The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the morning, my home-cooked mush came out as well as it ever had, which meant I could eat it without severe misgivings for the first time in a month. I put away a whole bowlful of the gruel, then fed my fish.

  The tropical fish are in two aquariums against the wall, just left of the door when you come into my living room. The community aquarium, a twenty-gallon job, contains black mollies and red swords, a pair of industrious little catfish, a few shark-like Panohax chaperi, a pair each of Rasbora heteromorpha, delicate white clouds, and dainty black tetras, one magnificent cornflower-blue Betts splendens and a dazzle of frisky little bright-blue-neon-striped, and appropriately named, neon tetras. The adjacent ten-gallon tank contains only guppies, but some of them, with their delicately shaded and waving dorsals and comparatively enormous fanlike caudal fins, are more wildly colorful than anything in the big tank.

  I tied half a raw shrimp to a thread and suspended it in the community aquarium, watched the fish tear fiercely at it for awhile, then sprinkled dried daphnia on the water in both tanks, added a few thin red tubifex worms for the guppies, dawdled around until eight a.m., and got on the phone.

  After three uncompleted calls—to Easy Banners, Ben Riddle, and Devin Morraigne—I phoned the Morris Memorial Hospital and asked how Mr. Willifer was doing. He was doing fine, still under mild sedation, though I would be able to visit him later today.

  The next call was to a man named “Red” Vetterman, also a licensed private investigator, whom I'd known when he worked out of a one-man office like mine. But he was now head for a large, competent, and prosperous business, “The Vetterman Detective Agency,” and I'd called on him a dozen times in the past couple of years for leg-work and digging that could be more efficiently accomplished by half a dozen of his employees—or a dozen if need be—than by me alone, legging it from door to door and thumbing through various public, and some not so public, files; more efficiently, and more expensively, which fact I already knew, but was reminded of painfully when Red told me approximately what his bill would be.

  “It may really be true,” I said, “that it takes a crook to catch crooks. Would it be cheaper if I wanted the info next week?"

  “You don't want it next week. Besides, I always charge you more than anybody else."

  “You're a real friend. Well, that's all I can think of, Red. Arnold Trappman, Ben Riddle, Easy Banners—that's from E. Z., for Ennis Z-something."

  “Got it."

  “I intend to call on those last two myself, if I have better luck contacting them than I did yesterday. But I'll want the background on all three, especially the fishy stuff, if there is any. From the little I've got so far, I'd say concentrate most of your fire on Trappman. Whatever he might be into.... oil, gas, numbers, prostitution—"

  “Trappman? I thought he was an oil guy, mainly. He in rackets?

  “Not that I know of. I just want you to keep an open mind."

  “I'll put three men on the quick stuff right away, check out the cops and robbers bits myself—should have the top of it for you this afternoon. Where'll you be?"

  “I'm not sure, Red. For the price I'm paying, you can have a pretty girl type it up and bring it over, can't you?"

  “Type it up, yeah, bring it over, no. You want to ask me why I'll send a guy with it?"

  “I think not. There's also a man named Devin—no, skip it. I'll check him, and his girl friends, myself. But there is one other thing.” I hesitated, wondering what the hell I was doing, then went on, “When you're digging into Trappman's background, see if you can find anything that smells—crooked deal, criminal or on the borderline thereof, anything screwy—about seventeen years ago."

  “He pull something seventeen years back?"

  “Beats me. I'd just like to know what he was into around that time, give or take six months or so. It's just a ... hunch. Call it a long shot."

  “Hell, it's your money."

  “Yeah, it was, wasn't it? OK, Red, I'll be in touch."

  We hung up, and I tried Arnold Trappman's office, didn't reach him, but did get his secretary, who—somewhat to my surprise—gave me her boss's home number. And, lo and behold, somebody was finally home.

  It was a brief conversation. I told Trappman I'd had no luck in reaching his present and former associates, Banners and Riddle, and would appreciate it if he could help me get in touch with them.

  The voice was the same this morning as it had been yesterday afternoon, rather large, heavy against the ear. “I'd appreciate it if you'd get off my ass,” he said.

  “There's nothing I'd rather do, Mr. Trappman, nothing in the whole world, but I intend to catch up with those guys—"

  “I haven't talked to that son of a bitch Riddle,” he interrupted, “since he crawled out of my office. But I'll see if I can find out where the bastard is, and let you know. He's not at his home?"

  “If he is, he doesn't answer his phone."

  Trappman grunted. “Banners has an office on Hill Street in L.A."

  “I know. But he hasn't been in it lately."

  “He's been checking on some leases for me, near Long Beach, should be back in town later today. I expect a call from him this morning, so I'll tell him you want to see him and set up a meeting at his office. Will that satisfy you, Scott? Enough for you to quit pestering me?"

  “It'll satisfy me some,” I said. “But who's to say how much?"

  “You know, Scott,” he said in the deep rumbling voice, “you gripe my ass. You really gripe it severely."

  “I'll bet you say that to everybody,” I responded cheerfully. “If you manage to set up a meeting with either Banners or Riddle, you can call me here, or on my car phone.” I gave him my mobile-phone number. “OK?"

  He grunted. “I'll say this for you, Scott, you put out a lot of work for a paranoid jerk like Willifer."

  “I'd do the same for any paranoid jerk,” I said. “If you ever need me, I'm in the book. Incidentally, the way you talk about my friend, Gippy, I guess you haven't heard."

  “Heard what?"

  “He got shot last night. Should be in the papers this—"

  “Shot? That little—who shot him?"

  “I don't know. Not yet."

  “Shot, huh? I'll be goddamned. Kill him?"

  It was a question not asked as though Trappman were overcome by curiosity, so I simply said, “Nope,” and continued, “but I know he'll appreciate your concern as much as I do. Thanks for your help—"

  “You really do gripe my ass,” he boomed. “You keep it up, Scott, it may cost you a few bills to get put back together in an emergency ward, and you wouldn't be the first smart-mouth—"

  “Don't worry about it,” I interrupted, just before hanging up, “I've got more bills than I know what to do with."

  * * * *

  Gippy Willifer looked pretty good, considering the fact that he'd been out of surgery little more than twelve hours. Certainly he looked better than Audrey, who got up from her chair beside Gippy's bed when I walked in.

  She stood there, looking hesitant, fiddling with both hands held tightly against her abdomen. I wondered if Audrey's secret vice was cracking her knuckles, but I smiled at her and waved, and she jerked back slightly as if startled that I'd noticed her.

  I stopped by the bed, looked down at Gippy.

  “Hi,” I said. “They tell me you got a couple pints of blood last night, and it must have been just what the doctor ordered—you look better than before you got shot."

  “I been worried about that,” he said seriously. “The blood, I mean. I asked this morning where it come from, and would you believe they don't know from where? Don't know from who? Why, they just take it out of anybody who's handy and spill it all together—"

  “Gippy, I wouldn't be too concerned—"

  “—and then they transfuse it in you. While you're unconscious and cut open, and not in any mood to argue. What if they took it from somebody sick?"

  “Ah ... well,” I said,
then smiled stiffly. “Hi, Audrey."

  “Good morning, Mr. Scott. I—we both—want to thank you so much, we couldn't have afforded this private room ourselves, and it was so sweet of you—"

  “Forget it, will you? And don't start that—please don't call me—look, the fellow outside the door in a police uniform is, as one might well suppose, a policeman, right? Not that Gippy's in any further danger, but until we know who shot him, and why, it makes sense to take reasonable precautions, right? All I did was make certain small suggestions to an individual or two, including a friend of mine named the Captain of Central Homicide, and now we can all breathe a little easier, which is a tough thing to do in the smog around here."

  “Then the police are paying the extra for this room?"

  “Not exactly. But they are paying for the cop. OK? Well, Gippy, I can't stay here more than five minutes or a nurse may attack me, so is there anything you can tell me about the shooting? You see anybody?"

  He shook his head on the pillow. “Like I told the police officers already, I went out to put the car in our garage, and Good night Emily, that's all I remember till I come to in the Recovery Room—that's what they call it, but a lot of people die in the Recovery—"

  I asked him a few more questions, about anything he might have heard, unusual movement, where the sound of the shot had come from, but he was blank on all of it. I was talking to him about the other involved individuals I'd been unable to contact yet, and he wasn't able to add anything to what I already knew, but suddenly he said, “Hey, I'm glad you asked about Dev Morraigne—he phoned me maybe an hour ago, right here in my room here. I told him about you, working on the well for us and all, and that you were going to fix everything up."

  I smiled again, and again quite stiffly. “You told him that, huh? That's nice. So, Devin Morraigne called? Well, at least he's alive."

  “Why wouldn't he be?"

  “Just an expression—I haven't had much luck getting in touch with him and some other guys. Morraigne's in town?"

  “No, he's on his way back from Dallas. Heard a mention of me on the radio news, so he stopped and put a call in to me right away."

  “Did an operator place the call, or did he dial direct?"

  'I just picked up the phone and said hello, and Dev's there saying who he is and all. What difference does it make?"

  “Just curious,” I said. “He's on his way here?"

  “Yeah, he was in Texas spotting locations for some oil men there the last few days, but he says he'll be home by noon maybe. I mentioned you'd like to see him. I guess you still do?"

  “I still do."

  “He's coming by here first, to see me, but I expect he'll get to where he lives around half past noon—it's a house out on Granite Ledge Road. You know where it's at?"

  I nodded. “Since you'll see him before I do, tell him I'll drop by his place about twelve-thirty then, all right?"

  “Sure. You'll like Dev—you guys'll like each other."

  “You think so, huh?"

  I was about to leave when Gippy turned his face away from me, as he reached for something on a table next to his bed, and I noticed a small white square of cloth in the hair at the back of his head.

  When I asked him about it he said, “It's just a bandage on a little cut I got when I fell, nothing seriously injurious. Hit my head on one of the rocks set in the lawn there in front of the house, I guess. I was not aware of it happening at the time, or of anything else."

  “Funny,” I said. “Isn't that Aries? Doesn't Aries have something to do with the head?"

  “Hah?"

  Gippy was not exactly sure what it was that I'd asked him, which made us even.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At eleven-twenty a.m. I left my Cad with the attendant in a parking lot on Hill Street, near the building in which Ennis Z. Banners had his office.

  Ten minutes earlier I'd been on the Freeway nearing downtown L.A., when Arnold Trappman reached me on my mobile phone. It was a one-sided conversation, all his side:

  “I got in touch with Easy, and he'll see you in his office any time now—but no later than noon. I told him if he talked to you on his lunch hour you'd give him ptomaine poisoning."

  “What's he planning to do, bite me—?” I began, but jolly Arnold had hung up.

  Hill Street near Twelfth isn't a particularly charming or refreshing area of downtown Los Angeles. But, then neither is any of the rest of downtown Los Angeles. The building was six stories high, looked forty years old, and although there was an elevator it didn't elevate.

  I climbed six stories, to the top floor, walked down a quiet corridor to 616. The door was open, but I could read the black-paint letters on its frosted glass: BANNERS PRODUCTIONS AND PROCESSES.” Whatever that was.

  He was behind his desk in the office—one of two rooms in the small suite, I gathered, for a door between this room and the next was open and from the adjoining room came the sound of typing. Not a smooth speedy rippety-pop-clickety but more of a rip-pp-peytpo-p-clockorty. About the way I type.

  Easy Banners was not a tall man, but anything he lacked in that direction he compensated for in breadth and girth; a lot of his extra pounds were in the impressive bulge of stomach that appeared when he stood up behind his desk.

  He was fleshy, but he didn't look soft, certainly did not have the squishy loose look of many fat men. His face was wide and full, but the features were firm, and when he smiled the flesh at the corners of his mouth bunched more like muscle than flab.

  And he did smile, very pleasantly, shaking my hand with a strong grip, when I stopped before his desk.

  “I'm happy to meet you, Mr. Scott,” he assured me in a warm, pleasant voice. “Arnold told me you've been trying to get in touch with me since yesterday."

  “That's right, Mr. Banners."

  “Sit down. How can I help you?"

  I told him; but I didn't get very much from him—much that I hadn't already heard from Trappman, that is. Banners put together the “deals,” found or made contact with potential investors in various drilling programs, explained their financial obligation, risk, potential for profit—which potential he could make sound overwhelmingly attractive, I had a hunch. He saw to it that contracts were properly signed, handled the investors’ checks, kept them informed of progress after drilling commenced.

  “A lot of our investors have never been involved in a drilling operation before,” he said. “So they expect us to at least hit kerosene at a hundred feet, and get very antsy when we don't, which we don't. So I do everything but change their pants for them. I explain what the electric logs indicate, even see they get copies of the logs, which means a whole lot to them, make sure they're informed almost daily as to the depth reached, tell them if a drill-stem test shows possible production—if you can think of it, I've done it.” He paused. “It's a lot of hassle and sweat, but that doesn't matter when I can inform investors we've reached our target depth and there's production, our test shows we'll make at least three hundred barrels a day—which is the story of a well we brought in two weeks ago, up north in Kern County."

  He went on, being very helpful, answering all my questions easily, with a good deal of charm. I'd actually met a pleasant character for a change. But it made sense that Banners was pleasant, I was thinking—as abrasive and hot-tempered as Trappman was, the “wheeler-dealer” or advance man, the guy who put together the deals, met the people, would have to be a much different type from jolly Arnold.

  This guy was smooth as silk, ingratiating, no rough-cob edges on him—he was like his name, easy, subdued, and almost gentle. Still ... there was something about Easy Banners that I didn't like.

  Nope. Didn't like him, either. I wondered if I was turning into some kind of suspicious, edgy, sharp-tongued, crotchety, thirty-year-old misanthrope. Gippy made me throw my hands up in the air, Audrey bugged me. Trappman more often than not produced in me the desire to hit him in the eye with a monkey wrench, and even the lovely and sweetly sexy Cyna
ra Lane and I seemed to have difficulty in avoiding the build-up of static electricity, or just static, between us.

  It was as if I'd been walking around in an invisible and not yet fully formed hurricane's eye, pale lighting shooting out of my ears, and silent thunder rolling around outside—and even inside—my head. Maybe so, maybe not so; but if Cynara was right, it was a temporary thing, a transient mood, a twitchy aura that would quickly pass and....

  I was doing it again, falling into the imbecile error of assuming Cynara's gobbledygook might have some actual relationship to the real world ... and out yonder, as has been said inside many an asylum, lies madness.

  But then, as Banners turned his head slightly, looking down, something about his pose, the angle, plucked delicately at an old thread of memory. Plucked too delicately for me to grab whatever-it-was and pull it out of the past, but enough so I knew there was something about Easy Banners that I ought to remember, in time would remember.

  It was when he'd moved, glanced down, and he'd looked—thinner. That was it. Picture the man younger—he was in his fifties now, I guessed, about Trappman's age—and a lot thinner. Say ten years younger, or twenty....

  I almost had it, when I heard Banners saying, “Arnold passed on to me what you told him about Mr. Willifer. It's a shocking thing.” Banners moved his head slowly from side to side, his expression grave. “I like Mr. Willifer. Frankly, I agree with Arnold that he's something of a pest, but I always found the man very likable nonetheless, warm and good-hearted if a bit ... ineffectual."

  “By ‘pest,’ do you mean his insistence upon putting his money in a well to be drilled at a location—and maybe even to the depth—selected by this guy Morraigne?"

  Banners smiled. “That's part of it. Frankly, Mr. Scott, a man could walk around California with a willow twig in his hands and we'd drill a well for him wherever it pointed down—if he was paying for it. Why not? But we would do our best to discourage him, try to suggest a more logical location. Sometimes, however, individuals acting on messages from a higher plane are not easily discouraged."