The P.I. Who Came in From the Cold

He gingerly took the .38 out of his shoulder holster and laid it on the counter.

"Good boy. Now let's go in the bedroom and wait for your boss." I pocketed his revolver and shoved the .45 in his back while we walked back in the bedroom, then angled the door so I could watch the living room.

"Whaddya want Bridges for? He don't carry any money."

"I'm not after money, just some information. Everybody plays nice, nobody gets hurt. Quiet now, don't try to warn him. I wouldn't like that. Trust me, neither would you." He stayed quiet as a preacher caught in a cathouse.

Bridges showed up about half an hour later, right on time. His suit probably cost more than I made the last two or three months. His widow's peak and longish face with a sour look made him look sort of like Jimmy Stewart with a bad case of hemorrhoids.

I waited until he put his suitcase down and started to take off his jacket. It didn't look like he was carrying, so I kicked the bedroom door open and shoved the goon across the room. While Bridges was focused on him, I released the magazine from the .45 and palmed it into a jacket pocket.

Bridges found his voice. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the bad boy from Melbourne your mum wouldn't let you play with back in Kensington." He wasn't expecting somebody who knew his boyhood. His eyes went wide, his jaw dropped until he looked like a fish in the bottom of the boat trying to breathe air.

He closed his mouth and started to say something, then changed his mind, turned to the bodyguard, and jabbed a finger toward me. "Why the fuck didn't you stop this—"

"Whoa, whoa, Bridges, this do-si-do is your fault, not his. You always announce your trip down here in the union newsletter, stay in this apartment, arrive five minutes either side of 5:30. You don't use professional bodyguards, just assign the job to a union member—only one, even though you should have at least three—and you give him a gun but no bodyguard training. You make it too easy."

Taking the goon's .38 from my jacket pocket, I thumbed out the cylinder, shook the rounds onto the floor, and whipped the cylinder back in. It made a helluva clatter when I tossed it in the kitchen, making them both twitch.

It was time to lower everybody's blood pressure. I turned the .45 butt-up to show there was no magazine. "It wasn't loaded. I couldn't have blown your brains out even if you had it coming." When the mug shook his head in disgust, I tried to ease his mind. "Don't beat yourself up. I would've cold-cocked you, and when you came around youd've had a helluva headache."

I dug a full magazine out of my pocket, slapped it in the .45 and racked a round into the chamber. After setting the safety and tucking it back under my left arm, I waved Bridges toward the couch. "Take a load off. I came to talk, not rassle." Without waiting for a response, I told the bodyguard to go back in the bedroom and close the door. He looked at his boss. Bridges nodded and he followed my instructions.

Bridges didn't like being ordered around, but I had the only loaded gun in the room. He sat. Still, he wasn't about to get all girly about it. "Now who the hell are you and whaddya want?"

"Word is that someone in your union shot up those three guys behind the Rosslyn Hotel a few days ago. Anything to that?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, so get outta here while you can still walk." His mouth denied it but his eyes said he was lying. Trouble was, I didn't know whether he was lying about union members doing the shooting, or just that he didn't know about it.

"You forget, Bridges, I'm the one with a gun and you're the asshole trying to sell a bill of goods. Let me refresh your memory." I gave him a quick version of the shooting, then stretched the truth a bit about how many times I heard that ILWU members pulled the triggers.

He thought about it, then shrugged. "Yeah, maybe I heard something about that. But you hear a lot of things and most of 'em aren't true. You still haven't told me who you are."

"I'm a private investigator. Here's something I didn't hear on or off the street, I saw it night before last." I told him about the beef heist.

He didn't shrug this time, he was interested, maybe very interested. "Come on, shamus, you saw more than that. You're holding back. How much beef? Any ideas about who the two were? License plate on the truck? You're a detective, you didn't just sit there with your thumb up your ass. Maybe we can make a deal, you know, trade information."

I had to decide how much to tell him, whether he really would be willing to play Show Me Yours And I'll Show You Mine. "Not sure how much I can trust a guy named Alfred who calls himself Harry. You quit school and went to sea when you were 16 even though your folks didn't want you to, you claim you used a mandolin as a lifesaver when one of your ships sank. You were a Wobbly, Congress declared you a commie but for some reason the Supreme Court came to your rescue—

"Where'd you learn so much about me, shamus? I don't like it when people snoop around my family."

"Calm down, Bridges, the only place I did any snooping was the LA public library. It's surprising how much you can learn if you make googly eyes at the research librarian and act like she's a good-looking doll."

He shook his head. "Nah, I don't buy it. Those sheilas aren't dumb. She probably wasn't a looker and knew it, so—"

"Mox nix, Bridges. You're right, she was a plain Jane, but wanted real bad to believe I meant it. I even went out and bought her a rose while she was on lunch break. She acted like I'd brought her the moon and stars. If she could've found it, she would've told me the first time you shagged your first girlfriend."

"Sounds like I'm not the only asshole here, shamus. Even I wouldn't treat a sheila like that." It was my turn to shrug. For a change, he didn't look like he just sucked a lemon. There might have been even a hint of a smile.

In for a dime, in for a dollar. I told him about the torn butcher paper, Stagnaro Bros. Meat and Seafood, and the Hawthorne street address I couldn't read. "The license number was..." I took out my notebook, leafed through it to the right page, and read the number. "I couldn't be sure, but the two mugs looked a lot like the shooters at the Rosslyn."

Bridges stood and started pacing, then stopped and faced me. "So you're the guy Wolfson hired to watch the trucks." He knew Wolfson? And that he'd hired me? Now it was my turn to imitate a dying fish. I'd never get rich playing poker.

"Let's both sit down, mate, and I'll tell you what's going on." We did and he did.

Wolfson's brother wasn't killed in Korea, he didn't even have a brother. The business manager of the Long Beach local of the ILWU was Wolfe's cousin. He'd passed along a request from Bridges to hire me to help stop cargo losses. The tip to stake out the loads of beef was a shot in the dark, they thought the beef had already been stolen.

I wasn't so sure, kept wondering why sometimes they took two sides, sometimes just one. Maybe...

"Who keeps track of loading the trucks?"

Bridges looked puzzled. "Why? What's that got to do with anything?" I didn't respond, just waited for him to answer. "Couple of guys. One from the trucking company, he's got the manifest for each trailer, and a union rep to watch the watcher."

I thought about that for a bit. "The trucking guy's job is probably to make damn sure enough sides are loaded in each trailer, but how tough would it be to slip in an extra side or two?"

He connected the dots and came up with the same picture I did. "So all they have to do is make sure the muscle knows how many extra sides are in each trailer. When the shortfall finally shows up, the heist could have happened anywhere along the line and the insurance company covers the loss. Cute."

The scheme to lift meat might have been cute, but the slaughter at the Rosslyn wasn't. "What about the three guys who were shotgunned at the Rosslyn Hotel? All over what, 30 to 40 pounds of beef? Doesn't figure."

He shrugged again. "Who knows? If the ones who did the shooting are the same ones who stole the beef, maybe they figured too many small-timers were horning in on their racket and they wanted to send a message. What difference does it make now?"

I didn't want to explain that taking care of the shooters might bring some notion of justice to Thomas Albright. And to me, for that matter. "None, I guess."

"If any of them were union brothers, they were acting on their own. The ILWU doesn't steal or kill. We might play tough sometimes, but we aren't crooks."

I wasn't so sure, but there was no point in arguing. He went on to explain that he got Wolfson involved—he ignored that he got me involved, too—because he wanted to keep the stakeout a secret just in case any union members were involved. Sounded to me like he wasn't so sure that some of his so-called brothers weren't crooks.

I left without telling him he should do something about his lousy security.

I NEEDED A DRINK after my chat with Bridges, even if it was just water and olives, so I headed for the Scupper. Laverne was carefully drying glasses, polishing each one so it gleamed like crystal. I tried to figure out why a girl like her wanted anything to do with a mug like me, then shook it off before I started caring too much.

She was pouring my second Fonytini when Wilkes hoisted himself onto the stool next to me. For a change, he took the chewed-up cigar out of his mouth before talking. "Looked like your coupé parked out front. Thought you didn't drink?"

"I don't. Taste this." I held the martini glass out to him. He shook his head.

"No thanks, I don't swap spit with guys, even pretty boys like you."

Laverne rolled her eyes, poured the bit left in the shaker into a clean glass, and offered it to him. "No cooties on this one, Champ." I wanted to let her know Wilkes was an okay guy, that he and I always traded jabs like that, but I liked her "Champ" moniker. Laverne knew how to put a guy in his place.

He looked from the glass to her, then shrugged, took the glass, drained it, and made a face. "Jesus! Is there any gin in that? It tastes like straight water!"

I slapped him on the back. "God, you're quick, Wilkes! No wonder you're a detective lieutenant." I hoped this told Laverne who he was and that he was a friend—well, the nearest thing to a friend I wanted.

She relaxed, took back the glass, and asked him what he'd like to drink. I tried to answer for him. "He looks like a bourbon guy to me."

Wilkes shook his head. "Nope, grew up in backwoods Wisconsin. We didn't have mother's milk, we had beer and bratwurst. Bring me a Lucky." Laverne didn't move, just looked him in the eye.

He caught on quick. "Please."She grabbed a bottle of Lucky Lager from the cooler under the backbar, opened it, and put it on a napkin in front of him. The cigar was still in his hand, not his mouth. "Thanks." She nodded and walked back down the bar.

I told Laverne to put his beer on my tab and took out a fag. As I flicked open my Zippo, I thought there was room for confusion here. "Hey, Wilkes. Next time you ask for a Lucky, you gotta be more specific. This—" I held up my Lucky Strike, "is a Lucky, and that—" I pointed to his beer, "is a Lucky, too."

He wasn't impressed. "Yeah, yeah, 'It's Lucky when you live in California.' I don't feel very lucky when I pay the blackmail they call income tax. Hmmph!" Then he smirked. "LS/MFT doesn't stand for 'Lucky Strike/Means Fine Tobacco,' you know." He jammed the soggy cigar back in his mouth.

I grinned. "Of course not. 'Loose Straps/Mean Floppy Tits.' Everybody knows that."

He took the cigar out of his mouth again and leered. "Nope. 'Let's Screw/My Finger's Tired.' That's the grown-up version."

"Grown-up my ass! You two sound like a couple of 12-year-olds!" Neither one of us had noticed that Laverne had come back and was leaning against the backbar. I was embarrassed. To his credit, so was Wilkes. I sputtered some sort of apology, but Wilkes just stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and stood. "Gotta go." You could almost see a tail between his legs as he hustled out.

After I apologized a few dozen times, she finally grinned and admitted that after all, she was a bartender, had heard them before and still thought they were pretty funny. Her good mood lasted, so when she asked I went home with her.

I've never been good with pillow talk, it's too easy to give away weaknesses. When she asked again about the Bitch from Burbank, I tried to describe how cold it was, gave her a short version of the retreat from Chosin to Hungnam, and told her that's why we called ourselves the Chosin Few.

I didn't want to talk about taking Kal's parka or how many guys I saw on the retreat wearing two parkas or quilted Chicom jackets under their own parka, and no way would I ever tell her or anybody else about the dream. I did tell her that thinking of my wife helped me survive while Korea tried to freeze my body and soul.

"Her last letter finally caught up with me almost three months after she mailed it. Somehow she'd gotten a Reno divorce without me there. I found out later she'd taken up with a Marine pilot, but he shipped out to Korea a month later."

I wondered if he'd been flying one of the Corsairs in my dream. The part that actually happened.

Laverne and I had agreed several times that we were just good friends with no strings. Even though she didn't ask when I said it was time to go, I could tell she wanted me to spend the night. I 'd never taken her to my place, because when we finished screwing around she might not want to leave. I'd have to insist and she'd feel real bad. This way was less painful. I could end it just by leaving.

I drove home in a lousy mood, wishing for the umpteenth time she really meant it when she said no strings.

Two days later, Wolfson called and told me that the cops raided Stagnaro's. The owner and a guy who worked for him were arrested. The employee finally admitted that he was the driver of the truck that carried the stolen beef. The two who did the heavy lifting weren't there.

Wolfson warned me that Bridges said the two were ILWU members who'd gone missing and that I should watch my back. I assured him I would. Turned out that wasn't good enough.

THE NEXT NIGHT I was sitting on my usual stool in the Scupper. Just as Laverne set down my second fake martini, I saw two goons in the mirror come into the bar. Somehow I knew they were the two who did the Rosslyn shooting and heisted the beef. Now they were after me.

I didn't have much time, but had to warn Laverne. "Keep looking in my eyes. When I say 'Now' turn right and duck down behind the bar. Fast." She paled, but kept eye contact. Just as she mouthed "Okay" the first mug waved the other one to move to our right and went for his gun.

"NOW!"

I dived left, drawing the .45 and thumbing off the safety. While I was falling it barked twice and the first goon went down. I grabbed on to a bar stool to hoist myself up and snapped a desperation shot. Luck was on my side, briefly. It caught the second shooter in the face, but not until he'd fired once.

Just as I stood, I heard a slap sound and a soft "Oh" from Laverne. I looked over in time to see her staggering backwards, blood blooming in the middle of her chest. After a quick glance to make sure the goons weren't getting back up, I scrambled over the bar. Laverne was lying face up with one leg bent back beneath her, blood pooling around her. I'd seen death enough times to know she probably wasn't alive when she hit the floor.

Kneeling beside her, I brushed the hair from her face, thumbed her eyes shut, straightened her leg, and tugged down her skirt. It seemed important to do those things. I knelt beside her, raised her in my arms and held her without moving, my mind as blank as a wallflower's dance card.

A couple of uniforms showed up a while later. When they tried to take her from me, I hit their arms away. They stopped, not sure what to do, until a familiar voice said something to them and they backed off. Wilkes knelt down beside me.

"You can let her go, Pete. She's dead." I turned toward him but couldn't focus on his face. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. It wasn't your fault. You got the sonofabitch who did it. The other sonofabitch, too. They're both dead."

He put his hand on my arm but didn't try to move it. "Let them take her. They'll make sure she's taken care of." After a moment I gently laid her back down. Two ambulance attendants wheeled her out of the bar. Wilkes and I stood and walked stiffly over to a table.

He took out his notebook. "How'd it happen?" I told him as best I could remember, but had to struggle for details. It was hard to talk. Every so often he'd ask how I was doing. I wanted him to think everything was jake, so I'd say "Fine." I didn't want anybody feeling sorry for me, even this cop who came closer to being a friend than anyone else I knew. When he said he didn't have any more questions, I asked if I could leave. He nodded but told me I might have to answer more questions later.

Death has a smell that's got nothing to do with blood or decay. It's a smell of laughs never laughed and dreams never dreamed. I was tired beyond telling of that death smell. As I drove back to my apartment, my mind ran down the list of deaths that'd been too much a part of my life. It started with Laverne, of course, dear Laverne, whose only fault was to care about me. Then the goon who shot her and his pal, the same ones who shotgunned the hotel butcher and the two small-time crooks.

It didn't stop there. The two mugs who'd threatened Lupe and her daughter last year, the poor schlub whose wife had hired me to see if was been cheating, the same wife who was also cheating, the guy she'd been cheating with...

I made it back to Burbank with no memory of the trip, lucky that I made it in one piece. As I opened the door to my apartment, I added to the list the dozens of ChiComs who fell to my Ma Deuce. Just as I started to add all the dead ChiComs in my dream who'd got up, the phone rang.

I didn't feel like talking to anybody and would have let it ring, but figured it was probably Bridges calling to congratulate me for killing those two goons and wanting to gloat about how the ILWU wasn't so bad after all. I decided to tell him to go to hell.

"Yeah."

—Pete?

Hearing her voice hit me so hard I sagged into a kitchen chair. I couldn't think of anything to say.

—Pete? Are you still there?

"Lupe. How... how've you been?"

—Busy, but now we're back in Los Angeles. Ileana and I are staying with my cousin until I can find a place. I hear you haven't found a secretary yet. Can I apply for the job?"

She sounded happy, even chipper. I wasn't ready for this, hadn't thought about what I'd say. I imagined her in my life again, running the office and making every day brighter. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her, how big a hole she'd left in my life. Then, without warning, my mind started back through its litany of the dead.

I replied without hesitating, afraid I'd change my mind. "No, Lupe. You...you need to stay as far away from me as you can get." I shut my eyes so tight they hurt. "I'm the Angel of Death." Before she could respond, I hung up.

Picked up the phone again and made sure there was a dial tone, then put it down crosswise on the cradle so she couldn't call back. I poured a cup of cold coffee, lit a Lucky, and sat at the kitchen table thinking there had to be a better way to make a living.