Shake Him Till He Rattles Read online

  Shake Him Till He Rattles

  by Malcolm Braly

  chapter one

  Lieutenant Carver turned off Broadway, up Grant Avenue into North Beach. His hands tightened on the wheel of his unmarked police car, but he didn't notice the reflex or the accompanying tension at the hinges of his jaw because his eyes were flicking restlessly as he tried to watch both sides of the street.

  He prowled slowly, taking a grim pleasure in the knowledge that, in spite of the unmarked car, he would be recognized. He pictured the waves of invisible shock moving out around him, vivid as electricity—the wake of a shark, he fancied.

  His headlights skipped and flared in the wet street, merging with the reflections cast by the yellow windows of the little oddball art galleries, the obscure-book stores, the red smears of neon from the hectic overcrowded bars, and the light seeping through the green shades of the second-floor bedrooms.

  Carver's experience and imagination penetrated all the windows. He smelled out what might be happening in the secret rooms of North Beach, and he didn't like what his sharp bent nose offered him. He saw the Beach as a parade of unashamed degeneracy. A world turned upside down with its ass painted to please.

  Through the large windows of the coffee houses he studied his quarry. Most of them wore old clothes, deliberately shabby, khakis, denims and army-surplus jackets. The girls dressed the same as the men; they would be indistinguishable from the back, except for the loose hair around their shoulders. There were exceptions to the uniform—a number of young men in very tight slacks and sweaters—and he passed a light-skinned Negro standing in a doorway who wore an immaculate riding habit, jodhpurs and polished knee-length boots. Another group brought Carver's gorge up, hot and fast. Three grotesque celebrants from some private masquerade wandered arm in arm. Their finery was half muffled in dark raincoats, but they were still masked and glittering with theatrical jewelry, impossible to identify as to gender, except that they were so aggressively female they must have been male. Finally there was the large floating body of tourists. looking drab and ordinary in their soft-colored conventional clothes. They carried hastily-wrapped abstract paintings, probably "poured on" the day before. Cameras dangled at their middles like a sad third eye. An apt symbol, Carver thought, since intercourse between these people seemed primarily visual. Everyone watched everyone else, and he watched them all—protecting some, dragging others out of their flamboyant disguises, their lying poses and reducing them to the common level of decent fear and humility.

  He watched the faces blurred in the rain, the faces in the windows, the sullen eyes sliding away in parked cars. He made careful note of those faces he already knew, adding others for the first time, underscoring those he'd already seen too many times.

  He parked above the corner of Grant and Green, noticing that the street sign had been reversed again. The third time in two weeks. The Grant arm of the sign, canted and tipsily misdirecting, pointed up Green Street. Goddam irresponsible savages!

  On the corner below him, the original coffee house was open. Settling back, he lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the windshield, watching the door. After a while two men and a girl came out. They were typical. When the rain hit them, they laughed and ran across the street into a small jazz club called The Hoof.

  Carver knew the club. It was little more than a beer-and-wine license tacked up in an empty room. The opening door released a blast of music like a brass jack-in-the-box.

  The hand holding his cigarette jerked in a stifled gesture of disgust. Ash powdered on his black suit and he brushed at it absently, thinking about the musicians over there . . . Cabiness over there. The thought of Cabiness smouldered in his mind like fire in wet rags, obscure and sullen. While the ecstatic singing of Cabiness' alto sax jittered in his ear, he tried to frame an excuse for calling the goon squad to turn The Hoof inside out. But he had orders that casual raids were out for awhile. Even against musicians. And they were the worst of the whole useless lot. The original carriers of the Beat infection.

  He noticed a single man turning the corner, walking quickly, full of nervous haste. Here's one, he decided. Rolling the window down, he called sharply. The man hesitated, thrown off stride. His face flashed, narrow-eyed, grayish-white in the rain. Then he shrugged slightly and moved over to the side of the car.

  "Yeah?"

  He was an older man than Carver had expected. The rain had plastered a thin wave of hair across his forehead, but his mustache was thick, full and glossy like a wet beaver pelt. He wore a plaid mackinaw with the collar turned up.

  "What're you doing around here?" Carver asked.

  The mouth beneath the mustache crimped scornfully, but the eyes were small and wary.

  "What's it to you?"

  Carver snapped the door open causing the man to jump out of the way. He extended his open card case showing the round Special-Squad shield.

  "Get in," he said curtly.

  The man took another step back. "Now hang up! There's a limit to what—"

  "Get in!"

  Reluctantly the man slid inside.

  "Close the door," Carver ordered. When he was obeyed, he put the car in motion, heading on up Green, shifting for the steep flank of Telegraph Hill.

  "What's your name?"

  "Sullivan," the man answered in a tired voice. He was sitting as far from Carver as he could, leaning against the door with his arms crossed high on his chest. His nose in profile was bold, heavy, and triangular. On his wrist he wore the kind of thick leather band affected by weight lifters. Carver studied him out of the corner of his eyes, noting the resigned posture, the arrogant stoical face.

  "What's an old fart like you doing around North Beach? After some of that young tail?"

  Sullivan continued to stare straight ahead where the rain had blistered on the windshield. "You tell me. You seem to know all about it."

  "If I were you I'd play it very cool," Carver said evenly. "You have been dealt a piss-poor hand."

  He continued in silence to the top of the hill and parked on the gravel apron below Coit Tower, close to the stone safety wall. Beyond the wall, the hill, choked with brush, dropped abruptly for three-hundred yards, down to a shallow flat where the factories and warehouses shouldered each other towards the dark waters of San Francisco Bay.

  Light brushed the windshield and Carver squinted, identifying it as the revolving searchlight on Alcatraz Island.

  "You ever think of those poor bastards over there?" Carver inquired pleasantly, pointing out at the dark mass of the Federal prison. "Just a thousand yards from all they dream about. They can see San Francisco from the cell blocks. At night this hill is lit up like a cross between Christmas and the Fourth of July."

  Sullivan nodded with a pretense of interest, but it was obvious that he was just waiting it out.

  Carver was in no hurry, "—The ironic part of it is that all the tourists come here to stare at the prison through those telescopes, and if the prisoners had telescopes they'd be staring back. Now you figure out what that means, if anything."

  Carver chuckled and looked around at the deserted parking area. "Too wet tonight, but ordinarily this is a good place to do up a joint. You ever make it up here?"

  "No," Sullivan said shortly.

  "No? Well, pass that for now. What's happening tonight?"

  "I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

  Carver showed his small teeth in a quick meaningless smile. "There's always some action. You look like you know what's happening."

  Sullivan turned abruptly. In the shadows his mustache seemed black as a splash of paint. "Jeezus, you're cute, aren't you," he murmured bitterly. "A hip cop. If you're so hip, you ought to know where everything is."

&nbs
p; Carver settled back, his face quiet and smooth as something carved from rock, but inside a spark was beginning to jump. Deliberately he lit a cigarette, taking his time over it, before he turned back to his prisoner.

  "Sullivan—if that's really your name—I'm going to tell you a story. It's kind of a square story, but I like it. It makes a nice point.

  "There were these two cops, burglary detail. Pretty good cops, even though I can't seem to remember their names. Anyway, they'd been after this same bastard for months. They knew he was real wrong, but they never could make him. He was more than half-slick.

  "One night they stopped him for a shakedown, just to roust him a little, and, of course, he was clean, being a careful type. But that night he made the mistake of getting in their faces, rubbing it in their chests about how they couldn't get anything on him. So they just decided they'd had it with him.

  "They took him to a poultry market down the block, smashed a window, grabbed a chicken out and put it in his hand.

  "Then they told him, 'All right, chicken thief, you're under arrest.'"

  Carver started laughing, throwing his small head back, obviously enjoying what he considered an excellent joke. He sobered suddenly and turned to Sullivan.

  "You wouldn't want to be a chicken thief, would you? That's a hell of a jacket to carry."

  "I knew some fuzz like that in Chicago," Sullivan replied mildly. "They're both doing twenty years. Rape and Robbery. It was a hell of a shock to their Captain—"

  Before Sullivan could finish, Carver had the police sedan in motion again, plunging down the hill. They drove in silence back through North Beach where the streets were crowded with eager cabs drawn by the 2:00 A.M. closing hour. The changeover was being made from the bars to the after-hours places; others were starting the excited roll to various beds. It happened every night at 2:00—the city chose partners and, sometimes, mixed doubles.

  The police sedan crossed Broadway and skirted the edge of Chinatown. Sullivan held his face in the shadows where he couldn't be seen from the street. His fingers were gripped tightly in the rough cloth of his mackinaw.

  When they were passing through the dark brick throat of the police garage Sullivan broke.

  "Okay," he agreed.

  "No," Carver denied him coldly. "Too late. After I book you, I'll try again with someone else. I've got all night."

  "Hold on," Sullivan protested, grabbing Carver's arm. "I'll steer you. Square business."

  Carver pulled his arm free and finished parking on the oil-darkened concrete. It was an illusion, but the temperature seemed much lower in the garage; maybe because a white ambulance sat like an iceberg in the gloom. Carver switched off the ignition and turned to Sullivan.

  "It's funny you don't even care how I'm going to charge you. What's the matter? What're you sweating?"

  Sullivan looked at the rows of dark sedans, the empty elevator waiting to climb the five stories to city prison. . . .

  "Give me a pass. I'll put you on to something."

  "What?" Carver demanded harshly, coming in the open to bargain hard.

  Sullivan paused. His hands worked together compulsively for a moment. His fierce profile and heroic mustache seemed foolish now. In the lines around his eyes, Carver read the message of accumulating fear, fear with deeper roots than this night's roust.

  Sullivan began to snitch with humble earnestness, like a salesman who has lost faith in his product. He told Carver about a new meeting place, where the hard-core of the really hip hung out.

  "—It's out-of-the-way, and it's kept pretty quiet. The musicians go there to session—after hours—you know?"

  When Sullivan said musicians, Carver immediately thought of Cabiness, and he nodded alertly and asked, "Is there action there tonight?"

  "Every night. It's the place to be right now. You know?"

  "Yes," Carver mused. "How about Cabiness? A head who pretends to blow a horn. Know him?"

  "Yeah. Like you know people on the Beach."

  "Does he hang out at this place of yours?"

  "Maybe. But I don't think I've seen him there. He'll make it though. He makes all the scenes."

  "Yes," Carver agreed sourly. He switched on the ignition. "We'll take a look." Under his coat he loosened his service revolver. "No tricks," he warned Sullivan.

  This time they went out around North Beach, then, on Sullivan's direction, cut back to Columbus Avenue a few blocks above Fisherman's Wharf. They parked on the dark side of the street. Above the buildings a neon fish blinked against the sky.

  "That's it." Sullivan's voice automatically adjusted to a whisper even though there was no one in sight. "On the corner. See the place that looks like a warehouse? The pad's in the basement."

  Carver studied the seemingly deserted building, a dark shell of stained concrete, sitting on a corner next to an overgrown vacant lot. It was outside the spiritual limits of the Beach and he hadn't picked up any rumbles on it, but he knew everything floated on the Beach, drifting ahead of police surveillance and the crowds of tourists.

  "You're too smart to try to burn me, aren't you, Sullivan?"

  "It's no burn. There's action in there. You'll find a lot of them holding."

  "They think this place is cool?"

  "It probably was," Sullivan said without inflection.

  "Uh-huh."

  Carver leaned forward intently as a couple crossed the street below them. They merged with the shadow of the building. A moment later a stain of yellow light flushed on the sidewalk, and a faint whiff of steamy music fell sharply back to silence.

  "See?" Sullivan pointed. "It's in the basement."

  Carver nodded.

  "Can I cut?" Sullivan asked quickly.

  "Wait a minute." Carver leaned closer. "What is it? Can't you stand a pinch?"

  Sullivan hesitated, then, "Sure. But who wants to spend a night in the slammer?"

  "I don't quite buy that. You split too easy."

  Carver paused, studying the sharp bones of Sullivan's cheeks, the drawn flesh of his neck. Then he asked softly, "You hooked? Maybe you're going to be sick pretty soon? Is that it?"

  "I'm all right."

  "Sure you are. You're fine. Here—"

  Carver unlocked the glove compartment and felt behind a long flashlight. He came out with a tightly folded piece of paper, creased into a small plump envelope, and tossed it into Sullivan's lap.

  "That's the stuff I was going to find on you."

  Sullivan stared at it. There was a sharp difference in his face, but he didn't move to pick it up.

  Carver continued, grimly now: "You take that over there and be generous with it. Give away at least half of it. The rest you can keep. But make sure that if Cabiness is there, he gets some. Give him plenty. Then you'd better get out. You understand?"

  "I can't do that," Sullivan said, and he sounded like a different man; the flip edge was missing from his voice—it was neutral and weightless. "I'll stink all over the Beach. I live here."

  "That's your problem. Pick it up and get started. And don't chisel! If you do a good job get in touch with me. Maybe you can earn some more. Is that clear enough for you? Maybe you won't have to worry about getting sick."

  Sullivan had been listening with his head down. His eyes seemed closed. Now he shook himself with a harsh tension as if he were trying to throw off a bad taste. He picked up the packet, dropped it in his pocket, and slipped out of the car without another word.

  Carver watched him run across the street against the rain, and for the first time he noticed that Sullivan was wearing tennis shoes. They seemed grotesque on the feet of an aging man.

  Addicts! Carver thought savagely. For a moment his small white face was twisted by a fierce aversion that he made no effort to understand—

  Then he reached over and turned on the police radio.

  chapter two

  Lee Cabiness and Boyd Furguson hugged the buildings along Columbus Avenue. It didn't help much because the wind was still and the rain fell
straight out of a closed sky. They were Indian-file, Furg leading.

  Cabiness had his jacket collar up, but the precaution didn't catch the rain that dripped off his hair and down his back, feeling twice as cold there as it did against his face. Characteristically, he was only half aware of the water down his back, because he was wondering if his horn case leaked, and if it did, would the rain spoil the seat of his pads. New pads were a luxury enjoyed by musicians who took the trouble to work steady. It was considerable trouble to take. But, Cabiness reminded himself, trying to blow a horn full of muffled notes and agile squeals was trouble of a different color. Step right up and pick your trouble. He smiled, putting his interior debate aside. Either the case leaked or it didn't.

  It was only 10:30; they'd left the gig early because they'd grown drug with blowing for one drunk (who at the end of each tune re-requested "Red Sails In The Sunset," apparently unable to grasp the obvious conclusion that they had no intention of ever playing "Red Sails In The Sunset") and a pair of lovers, chewing on each other's face in the gloom of the back tables.

  Cabiness was still a little high. They'd turned on in the can before they left The Hoof, going with the last joint they had between them. He'd stood for a long time with his face pressed against the cold plaster wall, listening to the distant roar of the toilet flushing, singing something under his breath he vaguely remembered as:

  "The pot, the pot

  The goddam pot It's not much,

  But it's all I've got. . . ."

  And the song had gone to an accompaniment of brilliant implosions of blistering reds and sulphurous yellows; now it had all faded to a somber blue.

  "Where is this place?" he called to Furg.

  "Just a few more blocks."

  Cabiness grinned. Furg and his discoveries. Furg's idea of a large charge was three teenagers beating on oil-drums in a vacant lot, which might be all right if they could beat in time, which they usually couldn't.

  "It'd better be something more than that lame's party you took me to last week," Cabiness shouted.