A moment later the door opened cautiously. He waited until the man had stepped into the alley, then tackled him from behind.
The man fell hard. An “umphh” of breath came out of him as he hit the ground. He lay so still that for a moment O’Connor wondered if he had been knocked unconscious. Pinning the man’s arms, he said, “If you wanted to see me, all you had to do was come by the newspaper.”
“No I couldn’t,” rasped a familiar voice.
“Ames?” O’Connor said, startled.
“Yes. For God’s sake, Conn, you’re crushing me. Get off.”
O’Connor stood and helped Ames Hart to his feet, apologizing as he brushed off Ames’s clothing. Hart stood on shaky legs, his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath in the way a runner might after a hard sprint. Thank God, O’Connor thought, that he hadn’t thrown a punch at him or hit him over the head or taken any of the other measures he had considered.
O’Connor hadn’t seen Ames Hart for some time. Known to the staff of the Express as Red Hart-though seldom to his face-Ames had covered the follow-up story of the little girl in the well, the legislation that required abandoned wells to be capped. That was less than ten years ago, but Hart looked as if he had aged thirty years since then.
Hart had been one of their best reporters, a muckraker who turned in one daring story after another-until Old Man Wrigley heard a rumor that Hart had once been a member of the Communist Party and asked Hart to deny it. Hart told Wrigley he had no right to ask the question, and Wrigley fired him, saying that when he had an answer-the correct answer-he could have a job.
Hart had remained stubbornly silent on the matter. Jack had argued with Wrigley on Hart’s behalf-and nearly lost his own job.
It wasn’t a good time to lose a job, but for Hart, matters got worse. He had been blacklisted. No other paper would touch him. He lost his home and barely managed to keep himself clothed and fed. Jack had become worried- not long before, a friend on one of the L.A. papers had committed suicide after being blacklisted. Jack eventually found a job for Hart with a small radio station in Los Angeles, where Ames worked off-air and under a different name. It required all Jack’s charm to talk Hart’s widowed sister into letting her “pinko” brother sleep in a spare room until he got back on his feet, but once Ames was under her roof, she became fiercely protective of him. Hart had managed to get a place of his own since then, but seeing the condition of his suit and the wear on his shoes, O’Connor thought he must still be struggling to get by.
“Why the hell were you following me?” O’Connor asked, his guilt making his tone abrupt.
“Trying to see you in private,” Ames said, wheezing breaths between each word. “You know what would happen if anyone saw you talking to me?”
“It’s not like that anymore,” O’Connor said. “You saw the crowd in the bar. This generation won’t follow in Old Man Wrigley’s footsteps. I’ll bet his son would hire you.”
Ames gave a small laugh. “O’Connor, I don’t know which is more charming, your naïveté or your optimism.” He sniffed the air and frowned. “Perhaps not so naïve…were you out here smoking tea?”
“No, a pair of lovebirds before me, but thanks for thinking so highly of me.”
“I do think highly of you, and Jack as well. You know I’m doing news writing for the station I work for?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ve built up some sources. And I’ve heard something that might be of interest to you.”
“Go on.” O’Connor shifted on his feet, feeling impatient with Hart’s drama.
“I’ve heard that a thug with connections in my neighborhood in Los Angeles was hired to beat up a newspaper reporter on the Express. Thug’s name is-”
“-Jergenson. Bo Jergenson.”
“Yeah,” Hart said, and looked so dejected O’Connor regretted interrupting his act.
“Ames, look-”
“I guess you don’t need me.”
“Jergenson’s dead, Ames, and not from natural causes. Someone put a bullet through his forehead and left him not far from where Jack was found. That’s the only reason I know his name.”
“No fooling?” He became animated again. “A bullet, huh? Well, I guess it could still be the dame, right?”
“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.”