The third one is a chubby man with a crew cut. Bulging eyes are constantly on the move in his round face. His tongue constantly licks dry lips. A gaudy tie is pulled down from a white shirt, sweat-stained under his arms and opened at the collar. His sports jacket is folded over one arm. He is holding a derby, his hands fingering the brim.
“Can’t you calm down?” he snaps at the red-haired clown.
“This is calm,” Leo snaps back. “You don’t wanna see me agitated. Henry, here, don’t wanna see me agitated, does he, Earl?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Earl shrugs. He fingers a cigarette but doesn’t light it.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“I ain’t what’s making you nervous, Henry.” He giggles and goes back to humming “Bye-Bye Blackbird.”
The captain looks down at Henry and says, “Why don’t you go below, Mr. Dahlmus. Get out of sight.”
“I get seasick easy. It’s too hot down there.”
“Well, you’re too visible up here. They’re giving your description every five minutes on the radio.”
“Popular, ain’tcha, Henry.” Leo chuckles.
The pudgy man turns and edges his way down into the cabin. He wipes sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“Here he comes,” the captain’s harsh voice says, as a black limousine approaches the pier and stops. The man in the backseat gets out before the driver can come around and open the door. He walks up the gangplank, a man who swaggers when he walks, his shoulders bunched up.
“Let’s get outta here,” he says to the captain in a razor voice.
“Yes, sir.” The captain nods, and salutes with a forefinger.
The man turns to Leo.
“What are you so happy about?” he says to Leo.
Leo is taken aback. He shrugs. “You know,” he says with a tight smile.
“No, I don’t know. Sit down and relax.”
“Yes, sir.” Leo sits.
The cabin cruiser eases out of the bay toward open water.
The man with the tight shoulders climbs up on the bridge beside the captain.
“How are you, Jack?” he says, shaking hands with the captain.
“Doing okay, sir. Been a while.”
“Yeah, too long. You know what to do?”
“Yes, sir, just like the old days.”
“We got a situation.”
“I know. I been listening to the radio.”
“ Everybody in town is listening to the damn radio. Open this thing up as soon as you can and get us into deep water.”
“Done. We have to keep an eye out for the Coast Guard, Mr. Riker.”
“So I’ve been hearing.”
Riker goes below. Henry Dahlmus is sitting on a couch. He jumps up when Riker comes down the stairs.
“Hi, Arnie.”
“Don’t ‘Hi, Arnie’ me.”
“Jesus, Arnie, I…”
“You fucked up royally.”
“Aw, c’mon, Arnie.”
“Just shut up.”
Dahlmus shrinks into himself like a tortoise pulling into its shell. Riker goes to the bar and pours himself a drink. He sits down opposite Dahlmus, sips the drink, and stares across the cabin at the chubby man. Sits, sips, and stares as the radio drones on:
“We interrupt the program in progress to bring you a special bulletin. The Los Angeles Police Department has an all-points alert for two men suspected in the triple murder of…”
“Why didn’t you just hire an airplane with a banner on the back and fly around town,” Riker says.
A full moon lights the sea, its shimmering reflection accenting every wave. The captain’s neck swivels as he looks for the telltale lights of other boats. So far, so good.
Below, Dahlmus is beginning to get sick. He can’t keep his eyes off a cabin light rocking rhythmically as the cruiser chops through the waves, its heavy engines roaring behind them.
“I think I’ll get some air,” Dahlmus says. “I ain’t much of a sailor.”
“You’re not much of anything,” Riker says. “Go ahead, go topside and take a couple of deep breaths.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.”
He weaves his way to the stairs and makes his way up to the deck, leaving his jacket and derby behind. Riker watches him go, his cold eyes watching every move.
On deck, Leo and Earl are sitting on the seat stretching the width of the stern. Earl has his hat in his hand, his hair snapping in the wind. Leo has his arms stretched out on the back of the seat, eyes closed, head back.
“Ain’t this the life,” he says. Earl has nothing to say.
Riker comes on deck. He is whirling Dahlmus’s derby on a forefinger. Dahlmus is leaning on the railing of the boat, eyes closed, gasping for breath.
Riker climbs up to the bridge.
“How we doin’?” he asks the captain.
“I got a shortwave from Guilfoyle. The Coast Guard is cruising around Mendosa Sound.”
“So what do we do?”
“My suggestion is we swing wide around the sound and go in at a fishing camp run by a guy named Lefton. We know him, do a lot of fishing trips with him.”
“Whatever you think.”
“We can dodge the C.G. and slip in there. It’s ten miles from town.”
“How long?”
“Another hour and a half.”
Riker goes back on deck. He walks to the stern and stands with his back to Dahlmus and says to Leo, “Slip me your piece.”
“I thought…”
“You’re not paid to think.” He holds out his hand and Leo hands him a. 38. Riker drapes Dahlmus’s derby over it. He walks back and stands behind Dahlmus.
“Henry?”
Dahlmus turns and stands with his back to the sea. He sees his hat. Riker lifts the hat up and scales it out over Dahlmus’s shoulder.
“What the hell…” Dahlmus starts, and then he sees the gun.
“I should have known better than to trust a two-bit stick-up man to do these jobs.”
“I…”
“I told you, wait until she’s in the tub and drop the radio in with her, but you had to get fancy. You made it a murder case.”
Dahlmus began to whine. “I wanted to make sure…”
“Left your prints all over the place, you stupid bastard. And now that bulldog cop has tied you to me. But you’re the only one can tie me to you.”
He raises his gun hand straight out, a foot from the chest of Dahlmus. The gun barks twice, the bullets tearing into Dahlmus’s flesh, the sound whisked away in the wind.
Dahlmus cries out once, “Ohh…,” and flips backward into the ocean. Riker watches as the body is caught in the wake of the cruiser, bobbing like a fishing cork in the moonlight.
Riker turns to Earl and Leo. He hands the gun back to Leo.
“Did you see that? No sea legs. Old Henry just fell overboard.”
I lost daylight just after I passed through Lompoc. I turned on the siren and bright lights and put the speedometer on seventy. There was hardly any traffic and what there was got out of my way in a hurry.
Back in L.A., the APB had uniform cops and detectives shaking up their informants and stopping every brown-and-black ragtop, which is the last car we could put Dahlmus in. The big problem was how to bring Riker and Dahlmus in without invading Mendosa.
Guilfoyle would be their point man.
I pulled into the courthouse, and Hernandez, the hard-boiled deputy I met when I first came to San Pietro, gave me a look that would have frozen the gates of Hell.
“Do you know where I could find the captain?” I asked as pleasantly as I could manage.
“He’s waiting for you, although I don’t know why he should,” she snapped. “Second floor at The Breakers.” And turned her attention back to the magazine she was reading.
I drove around to The Breakers. A kid in a valet’s jacket rushed up to the car and opened the door.
“Leave the car here,” I said, locking the door and taking the keys.
“But…”
I ignored him and went up the stairs to the lobby. The ballroom was on the second floor. As I passed the desk, the manager said, “Excuse me, sir, may I help you?”
“No,” I said.
I could hear music and voices, and followed them up the stairs. The ballroom entrance was right at the top. There were about a hundred people in formal dress gathered in the room. A banner across the stage said “Culhane for Governor.” Red, white, and blue balloons clung to the ceiling and a small band was playing a lively version of “Shorty George.” The mood was jovial, which surprised me. Two or three younger couples were off to one side doing the lindy hop. Waiters were cruising the room with trays of champagne, and there were two large food tables located on both sides of the dance floor. If the celebrants were concerned by the events of the day, you couldn’t tell it.