, Joseph smiled and laid down the glass he had been wiping. “Good evening, Mr. Rieger.”

Carl nodded. “Give me a double scotch and soda. Is Dunn around?”

“Not yet, Mr. Rieger. He should be in very soon.” Joseph only laced the scotch with carbonated water.

“You know how I like it,” said Carl.

Joseph smiled. “That’s my business.”

“I’ll be in a booth. Tell Dunn I want to see him when he comes in.”

Carl took his drink and sat in the booth so he could see anyone coming in. He wiped his damp face with a handkerchief and his hand came in contact with the gun strapped under his arm. His left eye twitched nervously.

There was a brunette sitting on the bench with the pianist. She was going over the music.

Carl finished the scotch and signaled to Joseph who served him another from a silver tray. Fifteen minutes passed before Harvey Dunn folded his large frame and slid into the seat opposite Carl.

“ ’Lo, Harv.”

Harvey Dunn did not smile. “What can I do for you, Carl?”

“Nothing. Just making my rounds. This is my last night in L.A. for awhile.”

“Oh? Where are you going?”

Carl shrugged. “Mexico. South America. My first stop is Acapulco.”

“Nice climate down there.”

“Yeah. I guess you heard about Frank and Rocco.”

“Everybody has, Carl.”

Carl licked his lips. “They were too hot I guess.”

Harvey Dunn shook his head. “You know it wasn’t the syndicate.”

Carl looked at him suspiciously. “I do?”

“Funny coincidence you three guys here the night I lose my singer, and now there’s just you.”

“You talk too much.”

“She was a nice kid, Carl.”

Carl lit a cigar and blew a smoke ring. “They’re all nice,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Harvey Dunn smiled and rubbed his hawk-nose. “Just that you’re the last.”

“Go to hell,” said Carl. But he shivered as he said it.

When he left, Harvey Dunn was still sitting there with a smile on his face.

Outside, the smog and fog had mingled in a dark haze that formed a heavy layer over the street. Carl spat on the sidewalk and threw his cigar in the gutter. He walked to the parking lot and slid behind the wheel of his sedan.

Too late, he realized that someone else was in the car and there was a long moment as he froze, afraid to turn his head. He could hear who ever it was breathing. His eyes twitched nervously. There was the gun under his coat but he could not move. He heard a loud, rasping sound and finally realized that it was his own breathing. He smiled faintly. It had been his imagination. There was no one in the back seat. He turned to make sure and saw the hand with the ice pick.

Carl threw his hand up in defense and the long point of steel pierced the webbing of skin between the thumb and index finger. The shriek that tore past his lips was cut off as the ice pick descended again and plunged into his throat. He gagged and his tongue slithered out of his mouth like a huge red worm.

“Thank you, Mr. Rieger. Now I’m finished.”

Carl Rieger’s body was not found by the parking lot attendant until the next day. The police were not surprised. They even found the ice pick. It was a very ordinary ice pick and of course any prints had been wiped away.

They found it sticking in Carl Rieger’s left eye.

It was the middle of the afternoon and the visiting hour at Green Valley Sanitarium. Every seat in the waiting room was occupied so the man leaned his back against the wall and waited.

Finally a gray haired nurse in a white starched uniform called his name and he followed her down a long corridor. Through the open doors he could see the visitors and patients talking in subdued voices. It was so quiet in the hall he could hear the rustle of the nurse’s starched uniform.

“It was a terrible thing,” the nurse said.

“I would rather not talk about it,” he said.

“Of course. But you mustn’t give up hope. The withdrawal isn’t always permanent. Many patients recover completely from the shock they received.”

“I would rather not talk about it.”

“Of course.”

The nurse led him out on a wide flagstone veranda. From the veranda he could see green grass that descended to a grove of eucalyptus trees. It was very beautiful and still.

He felt better. It was a fine sanitarium. The nurse was right. There was always the chance of recovery. The nurse left him and he walked to the end of the veranda where a girl with yellow hair sat in a chaise lounge. She was looking off towards the grove of trees with the sunlight reflected in her hair and singing in the sweet, childish tone of a little girl.

He pressed her hand very gently and knelt beside her.

“The last one is dead,” he said.

Cathy smiled, without understanding the words of the strange man and continued her song.

Joseph was smiling at his daughter but there were tears in his eyes.