"The police reach the same conclusion?"
"Nope. Where he was were a lot of butts and some loose ones that fell out of his pocket. He always carried them loose. They say he was going to light his own and the guy caught him in that position."
I nodded, thought it through and finished my coffee. "I'd like a list of people who were there that night."
"Sure, check out two hundred reputable citizens and see what you can find. I tried it. What are you after anyway?"
"Something named Bannerman," I said. "Rudy Bannerman."
Hank Feathers grinned and leaned back into the chair. "Why didn't you ask it? He was plastered. He had just dropped fifteen Gs in the casino and got loaded at the bar. When the cops came they found him in the men's room locked in a toilet sick as a pig. He had puked his ears off and sobered up pretty fast . . . enough to get himself out of there in a hurry, but he couldn't have raised a burp far less than a knife."
"The cops ever find the weapon?" I asked him.
"Not likely. The police surgeon said it was made by a stiletto with a six inch blade three quarters of an inch wide at the base. With all the water around here to throw it into there's little chance of finding it. Whoever killed him had plenty of time to dump the knife . . . Maloney was dead twenty minutes before anybody knew about it."
"Nicely set up."
"Wasn't it though? Now you got something on your mind, boy. Get with it. I'll feed you, but let's you feed me too."
"Feel up to stepping on toes?"
"Son, that's my life."
"Okay, see if Irish Maloney ever had anything to do with Rudy Bannerman."
"Brother!"
"He had a picture of her in his room. Care to try it!"
"You just bought it, son. I hope you don't get hurt."
"I've been hurt all I'll ever be, Hank."
The Bannerman name carried a lot of weight. There was only one family of them in Culver City and whoever bore it was set apart as a special person to be considered in a unique fashion. And like all families who occupied that niche, little was unknown about them no matter what it was. From the docks to the country clubs, they knew my old man and liked him, but the rest were another breed entirely.
They knew about the bastard Bannerman too, but as long as he was part of old Max he was right and it was the in I needed. It hadn't taken long for word to get around once I planted the seed. All they wanted to know was that I was a Bannerman and I had plans.
I hit three of the largest realtors, sat through cocktails twice and a lunch and came up with a talker when I found Simon Helm and got the idea across that I was back looking to establish a moderate smokeless industry somewhere in the area. After a few drinks he showed me the maps, pointed out suitable locations, let me digest his thoughts and settled down to the general discussions that precede any deal.
Vance Colby's name had to come up. Helm asked me bluntly why I didn't go through my prospective cousin-in-law to make a buy and just as bluntly I said I didn't like him.
"Well," Helm said, "I'm afraid a lot of us share your opinion." He let out a short laugh. "Not that he's greedy or crooked . . . I'm afraid he's a little too shrewd for us country folks. For the little while he's been here he's made some big deals."
"It figures."
"Now he's got the property adjacent to the new city marina. You know what that means?"
"Prime land," I said.
"Even better. If anyone puts up a club there the expense of a water landing is saved, it's cheap filled property in the best spot around with the advantage of having access to all major highways."
"That's an expensive project."
"His commission will be enormous. It would be better still if he did it himself."
"That's a multi-million dollar project."
"It can be financed," he said.
"Is he that big?"
"No," Simon Helm said slyly, "but with Bannerman money behind him it could be done. Quite a coup."
"I'll take it the hard way."
He nodded energetically. "I don't blame you. Now, when would you like to look at the properties?"
"In a day or two. I have them spotted and I'll drive out myself. If I make a decision I'll contact you."
"A pleasure, Mr. Bannerman. I'm happy you came to me."
"So am I, Mr. Helm."
Right after supper I called Petey Salvo and asked him if he could stop by my motel before he went to the club. He said he'd be there by eight and didn't ask any questions. I drove back, had a hot shower, shaved and took out the .45 and went through the ritual of cleaning it, then laid it on the table while I pulled on my clothes.
It was just seven forty-five when the knock came on my door and I opened it hanging onto my pants, figuring Petey was early.
This time I figured wrong. The two of them came in easy with Popeye Gage leveling a snub nosed Banker's Special at my gut and his eyes lit up like a neon sign. Behind him was Carl Matteau and the smile he wore was one of total pleasure because this kind of business was his kind of business and he enjoyed every minute of it.
"Back," he said. "Real quiet, guy."
I wasn't about to argue with the gun. All I could do was toss the towel I had in my hand on the table to cover up the .45 laying there and hope they didn't catch the act. That much I got away with if it could do any good. The only other thing I could do was pull the scared act and button up my pants just to be doing anything and Popeye Gage grinned through his swollen mouth and let me have the side of the gun across the temple.
Before he moved I saw it coming and rolled enough to miss most of it, but it slammed me back against the bed and I hit the floor facedown. Matteau said, "More, Popeye."
He worked me hard then, his feet catching my ribs and my arms, but only once did he land one on my head and then he nearly tore my scalp off. He was laughing and sucking air hard to get the boot into me and every time he did all I could think of was how hard I was going to step on his face when my turn came. He stopped for a few seconds and I made the mistake of turning my head. When I did the butt end of the gun smashed down on the back of my skull like a sledgehammer and I felt my chin and mouth bite into the floor and the ebb and flow of unconsciousness that never quite came. All I had was that terrible pounding inside my brain and the complete inability to move any part of my body.
But Carl knew when I was all there again. He said, "Talk up, wise guy."
"Should I make him?" Popeye said.
"No, he'll do it himself."
I dragged myself away from the bed, tried to sit up and tasted the salty taste of blood in my mouth.
"Nobody pulls the kind of crap you did and gets away with it," Carl told me slowly. "Now let's hear it."
I shook my head. I couldn't get any words out.
"You don't belong here. Why, punk?"
"I . . . lived here."
"Sure. So why'd you come back?"
"Vacation. I was . . . going east."
"Let me . . ."
"Shut up, Popeye. This guy's a punk. Look at him. Take a look at his face, all beat up. He packs a rod, he's got nothing behind him so he's a punk. He comes back to put the bite on the family like any punk will do only now he gets no bite. He gets wise with me and he gets nothing except his face all smashed in or a bullet in his belly if he tries to play it smart. See his car? Six years old. You checked his duds . . . all junk. Someplace he's a small time punk, a cheap hood and these mugs we deal with the same old way, right, Bannerman?"
"Look . . ."
It was almost time for Petey to show. I hoped he'd know how to play it.
"Out," Matteau said. "Tonight you leave. You stay one more day and you get buried here."
I was going to tell him to drop dead when he nodded to Popeye Gage and the gun came down again. This time there was no intermediate darkness. It was all nice and black and peaceful and didn't hurt a bit until I woke up.