“That’s why I’m mad at him.”
“Why?”
“He’s s’posed to be outside with the rest.”
“The rest of the chickens?”
“Yeah, the rest of the chickens.”
“How come you have chickens?”
“C’mere, you little jerk,” Ebsen said. He was on his knees and putting a hand out the way you would for a puppy. The chicken, scruffy and dirty, just stood and eyed him with chickeny contempt. “You’re gonna pay, you little creep.”
While Ebsen was trying to get the chicken to come close enough to punch out, Tobin of course was starting to look for means of escape. He wasn’t sure if Ebsen had locked the door. If not—
“You move, you’re dead,” Ebsen said. He waggled the Luger at Tobin.
“I’m just standing here. Right here. Plain sight.”
“You better.”
Then he went back to the chicken and Tobin went back to looking with disgust at the table in the dining room. It was one of those drop-leaf jobs. Both leaves had been dropped and the one in view was streaked with blood. It looked like a sacrificial altar. There were feathers and dried puddles of blood all over the floor.
“You kill your own food, huh?”
“Goddamn right, I do. The shit you eat is poisoned. I buy chickens from this farmer and raise them myself in the backyard. Organic.”
“Then you kill them here?”
“Yeah. You mind?”
“You should open a window once in a while.”
“You should shut your mouth once in a while.”
Then he grabbed the chicken. The move was impressive. One moment Ebsen sat there on his knees talking to Tobin, seemingly paying no attention to what the chicken was doing, and then suddenly his hand shot out and he got the chicken by the neck. The chicken wriggled and wiggled and squawked, and feathers tore away from its body and drifted on the strange air let in by the blacked-out windows. “Little son of a bitch,” Ebsen said, standing up again. “I’ll teach you to sneak in the house.”
“I doubt he did it on purpose,” Tobin said, “I mean, he’s only a chicken.” Tobin knew what was coming and felt sorry for the animal.
“This is the third time he did it,” Ebsen said.
“Maybe he just gets cold outside.”
“The other chickens don’t get cold.”
“Maybe he’s different from the other chickens.”
“That’s his problem.”
Ebsen put the chicken up on the table and laid him on his side — the chicken didn’t have a chance against Ebsen’s biceps — and then he picked up an ax.
“I want my money by six tonight, or else I go to the press.”
Ebsen was a confusing guy. Here he was supposed to be killing a chicken but he was talking business instead. “And I know he just got a bundle laid on him before you iced him.” He looked up through his Mount Palomar glasses. “I followed him around a few days. I know what was going on with those reviews.”
“What reviews?”
He stared at Tobin a second and then said, “You really don’t know, huh?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Then you’re dumber than this chicken here.”
Then he let the ax go so hard that the chicken’s head flew in through the archway and landed near Tobin’s feet. The rest of the chicken, still on the table, jerked in death spasms.
“Too bad you can’t stay for some chicken dinner.” Ebsen laughed. “But I’ll bet you’d be too much of a candy ass to eat it. You like to have somebody else kill your food for you.” Then Ebsen put down the hand ax and picked up the Luger again and pointed it directly at Tobin. “His wife knows what’s going on. You go talk to her and you tell her if she doesn’t want it all over the newspapers, she better come through with the dough and I mean today. You understand?”
“I’ll talk to her, if that’s what you mean. But I still don’t understand.”
“Good. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“What was the gun for?”
“I wanted to make my point. Everybody thinks that just because the Army tossed my ass out that I was too dumb to ever get anything going. Well, your partner knew better. He knew better real good.”
“Got ya.”
Tobin was already backpedaling to the door. He knew one thing — it was going to be a while before he had a chicken dinner again.
“Six o’clock,” Ebsen said.
“Six o’clock.”
For effect, just to impress him even a little more, Ebsen took a hunting knife from inside his belt and, as Tobin’s hand touched the doorknob, Ebsen put the knife deep into the belly of the chicken and started ripping downward. “Sure you don’t want to stick around? This is the best part.”
Outside in the golden morning, taking in golden air, the two kids in snowsuits came up. “Is Harold still pissed off?” the green-nosed one said.
“Yeah,” Tobin said, getting into his cab, “I think it’s safe to say that Harold’s still pissed off.”
They shook their heads at each other, then tottered off.
17
11:47 A.M.
There was a screening in the Brill building at one o’clock, so Tobin decided, in the meantime, to call on Michael Dailey, whose office was only a few blocks away from the Brill.
A decorator from the low-profile school had done Dailey’s office. Despite his flamboyant personal style, Dailey was otherwise one of those men who went out of their way to impress clients with their conservatism. He drove a gray Mercedes. He always kept a copy of The Wall Street Journal (instead of Variety or Hollywood Reporter) on his desk. He lived in a Tudor-style house. And his office was such a discreet blend of earth tones it had the effect equivalent to popping a few Valiums. The only striking thing in the expensive but bland office was a Chagall print.
“Yes?” The receptionist wore — what else? — brown. She was one of those prim middle-aged women whose mouths give just a teasing hint of eroticism but nothing you could prove in court. Then she recognized him, her earth-tone eyes showing a hint of anger. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first.” Her tone had changed now she recognized him — Benito Mussolini’s brother.
“I’d like to see Michael.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Oh, it’s possible all right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say it’s possible because if he’s anywhere in the office, then I’m going to find him.” His angry edge surprised even himself. It happened this way sometimes. He’d be standing talking to somebody who irritated him and then he’d just lose it. Really start to get nasty. “Yosemite Sam” was back in action.
“I see.”
“Apparently you don’t see because you’re not getting him on the intercom.”
“He’s talking to the Coast.”
“Is the Coast talking back?”
She said, “There was a Detective Huggins here earlier this morning. He gave the impression that you’re going to be arrested.”
“That would probably make you pretty unhappy, wouldn’t it?”
She smiled. “Oh yes, extremely unhappy.”
He sighed. “I don’t mean to take this out on you.”
“Very noble.”
“I just want to see Michael.”
“I told you he’s talking to the Coast.”
“Fuck the Coast.”
So he went down a narrow hallway and right up to the double doors that always indicated the office of the Big Cheese and he kept right on going, right on through the doors. What he saw then startled him.
Michael Dailey stood in the middle of his office with Jane Dunphy in his arms.
“Jesus!” Dailey snapped.
But Tobin could say nothing. Only stare. Jane broke from Dailey’s embrace. Tobin had never seen her look lovelier or more alien. He could not imagine her kissing somebody like Dailey. Could not fucking fathom it.