Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1957 (British Edition)

Unfinished Business by John E. Hasty

Desire for vengeance is a sickness — all the psychiatrists agree on this. But so is doing time for the crime of a so-called friend. Gladden burned to wipe out the wrong with a bullet, for his soul refused to file it as—

The closer to Los Angeles, the tougher it was to hitch a ride. Everybody seemed to be in a hell of a hurry. Since the Navy truck dropped him near Oxnard, Gladden figured he must have walked eight or ten miles — the largest continuous stretch since he’d left San Francisco at four o’clock that morning.

It was now two in the afternoon, with the fury of the sun pouring down on him, and the pavement scorching the soles of his shoes. He felt hot and tired, but curiously he was not hungry, although he hadn’t eaten since he’d started. It was a good thing, though, not being hungry. He was going to have to go easy on meals. He’d need most of what little money he had for return bus fare. The idea was to get back fast — kill Mac, then get back fast.

With luck, he’d be in San Francisco by tomorrow, the day after at the latest. Then he’d buy a half pint of cheap whiskey. With the smell of it on his breath and on his clothes, he’d come stumbling into the crumby little skid row hotel where he lived, stinking, dirty, unshaven, looking like any other bum who’d been on a binge.

He’d hit the sack, and pretend to sleep it off, and wouldn’t remember anything beyond drinking with a couple of winos on Howard Street. Not that anyone would question him. Who’d bother? At the end of the week, he’d report to the parole officer as usual.

The green Chevvie that picked him up south of Oxnard took him all the way to Hollywood. He uncramped himself from the seat, got out, thanked the guy, and stood there in a hot glare of late afternoon sunshine, watching the departing Chevvie lose itself in the flow of traffic. Automatically, his mind began working on the problem of how to find Mac.

In almost any other city — in New York or Chicago or Detroit — you begin trying to locate a man by looking in the phone book. But in Hollywood, people in show business considered it strategic to have unlisted numbers. An unlisted number made you appear important, big time. As long as Gladden had known Mac, the telephone directory had never listed Lyle MacComber.

Mac’s last address known to Gladden was the Sereno Apartments, near La Cienega Boulevard. It would do as a starting point. Mac had moved there from the little shack they had occupied together, because he had hooked up with a combo playing in a La Cienega nite spot, and said he wanted to be closer to the job.

“With me out every night,” he had told Gladden, “and snoring in all keys during the day, while you’re trying to paint in the next room — well, it just won’t work out. We’ll keep in touch, though. And here — here’s a couple of twenties, enough for another month’s rent. Pay it back when you land a job with Walt Disney. Otherwise, forget it.”

Mac had been kidding about the job with Disney. But a funny thing — two days later, the Disney studio had phoned Gladden and had expressed interest in the sketches he had submitted. They had wanted to talk to him on the following morning. Gladden hadn’t kept the appointment. That evening, the cops had come in, searched him and the shack.

They had found a bottle of liquor from a store that had been robbed, along with the twenty-dollar bills. One of the bills had had a mark on it, a blob of purple ink. The old man who owned the liquor store had remembered it. So had the bank teller who had given it to him, not many hours before the stickup.

When the police had questioned Mac, he had denied everything. If they had found a bottle of liquor, it belonged to Gladden. Mac had removed all his belongings when he moved. He had moved, because he couldn’t get along with Gladden. Gladden? An oddball, a character who just wasn’t right.

Mac had laughed about the twenty-dollar bills. Did that make sense? Going around giving away twenties? Besides, at the time of the stickup, he had been in another part of town, working out an arrangement with the piano player of the combo. The piano player confirmed it.

Although the store owner, under cross-examination, admitted having been knocked over the head before getting a good look at the stickup man, he had clung tenaciously to his identification of Gladden as the assailant. He couldn’t describe the man in detail, but he could describe him closely enough. And the description did fit Gladden. So did the bottle of liquor and the bill with the purple blob on it. The jury had taken less than two hours to return a verdict of guilty.

At times, these events possessed for Gladden a faded, nebulous quality, as if they were part of a vaguely remembered dream, or a moving picture seen long ago. The only reality had been the reality of prison. His return to Hollywood brought fuzzy memories back into sharp focus, so vividly clear that they dimmed the actuality surrounding him. People passing him on the sidewalk, cars moving, now swiftly, now slowly, along the street, were without substance and meaning. He turned and walked in the direction of La Cienega Boulevard, thinking of the morning he had first met Mac.

Hollywood had been a new and exciting adventure then. On his way to deliver some art work to an advertising agency on the Sunset Strip, Gladden had stopped at Schwab’s Drug Store for coffee. The counter was crowded with late breakfasters, as Gladden slid into the one vacant seat, alongside a big, broad-shouldered, blond character who wore sports clothes and a scarf knotted around his throat. He looked like a movie actor or, according to Gladden’s conception, a director. Over coffee, they had exchanged a dozen or so words. Then Gladden had left.

Their second meeting had also been at Schwab’s. It was dinner time — early — about five-thirty. When Gladden came in, Mac had been sitting alone at the end of the counter, a copy of Variety propped up in front of him against a sugar shaker. He had glanced up and said, “Hi! How’s the art racket?”

Gladden had looked puzzled, and Mac had laughed. “I noticed those cartoons you had with you the other morning,” was his explanation. “They were real George. Yours, or are you agenting for somebody?”

“Mine,” Gladden had said, “and I wish some of these ad agencies thought as well of them.”

“Hell, whatta you wasting your time on those chiseling fifteen percenters for? You oughta be with one of the big studios, doing animations. You got a touch.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, but so far I haven’t even got inside a studio gate,” Gladden had replied.

This time they had talked all through a leisurely dinner. Gladden learned that his mew friend was neither an actor nor a director, but played trumpet with a band on a television show. His name was Lyle MacComber, and he knew his way around Hollywood. With easy familiarity, he had dropped places and names, some of the latter so important that even Gladden recognized them.

“You know Al Corvak over at Paramount?”

“The art director? I’ve heard of him.”

“Al’s an old buddy of mine. During the war, we were in Special Services together. A prince. Say, what about me setting up a lunch date so you can meet him? It won’t do you a bit of harm. How about next Thursday?”

“That’ll be fine with me.” Gladden had tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Okay, I’ll call Al and arrange it, and then phone you. What’s your number?”

“Sunset 2-6421.”

MacComber had scribbled it on the margin of his copy of Variety and said, “Great! I’ll get in touch with Al tomorrow.”

When they left Schwab’s Gladden had picked up MacComber’s dinner check.

He had heard nothing from MacComber for almost three weeks. Then, late one night, the phone rang, and the voice over it had sounded familiar.

“Johnny?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mac.”

“Who?”

“Ol’ Massa MacComber. Lyle MacComber. Ah been havin’ me a whole hatfulla trouble, son. Damned Yankees done run me off the plantation.” He had made Gladden laugh, as he was always able to do. “No foolin’, Johnny, I’m in a spot. Had a hassel with my landlady, and she gave me the heave-ho. Think you could put me up for tonight? Wanta see you anyway. Just had a talk with Al Corvak — he’s been out of town, but he’s back now — we’ll get together with him and rig that date.”

After Mac arrived, they had talked until almost daylight, mostly about Gladden’s prospects. If nothing came of the get-together with Al Corvak, well, Mac had other connections. Solid, too — real solid. Before they went to bed, plans were made for Mac to move in with Gladden and share the rent.

He seldom did — nor did any of his connections pay off. Yet, somehow, Gladden hadn’t resented this. Mac was always a lot of fun. Gladden liked him. A long time had passed before Gladden got Mac really pegged. A long time — and three years of that time Gladden had spent in prison.

Three years — thirty-six months! A thousand and ninety-five days of steel and concrete and antiseptic odors. Grueling work in the jute mill, which had ruined his hands so that he might never be able to paint again. As he walked the palm-fringed sidewalk, he thrust his hands in front of him, opened and closed his fingers, now too stiff to manipulate a brush. But not too stiff to take care of Mac...

In his imagination, Gladden had lived that scene again and again. He’d be waiting for Mac in the darkness of Mac’s apartment, perhaps in the shadows of the empty street outside the home of Mac’s newest girl friend, perhaps in the dim, deserted parking lot where, after a late show, Mac would come for his car.

When Mac appeared, Gladden would say softly — oh, so softly, “Hello, Mac. Remember me? Johnny Gladden?” He’d let Mac experience one agonizing, fear-congealed moment. Then he’d press the muzzle of the little gun into Mac’s belly, and squeeze the trigger. The little gun that hardly made any noise...

He walked on.

The Sereno — actually El Sereno — was not an apartment house but a motel — two rows of bungalows, each with a garage, set in a U shape around a central concrete area. Sere and dusty-looking palms flanked the driveway leading into the area on which several cars were parked. The first bungalow to the right bore a sign reading Office. Gladden decided he must play this cautiously, make his inquiries about MacComber seem casual. He went on in.

An elderly, undersized man, wearing khaki trousers and a sparkling clean white shirt, moved aimlessly behind the desk. He had watery blue eyes and a melancholy mustache. He was listening to a small radio with the volume full up. He turned it down a trifle before he said, “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“What are your rates here, Pop?”

“Single?”

“That’s right.”

“Six dollars a day.”

“Oh-oh! That’s too rich for me. I figured it might be, just from the looks of the place. A friend of mine recommended it. Guy named MacComber. He still around, or has he moved someplace else?”

“If you mean Lyle MacComber, he’s moved to Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas?” The words came explosively.

“I think he said Las Vegas. Might have been Reno, though. Anyhow, Nevada. Landed a big job up there. Been gone for more’n a year now.”

For a moment, Gladden had the insane urge to laugh. So this was the end of it! All his plans were dissolved into nothing. The long hitch-hike had been useless. Mac wasn’t in Hollywood.

Suddenly, the total fatigue of all the miles that stretched between Hollywood and San Francisco blanketed upon Gladden. He felt as if something inside him had collapsed and with it, his strength. He discovered that his hands were clutching the edge of the desk, that the old man was looking at him curiously.

“Say, you’re all right, ain’t you? Not sick or something?” he asked with concern.

Gladden pushed his hat back from his forehead and let himself lean against the desk. What difference now what the old man thought about him? What reason to be cautious? He didn’t reply until the old man repeated, “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m tired, that’s all. I hitch-hiked four hundred miles today to find a guy.”

“MacComber? You know, I sorta figured you was pretty disappointed. When I told you MacComber wasn’t around, you turned white as a sheet. What’d he do — owe you money?”

Gladden let the question go unanswered. In a moment the old man went on with, “Say, if you’re busted — look, I just work here, and I’d catch hell if the manager ever found out — but a couple fellas checked out of Bungalow D about twenty minutes ago, and it won’t be made up till the night gal comes on at eight o’clock. If you wanta lay down in there and rest for a spell, go ahead. There’s a shower, too.”

The word made a picture in Gladden’s mind. A cold, brisk shower, pelting against his body, washing away the heat and the weariness. He said, “Thanks, Pop. That would be swell. Thanks a lot!”

“That’s okay. Maybe someday somebody’ll do a favor for me. You look real done up.”

He walked Gladden to the diminutive porch and pointed out the bungalow. “That’s D — the one with the door open. Don’t worry if you drop off to sleep. I’ll be around a little before eight o’clock and wake you up.”

Bungalow D consisted of a single room and bath. The twin beds were unmade, the pillows rumpled, the bedding tossed back and dragging on the floor. There were two chairs, a bureau, a small table marked with cigarette burns, rings left by damp tumblers. Gladden went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He removed his coat, tie and shirt, closed the lid of the john, and sat on it to take off his shoes.

The effort seemed more than he could manage, and he had to pause and rest. He had never imagined he could be so tired. From outside, drifted the sound of a car, the soft throb of a motor, rhythmic, drowsy, blending into a reverie in which he saw a long stretch of pavement, flooded with sunshine and extending on and on between brown, heat-scented hills. Then both sound and image faded.

He was awakened sharply by the opening and closing of the outside door, the slam followed by voices, male voices engaged in a desultory argument.

“It’s gotta be in here.”

“Why didn’t you think about it before we checked out?”

The two men, apparently, were the former occupants of the bungalow. Gladden sat very still, wondering, half fearfully, what he’d say if they should discover him and what would happen to the old man.

The voices went on. “A lousy cigarette lighter.”

“It cost me forty bucks. And it’s got my name engraved on it. Supposin’ somebody finds it and hooks me up with MacComber?”

“How’s anybody gonna hook you up with MacComber? Who knows we come here to get him?”

“That old guy in the office knows. You asked him about MacComber, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t ask nobody about nothin’. I found out MacComber ain’t here, and I found out where he is. Or anyhow, where he’ll be tonight at nine o’clock. Now stop yattin’, and look for your lighter.”

The sound of a dresser drawer being pulled out, then, “All the way to California to rub out a guy. We coulda rubbed him out in Nevada.”

“Don’t be a schmo. You know the setup in Nevada — no killings since Buggsy. If the jerk had only stayed there, he coulda laughed about not payin’ his gamblin’ debts, but now — cripes! Look! There’s your lighter, on the floor by the bed.”

Silence. After that, the opening and closing of the outside door, then the fluttering explosions of a car starting.

Blood pounded beneath Gladden’s temples as the meaning of what he had heard seeped through him. Mac had come back to Hollywood. He was back, and these two men had been sent to rub him out.

Gladden’s initial reactions were instinctive. He began dressing rapidly, filled with a wild, unreasoned urge to do something. What? Perhaps issue a warning — tell the old man in the office — do something.

He was fully dressed, standing outside the bathroom, before he realized he was thinking crazy. The old man would call the police. There’d be questions — questions only Gladden could answer — first, about the two men, then about himself. Who he was, where he was from, what he was doing here. They’d check his replies, find out he was violating his parole by leaving San Francisco. He’d be sent back to prison.

The two men were taking care of Mac. That wasn’t the way Gladden wanted it, but that’s the way it was. That’s the way it had to be now, with him keeping strictly clear of it. He opened the door and looked out. The old man had his radio up to full volume again. The concrete area was deserted. Gladden moved across it to the sidewalk. As he reached it, he heard — or thought he heard — the old man call out to him. He did not look back — just quickened his pace and walked on.

He began to get panicky and his mind shouted conflicting orders. Running away like this was an even worse mistake. When the old man read in the papers about the MacComber killing, he’d remember Gladden, he’d remember this incident. He’d notify the police.

“Young fella — tall — dark hair. He was here last evening around seven o’clock, looking for MacComber. Acted sorta nervous and peculiar. No, he didn’t give me his name or say where he was from. Hey, wait a second! He did say he’d come four hundred miles to find MacComber. So wherever he’s from, it’s four hundred miles from here.”

Then the teletypes would start clicking, and the bulletins would go out. Eventually, they’d pick him up for questioning. Name, Johnny Gladden. Criminal record, assault and robbery. Violating parole. Identified as the man looking for MacComber at the latter’s former residence, only a few hours before nine o’clock, the night of the murder.

He was walking rapidly, his thoughts churning. Take it easy. Slow down. Try to concentrate. Try to think this thing out. The two men — if, somehow, they could be stopped. He could phone the police from a pay station — give a fake name, tell them about the two men. Tell them what? A fantastic story involving two guys you hadn’t seen, couldn’t describe.

The police would think him a crackpot. Even if they believed him, they’d want to know where he overheard these men. When he answered that question, there’d be a squad car on its way to the motel, cops all over the place, listening to the old man’s story.

All right, then, what about an alibi. He could arrange to be someplace where people would see him. He could stay there until after nine o’clock. Better yet, he could be on the next bus headed for San Francisco. He could prove, then, that he wasn’t anywhere near MacComber. Oh, great! At the same time, he’d be proving parole violation and would soon be on the return trip to prison.

The thing to do was to find Mac — find him, and warn him. He was somewhere in Los Angeles. Somewhere! Somewhere in a city that sprawled over an area of more than four hundred square miles.

Gladden was stepping off the curb as the traffic light went red. He drew back, waited. When the light changed, people straggled past him, but he did not move. Weariness again hung upon him like leaden weights. His mind refused to work, retreated as an animal retreats, bruised and sullen, after vainly flinging itself against the barriers of a trap. All he could do was stand there.

Then, without apparent mental effort, it came to him. Schwab’s Drug Store! Schwab’s had always been Mac’s hangout. He’d be certain to show up there. Somebody there would know where he could be found.

Gladden took a long, deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He was a long way from Schwab’s, but he began walking in that direction...

Nothing had changed. The magazine racks up in front, the glass showcases, crowded together, leaving narrow aisles that led to the phone booths in the rear. One of them occupied now by a girl. There were two waitresses behind the lunch counter. Gladden sat down, and the larger girl, wearing a white uniform that fitted her all too tightly, came toward him and flipped a menu in front of him.

Gladden shook his head. “I just dropped in to look for a friend of mine — Lyle MacComber. Has he been around recently?”

“I guess I don’t know him.”

“A trumpet player. He’s on television. A tall, blond, good-looking guy. He hangs out here.”

“If he does, I ain’t specially noticed him.” She called to the other waitress. “Marge, you know anybody who comes in here by the name — of...?”

“MacComber,” Gladden said, “Everybody calls him Mac.”

“Never heard of him.”

So all this had been useless, a waste of time. He thought, I can’t just sit here. I have to do something. But all the energy seemed to have drained out of him. He remained in his seat, his shoulders hunched, his elbows resting on the counter. His gaze traveled to the reflection of a clock in the back-counter mirror. The image was backward — it had to be figured out. It was ten minutes of eight. At nine o’clock, in just seventy minutes, Mac would be dead.

Gladden went tense, his stomach tightening as if a hand had reached inside and squeezed it like a wet sponge. He’d never find Mac in time. There wasn’t a chance. He slid off the stool, stood indecisively. The girl, emerging from the phone booth, set up a train of thought. In the old days, Mac had gone with a girl named Rita Logan. In spite of his lies, his two-timing, the condescending way he treated her, she was crazy about him. Rita might know where he was.

As Gladden moved to the phone booth, his legs seemed no longer to belong to his body. They threatened to give way and collapse him on the floor. He grasped the edge of the booth door, pulled himself inside. A dog-eared phone book hung there, and he began fumbling through the pages. He found the name — Logan, Rita — The same old address.

He deposited a dime and dialed the number. At the other end of the line, the telephone thrummed with that peculiar intonation from which you, somehow, are aware it’s ringing in a deserted house, an empty room. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t there. A dozen rings brought no answer.

Then, there was a sharp click, followed by a woman’s voice. “Yeah?”

For an interval, Gladden could find no reply, and the voice said sharply, “Hello!”

“I’m calling Miss Logan. Is she there?”

“This is Rita Logan. Who’r you?” The words were slurred and halting. The woman was obviously drunk.

“I’m a friend of Lyle MacComber, from out of town. I wonder if you could tell me where he lives now, or give me his phone number.”

“Watcha callin’ me for? You got gall, botherin’ me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who else to call. Mac’s often mentioned you, and I thought—”

“Oh, he has, huh? Well, that don’t give you no right to call me up when I’m busy. I got friends here.”

“Look, I’m only asking you if you can tell me how to locate Mac.”

“Sure, I can tell yuh. Sure, I can — if I wanta. But I don’ wanta. I ain’t no information bureau for every bum that comes to town.” She began abusing him, screaming at him, overriding him when he attempted to speak. He felt sweat trickling down his face. He hung on, he had to hang on. There was so little time left.

Then, abruptly, the voice ceased. All at once, there was no sound, no dial tone — nothing. Gladden kept saying, “Hello — hello — hello!” Frantically! — louder each time, until he was shouting. Finally he stopped. Still holding the phone, he slouched against the wall of the booth, and rested.

A man’s voice over the instrument jerked him to wakefulness. “Hello! Who is this? What’s it all about?”

Gladden straightened, and tried to make his own voice sound polite and respectful. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble. I’m a friend of Lyle MacComber. I thought maybe Miss Logan could tell me how to get in touch with him.”

“MacComber’s band is playing at the Rancho on the Sunset Strip. Now lay off, will ya?”

Gladden hung up. The Sunset Strip began just outside of Schwab’s. The Rancho could be only blocks away. He left the booth and walked out of the drug store into the soft inflowing dusk.

On the plaster facade of the building had been painted in script the words, the rancho. Underneath, in smaller letters, Mac MacComber and His Vegas Vagabonds. Gladden opened the synthetically weathered door, went inside, stopped. The front area was a bar. There was not much of a crowd. A young couple sat at one of the small tables. A group of three men stood at the bar in muted conversation with the barman. A brick wall with an archway separated the bar from the restaurant beyond. On the restaurant side of the wall, someone was noodling softly on a piano. A big man with black lacquer hair, wearing a sloppy Tuxedo, appeared from somewhere.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was smooth and oily. “Table for one?”

“No table,” Gladden said, “I want to see one of the guys in the band.”

“Oh? Well, we haven’t a band.”

“I mean the Vegas Vagabonds.”

“They closed here last Sunday. So you’ll probably have to go all the way to Las Vegas.”

“There’s somebody playing back there.”

The big man smiled sarcastically. “That happens to be a piano.” He put a hand on Gladden’s shoulder. “No band — that’s all, chum.”

Gladden drew away. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look.”

The big man grasped him by the shoulder again, spun him around. “I said that’s all!”

Something quite apart from Gladden took over. It was as if he were standing aside, watching himself, watching his back and shoulders stiffen, the fingers of his right hand tighten together. This was not happening to Johnny Gladden, but to someone else. Then he felt pain across his knuckles. The big man reeled backward, crashing against one of the tables.

The young couple, sitting nearby, stood up swiftly. The girl made a little sound in her throat. One of the men from the bar strode across the room. He held a police badge cupped in his palm. He took Gladden’s arm and said, “All right, tough guy, I guess you and me’ll take a ride to the jail house.”

Gladden knew now that, from the start, all this had been foreordained. He saw, with startling clarity, that he had never really had a chance. He had been moving, not of his own free will but according to the subtle design of malevolent fate, fate that had permitted Mac to beat him again. Mac was safe in Nevada — Johnny Gladden was on his way back to prison.

The cop was walking him out through the doorway onto the sidewalk. At the curb was parked a bright red Jaguar. A man was climbing out of it — and the man was Mac. Mac was heavier than Gladden’s recollection of him, his complexion more florid, yet he was still dashingly handsome in his dark brown slacks and shaggy, cream-colored sports coat.

Gladden’s throat tightened for an instant so he could not call out. When the call did come, it was lost in the blast of gunfire and the roar of a black coupe that sped westward along Sunset.

MacComber drew himself up up straight. He stood quite still for a moment before his legs gave way, and he sank to his knees, gripping his belly. Then he toppled over sideways and lay on the sidewalk, the tiny pink bubbles breaking between his lips.

Almost instantly, a crowd gathered, forming a tight, dense circle around Mac and the cop, who was attempting to take charge. People pushed and shoved to get a better view, talking excitedly, telling the cop and each other how they had seen the black coupe, and the two men in it, had heard the shots fired. A prowl car swung up and stopped, and two more policemen leaped out.

Gladden moved away from the scene, walking slowly until he turned off onto a side street, then more briskly. In spite of his fatigue, he felt elation and new confidence. The fatigue would pass — and so would his parole period. He knew now that, someday, he would be back in Hollywood, that he’d be working for Disney after all.