Bloodlines ik-9 Page 17

  “What dame?”

  “Blonde by the name of Betty. Hooker, but she’s not as strung out or worn down as most. She’s the mistress of a guy named Gus Ronden.”

  “Any last name?”

  “Hell if I know it. You can bet it isn’t ever going to be Ronden. But that’s probably lucky for her.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not too much. Reputation for being a little psycho. You might have seen him around the pool hall — the one down at the corner near the paper?”

  O’Connor shook his head.

  “Go by there, you might run into him.”

  “What’s his line?”

  “Pimping, mostly. Word is, he rents out high-dollar girls like Betty by the hour, but I have a feeling he doesn’t own the stable. He’s probably mob-connected. Always manages to keep himself out of the hoosegow.”

  “What does he drive?”

  Ames shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask around at the pool hall.”

  “Thanks, I will. Sorry about knocking you down.”

  Ames smiled. “Not the first time that’s happened to me. As long as I can get back up again, I guess I’ll be all right.”

  Thursday morning began badly: He learned that Jack was unlikely to regain sight in the injured eye. Jack laughed about it, said he was going to buy a patch so that he could look like the mysterious man in Brenda Starr, and maybe then some gorgeous woman reporter would fall in love with him. Helen said she guessed that let her out of the running. They teased each other back and forth until O’Connor decided all the bravery was admirable but unbearable in these moments when he himself felt nothing but murderous rage, so he quickly excused himself to go to work.

  At the newspaper, O’Connor tried the simple way first: looking up Ronden in the phone book. He didn’t find a listing. He looked at the clock, pulled out a story he had nearly finished last week, and worked like crazy to turn it in before the pool hall opened at ten. He got over there by ten-thirty.

  He spent the next few hours hiding his billiards skills, usually letting others win. During this process, he learned that Gus Ronden hadn’t been seen since the Friday before Katy’s birthday party. Nobody seemed to miss him much.

  O’Connor softened up the bartender at the pool hall by telling stories and jokes, leaving good-sized tips, and aiding in the forcible removal of a rowdy patron or two. By the time he got around to asking him about Ronden, the bartender was in a confiding mood.

  “He’s no good,” the bartender said. “Give you an example — cut up a colored girl in Stockton. Bragged about it, and about how he hired some slick lawyer and weaseled out of going to jail. He made out like the local coppers up there didn’t care, because she was a Negro. I think that’s all eyewash — they must have made it hot for him there, because he moved down this way. Probably figured if he’d do that to a black girl, next he’d do it to a white.”

  “Any idea where I could find him?”

  “Don’t go looking for him, kid. You’ll just be looking for trouble.”

  “I like to find trouble before it finds me.”

  “So that’s how it is. Sorry I can’t be of more help, then — he has a house, somewhere over here on the west side of town.”

  “Kind of surprised to hear he could afford one.”

  “Oh, Gus is never short of money. Squeezes a penny until Abe Lincoln has bruises, but somehow I don’t think that’s the secret of his wealth.”

  “Know who he works for?”

  “The devil, for all I know.”

  So he drove to the county offices and looked through property records to learn where Ronden lived, and then went back to the paper, where he used the crisscross phone directory to look up the phone number, which was listed as that of Elizabeth Bradford. Betty. He called repeatedly, but got no answer.

  It was late afternoon by the time he got to Ronden’s place. He knew it was a bad time to allow himself to go calling on anyone connected to Jack’s beating. He knew he didn’t have his own temper in hand, but he couldn’t keep himself from hunting Ronden.

  The house wasn’t much of a place, nothing more than a rundown wood- frame. Most of the houses on the street were in poor repair — torn screens, weedy gardens, peeling paint. Directly across from Ronden’s was one of a few exceptions: a white picket fence guarded a home with a green lawn and neat flowerbeds. Nice for Ronden to look out his window and see that, O’Connor thought dryly. The view this neighbor had was not nearly so pleasant. Ronden’s house was a graying white, with a lawn that was a mongrel collection of weeds.

  He watched Ronden’s house for a time before getting out of the car. There was no movement or sound of any kind coming from the house. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do if Ronden was home.

  Punch him, the way Jack had been punched? Literally take an eye for an eye?

  Beat the hell out of him, then turn him over to Norton?

  Pretend to be a salesman for the Fuller Brush Company, walk off peaceably, then call Norton?

  He wasn’t sure which of these ideas he’d stick with, he only knew that he couldn’t sit in the car, staring at the dump Ronden called home.

  As he walked up the porch steps, one creaked loudly. He paused, wondering if he was a fool not to have brought a weapon. But he had no real experience with guns, not much more than Dan Norton taking him to a firing range a few times. With Dan’s tutelage, he’d managed to hit a paper target fairly consistently, but he knew that men were not likely to act like paper targets, and thought himself little match for someone who truly knew what he was doing with a gun.

  He knocked hard on the door, half in anger, half in fear. He kept his fist clenched. But after a while, it was clear no one would be coming to the door. He listened for the sound of movement within the house for a long time, and became convinced that Ronden wasn’t home.

  He walked up the rutted dirt driveway toward a dilapidated garage, one that looked old enough to have housed a Model T at some point, if not a carriage. A short fence between the house and the garage enclosed a small backyard. He was surprised to see pink roses growing along the back wall. They seemed well tended — the only thing about the place that was.

  He turned back to the garage. There was no lock on the latch that held the double doors closed, so he opened it and pulled on the one on the right. It swung out toward him with a loud creaking. If Ronden was in the house and hadn’t heard him yet, the man was deaf.

  The scents of oil and dust greeted him, but no car occupied the garage. A few rusty garden tools and a push mower stood against one wall, a workbench on the other. He opened both doors and stepped inside to get a closer look, taking care to avoid stepping on the oily tire marks on the concrete floor. Big tires, set wide apart. A big car.

  He pulled a string hanging next to a bare lightbulb overhead, but nothing happened. Either the bulb was burned out or the electricity was off. Had Ronden abandoned his home after killing Bo Jergenson?

  He looked more closely at the workbench, but it appeared that little work was done on it. There were no tools on or near it. He saw a rusting footlocker beneath it, though, and bent to open it. He had just released the latch when a gruff voice said, “What are you doing in here?”

  Startled, O’Connor banged the back of his head on the underside of the bench.

  “Jesus!” he said, wincing. He straightened, and saw a man in his sixties pointing a shotgun at him. He raised the hand that wasn’t rubbing his head.

  “I’ll thank you not to use the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing in here?” the man asked again.

  “My name’s O’Connor. I’m with the newspaper. Put the gun down and I’ll show you my press credentials.”

  “You’ve got that vicey-versy. You show me your credentials, nice and slow, and then maybe I’ll put down the gun.”

  O’Connor did as he asked.

  After taking a look at his press pass, the man lowered the
gun and said, “I would think the world would be mighty tired of reading about the likes of Gus Ronden.”

  “You own the place across the street?”

  The man nodded. “Name’s Ed Franklin. Doesn’t seem to me that being a reporter gives a man a right to trespass on another man’s property, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “It doesn’t.” O’Connor made a quick decision. “Let’s step out into what’s left of the sunlight, Mr. Franklin. I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

  He told Franklin what had happened to Jack, and of his suspicion that Gus Ronden had murdered Bo Jergenson. “Jack Corrigan is like a brother to me,” he ended.

  Franklin drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. At some point during the story he had broken the shotgun open, and now cradled it with the business end pointing at the ground. “I’m sorry but not surprised to hear that Miss Bradford involved herself in this. I had hoped … no, I will still hope and pray that she will someday abandon this way of life.”

  “You planted the roses for her, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “She admired the flowers at my place. She told me she’s fond of pink.” He blushed to a fiery red, then added in a low voice, “You’d not believe how she proposed to thank me.”

  “I would,” O’Connor said. “When did you last see them here?”

  “She has a place of her own, she tells me. An apartment near the ocean. But she is here quite often. I last saw her here on Saturday. She was with a dark-haired man and a big blond fellow. Not that the dark one was little. He was good-sized, too, but next to the other one, anyone would look short. Might be part Mex, but I couldn’t say for sure. They’re the ones who attacked your friend, I suppose.”

  “And Ronden?”

  “All sorts of comings and goings around here on Saturday. I kept an eye out. One of his creepy friends came over early on. Young guy. Dressed sharp, has some money I would guess. I didn’t see them leave, but everybody was gone by around ten, because Gus left at about that time.” He grinned. “I can always hear this garage open.”

  “I don’t doubt everyone on the street can hear it. What does Gus drive?”

  “Dark blue Chrysler Imperial — almost looks black. He has some fancy name for the color, but I don’t know what it is. Brand new, a 1958, but he bought it late last year. Push-button transmission, power steering, purple dash lights. Electric everything. It’s a beauty. Takes better care of it than he does the house or his girlfriend.”

  “Leaking oil, though?”

  “No, that’s from Betty’s car. She hasn’t been allowed to park it in the garage very often since he bought the Imperial, though.”

  “When did he get back on Saturday night?”

  “He came back around midnight, I think. Then not much later, Betty and those two I mentioned came over — the blond giant and the Mex.”

  “Not the sharp-dressed man?”

  “No, he didn’t show up again. Heard Gus yelling at somebody. Betty left with the dark one. The blond one drove off with Gus.”

  “You remember what the other car was? The one Betty and the dark-haired man were in?”

  “A Chevy Bel Air. Turquoise and white.”

  “You have any idea where Gus might be now?”

  He shook his head. “He came back in the wee hours, then left again in a big hurry.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Betty told me that Gus has a place up in the mountains. I don’t know which mountains, though. To be honest, he’s never struck me as the outdoors type.”

  “That helps, Mr. Franklin. I have one more favor to ask.” He took out his notebook, wrote down Dan Norton’s name and phone number, then tore out the page and gave it to Franklin. “Call that number, please. Tell Detective Norton that I was over here, and that I took care not to step on a nice set of tire tracks in the garage. Tell him that I said Gus Ronden killed the giant, and I’ll fill him in on anything else I learn a little later.”

  “You sure you don’t want to call him from my place?”

  “He’s going to be a little perturbed with me as it is, and he might find a way to make me wait around here a little longer than I’d like.”

  At home, O’Connor made six peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and packed them in a hamper with a thermos full of hot coffee. He packed a few things for an overnight trip, as well as some warm clothing — gloves, sweater, thick socks, hat, and warm jacket — and drove the Nash to San Bernardino. He found a cheap motor lodge and rented a room. He was so tired by that time, neither the music from a honky-tonk next door nor the lumpy mattress could keep him from a good night’s sleep.

  The next morning he was waiting outside the property records office. To his relief, he found a cabin belonging to one Augustus Ronden listed not far from Lake Arrowhead. He had been worried that the cabin might end up being in the Sierras rather than the San Bernardinos, or listed in another county, perhaps as far away as Tahoe.

  He began the drive up into the mountains, taking the narrow cliffside highway that wound its way up from the foothills. He wore the warm clothing he had packed the night before. He was less than two hours away from Las Piernas, but there was a marked difference in the climate. The weather front that had dumped rain on Las Piernas had left snowdrifts here. O’Connor had never lived in a place where it snowed, and had no experience of driving on icy roads. He was glad the two-lane highway had been plowed earlier in the week. The road was dry, the air crisp and laden with the scent of pine.

  When he reached Lake Arrowhead, he stopped in a real estate office to get directions to the lane leading to Ronden’s place. Once the salesman determined that he was not a potential buyer or renter of a cabin or ski lodge, he sent him on his way with a local map.

  He drove on plowed roads until he got to the private drive that led to Ronden’s cabin. The road was higher than the cabin, which sat on the down-slope, in a small hollow. He could see a glimpse of it from here, but not much more. He was sure he had the right one, though, because a big, midnight blue Chrysler Imperial was parked at the end of the drive, surrounded by snow. Ronden hadn’t been able to get down the drive, either, although there were snow chains around the Imperial’s tires. Ronden would need to take them off and do some shoveling to get the car free if he planned on leaving the cabin. O’Connor saw this as an advantage. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he’d be halfway down the mountain before Gus Ronden could move his car an inch.

  He walked up to the Imperial, which was unlocked, and pushed snow away so that he could open the door. He pulled down the visor to look at the vehicle registration — like most people, Gus Ronden kept this in a plastic and leather holder, held onto the visor by thin springs. The name and address were Ronden’s. O’Connor reached to open the glove compartment. It contained a few maps and receipts and a pint of gin. He backed out of the car and stooped next to the driver’s seat, moving his hand carefully beneath it. Even through his gloves, he could feel the cold steel of a gun. He pulled the revolver free, emptied it of bullets, and returned it to its hiding place. He pocketed the ammunition and began to walk carefully down the drive.

  He quickly realized that he had not planned carefully enough. He needed boots. Within a short time, his shoes, socks, and pants legs were uncomfortably wet with slushy snow, and more than once he nearly lost his balance.

  He followed a bend in the drive and stepped into a clearing. A small cabin stood before him. The snow was disturbed in front of it, and behind a shredded screen door, the wooden front door was open. He stepped back among the trees. Was Ronden inside the cabin, or somewhere in the surrounding forest? He shook his head at the sight of the screen. Why didn’t the man take care of his property? He supposed insects wouldn’t be much of a problem in winter.

  Within a few seconds he heard the sound of something scraping against a wooden floor, followed by a loud crash. He watched uneasily, teeth chattering with cold, asking himself why he wasn’t coming up with any big ideas now. He wasn’t going to approach without any place to take cover, not when Ronden mi
ght easily poke the barrel of a gun through that torn screen and shoot him on sight.

  Suddenly, the screen door flew back on its hinges, and a black bear came out of the cabin. It paused, sniffed, and stared toward him, then scampered off to the left, moving much faster than O’Connor had ever imagined such a large animal could travel.

  When his heart rate slowed enough to allow him to stop praying in thanks for near misses with potentially dangerous wild creatures, he moved toward the cabin. He could believe any number of things about Gus Ronden, but not that he was a bear tamer in the off-season.

  He mounted the porch steps, pulled open the broken screen — probably the bear’s version of ringing a doorbell — then stood on the threshold of the cabin, looking at chaos. The bear had been having a grand time of it in the front room, which housed a kitchen, dining area, and sitting room. The kitchen was a shambles — the refrigerator stood open, its meager contents spilled on the floor. A set of Melmac plastic dishes had survived a fall from a cupboard, but a copper canister of sugar had been bent into an unusable shape. The floor near the door was damp, and it seemed colder in the cabin than outdoors.

  O’Connor looked in the other rooms and found them unoccupied. The bed was made, the closet empty, the bathroom clean. He walked out to the front room again and looked around. Other than the open door and the bear’s mess, he didn’t see signs that anyone had been here lately. The fireplace held ashes, but there was no telling how long they had been there.

  This last made him think about the lack of footprints. If Ronden drove up here early on Sunday, the first of the snow would have fallen here before he arrived. He had chains on his tires, so there was some snow, at least at these higher elevations. If he walked to the cabin from the car, new snow would have covered his tracks. But it was nearly a week later now, and there was no sign that he was living here. O’Connor wasn’t sure if a bear could open a door, especially a locked door. He looked at the door again. Unlike the screen, it hadn’t suffered damage.

  Why had the door been left unlocked? He heard a vehicle and looked back toward the road. There wasn’t a clear view of the lane from here, but with the screen door open, he could hear any cars that went by. Had someone else waited for Ronden here? Perhaps they had then driven off somewhere together. But why leave the door open? Maybe the second man — or woman — hadn’t latched it properly, and the wind had done the rest.