Felix Driscoll: Private Detective

An hour and three drinks later Suzanne said, "Oh, there's Vinnie now. Isn't he gorgeous?" A cocky young punk in a tan suit and a blue shirt and two-tone shoes made an entrance like he owned the place. Brillcreme stayed in business because of guys like him. His hair almost glowed, it curled up in the back. I failed to see what all the fuss was all about. He looked like a punk, not an actor.

Tony the Dentist got up to leave as the Patucci kid came in. They spoke briefly, I couldn't tell about what. Both of them looked at their watches. They weren't exactly smiling at each other. Tony headed for the door followed by his two boys. Vinnie moved away to his table mumbling to himself. A blonde and a brunette sheathed in evening gowns joined him as soon as he sat down. A waiter hovered, speaking familiarly to Vinnie.

"If one of those girls is Dana I don't see what the fuss is all about." I said to Suzanne.

"I thought I told you she wasn't here."

"That's right, you did. Wonder where she is."

"Are you going to start asking questions again?"

"You're the one who brought it up."

She looked at me like she was going to sniff again. "Excuse me for just a second," she said archly.

"Hurry back."

She stood up from her barstool and, with her back very straight, walked over to Vinnie, whispered something in his ear. He looked over his shoulder at me with a sneer forming on his face. Suzanne departed the room without a backward glance to me. She went through some parted curtains and I never saw her again. Vinnie held a hurried conference with the two girls at his table. Then he pushed his chair back, came over and slid onto the barstool vacated by Suzanne.

He fixed a belligerent stare on me.

Which I ignored.

He asked the bartender for a drink and lit a cigarette. I sized the kid up with a sidewise glance. Younger than I'd have thought, early twenties, sober but maybe hopped up, with dull black eyes, an effeminate nose and lips. Not as tough as Suzanne had thought and certainly no match for Tony the Dentist, but he didn't come across as a milquetoast either. He allowed me to see the chrome-plated pistol with pearl grips inside his tan jacket.

"Looking for me, pal?" His eyes were heavy-lidded.

"Do I know you?"

"You was asking questions about me."

"I was making conversation with a stranger."

"More like pumping somebody for information."

"You the guy who's engaged to Dana Starling?"

His hostile routine intensified, one of many reactions I had anticipated. He snarled some foul words to me.

I continued without missing a beat. "I'm a friend of the family. The mother's worried, hadn't heard from her."

His oily black eyes shined suddenly. He raised his voice louder than ever when he said: "You can tell Dana's mother that Dana's doing just fine!"

He pushed away from the bar, glanced away from me, then back. I wondered how many of his friends worked in the joint. My scalp crawled. Two hoods in tuxes stepped up and stood at each side of my back.

"Any trouble?" one of them asked Vinnie.

"Nah," he said nonchalantly. "This gentleman was just leaving, whatn't you?"

I chuckled, the kid was too young to know better. There was nothing more to learn in there. The best thing to have done was leave. Instead I said to Vinnie, "Why don't you tell me where I can find Dana?"

Vinnie uttered something uncomplimentary to me, this time in one of the Mediterranean languages.

"Beat it, chum," said one of the tuxes. "Leroy here will escort you out." He pointed with his thumb at the big bruiser beside him. Leroy smiled an unfriendly smile at me.

I gave them one of my own. "I'm waiting for my change."

"You ain't got no change. We want you out!"

"And find out what he knows," Vinnie said to Leroy's back.

Leroy clamped a big fist around my arm. Everyone in the room watched the scene play itself out, even the stripper. I shook loose from Leroy's grip and headed for the door, in no hurry. He marched behind me on my heels. He followed me out into the parking lot.

Afternoon had dissolved into evening leaving long shadows on the ground. Nothing but shade and solitude loomed around Leroy and me. At last I had the time and place I wanted. For the past ten minutes I'd been wanting to hit somebody. I cheerfully obliged myself. When I bent down to where Leroy writhed on the concrete, he cursed me, trying to catch his breath. I removed the gun from his left armpit, tossed it skittering across the concrete.

I got in my car and got out of there.

A block from The Carousel I pulled to the curb and parked in the enveloping shadows underneath a row of eucalyptus trees. A pair of streetlights flanked the solitary entrance of the club. I'd be able to see anyone who exited. I settled down to wait for Vinnie.

It was surprisingly short.

Vinnie drove a convertible, but he had enough grease in his hair to keep it from getting messed up while speeding down the highway. I let him get a good lead before I fell in behind him. He acted oblivious to being tailed, which made it easier to remain unseen at night. Sometimes I drove with my headlights off and never let his taillights get out of view.

Vinnie turned inland, drove a few miles until a new suburb appeared on the left. The neighborhood streets were full of cars at the curb. His convertible finally pulled into a driveway hidden by tall hedges and parked out of my sight. Stopping before I got to the house, I left my car and walked the rest of the way. By the time I reached the hedge boundary the front door of the modest home was closing and I didn't see who'd answered and let Vinnie in.

He had parked behind an old black touring car in the driveway, leaving the key in the ignition. Using my pencil flash to read the registration, I learned the convertible belonged to Dana Starling. I attempted to inspect the touring car but found it locked. Shining the flash through the glass on the driver's side failed to yield enough light to read the name on the registration around the steering column. For general purposes I copied the number on the license tag into my notebook before turning my attention to the house.

No porch light on. I stalked boldly across the yard, stood for a moment under a pepper tree. Light shined in only one window. I went and crouched under it. I heard muted voices inside, unable to distinguish any words or see through the closed slats of the blinds.

A dog began to bark. Other dogs in other yards joined in. The canine choir howled at length. One or two human voices took solos at the last crescendo. After a while the cacophony dwindled to the occasional yelp, voicing one last nighttime communiqué. I strained to listen at the window. During the outburst of noise outside the voices inside the house had gotten louder. Then I heard two shots fired. A woman screamed a long scream. Another gunshot. The dog chorus took an encore.

Things happened quickly. The front door of the house burst open and a girl with very long hair emerged, lit from the back. She looked like Dana. Bright red blood like a splash of paint smeared the bosom of her blouse. She made an anguished sound, glanced back in the house, then toward the convertible. Down the porch steps and across the yard she fled. When she reached the car she noticed the gun in her hand as if wondering how it got there. She groaned in disgust, slung it from her like she'd picked up something slimy. Next she hopped into the convertible.

Maybe I should've followed the girl; after all Dana Starling was the assignment. But someone might have been dying in the house.

While she started the car I drew my gun and went through the front door. Vinnie, the pretty boy responsible for so many female heart palpitations, sprawled in a pool of blood. All his life had drained out of two bullet holes in his chest. The third bullet had drilled a hole high in one wall. His coat lay open, his holster empty of the pearl-handled chrome-plated gun.

In the back of my mind I was conscious of the sound of the convertible departing and the dogs yapping. My head twisted around when I heard a starter grind and another engine roar to life. The touring car. A bad lifter rattled under the hood. Then gears gnashed and tires screeched. By the time I got to the door the long black car had finished backing out. It hurtled away into the night.

Thinking fast, I sprang through the doorway, off the porch and onto the lawn. I raced towards my car, having the presence of mind to scoop up the pistol discarded by the girl who looked like Dana.

Fortunately the street was short which forced both drivers to use less horsepower than they wished. They were still in sight when I threw open the door of my car. With a snarl of gears I slammed into a squealing u-turn that punished my transmission.

I don't know how long the chase lasted. It surprised me none of us were stopped for speeding or running red lights. I drove more cautiously than either of them, at least slowing at intersections and stop signs. They edged farther ahead of me.

My luck almost ran out in a near collision. A westbound station wagon locked up its brakes at a four-way stop, skidded onto the opposite curb, honking furiously. A quick check assured me no one was hurt. I stamped my gas pedal again in pursuit.

Ahead the touring car screamed onto the coast highway which meant so had the convertible. When I got there I slid through the turn and raced after them. The long black car pulled steadily away from mine. I couldn't see the convertible anymore. The highway patrol is never around when they're really needed. As the thought entered my mind a curve came up too fast and I left the road. My car plowed through a strip of grass and dug ruts in the sand of the beach before coming to an abrupt halt.

I hadn't flooded the engine but lost precious time getting back on the highway. Soon the speedometer inched past ninety miles an hour. The sea on my left and the mountains on my right passed in a blur. Minutes elapsed without me seeing the lights of another car. Several roads turned inland and snaked through the canyons. I remained on the highway, refusing to think about other possible exits. Call it a hunch; when you do this as long as I have you begin to have them.

That intuition paid off. I rounded a sharp bend. The convertible squatted where it had spun off the road, empty, its headlamps pointing in my direction. The touring car receded in the distance, maybe a mile away. I continued on at an exhilarating speed.

Whoever was driving the big car at last got the bright idea to turn off his lights. I saw them go out and panic gnawed at me. Only by a miracle did I see brake lights when the driver slowed to exit onto a canyon road. When I got to the turn I switched off the engine and headlights, listening for the faulty lifter. It echoed in the distance, mingling with the sound of the sea.

Since I could hear it the touring car wasn't far away.

I had another hunch that the road dead-ended and decided to park and proceed on foot. First, however, I examined the pistol on the car seat where I'd chunked it when the chase began. It was chrome and pearl like the one I'd seen inside Vinnie's coat at The Carousel. Of course the muzzle smelled like the gun had been fired recently. I released the clip, yanked the slide back and ejected the chambered cartridge. When I unloaded the seven-round clip a total of six shells rolled around in the palm of my hand. Had the gun been fired once, or twice? Some folks jack one in the pipe, then load a last bullet back in the clip. That would leave six leftovers.

The other scenario meant only one shot had been fired. But were the two bullet holes in the Patucci kid made by the same gun? Not necessarily, but I pushed the question from my mind. I had to get to work. The surf muttered intermittently in the distance as I got out of the car. I'd parked among a clump of tired old palms, sagging in the coolness of the night. The wind carried the smell of oncoming rain. The mountains tumbled right down to the beach. I waded through the dunes along the edge of the road into total darkness. The holster's harness dug uncomfortably into my ribs. I got a lot of sand in my shoes before the road angled down and I saw a glow of light ahead of me.

In the canyon below sprawled a three-story mansion, large by even Beverly Hills' standards. Its ramparts of industrial brick rose above half a dozen bungalows. These lay scattered like tossed dice behind the house in a thicket of evergreens. The occasional light in a window winked among the trees. An eight foot fence of the same industrial brick encircled the property. Five or six acres it looked like to me. But I'm not really a good judge, living in an apartment.

The ocean, tossing and groaning off to the left, rendered my approach soundless. The road led down to a big steel gate set in a thick metal track. I moved in closer. Lights flashed on suddenly, bathing the gate in glare. I went belly down in the sand and waited. A sweaty minute took forever to tick by. A discreet copper plaque, set in the fence near the gate, was now readable: Lost Pines. Over the throb of the surf I heard a sudden sound of machinery. The gate opened ponderously. A dark Cadillac rolled sleekly up the grade and whisked away. For a moment I thought it might be the touring car, but I couldn't see inside anyway. The gate began to close and the lights started to dim. The light went out completely out before the gate slid fully closed in its track.

I thrust myself up out of the sand and sprinted, barely making it through. Inside the grounds no dragons breathed fire and no guns spoke. I dove for the blackest shadows at the foot of the fence, and waited.

My breath came in gasps.

My temples thundered in tandem with my heart.

My pistol was in hand but I had no memory of drawing it.

The ocean could still be heard, though not as much as when outside the walls. A long period of time passed with me sensing no one's presence but my own. The gate had probably been operated mechanically from somewhere inside the house. No sign of guards patrolling, no evidence of watch dogs. I felt confident enough to replace the automatic in its holster and scout around.

The bungalows were not brick like the mansion or the fence surrounding the place. They were built out of pine, like vacation cabins. But they had solid oak doors with big shiny locks. Though several lights blazed in the windows of the house only one of the cabins had a light on. I had a sense of deja vu.

I gravitated toward the window. With no shrubbery to hide in I clung to the shadows. An air-conditioning unit kicked on out of the blue and really startled me. I heaved an anxious sigh of relief and lowered my pistol. I almost saw the humor in it. Almost. Sweat beaded on my face. I wasn't really surprised to find the window made of frosted glass with inlaid chicken wire just for good measure.

What kind of place was it anyway? I thought I could hazard a pretty fair guess. All alone in the foothills next to the sea almost anything could happen behind those forbidding walls. Criminals might find shelter there, if the rackets financed it. Or innocents held against their will, I thought.

I crept around the side of the bungalow. A door opened, spilling light. A large woman in white shoes and trousers and a nurse's smock appeared, rattling a big ring of keys. In her other mitt she gripped a six battery flashlight like a club. I heard her humming to herself above the air-conditioner's low whine. A faint, but steady sobbing came through the open door behind her.

Absorbed in watching her lock up I didn't hear anyone behind me until a gun barrel nudged my right kidney. A nasty voice uttered hotly: "I think we got us a Peeping Thomas here, Mavis."

The nurse turned, smiling, ugly. She shined the beam of her flashlight in my face. "Who's that, Herbie?"

"Dunno." Herbie gestured with his gun, "Why don't you open the cottage back up and throw some more light on our subject."

"Our new arrival is still shaken from her treatment."

Herbie said something obscene and both laughed cruel barks of laughter. "Open the door," he growled. "And, you, keep those hands over your head!" I was urged forward at gunpoint. Mavis said something and her keys made noise. Light from inside showed her features. She had a mustache and hair on the backs of her arms. A mean woman, and probably a strong one, too.

"Is he carrying a gun?" she asked Herbie.

"Dunno," he spat. "Turn around, you, let's have a look. Well, well, he's wearing a shoulder holster." Herbie's hand reached inside my jacket to disarm me.

"What's your name?" Mavis asked.

I tried to sound indignant: "Now see here! What is all this? My car died up the road. I'm . . ."

"She asked your name, friend," Herbie started to act tough.

I remained silent.

Out of nowhere Mavis's big flashlight crashed against the side of my neck. The blow made me unsteady on my feet and I went down, though not out. A roaring sound filled my ears. The sobbing had stopped. I heard the voices of Herbie and Mavis talking. For a minute I couldn't understand the words they spoke.

". . . doctor will want to see him right away."

"Absolutely," this was Mavis. "Is he a cop? Does he have any identification on him?"

Vaguely I was aware of Herbie relieving me of my wallet. Why not? He already had my pistol. Herbie said: "License says he's one Felix Driscoll. He's a private detective. Office in L.A."

"Dr. Desola isn't going to like that."

There was silence, especially in the other room. "You want to sedate him first?"

"Let's wait and see what the good doctor says."

A shoe kicked me in the stomach, "On your feet, friend."

I needed no more prompting. I was slower getting up than I cared to admit to myself.

"Walk!" ordered Herbie.

I obeyed.

A footpath wound around to the big brick house. Mavis was in the lead with her flashlight, Herbie last, covering me with at least one gun. My empty shoulder holster chafed. A nerve in my neck kept clenching and unclenching. I was wobbly on my feet. When we reached the house Mavis pressed a buzzer at a back door. A few minutes later a light came on inside. A massive head with a craggy face appeared. Words were exchanged and the three of us entered the house.

We passed through a large kitchen, down several corridors and up some flights of stairs before arriving at a room with the door standing ajar. The man with the misshapen head spoke from the hallway into the room. "Doctor? Dr. Desola? Mavis and Herbie have some . . . uh, more news for you."

"Well, I hope it's good news for a change," barked an agitated voice. "Send them in."

Our guide bowed us in and shut the door softly behind us. The room was a plush study, all deer heads and book cases full of unread books. Behind a giant mahogany desk crouched a big shot who was obviously Dr. Desola. An expanse of woolly hair shown through the open neck of his sports shirt, a pinkie ring and a flat gold watch gleamed, a big cigar jutted from his mouth. The mussed wavy hair on his head, not yet gray at the temples, made him look like he'd just stepped off the tennis court. A big hand brought a small whiskey up his mouth. He poured himself another.

A leather couch was against one wall. An older woman dressed in frumpish orange sat in one of the two armchairs arranged in front of the desk. She smoked a cigarette in a long holder and sipped at a glass of white wine. No one introduced me and she said nothing while I was there.

Herbie held up my billfold to show them.

Desola extended an elegant hand for it. "Let me see that." The agitated voice belonged to him. "What's going on here?"

"We have another visitor, fed us some line about car problems," explained Herbie. "But he's a snooper."