Private Eye 1: Private Eye Page 3

  The News Hits Home

  "... on the weather front, it's going to be a scorcher again today in southern California, with an expected high of ninety-six degrees...."

  The words reached Cleary as if from a great distance, then slowly penetrated the fog in his head. The milkman, he thought. The milkman always arrived with his radio blaring, like he resented being up before everyone else and wanted to get even. Cleary needed to move, wanted to move, but he was afraid to. He knew his body was going to explode with pain if he so much as lifted his head.

  He heard the toilet flush. The sound was like a low roar that he heard more with his gut than his ears. My toilet? Who the hell's in my bathroom? He couldn't remember. His head was stuffed with cotton.... Wait. Something about last night. Aw, hell. Now it was coming back.

  He was supposed to go out on the town with Nick last night, but he canceled, told him he was too sore from the beating he had taken the night before from the bikers. Nick had gotten real quiet on the phone. He hadn't lectured him. He hadn't made any cracks about getting himself together. He had just spoken to him as if he were a kid. Stay home and rest, Jack.

  Rest. Sure. He rested, hadn't he.

  He slowly reached his hands up and found his throbbing head. Jesus. Why hadn't he listened to him? He had been too sore to go out with Nick, but not sore enough to keep from swinging by another juke joint.

  Now he heard the water running. Cleary lifted up on his elbows, wincing as the throb in his head slid off to one side. His eyes roamed around the room. Jesus. A pigsty. There were clothes draped over chairs, clothes puddled on the floor, a couple of half-empty glasses perched on the bureau, a pair of dirty socks laid out over the lamp shade.

  The bathroom door opened, and last night's dreamgirl walked out wearing her red, curve-hugging party dress. But what had been beautiful in the dim light and alcoholic haze now seemed hardened. Ugly. Her eyes were puffy, and she wobbled on her high heels. There was no comparing her to Ellen. No way. Ellen who walked out on you, jerk. No. Ellen, whom he had driven away.

  "Well, sweetheart, what're you looking at? Don't you remember me or somethin'? I can't say you were exactly memorable either."

  She rubbed absently at her temple, then slipped on a pair of Monroe shades in lieu of an aspirin, and looked down at him. "Well, I'm leavin', honey. Don't forget to feed your dog. Poor little guy."

  Dog? What dog? Oh, God. The pup. More of last night seeped into his head from some 110-proof cavern of his mind.

  He heard the screen door slam, and then heard a man's voice. "Is Cleary in there?"

  "Sort of."

  "Cleary. You awake?"

  "Yeah. Coming." It was a familiar voice, but he couldn't place it. He sat up with an effort, and looked around for his pants. Must be in the other room.

  He hobbled out of the bedroom, blinking into the merciless morning light. Last night's festivities were strewn everywhere. Empty bourbon bottles, glasses, ashtrays. But no pants. Just then he heard a soft whine coming from the kitchenette.

  Crouched down in the corner was Charlie Fontana, his former partner, who was comforting a knee-high black Lab with a white eye patch and a wooden splint fixed to his broken right front leg.

  "Ran the little dummy over last night."

  Fontana looked up at him standing there in his white boxer shorts. Cleary knew it didn't take more than a glance to see he was bruised, unshaven, and severely hung over.

  "We settled on medical expenses, and free room and board."

  "Hope the vet didn't think you were the victim."

  Cleary ignored the jab as he crossed the kitchenette to the sink where he took a long draw off the water tap. He gazed down on the deserted residential street, then out over the city. He still was getting used to the idea that he was a bachelor, and lived on St. Ives, two blocks above the Strip.

  "If it's about my review board hearing, I don't want to hear it." He splashed water on his face. "If it's anything else, it's too goddamn early."

  "It's your brother, Jack."

  A spark of fear ignited in Cleary's eyes. "What about him?"

  "There's been an accident on Mulholland Drive. I think you better come with me."

  Five minutes later, they descended the stairs from the second-floor apartment, walked across the lawn to Fontana's '55 Ford sedan. Cleary climbed in, stared ahead in a stupor of shock and disbelief. He barely noticed his dusty Eldorado, parked at a thirty-degree angle to the curb with its top down.

  It was just after eight when they reached the S-turn on Mulholland. The roadway was choked by several LAPD black and whites, another Ford sedan like Fontana's, and a drab olive '53 Ford meatwagon from central receiving.

  Cleary reached the precipice, and stared down the slope. The heat of the past few days shimmered off the floor of the valley far below as the winches of two tow trucks strained to pull the charred and twisted wreckage of Nick's Lincoln from the canyon.

  He spotted two paramedics wheeling a sheet-covered body cart along the shoulder of the road toward their van, and strode over to them. "Wait," he said in a toneless voice, his eyes locked on the form stretched between the paramedics. Fontana followed, a deferential step behind.

  Stopping at the cart, Cleary stood there a moment, his pulse skyrocketing. He was about to lift the sheet when a hand touched his arm. "You don't want to do that, Jack."

  He hesitated, his gaze still fixed on the sheet. Then he turned to see Dan Dibble, a broad-shouldered, warmhearted Irish-American detective in his early forties, and one of Nick's buddies. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his face knotted with sorrow.

  "Believe me, it's him. I already looked."

  Cleary lowered his eyes again, wavered another second or two, then slowly picked up the sheet and stared at what was once his brother. He dropped the cloth, turned and donned a pair of sunglasses to hide his emotions as the paramedics moved on to the truck with the body.

  Silence quivered in the air as Fontana and Dibble exchanged an awkward, helpless look. Dibble tugged with irritation on his tie, and cleared his throat. "Judging by the skid marks on this last turn, the traffic boys figure he was doing at least sixty when he lost control, Jack."

  Cleary gazed out at the horizon. "They find anything?"

  Fontana and Dibble turned to a young uniformed cop, who was standing respectfully a few feet away. "Wallet, personal effects." He paused, glancing between the detectives and Cleary. "And a half-empty pint of bourbon in his coat."

  Cleary turned to stare at the cop, who, misinterpreting his reaction, hedged slightly. "Not that you'd have to be drinking to go off the roads up here, sir." Cleary simply held out his hand. "Let's see."

  The cop grabbed a personal effects bag off the hood of his car and handed it to Cleary along with a black coat. He fingered the coat. It didn't belong to Nick, but he kept that fact to himself.

  He reached into the bag and took out a billfold and a pint bottle of Wild Turkey. Then, replacing everything, he handed it to the cop and turned to Dibble. "Heard you got bumped up to homicide, Dan."

  Dibble nodded, then catching Cleary's drift, shrugged. "Motor patrol's handling it as an accident, Jack." He looked down at his feet, then into Cleary's eyes. "I stopped by 'cause, well, it being your brother and all, but..." He looked around, shrugged again. "I haven't seen anything that would make me classify it otherwise."

  Cleary glanced around without responding. Another plainclothes detective approached. "Getting way behind here, Dibble," he said impatiently. "Let's go." Dibble gestured for the man to back off. Angered by the interruption, he took a step toward Cleary. "If Icould, I'd rip the godforsaken month of September right out of the calendar."

  The sun was relentless, and dust from the tow trucks choked the air. He mopped his sweaty brow. "Been working twenty-hour days ever since these desert winds started kicking up."

  He turned, and started to walk off. Then he stopped, looked back. "I'm really sorry, Jack."

  Cleary nodded, and watched as Dibbl
e and his partner climbed into their sedan and drove off, followed a moment later by the paramedics' van. Fontana left him alone for a few minutes as Cleary watched the remains of Nick's Lincoln pulled onto the bed of a tow truck.

  "Can you get the SID boys up here, Charlie?"

  Fontana shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Kinda tough to get 'em for motor patrol cases. It's..." His words broke off as Cleary's eyes suddenly turned on him.

  Fontana nodded. "All right. You got it. Photos, measurements, blood-alcohol level, autopsy... whatever it takes."

  Cleary drew in a breath, exhaled. "Thanks Charlie."

  "Come on, I'll give you a ride home."

  He shook his head. "You go on. I'm going to have a look around."

  "Jack, it's five miles back to town."

  "Don't worry about it."

  Fontana stared at him a moment, then sensing Cleary's compulsive need to remain at the scene, nodded and crossed the road to his car. He cast a final glance back, then drove away.

  Cleary gazed out at the valley for a while, then sat down on a cliffside rock. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking from lack of sleep. His eyes lingered on the gold lighter Nick had given him two nights earlier.

  You're an ass, Cleary. You did this to your brother. You got in a fight you could have avoided, then turned down Nick's offer of a night out. Look what you did.

  "You didn't deserve it, Nick," he muttered aloud. "It should've been me."

  FIVE

  Farewells

  A recent shave only heightened the gaunt appearance of Cleary's face. It was the face of a man who had slept nine hours in the past three days. Bloodshot eyes stared straight ahead as the afternoon cityscape crawled by at a dirge-like pace.

  "I was up there till the sun went down yesterday." His voice was toneless, drained of emotion. "It wasn't an accident, Charlie."

  Cleary, who was dressed in a dark suit with a black arm band, looked over toward the passenger seat for a reaction, then returned his attention to the back of the long, black '52 Lincoln hearse easing along ahead of the Eldorado. "I found glass, metal shards, a tail-light assembly, and two sets of tire tracks three hundred yards up the road from the scene." He glanced again at Fontana. "And five hundred yards. And seven hundred."

  After a silence that lasted nearly a block, Charlie cleared his throat. "Lot of drag racing up on Mulholland, Jack. According to the autopsy—"

  "I don't care what the autopsy says." He inhaled deeply, exhaled, controlling his frayed nerves. "The taillight assembly was off a '55 Lincoln Capri, Charlie. Likewise with one set of tread marks."

  He locked eyes with Fontana for a moment. "I'm telling you, someone forced Nick off that road, Charlie. And he wasn't alone when it happened."

  They reached the cemetery road and, through his rearview mirror, Cleary could see a line of cars strung over a couple of hundred yards. He pulled to a stop as the hearse parked on the side of the road. He killed the engine, but remained behind the wheel, his eyes drifting meditatively over the peaceful cemetery grounds.

  On a road just beyond a stretch of grass and tombstones, a young boy, maybe seven, was riding on the handlebars of a bigger boy's bicycle. Cleary's eyes followed them as they coasted downhill through the quiet afternoon, gliding timelessly, like a dream. Thirty years ago, it could have been Jack on the handlebars as Nick pedalled, and death would have been nowhere near their thoughts.

  He recalled a bright day like this one when Nick was nine and he was seven. Nick was giving him a buck on his bike to the drugstore, where they were going to spend their quarter allowances on cherry Cokes and candy bars.

  He remembered how much he trusted his brother, and how everything seemed the way it was supposed to be in their suburban neighborhood, a new subdivision where everyone lived in look-alike houses and the streets were quiet. It was a place their parents had picked just so the boys would be raised in a safe, clean environment—the American dream.

  But that day something changed for Jack. Nick had left his bike outside the drugstore, and when they returned it was gone. The thief had gotten away, and it had been months that seemed like years before the boys' bike had been replaced. It was Jack's first exposure to crime, and it had made an indelible mark on him. He remembered Nick vowing to get the thief, and he said that when he got bigger, they would both get all the thieves who took other kids' bikes.

  The boys Cleary had been watching passed a black '49 Mercury coupe parked on a small rise overlooking the gravesite, the driver in shadows behind the wheel. Cleary took notice of the car; its presence seemed somehow related to the pending service.

  "Jack, you know what Nick was working on before—before all this?"

  Cleary turned to Fontana, realizing he had momentarily forgotten his presence. There was a pensive, withdrawn look on Fontana's face. The expression said he was mulling over something and wasn't sure he cared to talk about it, almost as if the words would make it tine.

  "What's on your mind, Charlie?"

  Fontana peered out toward the gravesite, as if pondering whether his words would compromise the sanctity of the surroundings. "I doubt there's any connection, Jack, but homicide found a body up on Mulholland yesterday, about four miles up the road from where Nick went off." His eyes met Cleary's. "Twelve gauge in the bread basket. Low-level wise guy name of Bobby D'Angelo. Not that Nick would be involved with that crowd personally."

  Cleary took a moment to consider the implications, his gaze shifting idly back to the cemetery knoll. The Mercury was nowhere in sight now, and neither were the boys on the bike. A warm breeze had risen and it wafted through the open window, swollen with the smell of fresh-dug earth.

  "Look into it for me, Charlie, will you?" He set the parking brake and was about to join the mourners drifting out of their cars when Fontana said, "You know he called me last week, Jack."

  Cleary's head whipped around, his eyes bore into Fontana's. "Nick? What about?"

  "He was worried about you." Cleary turned to see the back of the hearse being opened, revealing the coffin. "You've always been a fighter, Jack. He was afraid you were giving up."

  The words, his brother's concern, sliced into him like a knife. As the casket slid out of the hearse and passed in front of him, he blinked hard. The emptiness in his gut begged to be filled. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, and braced his feet against the floor of the car so he wouldn't leap out and race toward the coffin, throw himself across it, and blubber like some kid.

  Halfway through the service, he lifted his head and looked around at the mourners. He spotted Dibble and a couple of other guys from the detective bureau. Rollo Augustine, the owner of the Crescendo Club, was here, and so were other acquaintances of Nick's whom he barely knew, and some he didn't recognize at all.

  He saw a woman standing back a few feet from the others, a veil obscuring her face. But he would have known that body anywhere, just from the curve of the black dress over her thighs. His hands had traveled every inch of her, reading her like a blind man.

  He stared at her shrouded face, and thought he saw her eyes watching him. She wanted him back. Ellen. He formed the silent word with his lips. Her head moved, as if she had heard him. But through the veil, he couldn't really tell whether she was looking at him or not.

  When the ceremony ended, he accepted condolences from several people around him as he made his way around the gravesite. People he didn't know were speaking to him. He didn't want their pity. He didn't want anyone's pity. He could see in their eyes what they were thinking: First his job. Then his wife. Then his brother. They say he was dirty, taking bribes.

  Damn them all. He had to talk to Ellen. He hurried through the dispersing crowd to where Ellen had stood. He looked about for her.

  He saw her walking away, and ran after her, touched her shoulder. "Thanks for coming. Look, I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry, too," the woman said as she turned. He was momentarily startled. It wasn't Ellen. "I don't think we've met. I'm—"

  "Excu
se me." He hurried away without another glance at the woman. He was sure he had seen Ellen. God, was he losing his mind? Had he been staring at that woman and believing she was Ellen? At the roadside, he scanned the cars. Ellen didn't drive. Who did she come with, anyhow?

  "Jack." He felt Fontana's hand on his shoulder, but he didn't want to look at him.

  "She's gone."

  He turned, stared at him. "You saw her? I mean Ellen."

  He nodded. "She told me to tell you she was sorry, but she couldn't talk." He shrugged as if it didn't matter. "You know how it is with women. Come on, let's go."

  Cleary gripped Fontana by the lapels with an urgency that he hadn't intended to show. "How'd she get here? Who'd she come here with, Charlie?"

  Fontana looked down at his shoes for a brief moment. "It was an actor, a guy named Tex Harris, plays bit parts in Westerns."

  "What's she doing with him?"

  "Jack, she's got her own life to live now. She couldn't very well call you up, and act like everything was the same again. You've got to let it go. Move on."

  He stared at Fontana, not believing what he was hearing. Even Charlie was turning on him. "She showed up here with another guy? Jesus, Charlie."

  His focus blurred. Ellen had been here, but not here. Like a ghost. From someplace deep within, he knew she was as dead to him as Nick, but he wasn't ready to accept it.

  "Look, let me drive, will you, Jack?" Fontana placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll go out for a bite to eat. What do you say?"

  Cleary spun around, shook his head. "I forgot. There's something I've got to do. You think you could catch a ride with one of the other guys?"

  The Eldorado drifted down the boulevard, top down, the day's heat rising off the pavement into the sweltering night. Behind the wheel, Cleary's eyes were locked to the road ahead, oblivious to the world around him. He barely heard a disc jockey known as the Gator jabbering in a rapid-fire staccato of words over the air as he introduced Lowell Fulson's "Blue Shadows."

  Cleary's tie was loosened and his shirt unbuttoned against the choking closeness of the city. His bloodshot eyes were glazed, the wreckage of the past week written all over his face. He had found a bar a few blocks from the cemetery and had claimed a stool for the remainder of the afternoon, which had drifted well into the evening. He drowned his regrets about Nick and Ellen. About everything. Thank God for the bourbon. The painkilling booze was all he needed, he told himself, patting the bottle on the seat next to him.