Gascoyne Read online

  Which is really my line he’s stealing but then I suddenly remember that I emptied my gun into the Widow Roughah’s living room wall and sure as hell forgot to reload it so I don’t really need it. But what possesses me to drop it on my toe with the corn on it is beyond me, and I’ve dropped quite a few guns in my life but never has this happened before. I double up with pain and Dmitri puts a hole in the wall where I was. I never did like the guy.

  “All right GASCOYNE, on your feet and don’t try anything else funny because I’ve got a short temper at the moment.”

  “So I noticed.”

  I stand up and lean against the wall to ease the burning pain in my foot, thinking that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen if I had a string running from the butt of my automatic to my belt like a watch fob, ought to patent that one.

  “It’s very convenient you’re here now GASCOYNE, since you’re the man I wanted to talk to and so suppose you start talking fast.”

  “About what?”

  “Roughah’s treasure trove.”

  “First time I’ve heard of it,” I say.

  “Cut the comedy.”

  “Look I’m not kidding.”

  “We’ll see,” he says.

  He goes to a closet and pulls out a big black bullwhip. Nancy gives a little screaming gasp and frankly I’m about ready to pee in my pants. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people using force against me. Really pisses me off.

  “Now wait a minute,” I say, “you just be careful with that thing, you never know quite how it’s going to land.”

  “I know exactly,” he says, uncoiling it.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Don’t I get one too?”

  “No, sorry, there aren’t enough to go around.”

  He starts warming the thing up with snakelike movements.

  “Okay Dmitri you know damn well Roughah had no treasure trove. His estate’s almost bankrupt as it is.”

  “Yeah, that’s something else I wanted to know. Why?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Sure it does.”

  Well he gives this bullwhip a nasty swing and picks up a heavy cast-iron ashtray with it about two inches away from my hand and flicks it through a window opening out on the street. There’s a thud below and a groan and then the sound of somebody falling down.

  “Okay,” he says, “an ear or a nose?”

  “Well now let’s not get excited,” I say. “What was your question?”

  “Where did all Roughah’s money go?”

  “He didn’t have a hell of a lot to begin with, about half a million more or less liquid,” I say, “and this was managed by FLEESON AND BAIGHT, a combined investment and accounting firm.”

  “And?”

  “Well I suspect they managed it badly, Roughah didn’t have a head for anything besides rackets, or else they siphoned it off for their own use and fabricated monthly statements to keep Roughah happy which wasn’t hard because he’s one of those people who expect to lose money if a deal looks at all honest.”

  “Come on GASCOYNE, that sounds nice but a little fuzzy. This FLEESON AND BAIGHT firm, who are they?”

  “What do you mean, who are they?”

  “Who’s back of them?” he asks.

  “Why should anybody be back of them?”

  “Ah cut it out GASCOYNE.” He gives the whip a nasty wiggle.

  “All right Dmitri, I’m FLEESON AND BAIGHT.”

  “Okay that makes sense at last. So it’s you that’s been siphoning off Roughah’s fortune for the last fifteen years, that does make sense. How much you make GASCOYNE?”

  “About six million I reckon,” I say.

  “You get it all?”

  “No,” I say, “I think we only got about a third. I think he stashed the rest away. Gold or diamonds, I’d say,” I say.

  “Or a Swiss bank account.”

  The trouble is I’ve got the lousy gold coin right there in my pocket.

  “No,” I say, “I think he distrusted banks, even Swiss ones.

  Dmitri fondles the bullwhip.

  “About twelve million, you think GASCOYNE?”

  “I’d say.”

  “That’s what I figured too about the time I decided the real wheel was Roughah and not you GASCOYNE and that there was real money backing him. You’re made out of paper GASCOYNE. You look big but you’re really not, and so when I thought about this I saw that the truth was that you were a convenient front for Roughah to hide behind. And then knowing Roughah I knew he would do something stupid with his money, like bury it where any idiot could get at it. All right GASCOYNE—”

  But then he’s interrupted by some character down on the street below bellowing like hell and saying, “Hey up there next time you throw ashtrays out the window give us a little warning, huh?”

  “Oh go shove it!” Dmitri yells. “Okay now GASCOYNE I know you’ve got the bank account number, now let’s have it.”

  He raises his bullwhip for what appears to be an honest-to-God offensive against my left ear and then all of a sudden that cast-iron ashtray comes flying back in the window and catches Dmitri right in the side of the head and he crumples to the floor. “John Doe,” he gasps and gives up the ghost. He deserved it. Made the same mistake a lot of people make in this town, thinking I’m not the wheel. What they imagine is someone just like me right behind me, but there’s nobody there but us chickens, ha ha.

  Well that’s that and it leaves me alone with Nancy who I’ve been wanting to talk to for a good while.

  “Okay Nancy—” I start to say but she gives me a slap across the eater that’s far from pleasant. “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “For stealing Rufus’s money, crummy bastard.”

  “That’s ancient history. Come on Nancy you know a couple of things I’d like to know so let’s hear them.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “You mean you’re not even going to offer me anything?”

  “Hell no. I never pay money for information in advance. If I get it and it’s any good I pay after.”

  “How much?” she asks.

  “I decide that too. Anywhere from ninety-nine cents to nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.”

  “It doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m not going to tell you a thing,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just can’t stand your guts, CASCOYNE.”

  Then she turns on her heels and marches out of the place in a way I find pretty irritating because I want to know what she knows and she’s going to find it damn tough in the future if she doesn’t start cooperating now. I pick up my automatic and run down the stairs after her but she’s already in the car leaving rubber hotly on the pavement and the Kaiser’s way in the alley across the street. Still I think it worth a try so I run across the street on the double and jump in the Kaiser and start her up but the gear linkage gets stuck as it often does and I can’t throw her in reverse to back up, which means Nancy gets away this time.

  As soon as I catch my breath, and I ought to keep that running down if not cut it out altogether, I give Chester a ring.

  “Chester?”

  “Yeah boss.”

  “What the hell do you mean by leaving the phone again like that at a time like this?”

  “I had to get some more pills boss. These shooting pains are awful.”

  “It’s all in your goddamn head and if you leave that phone once more you’re finished, understand?”

  “But boss I tried to call but the line was busy.”

  “Hell it was busy!”

  “Well I don’t know then, I must have dialed the wrong number. But boss I tell you, honestly, I’ve got to take a rest pretty soon. I’m about to drop.”

  “All right you can take a rest. How about Saturday?” I ask.

  “Jesus boss that’s two days away. I don’t know even whether I can make it through tonight.”

  “Sure you can Chester.”


  “No boss, I’ve just got to take a rest. I’ll try to hang on till six this evening but not any longer.”

  “Now Chester nobody gives me an ultimatum in this town, you know damn well.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a second.

  “Hell boss I don’t give a plugged nickel whether anybody does or not, I’m stopping at six this evening and that’s that. I’ve been up fifty-three hours straight and I’ve had it and I’m not taking any more of it.”

  “Well now think about it Chester, I wouldn’t do anything rash. Just think about it a little bit and you’ll change your mind, I’m sure.”

  He stays quiet again.

  “Okay Chester what’s new?”

  More silence there is.

  “Come on cut the crap, what’s new?” I say getting a little more than peeved.

  “A couple of little bitty items, that’s all,” he says and coughs. “The first one is Mark called and says you’re out of the housing tract and freeway deal because he can’t take a chance on something like that. Also nobody wants the three hundred jeeps so you’ve just bought yourself three hundred jeeps. O’Mallollolly keeps calling and wanting to know why you’re still in town and promises to run you out if you wait much longer. And then there’s always Louis.”

  “What about Louis?”

  “They nabbed him with two and a half million in heroin and word has it he might start telling stories. Spread the rap-around, as they say, to get a little time off for himself.”

  “You’re kidding aren’t you Chester?”

  “Nope I’m telling the honest truth.”

  “Hmm. Things aren’t looking up are they?”

  “No boss can’t say they are.”

  “Well we’ve got work to do anyway. First off I want you to send the Body Snatching Flying Squad from the GREEN FERN AND LILY BLOSSOM PARLOR OF FINAL REPOSE over to pick up Dmitri’s body, he got it in the head, and have them do it up fancy and send the bills to the Widow Roughah and any next of kin.

  “Now I want you to take this down and relay it direct to Nuddard for the editorial page of the special late-afternoon Red Flash Herald. Here goes: ‘Good journalism and justice have kept our mouths shut about the bad stink coming out of one of our city’s famous landmarks which is Police Tower. But now the cat has gotten out of the bag and it turns out to be a full-blown polecat and we can’t keep our mouths shut any longer. Now the enlightened public crying for facts and the truth is going to get it and we are hoping that a little public discussion will clear the air, but it’s going to take more than that. The trouble is, is it going to do any good to just talk when it turns out that Police Commissioner O’Mallollolly who’s supposed to watch our children is caught red-handed embezzling ninety-nine percent of the Policeman’s Pension Fund and when it can be proven that certain nasty things are going on in the lavatories of Police Tower which is fast becoming a pillar of perversion? No and that isn’t all. Most of you are probably wondering about the death under mysterious circumstances of Rufus Roughah, prominent citizen among other things, and wondering still more about our Police Commissioner’s verdict of suicide. Well wonder no more because this newspaper has obtained the complete truth which is that Rufus Roughah was murdered by none other than Police Commissioner O’Mallollolly or one of his paid henchmen, for reasons everybody can guess, namely that Roughah was on the verge of uncovering the scandalous state of affairs in Police Tower and was preparing to expose O’Mallollolly to the unmerciful eye of the public. Roughah died in the pursuit of justice, a real martyr, and we are proud to carry on his work, so as we see it it is a time for public action and now the public must join hands and throw out the tyrants and put down their tyranny. As somebody said, and Nuddard please find out who said it, Taxation without Representation is Tyranny, and what do you call it when you are paying the taxes of the very people who are your tyrants? We call it Communism and if that word strikes terror in your hearts you know what you must do. Stand up and be counted Mr. John Q. Public because now is the time to show the stuff you are made of. Go to it and God be with you! Get all that on tape Chester?”

  “Sure boss. Recorder’s on all the time.”

  “All right, tell Nuddard to clean that up whatever way he wants it for the editorial, just so long as he keeps the basic ideas. Now I want the complete words of the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ put in a little box under the editorial and tell Nuddard to use all of the first and second pages for the scandal story. From what I’ve just given him he can make up all the details he wants. He’s free to use his imagination and have him call me direct if he has any questions. You can give him my number Chester.”

  “No kidding.”

  “A little something extra for him. I want the Scandal of ’65 to be a real humdinger.”

  I hang up and drop the thing into Drive and roll down the alley and come out on Mirindaranda Road South just before the split and cross and get back into Mirindaranda Road heading east. I’m thinking that when Nuddard gets the Red Flash Herald out which will be damn soon O’Mallollolly will suddenly find life not so easy anymore and will begin to wonder how he got himself into such a fix, but he can’t say he didn’t know it was coming. The Scandal of ’59 was so good they almost gave Nuddard some journalism prize and I hope he makes it this time. Old MacWigo, the poor bastard, never knew what hit him, but O’Mallollolly’s seen this one coming from a way off and I’d sure pay a lot to see him when it hits him square in the face.

  The Red Flash Herald ought to hit the streets about six or seven this evening which will make the regular evening edition a little late but they’ll sure get their money’s worth. I think a follow-up in the morning Sunshine Special Times and then the regular morning Times will keep the fire hot and the fireworks themselves ought to start about noon tomorrow with riots and picketing and other demonstrations, working in somewhere the old unbeatable angle, police brutality, compromising photos all over the place. Just then Marge calls.

  “Hi Marge. Well how’s Condor’s Crag?”

  “I haven’t got there yet.”

  “What? Jesus Christ Marge let’s get off the dime. At the rate you’re going the place’ll be in ruins by the time you get there.”

  “Well please dear I can’t help it if that stupid car you gave me broke down again. I’m not a master mechanic you know, if you want—”

  “Now calm down Marge you know damn well that car’s breaking down because you’re not driving it properly like they told you at the garage.”

  “Told me at the garage? Don’t make me laugh dear. They didn’t tell me a damn thing. They just put the keys into my clammy fist and knocked me down on the ground and then stuffed me in the driver’s seat and the next thing I know I’m at Crankcase Summit with a blown something.”

  “Calm down Marge. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at a little gas station on the north end of Lake Lobotomples with a frozen generator bearing. The little man at the garage tells me they haven’t even started to make the part yet in England.”

  “Now calm down Marge, how does he know?”

  “Quit telling me to calm down dammit!”

  “Well you should be able to get the car all the way home without the generator if you don’t use the lights.”

  “That’s what Tom says,” she says.

  “Who’s Tom? You’re not alone?”

  “You think I’d travel alone in this country with a car like this?”

  “Well who’s this Tom?”

  “He’s the bartender at the FAT PHEASANT AND OLD GREYHOUNDE, a very nice boy who’s off the rest of today and so I invited him along for the ride.”

  “Really Marge you shouldn’t pick up strange men like that,” I say even though he’s an employee of mine. You never know about people who work for you.

  “He’s not a strange man, he’s not even a man. He’s only twenty-two, a mere child.”

  “Well I don’t know about that Marge.”

  “Well I don’t give a damn about what you don’t k
now about or what you know about but I do know you sent me on this picnic and you knew damn well there was going to be ants in the honey and you’re just out of your mind to think you can sit down there and direct the traffic by long-distance phone,” she says.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said, that’s what I mean.”

  “Whatever you meant, I wouldn’t say things like that if I were you,” I say.

  “You’re not.”

  “Now wait a minute Marge there’s a note of hostility there and I want to know what you mean by it”

  “Not a thing,” she says.

  “What do you mean, not a thing? What are you trying to say?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Not a thing.”

  “Now Marge stop that and let’s talk this over like two reasonable human beings.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I just don’t want to talk, that’s all. Goodbye,” she says.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Just a minute!” I say. “Are you still there?”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Now look when you calm down again all I want you to do is to go up to Condor’s Crag—”

  “I can’t. Goodbye.”

  “Wait! Why not?” I ask.

  “I can’t. Goodbye.”

  “Hey Marge!”

  Then it’s quiet but she hasn’t hung up and then there’s a clanking around the phone and that seashell sound when somebody puts their hand over the receiver and finally a man’s voice.

  “Hallo Mr. GASCOYNE, this here’s Tom Rasper.”

  “Yes Mr. Rasper?”

  “Well Mr. GASCOYNE Miss Margie wants me to tell you there that she cain’t go up to that Condor’s Craig place on account of there’s been a lanslaad all over the road from barrow pit to barrow pit.”

  “I see. Well now wait a minute Mr. Rasper you just tell her she can walk. Where is this landslide?”

  “Right at the bottom there where you turn off the main road to go up to the Condor place.”