High Risk 10.4

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[Continuing chapter ten]

Venice was a gigantic construction site. The contractors were only mid-way through the process of filling the canals and turning them into proper streets, and the approach to downtown was choked with equipment, haphazardly parked cars, and piles of earth and rubble.

"And this used to be such a pretty town," Desiree said as she parked beside a Hupmobile that looked brand-new. This was the closest they'd been able to get to the pier, and they faced a walk of at least a half-mile. Even from this distance, though, the sounds of dance music, happy screaming and the rumble of the roller-coasters from the pier were loud enough that Desiree had to raise her voice.

"Never much cared for the canals myself," Casey said. "They always stank."

"Did you spend much time here?"

"Used to live in Santa Monica," he said. "Hanging around the piers was relatively cheap entertainment. Sorry I never saw one of the big fires, though."



"Be patient," she said. "You'll see one. These things seem to burn every decade or so. Some friends of mine almost died in the 'twenty-four fire on Pickering/Lick Pier."

"I thought there was nobody on the pier at the time."

"It's a long story," she said, turning from Windward and dodging into an alleyway lit only by a single bulb and a half-hearted glow reflected from the pier. “And unless you believe in Chinese magic you’d be bored silly by it.”

Facing the darkness, Casey swallowed hard, realizing with sudden clarity that he was about to walk down a dark alley to confront a gangster. Any sense of control he might have felt over his situation slipped away. Should have brought my pistol, he thought. "I assume you know what you're doing," he said.

"Of course, silly. Don't worry; this is as safe as houses."

Now Casey could see a single figure standing midway down the alley. A large, broad-shouldered figure. Desiree showed no signs of nervousness, but strode right up to him, the clack of her heels echoing crazily down the alley and back again. When they reached the big man, Desiree said "Swordfish" in a stage whisper. The man nodded.

"Swordfish?" Casey asked. "What kind of a password is that?"

"The right one," Desiree said. She stepped toward the big man—who, Casey now realized, stood on a metal plate set into the alley. A lift, he thought. No doubt for getting groceries into the cellar. He followed her.

The lift made almost no noise as it dropped them below street level; obviously, thought Casey, it got plenty of use. They stopped in front of a heavy metal door, on which the big man knocked. Casey recognized the pattern of the knocks: the Morse code for "SOS". He grinned. Somebody definitely had a sense of humor.

The metal door opened, and now Casey could hear a hint of sound that wasn't coming from the pier. A small, officious man gave them the once-over, sniffed, "Good evening, Miss Farrell," to Desiree, and knocked on an inner door.

Sound burst upon them when the inner door opened: laughter, the squeal of a clarinet, the clatter of glassware and crockery. When Casey's eyes accustomed themselves to the glare he saw what looked to be a hundred people or more crammed into a space that might comfortably have held two-thirds of them. On a tiny stage at the far end of the room a quartet of skinny young men tootled their way through something that might have been "Sob Sister Sadie," to the general disinterest of all. The air was almost gunmetal blue with cigarette smoke.

Casey turned to comment to Desiree and found her in consultation with the little doorman. After a few seconds of inaudible back-and-forth, the man pointed to a corner table near a door. Seated at the table was a slender, hawk-faced man of medium height and build. His black hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in a few days—about the same amount of time it had been since his chin had encountered a razor, Casey guessed.

"Dan McGrath?" he asked when Desiree turned back to face him.

"Yes." She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room. Casey enjoyed the touch of her hand on his—for as long as it took her to say, "We should be careful. He's been drinking and he's not in a good mood."
"Wonderful," Casey said. "He's a gangster, he may have murdered his ex-girlfriend, and he's a mean drunk. From now on, I'm bringing a gun when you take me out sleuthing."

"Oh, don't be such a baby. If it's your ribs you're worried about, just hit him with a chair if he gets uppity."

"Thanks for the suggestion," he said sourly. "Some big help you are."

Casey hadn't been in this particular club before, but he'd frequented plenty of other speaks in the Venice and Santa Monica area. Presumably so had most of the people crammed into this place. So he ignored the feeling of recognition he kept getting, the idea that he'd seen every other face someplace before, and that every face he saw was appraising him and committing his features to memory.
McGrath looked up from his glass as they approached. "I ain't buyin'," he said.

"We're not selling," Desiree said.

McGrath stared at her a second—or at least he held his face steady; Casey wasn't too sure the man's eyes were really capable of focusing on anything. "I know you," McGrath said, as though trying to convince himself.

"You're too kind," Desiree said. "I'm Desiree Farrell, Mr. McGrath. This is Casey. We were working with Lily on the movie she was doing when she was killed."

It was either exactly the right thing or exactly the wrong thing to say. McGrath's face seemed to fold in on itself, and he started to shake. After a moment Casey realized that the man was crying, though no tears were evident. Widening her eyes at Casey, Desiree nodded her head in the direction of McGrath's table. Then she pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. Casey followed suit, taking care to sit on McGrath's right. If the bootlegger became pugnacious, he wouldn't be able to put much force behind a punch. Provided he was right-handed, of course.

"We're so sorry," Desiree said, leaning toward McGrath. "But we have to ask you some questions about Lily."

"Why?" McGrath jerked his head up, suddenly alert. Casey was impressed; McGrath's sudden focus reminded him of those scout pilots who always turned out to be the most efficient killers in the air.

"We want to find out who killed her, obviously," Desiree said. "We don't think the police are going to look very hard."

"You're right on that score," McGrath said. "Bastards." He grabbed the bottle that sat, half-full, beside him and sloshed some of the tea-colored liquid into his glass. Swallowing a mouthful, he added, "But you won't have to look too far, I'm thinking."

"What do you mean?" Casey asked.

"I mean you don't have to look further than that greasy director, Straebo. He did it. He's the one who was—who was sleeping with her. That's your man."

"Except that we know where he was the night she was killed," Casey said.

"Christ Jesus. Are you so wet that you don't know how these things are done?" McGrath swallowed the rest of his drink and poured another. Desiree, after a pointed look that McGrath ignored, signaled a waiter. "People like Straebo never do their own dirty work."

"People like Straebo—and Tony Cornero?"

McGrath told Casey to watch his mouth, adding a few extra words for emphasis. "Tony's got nothing to do with this. He's a good boss."

"Sorry; no offence meant," Casey said. "So what makes you so sure that Straebo had Lily killed?"

"I didn't see it, if that's what you're askin'. It was just things she said. Things he made her do."

"Hold on a minute," Desiree said. "I thought she stopped seeing you ages ago."

"That's what we let that pansy think, that she was seein' before Straebo. But we kept—in touch, you could say. She liked the wild life, Lily did. The kind of life I could give her."

The waiter reappeared and deposited two glasses and a bottle of some clear liquid. Desiree handed him a bill—Casey winced at the implied price—and poured out two glasses. "It's called grappa," she said to Casey. It's like brandy only more so. You have to sip it." He sipped. It didn't make a bit of difference: the stuff was like wet fire, and it took his breath away.

Turning to McGrath, Desiree generated a sympathetic smile and said, "Please don't take this the wrong way, Mr. McGrath, but could you tell me where you were on the night Lily died?"

McGrath glared at her for a second, but only for a second. Casey guessed that few men could resist that smile for long. "In the tunnels," he said. "Offloading a shipment from Vancouver. Obviously not something I propose to tell the cops."

"Tunnels?" Casey asked.

"St. Mark's Hotel has a tunnel to the beach," McGrath said. "We bring the cases to the shore under the pier, then use the tunnel to get from the pier into town. There's other tunnels beneath the alleys on either side of Windward, all the way in to where the lagoon used to be. Not that you're going to be talkin' about this to anyone."

"Not a word," Desiree said. "We're good at keeping secrets."

"As is somebody else," Casey said. "We can't find a single person who didn't think that Lily Cross was the finest person alive."

"Straebo—" McGrath began.

"Straebo had just signed her to a contract and boosted her to Monarch's top executives," Casey said. "Why go to all that trouble for someone he wanted to have killed?"

"It was him," McGrath muttered. "I know it was."

Might as well say it was you, Casey thought bitterly. He kept the thought to himself, though—at least until they'd left the speakeasy and got back into the clean, cool night air of the alley.

"He might have a point, though," Desiree said.

"You're kidding, right?" Casey took a deep breath; not even the smell of fried foods could make the night air even close to being as bad as the air in that club. He thought he could smell salt from the ocean.

"No," Desiree said. "I don't think Lily liked Straebo very much. Some of her last entries are complaining about how demanding he was. He even seems to have ordered to do another screen or sound test—she calls him a cad in that entry."

She tugged on Casey's sleeve. "Not that way," she said, turning him around. "I want to go to the pier."

"I'm not feeling much like being amused," he warned—then changed his mind. "All right," he said, "but let's go around the front way. I'll feel better walking down Windward than turning back down that alley."

"What kind of milquetoast are you?" she asked, giggling.

"The long-living kind," he said, pitching his voice low. "Don't slow down. Don't turn around. Don't stop talking. There's somebody following us."

The buildings on Windward Avenue presented facades that were appalling pastiches of something that might have been dreamed up by a mad Caliph. The colonnaded sidewalk might have helped keep sun from burning pedestrians during the day, but now it just made the street seem as dangerous as the alley. Casey fought against the urge to walk faster.

"Who do you think it is?" Desiree asked.

"I haven't got the slightest idea," Casey said. "McGrath? That big bruiser running the lift? Maybe it's the guy from last night, and he's brought Detective Sergeant Clark and Howard Hughes with him."

"You know," Desiree said after a moment, "I think it is the guy from last night."

"I told you not to look!"

"If you don't want me to look at something, never tell me not to look. It's like me telling you not to think about pink elephants."

"What the hell are you talking—oh, God damn it." He shook his head.

"Something wrong?"

"Pink elephants."

Desiree giggled, then laughed loudly. Casey felt his cheeks burning with anger, until he saw the expression on her face and realized that the laughter had been for the benefit of their shadow.

Then they were at the pier, and in spite of himself Casey stared up at the glittering lights of the Giant Dipper roller coaster. "We should go," Desiree said, following his gaze.

"I hate roller coasters," Casey said.

"You're a pilot and you hate roller coasters? You faced down German machine-guns and you're afraid of a little railroad in the sky?"

"I didn't say I was afraid of them. I said I hate them. Big difference. Besides," he added, "I've got an idea, and the roller coaster won't help."

"What's your idea?"

"Follow me, for starters." He waded into the crowd, pointing somewhere down the pier in the hope that the shadow would think he was taking them to some place in particular.

Once they were well enmeshed in the mass of people moving slowly along the broad pier, Casey began looking at the people around him. The crowd was big enough that it took him almost no time to find the man he was looking for.

Pulling Desiree to his left, he slid up until he was walking right beside his target. The jacket was the wrong shade, but the hat was almost a perfect match for his, and the stranger had close to his height and build. "Walk beside this fellow," Casey said. "You follow him wherever he goes. If he notices you, give him your best smile and make up some sort of story. Actors are good at that, right? I'm going to slip away and see if I can get close to our friend back there."

Hand on his hat, Casey stepped forward. Desiree sidled into the gap he'd left. Their unwitting companion, caught up in a conversation, didn't notice. Ducking his head and pulling off his hat, Casey gave Desiree the thumbs-up, then slipped away and further into the crowd, constantly checking over his shoulder to keep their shadow in sight.

He couldn't be sure, but it would be easy for Desiree to be right and for the man who was tailing them to be the same fellow who'd accosted them the previous night. The man was certainly big enough; Casey swallowed hard, felt his muscles tightening. He hoped he wouldn't have to confront that man again. Without the advantage of surprise, last night's trick wasn't likely to work again, and Casey didn't have a hope in a straight-up fight.

The man seemed to have fallen for the switch. Casey could see his gaze shifting as Desiree and her new friend moved up the pier; after a few moments of searching Casey found a sheltered spot near the entrance to the Niagara Barrel ride and waited for the man to pass him. Then Casey got on the man's tail and followed him as he followed Desiree.

When the man stopped abruptly Casey was afraid the ruse had broken down. But a glance beyond the big man showed Casey that the man had only stopped because Desiree and her companion had stopped. From the way she was gesturing Casey guessed that her companion had finally noticed her and was demanding an explanation. Let it be a good one, he thought, and let it come quickly. This chap isn't going to stand here forever.

Then Desiree and companion were moving up the pier again. She had even tucked her arm into his. Good for you, Casey thought. He waited until a few seconds after the big man had set out after Desiree before he himself started moving again. Fortunately, the man was so tall and broad-shouldered it would have been next to impossible to lose him, even in a crowd as dense as this one.

Just before the Fun House, Desiree disappeared.

The big man stopped for a second, then began pushing his way through the crowd. Alarmed, Casey set out in pursuit. He fumbled, in his mind, with scenarios that might reduce his disadvantage when the time came to confront the man, should that be necessary. And it would be necessary, he realized, if the fellow got any closer to Desiree than he was now.

He was perilously close to the man, then, when the latter abruptly stopped and turned around. It was only with an effort that Casey was able to locate shelter near the tall, conical tower of the Dragon Bamboo Slide. From there he watched as the man began fighting his way back down the pier, against the current of the oncoming customers. Why doesn't he just shift to this side of the pier? Casey wondered.

The reason became clear once Casey set out to follow the man again. He found the tall man at a phone booth tucked in beside the dance hall. Swallowing his nerves, Casey edged closer, until he could hear the big man. Fortunately, the man was almost shouting in order to make himself heard.
"He said to call him any time," the man said. "You find him and tell him that Oakes is on the phone. It's important."

Casey had to duck behind a large woman when Oakes suddenly shifted so that he could look up the pier, and so he wasn't able to hear the big man's first words when whoever he was calling came on the line.

"You were right," Oakes said. He had a rather high-pitched voice for such a big man. Just like the man who'd hit Casey last night. "They found McGrath. No, I didn't. Couldn't have been much, though, 'cause Casey sure didn't look happy when they left." A long pause. "Nah, they're still in Venice. They just went into the Flying Circus ride. Yeah, rich, ain't it?"

Another pause; Oakes started picking at his teeth. "You sure?" he eventually said. "I owe the bastard." Oakes's mouth turned down and he bit savagely into a fingernail. "Okay, okay. You're the boss. So what do you want me to do, Mr. Buckley?"

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine     Chapter Ten