“How about Johnny?” I asked.
“Young guy. About twenty-five. Ships as Ordinary. He’s at sea now. We shipped him out on a Victory last week, for Rio and B.A.”
“No-o,” I said. “The one I’m looking for was in some kind of trouble here a few years back, during a strike.”
“Oh, you mean that fink bastard! Well, look, friend—he’s not a member of this union, and never was. But I’ll you what. If he ever shows up around here, you can come get him. Just bring a blotter.”
“You got any idea where he is?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to get in touch with him. I might have the blotter ready now. What do you know about him?”
‘His name’s Ryan Bullard. And except for being a rat, a fink, a scab, a thug, and a goon, he’s one of the sweetest guys you’ll ever meet. And, oh yes, he’s also an ex-con, I understand. And he beat a seaman to death with a baseball bat.”
“When?” I asked.
“About five years ago. During the Inland Boatmen’s strike. Bullard was scabbing, and he killed a picket. He was arrested and charged with murder, but before the trial both the witnesses disappeared. Later on, they found one of ‘em in the bay.”
“Murdered?”
”Yeah, unless he always went swimming with a Ford transmission tied to his leg. Anyway, Bullard got a hung jury the first time and beat it on the second trial. But he hasn’t been around here for years. Right after the trial he shipped out on some pot under the Panamanian flag. I think I did hear a couple of years ago that he was doing time in a Cuban pen for working over one of Batista’s strong boys. And somebody else says he’s been shrimping out of Pensacola or Tampa. I don’t know; you always hear stories.”
”Okay, thanks a million,” I said.
We were as far out in left field as ever, I thought. Where could there be any connection between Frances Celaya and Ryan Bullard and Stedman? Bullard had been gone from here for years. Frances Celaya worked for a machine tool company. And Stedman was just a detective who thought he was God’s gift to women. I shook my head and went back outside. My stomach and ribs felt as if I’d been run over by a tank.
It wouldn’t do to stand around. I walked back up through the residential streets for about ten minutes, and when I came back the blue Olds was just pulling into the parking lot. I went over and got in. She was wearing the gray fur coat, with the collar turned up about her throat. I kissed her, and she clung to me for an instant.
“I’ve been scared,” she said. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” I said. “Do you know how to get to the 2700 block on Randall Street?”
“Randall? Yes. That’d be near the downtown area. Why?”
“Let’s go,” I said. “That’s where our girl friend lives. I’m going to call on her.”
Nine
She swung over on Octavia and into an arterial heading downtown. I told her about it.
“Oh, my God,” she said, horrified. “I never heard of anything as cold-blooded and brutal. You can’t go there.”
“I’ve got to,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something about her. There must be some lead to Stedman.”
“But suppose they’re there?”
“I’ll just have to take a chance on it. Anyway, he hasn’t got the gun now.”
She stopped for a traffic light. “Why do you suppose she didn’t just call the police when she recognized you?”
“Too risky,” I said. “She figured I must know something, or I wouldn’t be following her. If they picked me up, I might sell them on it too. Incidentally, I suppose that john there at Waldman’s has phone booths?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She’s a smart baby,” I said. “She suspected that would never occur to a dumb sailor, and she was right. If I’d seen her make the phone call, I might have begun to suspect something when we wound up out there in the sticks.”
“The horrible part of it is you know now she was in Stedman’s apartment when the two of you were fighting.”
“That’s right. Know it and can’t possibly prove it.”
Traffic was lighter now, and it took only about twenty minutes. She turned off the arterial before we got downtown, swung over eight or ten blocks, and hit Randall in the 3100 block. We turned left. It was apparently a low-rent apartment house district. She slowed as we went by. 2712 was a three-story building of dingy red brick.
“Turn right at the corner,” I said. “I want you to park at least a block away. And if I get in trouble and police start swarming in here, get out fast.”
“Please be careful,” she said. We found a place to park a little over a block from Randall, and I squeezed her hand, got out, and walked back. There were a few pedestrians out, but no police cars in sight. Most of the windows across the front of 2712 showed lights. I crossed the street and stepped into the vestibule.
To the right of the doorway was a row of buttons opposite the little nameplate holders. Some of them were blank, including 203. I pressed the button and waited. There was no answer. I tried twice more, just to be sure. Fine. She wasn’t home. I took out the key, but when I tried to insert it in the door it wouldn’t go in. That was odd; usually any apartment key in the building would unlock the downstairs door so you didn’t have to carry two. Well, it didn’t matter. I reached over and pressed three or four of the buttons. The door buzzed. I shoved it open and went in. There was a central hall, going straight back, and stairs on the right and left.
The second floor was the same arrangement. Number 203 was the second apartment on the left. There was no one in sight, but I could hear music and snatches of television programs from beyond the doors. I hoped the apartments had rear entrances. It was going to be deadly if she came back with that big gorilla and caught me. Maybe he even lived here with her. Well, I’d find out as soon as I got inside.
I was putting the key to the lock when I heard the front door open down below and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. The key didn’t go in. I must have it upside down. I reversed it. It still wouldn’t insert. I looked at the number on the door. This was the right one—203. The footsteps were nearing the top of the stairs now, and I began to feel panicky. But maybe he’d go on to the third floor. I turned slightly, and stood with my back toward the stairs as if waiting for someone inside to answer my knock.
The footsteps came up behind me, and a man’s voice asked, “You looking for somebody?”
I had to turn around. He was a tall, bony-faced man wearing a bus driver’s cap and whipcord jacket. “I guess there’s nobody home,” I said.
He regarded me stonily. “I’m here. Whatta you want?”
Before I could think of anything to say, he caught sight of the key that was still in my hand. He grabbed the front of my topcoat. “Why, you dirty sneak-thief!”
I jerked down on his wrists and broke the hold on my coat, and tried to get past him. He reached for me again. I hit him in the face. He rocked back on his heels, but didn’t fall. “Thief!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Burglar!” He lunged at me, flailing his arms. He seemed to have six or seven. I hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, but managed to fall into me and get his arms around my legs. We both fell. Doors were opening along the corridor now, and people were spilling into it. I tried to get up, but he was all over me like four cocker spaniels.
“Call the police!” he was yelling now. I rolled out from under him once more, peeled his arms loose, and got to my feet. He scrambled up. I swung, connected with his jaw, and this time I dropped him. I wheeled and ran toward the stairs. A man shot out of 201 and tried to tackle me. I stiff-armed him and slipped past, but somebody got me from behind. We crashed to the floor. I rolled up and over him, and swung at his face. He grunted. I pushed to my feet once more in pandemonium that was like a fire in a madhouse and lunged toward the stairs.