The Code

Five

If there was one big drawback to my job, other than the hours and the high mortality rate, it was that I was required to spend more time in other people's countries than I spent in my own.

I had not seen El Pueblo Nuestra Senora la Reinda de Los Angeles de Porciuncula, known to most of us as just plain L.A., in two years. The city had changed, not entirely for the better. The climate, so like that of the Mediterranean countries, was still beautiful and so were the girls. But the traffic and the smog had grown thicker.

As I worked my way into a drugstore telephone booth, I was wondering how Trudy, who had rated the first page in Moose's sexual Who's Who, would compare to some of the knockouts sitting at the soda fountain waiting to be discovered. The great American dream of stardom never dies.

A female voice answered the telephone and sounded disappointed when I asked for Trudy. "I'll call her." While I waited, I looked at the legs of the girls at the soda fountain and kicked open the door of the booth so I could share the air conditioning. The days were getting hotter and I was wearing a lot of bandage about my chest.

Trudy's voice sounded sultry, but maybe my judgment was influenced by Moose's capsule description of her talents in the bedroom. When I told her a friend had suggested I get in touch with her, she invited me to come around. It was as easy as falling off a bar stool. "I'm crazy about meeting new people," she said.

I soon discovered the reason. Meeting new people was Trudy's business. She worked in a bordello. She led me up a flight of stairs, clinging to my hand and talking a blue streak.

"You come highly recommended. I got your number from Moose," I said.

"Moose? Oh, sure." She tugged me into a room and slid down the zipper of my trousers while I was still looking around. "I have to check you over, honey, and give you a nice bath. The lady I work for says cleanliness is next to prosperity."

I evaded her deft grasp. "She must be quite a philosopher. I'd like to meet her sometime."

"No, you wouldn't. She's as cold as a loanshark's heart. Most madams are. Those movies where they have hearts of gold, that's a lot of Hollywood nonsense. What's the matter with you, honey? You got a thing about being touched?"

At least I'd found a talker, I thought. If I asked her for directions to the stadium, she'd probably throw in the baseball club's lineup and last season's record.

Trudy plastered herself against me. She was a big girl, a beauty parlor blonde, and there was a lot of her to plaster. Her nipples prodded my chest like bullets.

"What happened to your face, honey?" She touched the cut at the edge of my lip, the stitches the doctor had put in the side of my head. "You look as if you fell into cement mixer."

"I had an accident*

"I'm sorry." Her hand seized hold of me again. "My, you're a real man, aren't you?"

She probably told that to all her customers, but she sounded as if she meant it. I backpedaled hastily and worked at my zipper, knowing that if Hawk could see me now, he'd burst out laughing.

"I want to ask you about Moose. When did you see him last?"

"I really don't remember. Is that what you came here for, to find out where Moose is?"

"You're a smart girl. You saw through me right away, didn't you?" I laid the flattery on as thick as I could. "I am looking for the big clown. We kind of lost touch, you know what I mean?"

She edged closer to me and slid her left arm around my waist. Her right hand found my zipper again. She was faster than a pickpocket. "Since you're here, you might as well enjoy the visit. What turns you on?"

I caught hold of her groping hand and turned it palm up. I pressed three twenties into her curled fingers. "Tell me about Moose."

Her friendliness tapered off sharply. She folded the bills neatly and stuffed them into my belt "I sell sex, not information."

"Moose and I are old friends. But we lost touch, like I said. Look, he gave me your number, didn't he?"

"You could be lying about that. Anyway, I don't remember when I saw Moose last and I don't know where he is. Even if he's your long-lost brother, I don't want to talk about him."

I took out two more twenties, folded all five together and stuck them into her low-cut blouse. "Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely sure. Moose likes to knock people around, and he does a good job of it. Nobody talks about him to strangers."

"Give me an old address, a telephone number even. I won't tell where I got it."

Trudy fished between her large breasts and pulled the bills out. She stroked the wrinkles out of them. "I haven't seen him in several months, maybe even a year. Honest. And I never knew any address. He came around here from time to time, that's all."

"He had a name, didn't he?"

"I thought you were a pal of his. Pals know each others names." She threw the bills at me and they fluttered to the floor. "You don't even look like a friend of his. You look too honest. Pick up your bribe and beat it."

Negotiation having failed, I tried a more direct approach. I pushed back my coat so that she could see the Luger nestled in its leather sheath. "I want a name, Trudy."

She licked her lower lip. "You a cop?"

"No, just a man looking for Moose."

"Jones is his name." She laughed nervously. "You probably don't believe me, but it's the honest-to-God truth. His name is Edward Jones. And that's all I can tell you."

"Thanks," I said as I walked to the door. "You can keep the bribe."

I waited outside the house for three hours, slumped down in the car seat and trying to look inconspicuous. I was about ready to flunk myself on character analysis when Trudy finally appeared and flagged a taxi.

Carter, I thought, it's a good thing you aren't a trusting soul.

I took off behind the cab, which led me across town to a cheap apartment house. I followed Trudy inside in time to spot her darting up a flight of stairs. At the end of a long hallway, the busty blonde knocked on a door. When she got no reply, she knocked harder. Then she turned and saw me and her eyes widened in astonishment.

"Your story didn't have the ring of truth," I told her, "but I got my money's worth. You led me here."

"Clever as hell, aren't you?" she spat.

I tried the door. "Apparently Moose isn't home. What do you suggest we do about that?"

She ran for the next flight of stairs. I pursued her to the roof and cornered her. She fought and scratched my face, tried to knee me in the groin, and called me some names I hadn't heard in years. Considering my widely varied travels, that was saying quite a lot for her vocabulary.

I pulled her wrists behind her and forced her over to the edge of the roof. "Now let's hear the truth about Moose."

"You won't push me off. He would, but you won't."

"Don't count on it, Trudy. Moose killed a friend of mine and beat a girl to death. I'm going to find him and I don't care what I have to do along the way."

She was panting. "Is that true, about the girl? Are you on the level?"

"The girl's name was Sheila. Did you ever hear Moose mention her?"

"Never. And I haven't seen him lately. He lived in that apartment when I knew him. I thought he'd like to know you were looking for him. That's the only reason I came. I swear it is."

"Does he call himself Edward Jones, or did you make that up?"

"He used the name when I knew him. He's probably used a dozen more. If you don't believe me, go back to the house and quiz the other girls. They'll tell you the same. He's a heist man. He boasted about having pulled some big capers."

I turned her loose. "All right."

"Can I go now?"

"Take off," I said.

Trudy looked back when she reached the stairway.

"He beat her to death?"

"Yeah," I said. My voice was hoarse.

I found the cheap lock on the apartment door easy to spring. The rooms were vacant and dust lay on the furniture. The last occupant had been gone for quite a while. I glanced around me disgustedly. I had hoped for more.

Company was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. I tried not to show my surprise when I saw her.

"What you said put me to thinking," Trudy said.

"Did it?"

"About the girl, I mean. Was she your girl?"

"No," I said. "But she didn't deserve to die that way."

"I can't tell you any more about Moose than I already have. But I can give you another name. Are you clued in on the way heist men operate? If they have a big caper lined up and they need money to make the arrangements, they go to someone in the Mob or to a guy who finances heists for a cut of the loot. There's a man named Haskell in L.A. He's loaded with dough and lives like a solid citizen, but I heard Moose boast that he put up the money for some heists."

"Thanks, Trudy."

"Forget it. And I mean just that. Forget I told you."

The sign on Haskell's door said he was in real estate. The thick carpeting in the outer office indicated he made money at it, or at his moonlighting. His voluptuous secretary gave me a smile that was all teeth and no sincerity and told me Mr. Haskell saw no one without an appointment.

"How does one get an appointment?"

She showed her teeth again. She should have been advertising toothpaste. "If one doesn't know Mr. Haskell, one rarely does."

"I know Edward Jones," I said. "Will that do?"

She gathered up some papers and went in to drop the name to her boss in privacy. When she returned, she said Mr. Haskell was very busy today and as it happened, he'd never heard of Edward Jones.

"In other words, I should get lost."

The smile bloomed again, twenty-four karat this time. "You got it, buster."

A black Cadillac was sitting at the curb when I walked out of the building into the California sunshine. Behind the wheel was a uniformed chauffeur with a face like a second-story man.

I leaned down to speak to him when I passed the Caddy. "You shouldn't wear a tailored uniform. It makes the bulge under your arm stand out like a bump on a tire."

He grinned and patted the bulge. "That's where I carry my references."

I parked a half-block away and waited. The chauffeur had obviously come to pick Haskell up. Within ten minutes, a rotund man who looked as if he was carrying a watermelon under his coat appeared and got into the car.

When the Caddy passed, I fell in behind it. Our destination turned out to be a swank country club in the suburbs. The fat man was a golfer. I spent most of the afternoon watching him through binoculars. He had a drive like an old woman. I was the victim of an advanced case of boredom by the time he finally trudged back to the clubhouse.

It was time for me to make a move. I put up the binoculars and walked to the parking lot. Moving behind a row of automobiles, I came up behind the chauffeur, who was leaning against the Caddy's hood with his arms folded.

"Hey," I said softly.

He whipped around and I drove a hard right into his solar plexus. I yanked him between two cars so that we wouldn't attract attention and hit him again. His eyes rolled like marbles and his fumbling hand slid limply away from his jacket buttons.

"Let's see your references," I said and gave the jacket a hard pull. Buttons rained against the side of the Cadillac. I extracted the .38 from the holster under his arm.

"Now we're going to wait for your boss," I told him.

When Haskell emerged from the clubhouse, the chauffeur was sitting stiffly behind the steering wheel. His posture was due to the gun I had punched into the back of his neck.

"Max, what's the matter with you?" Haskell asked as he drew near.

"His belly hurts," I said. I shoved the right-hand car door open with my foot. "Get in, Mr. Haskell."

The fat man peered into the back seat at me. He had a smooth golf course tan, but at the moment he looked a little pale. "This doesn't speak well for your judgment," he blustered. "I am a man of some influence."

I had been waiting a long time and impatience was prodding me. "Get into the car, Mr. Haskell, or I'll spill some of your chauffeur's blood on these expensive leather seats."

He eased into the car and settled back with a grunt. Lacing his pudgy fingers together, he said, "You'd better have a very good excuse for this impetuous action."

"Success breeds overconfidence, Mr. Haskell," I said. "I'm not a cheap hood and I don t give a damn how important you think you are."

His small eyes shifted uneasily, but he maintained his poise. "I assume you're the man who claims to be a friend of Edward Jones."

"I didn't say I was his friend. I said I knew him. What I want from you is some information on where to find Mr. Jones."

"We never exchanged addresses."

I saw no reason to handle Haskell with kid gloves. Despite the chauffered Cadillac and his carpeted office and his country club membership, he was no more than a sophisticated mobster. I brought the barrel of the revolver down on his kneecap. The sharp blow drew a gasp of pain.

"Who the hell are you?" he wanted to know.

"I'm the man who asked you a question about Edward Jones."

"He hasn't been in L.A. in months. I haven't had a deal with him in longer than that."

"Who works with Jones? He has a couple of friends he uses on his jobs. I want to know their names."

He grimaced and rubbed his knee. "If you were as well acquainted with the man as I am, you wouldn't be interested in finding him. He isn't completely right upstairs. He likes to kill people."

"That's the reason I'm looking for him."

"I can't tell you about his friends because I dealt with him alone. He was very careful about details like that. He stopped coming to me for financing because he found another backer. Someone in the Organization, I think."

I got out of the car. Another zero. A wasted afternoon except for the pleasure of getting to know Mr. Haskell a little better, which I could have done without.

"Aren't you going to tell me who you are?" Haskell asked.

"Why should I? You didn't tell me anything."

I threw his chauffeurs gun into a garbage can down the street.

That night, I called Hawk from my motel room. "Let's compare notes," I said when he came on the line.

"I have some information on the man who tried to kill you in the hotel in Bonham. For one thing, his name actually was Coogan. He had a police record. He was a gun for hire, one of the best. The FBI seemed a little surprised that you were capable of taking his measure." There was noticeable satisfaction in Hawk's voice.

"Who gave him his orders?"

"He was an independent contractor. For hire to anyone who could pay his fee, which was high. The FBI says he was not on the mob's regular payroll."

"What about Valante?"

"He was Frank Abruze's closest friend."

"I'm afraid I don't have much. Moose is not in Los Angeles."

Hawk cleared Ms throat "And what about Trudy? Did she live up to billing?"

There was no doubt about it. My boss had a streak of the dirty old man in him.