Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) Page 5

  “Went for the gut,” he said as I walked away.

  The strongest sensation in the room came not from the moving bodies but from the smell. Sweat and tobacco filled my nose and eyes. There were a few open windows, but they didn’t help much. The closest smell I could think of was the squadroom of the Wilshire District Police Station, which had the added odor of old food and things I didn’t like thinking about. I eased past a kid who looked as if he were twelve or thirteen working on a bag while a guy who looked like he was seventy yelled at him, “Faster, faster, faster.” I dodged two other older guys in short sleeves, arguing their way toward the door. One guy was waving both hands and shouting, “A finiff, five. That much you can take, no more.” The guy with him had his hand on the angry guy’s shoulder, kneading his sweaty cotton shirt, trying to calm him.

  The ring wasn’t elevated. It was a floor-level mat with three strands of rope around it. The rope was covered with a badly worn material that looked like black velvet. I spotted Al Parkman with no trouble. He was standing next to a Negro with white hair. The Negro was about sixty, with strong arms and a little belly. He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt on the back of which was written Teeth Guzman. Parkman was about the same age as the other man, but he was pale and white with dark hair and a pencil mustache so dark it had to be dyed. He wore a suit with a gray background and thin yellow stripes. He looked like a modern painting gone all to hell. His collar was open and his tie, a red thing with some kind of animal on it, dangled over his shoulder.

  “There,” Parkman said to the Negro. “You see? You see? His left is down to here.”

  “I see,” the Negro said patiently. “I tell him and tell him. I shows him and tell him some more, but that boy don’t have the brain to take it in. That’s the truth. He’s simple.”

  Parkman spotted me, let his eyes run up and down my suit, and decided that he couldn’t figure me out. He decided to play it without commitment.

  “Josh’s right,” he said to me, nodding at the Negro and looking over at the two guys in the ring. “Kid’s no good. Jerry in there with him was over the hill ten years ago, and if I let him go, he’d send the kid to Little Nemo land. You know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  Josh took the opportunity of my appearance to ease away from Parkman and concentrate on his fighter in the ring.

  “So,” Parkman said, rubbing his nose with his thumb. “So are you fighter, promoter, or what? We’re in the market for talent, but you’re …”

  “… too old,” I said. Parkman’s head was bobbing up and down as we spoke, and he threw a glance at the men in the ring again.

  “So, you got business, a kid, or what?”

  “Or what,” I said. “Ralph Howard.”

  Parkman stopped bouncing. A bell had rung in his head, ending the first round of our getting to know each other. Now we would start the serious jabbing.

  “Ralph Howard,” he repeated.

  In the ring, the young fighter caught a left in the gut, and Parkman sighed.

  “It’s the old ones like Jerry who know to go for the gut,” he said. “You wear ’em down. You think Zale or Sugar Ray Robinson go for the head? They go for the gut.”

  “Joe Louis,” I threw in.

  “Goes for the gut,” Parkman said. A thin, moist line appeared on his upper lip just below the mustache.

  “Let’s try again,” I said. “Ralph Howard and Joe Louis. What’s the connection?”

  “Who are you?” Parkman said, trying to find the answer in my eyes. It wasn’t there.

  “I represent Ralph Howard,” I said.

  Parkman laughed, a crackling little laugh that turned to choking.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” Parkman said. “Nothing. The man never learns. Tell him to forget it. Better yet, I’ll tell him. It can’t be done.”

  “What can’t be done?” I said.

  In the ring, the young man had turned his back on the older fighter, who was standing there in exasperation, his arms down.

  “Come on, son,” Josh called over the gym noise.

  “Just a minute here,” Parkman said, hurrying over to Josh and the kid who was shaking his head. It looked to me as if the kid wasn’t too simple in the head to realize that his future did not lie in the ring. I patiently looked around the room while Parkman and Josh tried to reason with the kid. After a minute or two, the kid gave in and turned to fight. Jerry, the older guy in the ring, looked over at me and gave me a well-what-are-you-going-to-do look.

  “So,” Parkman said, returning to me. He had a towel in his hand and was wiping his palms. “What does Howard want now?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  Parkman started to smile as if I might be joking and then realized I wasn’t. “What happened to him?”

  “Someone beat his face in on the beach last night,” I said, watching him. It seemed to be a real surprise to him, but I’ve met a lot of good liars in my time.

  “What the hell for?” he said. “He was good for—” Then he clammed up. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Peters,” I said. “I’m a friend of the Howard family. Mrs. Howard wants me to check up on her husband’s business, debts, things like that.”

  “Well, you started with the right man,” Parkman said, pointing to his own chest. “I’m sorry the man’s dead but he owes me. Almost a grand. It might not be much to people like Howard, but for me it’s a lot.”

  “For me it’s a lot, too,” I said. “What’s your connection to Howard? Why did he have your name and Joe Louis’s in his address book?”

  Parkman wiped his forehead with his sopping towel and shook his head. “I’ll tell you. We were trying to work out an exhibition between Louis and Teeth Guzman. Howard had a piece of Guzman, Perry, the kid in the ring, and two other fighters. Not the cream of the crop, but with what’s around, you do what you can do. You catch my drift?”

  “I catch it,” I said. Behind us toward the door the noise level went up. It sounded like a fight and looked like it, only when I turned around it wasn’t boxers going at it but the two old guys I had walked past.

  “Goddamn crazy business,” Parkman said. “Howard wanted to set up this fight with Louis. Even a little purse would do it, bring in enough to keep things going, and who knows, Guzman might be able to go three rounds with Louis, might even look good. Stranger things have happened, like the pyramids. You know what I’m talkin’ here?”

  “I get it,” I said. The two old men fighting had drawn a crowd. Even the two guys in the ring had paused to see what was going on, but Josh shouted at them to get back to work.

  “I think the late Mr. Howard had too much sunk into these fighters, you ask me,” Parkman said.

  “I’m asking you,” I prompted.

  “Then I’m telling. I think Howard had some partner who maybe didn’t like losing money. More than that you’re not getting from me. I like my knuckles the way they are, thank you, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know,” I said. “What happened with the Louis fight?”

  “Howard had some connections, friends. He got it all the way up to the damned Secretary of War, Harry Simson.”

  “Henry L. Stimson,” I corrected.

  “Whatever.” Parkman shrugged, showing that he didn’t give a damn. “Stimson says he doesn’t want to talk about letting Louis fight while he’s in the Army. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no. Won’t talk about it is all. I guess Louis will fight Army guys but no outside stuff. Who knows?”

  “Henry L. Stimson,” I said.

  “Seems like,” Parkman agreed. “But he’s not talking, not even to a big macher like Ralph Howard.”

  “So …” I pushed.

  “So maybe, just maybe, and I’m not telling you this, maybe Howard’s partners are not too happy with this turn of affairs. Maybe Ralph Howard made some rash promises about government connections.”

  The fight in the corner had stopped and everyone was back in their ro
utine. Parkman had been close to shouting but now that the noise level had lowered, he dropped his voice with it.

  “Who were Ralph Howard’s partners?” I asked.

  “Silent partners,” Parkman said, mopping his face. “What the hell’s wrong with me? What am I doing talking like this? You know what it can get me?”

  “Broken knuckles?”

  “If I’m lucky,” said Parkman. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Take a walk, a ride. You don’t want to mess with this. Tell Mrs. Howard to take the insurance and pay the bills and not look back.”

  “Not that easy,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. If Mrs. Howard and I don’t come up with the guys who killed Ralph Howard, some people are going to be in bad trouble, bad publicity for the whole fight game.”

  “The cops,” he said, chewing on the towel.

  “I think they’ll be here to see you,” I said. “It’ll just take them a day longer than it took me. And if a cop who comes is named Meara, he won’t be as nice as I am.”

  “I’m keeping my mouth shut,” Parkman said. “I’ve got to learn that. You know what I mean?”

  This time I didn’t answer, but I did say, “Might not be a good idea to mention the Louis fight idea to the police. Get a lot of people upset.”

  “You kiddin’?” Parkman almost sobbed. “As of now I never heard of Joe Louis.”

  “You don’t have to go that far. But you could give me a name, one of Howard’s silent partners. I plan to talk to Mrs. Howard about paying her husband’s debts. She might decide to start by paying you the grand he owed you.”

  Parkman was thinking and chewing on the towel.

  “You want me to keep him going?” Josh called.

  “No,” Parkman yelled without looking at the ring.

  “No goddamn good nohow,” Josh sighed, stepping through the ropes.

  “I gotta think about this,” Parkman mumbled. “Gotta think. Come back later, tonight, make it seven. You can make it?”

  “I’ll be back,” I said and waved at Josh.

  Back at the top of the stairs, China Rogers, or the man who used to be China Rogers, put his hand on my arm. “Name a president,” he said.

  “Roosevelt,” I said.

  “Which one?” China said, puffing out his lips and rubbing his knuckles.

  “Franklin Roosevelt,” I said.

  “Seventeen,” he said instantly. His eyes met mine in triumph.

  “Seventeen what?” I said.

  “Seventeen letters in his name,” China said. “I can do that with every president. Give me another one.”

  “John Quincy Ada—” I began.

  “Fifteen,” he said.

  Across the crowded gym I could see Al Parkman looking at us. I gave China a few more presidents, told him I’d see him around, and went down the stairs. The Lex was still not open when I hit the street.

  I might have been tempted by Rita Hayworth, but there was work for me to do before seven. I got in the car and headed for Wilshire Boulevard. I took it to Santa Monica and was back at the beach a few minutes after two. Paitch was coming out of the front door carrying a black leather suitcase and a why-me look. I pulled into the driveway behind the house, got out of the car fast, and cut him off.

  “I got nothing to say to you, Peters, nothing,” he said, trying to move past me. “I’m walking away from here, and I’m not looking back and I sure as hell ain’t going to put this job on my resumé. You know that cockeyed cop and the one with the gut think I had something to do with killing Howard. Me. Can you imagine that?”

  I had no trouble imagining it, since Paitch didn’t look innocent. In most cases a non-innocent look was an asset in a bodyguard, but not when the bodyguard found himself a murder suspect. Actually it didn’t matter how he looked. Meara was going to put his boot into everyone.

  “So,” he went on, “I’ve got nothing to say to you. I didn’t know who Howard’s friends were. I didn’t listen in on any of his phone calls. I sat in lobbies and cars or stood across from rooms with my arms folded. Goddamn good job, let me tell you. I’d be the first to wire and pull the switch on the guy who muttoned Howard. I would. Now I gotta go.”

  I held out my right hand to stop him, and he put down the suitcase and placed his hands on his hips. There was a slight wind blowing from the north, and it made Paitch’s windbreaker billow and snap like the sails of a small boat. His wisps of hair waved to the south like fragile pennants.

  “Okay,” he said. “Are we going to fight or something? I’ve been up half the night with the cops. I lost my job, and now I’m going to have a fight. You mind telling me why?”

  “We’re not going to fight, Carl,” I said. “I’ve only got one suit and I want to keep it clean. I want some information from you, information you maybe didn’t give the cops.”

  His lower lip dropped enough to open his mouth. It wasn’t much, but I’d been looking for it. He did have something.

  “I’m willing to pay for it,” I said.

  “How much?” he asked, looking around to see if anyone was watching. He was one of those guys who look around when you talk about money because they can’t imagine any legal way they might earn it.

  “Not money,” I said. “A job lead. Steady work. Security. Uniform. Good pay.”

  “You’re not …”

  “I’m not,” I said, crossing my heart. I could have come up with twenty or more from Joe Louis’s advance, but Paitch was obsessed with security.

  “Okay,” he said after a sigh. “Howard was in with some not very nice guys. Some people who had a piece of the same fighters Howard owned. It happens that way.”

  “I know that much,” I said. “How about some names?”

  “Names? Names? I didn’t get names, but I saw him with a couple of guys I’ve seen around in all the wrong places. He went to that gym …”

  “Reed’s,” I supplied.

  “Reed’s,” he agreed. “And these guys were there. They talked. Looked serious. This was … I don’t know, maybe last Thursday, Friday. But names? No.”

  “That’s not worth a job,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Oh, Christ,” he whispered and then inhaled salt air through his teeth. “I caught enough to figure out they were planning to fix a fight. I mean they were trying to get Howard to agree to fix a fight. A guy at the gym with loud suits and a little mustache was there. Ask him.”

  “Fix a fight?” I asked with doubt in my voice. “From what I hear, none of Howard’s fighters went into the ring with the odds on their side.”

  Paitch was shaking his head, the hair settled for the moment against his freckled scalp. “No,” he said. “Someone was going to fix a fight so his boy, Howard’s boy, would win. A big fight Howard was supposed to set up using his Washington connections.”

  “And?”

  “There is no ‘and,’” Paitch said, picking up his suitcase. “That’s all I’ve got. If it’s not worth a job, I’ll settle for cab fare. It’s waiting up on the road.” He nodded in the direction of the highway, where a Yellow was sitting.

  “Go to Grumman, the valley plant. Tell Personnel Jack Ellis recommended you for the security job. Lie a lot about your background.”

  “Ellis, Grumman. Got it. Hey, you tell anybody I told you that fight-fixing business, and I say no. Got it?”

  “I’ve got it,” I said as he walked past me and hurried up the hill to the asphalt driveway.

  The beach was empty when I rounded the corner of the house and looked down. Ralph’s body was gone, which was no surprise, and there was no new one to replace it. There were no girls frolicking in the surf and no Joe Louis running in the sand. The sign telling frolickers to call the Marines when the Japanese invasion began was still there. When I knocked, Anne came to the door wearing a floppy green sweater and dark slacks. Her makeup was fine but her hair wasn’t perfect. Almost perfect, but not perfect. She looked tired. She also looked down at the beach and licked her upper lip.

  “I th
ought you had a maid during the day or something,” I said, pulling her back from the beach.

  “That Meara took Anjelica to the station to question her,” Anne said softly. “Her English is awful. Anjelica is, I’m afraid, in for a very hard time.”

  She stepped back and I went in.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, following her down the hall.

  “Tacos or hot dogs?” she said without looking back.

  “Tuna on whole wheat, orange juice and … okay, tacos and a Pepsi,” I finished.

  Her head shook as she walked, and her low hard heels clacked against the polished wooden floor. We were in the kitchen with lots of light coming through the window and a nice view of the beach and other houses. The stretch of beach where I’d found the body wasn’t visible from here. Anne poured us both coffee, and we sat across from each other at a round wooden table inlaid with Mexican tiles shaped like birds. We didn’t talk for a few minutes, just drank and looked out the window.

  “I called Ralph’s office this morning,” she said. “Ten minutes later I got a call from someone who said Howard Hughes was sorry and did I need anything. I think it was Hughes. Maybe not.”

  I went on saying nothing.

  “Don’t pursue this, Toby,” she said, finally putting her cup down. “Meara will give up. Ralph’s … he simply met the wrong people. I’m sorry if I tried to make you feel guilty last night. Ralph was responsible for himself. I don’t know who killed him or why, but he’s dead and I won’t feel any better if they’re caught.”

  “The cops aren’t looking for the killer to make you feel better, Anne. They’re doing it to make themselves feel better. I’m doing it to make myself feel better and for other reasons.”

  “Before you ask,” she said, looking away from me to the beach, “I don’t know what people Ralph was dealing with or what was going on. He was upset … I … He did have a notebook, an address book he carried with him. The police couldn’t find it. It might have some names in it. They think whoever killed him took it to—”

  I pulled out the notebook from my jacket pocket and held it up. She looked at it and sagged back in her chair.