by Jerry eBooks
WE PROBABLY made a weird pair in the middle of Sunset Boulevard as we glared at each other. We are both possessed of red hair and a certain amount of freckles, but there all resemblance ceases.
I am five feet two, and I have been told that the view thereof is very pleasant from any angle. Michael O’Conner is six feet one, and is equipped with a face that would scare even gremlins.
“Ah, give her a ticket, Mike, and let’s shove off,” Durkin said wearily from the police car. “One ‘r’ in Nora, two ‘l’s in Malloy. You ought to be able to spell it backwards by this time.”
Durkin is O’Conner’s partner. He is a dumpy little character with a nose that looks like a somewhat discouraged baked potato, but he is not a bad guy for a policeman.
“Yon will not give me a ticket!” I blazed. “I may have stopped a little suddenly, but you wouldn’t have rammed me if you hadn’t been so close you were practically riding piggy-back on my tail-light.”
“Well,” Durkin said reluctantly, “we were pretty close at that, Mike.”
“Okay,” O’Conner said to me, “no ticket this time. There’ll be plenty of other times. From here on in, I am going to park on your tail every time I see you. The worst traffic problem in this district is undoubtedly you. I am going to see if I can remove it by handing you a sufficient number of tickets. So long, shrimp. I’ll be seein’ you.”
He got back in the cruiser, and they drove off. I did likewise with my cab. I was not very happy as I headed back toward my station on La Brea.
I knew that Mike O’Conner was not kidding. Hitherto, he had been only a nuisance. From now on, he would be an active menace, as far as my professional career was concerned. Every time the big ape saw me in his prowl area, he would come tagging along behind me like a tin can on a dog’s tall. He would probably have plenty of chances to pass out tickets.
Heaven knows I try, but I seem to be the sort of driver that things are always happening to.
The side streets near La Brea have a number of cocktail bars and small nightspots. I turned up one of them on the chance of picking up a fare. There were two men standing on the curb in front of the second joint I came to. The taller one gave me the high sign.
I stopped and got out to open the door.
“Oh, it’s a dame,” the tall fellow said disgusted-like.
I’ve got plenty of different comebacks for that particular crack. I turned and started to give him one, then suddenly I changed my mind. This was not the sort of a guy to pass any wisecracks to. In fact, he was not the sort of a guy to have anything whatever to do with, if you could help it.
He was dressed good enough, all right, and he was not bad-looking, if you care for the patent leather hair and pencil-line mustache type. It was his eyes that were the giveaway. I have seen rattlesnakes with eyes that were twenty degrees warmer.
“Sorry, Mister,” I said meekly. “Maybe the next hack that comes along will have a he-cabby.”
“Wait a minute, sister,” the fellow said as I started to get back into the cab. “I was just kiddin’. You’ll do all right. Yeah, come to think of it, you’ll do very well.”
There was something in the guy’s voice that made me think of how the wolf must have looked when he reached for the salt shaker to season little Red Riding Hood’s grandma up a bit. It was too late to back out now. So I held the door open while the tall guy loaded his companion in.
He had his hands full doing that. His companion was a heavy-set party in a gray suit who looked like he would weigh at least two hundred pounds. Every ounce of same had an alcoholic content of about one hundred and eighty proof. His eyes were glazed, and he was as rubber-legged as a couple of sticks of wet macaroni.
The tall fellow with the snake eyes was handicapped by a large and bulging briefcase that he held in one hand, but when I reached out to hold it for him he snatched it back from me like it was packed with diamonds. He finally got the drunk propped up in a corner of the back seat, like a fat sack full of wet sand, and climbed in after him.
He gave me an address up on Franklin Avenue, close to the Hollywood Hills. I got behind the wheel, flipped the flag down, and headed north.
I have found by painful experience that my brand of driving works best on thoroughfares that are not occupied by too many other vehicles, so I kept to the side streets where there was practically no traffic at that time of night. The only other car I saw till we got to Hollywood Boulevard, was a dusty, red coupe that came trailing along about half a block behind for a while.
For some reason, I had a crazy idea that it might be deliberately following me. If it was, I lost it when we crossed Hollywood Boulevard. I got across just as the light was turning red and the coupe didn’t make it. When I looked back a block farther on, it was nowhere in sight.
The Franklin Avenue address proved to be a small apartment house several blocks east of La Brea. The tall guy with the briefcase got out of the cab. His face was sort of pale. I could see sweat shining on his cheeks, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. For some reason, most masculine passengers look like that when they get out of my cab.
The guy handed me a couple of bucks.
“Keep the change, sister,” he said. He jerked his head toward where the fat party in the gray suit was still huddled in the seat corner.
“Take George on home,” he said. He gave me an address on one of the streets high up in the hills west of Laurel Canyon. “If he hasn’t snapped out of it by the time you get there, the folks at the house will take care of him for you.”
“They’d better,” I said. “I couldn’t get that bird out of the cab by myself without a block and tackle. I suppose they will also cover the trifling matter of George’s fare?”
“Sure they will,” the guy said impatiently. “I’ll give ’em a buzz when I go in and tell ’em to be looking for you.”
NO USE to argue any more. After all, delivering slumbering drunks to their respective homes is a regular part of the nightly chores when you’re rolling a cab on the graveyard shift.
I drove off. When I got to the first corner, I took a brief look back. The tall guy hadn’t gone in yet. He was still standing there on the sidewalk staring after me. I tramped on the gas and headed for Laurel Canyon.
About halfway up the Canyon I turned off into a narrow side street that wound on up toward the crest of the high hills. You don’t have to wander very far from the main highway to get into plenty primitive country up in that district. I hadn’t gone over a couple of miles, before I was in surroundings that were wild enough to make Frank Buck feel right at home.
The street had degenerated into a narrow, rocky road that would have been just about roomy enough for one fairly wide cow. There were no houses of any kind on the dark slopes of the brush-covered hills. Every time I rounded one of the sharp turns, I expected to find a large and hungry mountain lion parked in the middle of the road.
I reached into the pocket of the cab door and got out the heavy monkey-wrench I keep there for use in such occasional emergencies as stick-ups and overly affectionate male passengers. I never heard of anyone seriously damaging a mountain lion with a monkey-wrench, but I felt better when I had it handy there on the seat beside me.
Then I rounded a corner and slapped on my brakes sudden and hard. The road ended just ahead—but very definitely.
There was a white-painted board barricade, and below it about three hundred feet of the emptiest space I have ever seen. I sat there for a minute, blinking my eyes at the barricade and trying to figure things out.
“One thing is sure,” I said to myself. “Little Georgie certainly doesn’t live here.”
The tall guy had obviously given me a phony address for his alcoholic boy friend. It could have been an honest mistake in the name of the street, or it could have been a dumb attempt at a practical joke.
Whatever the reasons were, here I was stuck on a mountain road at midnight with two hundred pounds of passed-out drunk who had to be delivered somewhere. The only wa
y I could deliver the big lummox, and incidentally get my fare, was to wake him up enough to find out where he lived.
I tried to rouse him by yelling at him, but he never moved a muscle. Then I got out of the cab, opened one of the rear doors, and reached in to try and shake him out of it.
He swayed forward out of the corner when I grabbed hold of his shoulder. He teetered for a moment on the edge of the seat, then toppled slowly toward me. His body turned as he fell. When he landed on the floor he was face up.
I am not the screaming kind. If I had been, I would have let out with a shriek that would have passed for an air raid alert in the entire western half of Los Angeles County. As it was, I just stood there frozen for one long and horrible moment, with my heart doing an anvil chorus against my ribs and a river of ice water wandering down my spinal column.
GEORGE wasn’t going to tell me where he lived. He didn’t live anywhere any more.
George was dead!
The entire left side of his light gray vest was a soggy mess of wet blood. At some time during the ride from the nightspot to Franklin Avenue, the tall guy with the snake eyes, had parked either a bullet or a knife squarely in George’s heart.
The killing had probably been done with a knife, I decided. I would have heard the sound of a shot, even if the gun had a silencer on it.
It was certainly a marvelous murder set-up that the killer had hung around my unsuspecting neck. While I was hauling the corpse of his victim around the hills looking for a non-existent address, the tall boy with the reptile eyes would have plenty of time to make a clean getaway.
I have always prided myself upon possessing a reasonably shock-proof set of nerves, but being marooned on a lonely mountain road in the middle of the night, with a dead man, was not exactly my idea of good clean fun. It was not the cold night air that made my hands shake so violently that I could hardly get the door closed on George’s limply huddled body.
I flung myself behind the wheel and started turning the cab around, in the wide area next to the barricade. It was four miles down to the Hollywood Police Station on Wilcox Avenue, and in my present state of mind, I figured that I would probably arrive there in a little less than four minutes.
If I happened to pick up a motorcycle cop on the way, so much the better. For the first time since I began my cab-driving career, I yearned for cops, preferably in large numbers. I would even have welcomed the sight of Michael O’Conner’s ugly puss.
I got the cab turned around and stepped on the gas. I was just swinging into the first turn, when there was a sudden glare of headlights and another car came around the corner. I had a brief glimpse of it in the blaze of my own lights. It looked like the dusty red coupe that had followed me after I first picked up George and the killer!
I twisted the wheel over hard and tried to squeeze by. I almost made it, but not quite. There was a crash of metal as we sideswiped and a couple of loud reports as two tires on the coupe blew out. The cab swung around broadside on the road and ground to a halt with the engine stalled.
Two guys came piling out of the wrecked coupe, one from each side. I kicked my starter frantically, but the motor wouldn’t catch. One of the guys came running up to the cab and stuck a very unattractive face in my door.
“Lay off that starter!” he growled.
There was a gun in the fellow’s hand that looked big enough to stop a Mark VI tank. I yanked my foot away from the starter.
The other guy came up then. He took one look at me and made the usual highly original remark.
“What do you know, Pete, it’s a dame!”
“So what?” Pete growled. “What we want to know is, what did she do with George?”
“You will find George in back, there,” I said faintly. “He’s on the floor.”
“Passed out, huh?” Pete said. “Take a look, Gil.”
Gil looked. A moment later he let out a squawk of shocked surprise.
“Passed out nothin’ !” he exclaimed. “George has been bumped off. Somebody stuck a shiv in him!”
PETE made a couple of violent remarks that were not fit for any lady’s ears, not even a cab driver’s. He stepped up on the running-board so that he could look over my shoulder into the back of the cab. My fingers started to drift toward the monkey-wrench on the seat beside me. Pete must have had eyes in the side of his head.
“You make a move to pick up that wrench, baby,” he grated, “and I’ll bend this rod over your skull!”
The look Pete gave me was as black as the gun in his fist and twice as hard. I hastily snatched my hand back away from the wrench.
Pete opened the cab door, grabbed the collar of my uniform jacket with his free hand, and dragged me out from behind the wheel. I clawed for his face with my nails, but I missed. Then I took a violent backward kick with my heel for his shin, and I didn’t miss.
He let out a loud and profane yelp, and slammed me back against the front fender.
“Come here and take care of this little hellcat, Gil,” he ordered, “while I take a gander back there.”
Gil did. He was a large and unfragrant character with a stubble of black beard on a face that no mother could ever be nuts enough to be fond of.
Pete rummaged around George’s body very briefly. Then he got out of the cab and came back to where Gil had me pinned against the fender.
“All right, baby,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made goose bumps come out all over me. “Are you gonna tell us what you did with that dough—or are you gonna make us persuade you a little bit first?”
I swallowed hard a couple of times. Finally I got my heart untangled from my tonsils enough to get my voice functioning.
“What dough are you talking about?” I asked.
“The two grand that Slick Carelli gave George for those gas ration C-books,” Pete said. “Come on, baby—give!”
Gil held me against the fender with one hand and frisked me with the other. It was a good deal like being pawed by Gargantua. He hauled my billfold out of the pocket of my slacks and zipped it open.
“Nothin’ here but six measly bucks,” he announced.
“Mebbe she stopped and hid it out somewhere before she came up here to get rid of George,” Pete said.
“You think she bumped George off?” Gil asked.
“I ain’t thinkin’ anything,” Pete said. “I’m just waitin’ for information, and it looks like I’m gonna have to get it the hard way.”
Pete lit a cigarette. He puffed it into a bright red coal, then held it so close to my face that I could feel the heat from it.
“You got a cute little nose, baby,” he said. “It wouldn’t look quite so cute after a beauty treatment from this cigarette.”
A RED-HEADED lady taxi-driver, that being me, knew she had to talk, and talk fast.
“Listen, Mister,” I said earnestly, “1 didn’t have anything to do with killing George. I didn’t even know he was dead till after I brought him up here looking for a phony address the fellow you call Carelli gave me. Carelli is the guy who stuck that knife in George while I was hauling the two of them to the Franklin Avenue place where Carelli got out. He must have got the money. And if those C-books were in a big briefcase, he also got them because he took the briefcase with him when he got out.”
“She could be tellin’ the truth, Pete,” Gil said. “We lost the cab at Hollywood Boulevard. We must have prowled around for nearly ten minutes before we stumbled on it again startin’ up Laurel Canyon.
Mebbe Slick did give us the doublecross and just played this dame for a sucker.”
“Where did Slick get out?” Pete asked.
I told him.
“Slick don’t live there,” Gil said. “He’s been hidin’ out at that joint down on Eighth Street.”
“He’d have better sense than to have the dame take him to his own place,” Pete said. “All he had to do there on Franklin, was walk a couple of blocks down to Hollywood Boulevard and get another cab.”
Pe
te stared at me for what was easily the longest moment of my life. Then finally he took the lighted cigarette down from in front of my face.
“All right, baby,” he said, “mebbe Slick is the rat we want. We’ll find out. We’ll all go down to Slick’s place and have a nice cozy little talk. I want to see what you and Slick got to say when you’re face to face. Get back in your cab and we’ll start rollin’.”
“How about the coupe?” Gil protested. “And what are you gonna do with George? We can’t prowl around through town with a stiff in the cab.”
“We’ll just leave George in the coupe,” Pete said. “Stick him behind the wheel. I don’t think anybody’ll come along this dead-end road before we get back, but if they do, there’s nothin’ to hook us on. The coupe’s in George’s name.”
“Carelli’s had plenty of time to get down on Eighth Street, pick up his stuff, and lam by now,” Gil said.
“Slick won’t be in any cryin’ rush about lammin’,” Pete said confidently. “He’ll figure he’s got several hours yet before we get suspicious about George not comin’ back with the dough. Slick didn’t know we were coverin’ George.”
Gil lugged George’s body from the cab and propped it up behind the wheel of the coupe. Then the three of us got into my cab.
Our hacks have an open place in the glass between the driver and the passenger compartment. After I’d turned the cab around and started down the grade, Pete leaned forward and spoke to me.
“Don’t get any bright ideas when we get back in town, baby,” he warned me. “I’m gonna be holdin’ a rod just about one foot from the back of that red head of yours. You try to make one funny move of any kind, and you get it!”
HOLD a rod back of my red head is precisely what that roughneck did.
I didn’t say anything, but I was doing plenty of thinking. I wasn’t under any illusions as to what was going to happen to my health before the night was over. Regardless of how things came out down at Slick’s, these guerrillas weren’t going to be saps enough to leave me alive to tell anybody about it.
I had just one faint chance, and that was wrapped up in the person of a large and ugly radio cop by the name of Michael O’Conner. Our route to the Eighth Street address Pete gave me, led straight through O’Conner’s prowl area, and the big ape didn’t go off duty till two o’clock.
