Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "Sure." Jim grinned. "I'll have Wally do it."

  Adam said, "You're a sly one, James," and waved a hand. "See you tomorrow." He nodded at me, said, "Glad you could make it out here, Shell," and left.

  As he walked away Jim glanced around. The crowd was thinning out. "Looks as if we might swing it this time, hey, Shell? If it goes like this another week or two . . . Well, it'll feel damned good."

  I knew what he meant. I wasn't aware of how much money Adam had contributed to the project, but I did know Jim had poured in every cent he owned, plus mountainous mortgages, and if Laguna Paradise flopped, Jim would go down with it. Right now, though, on the sixth day of the operation, it looked like a sure winner.

  Jim stretched, then frowned and said, "What in hell's happened to the gals? If I've been stood up — "

  "Ha. How can you be stood up when you don't have a date yet?"

  He glowered, then his gaze went past me and his face lighted up, and I guessed, correctly, that he'd seen Eve and Laurie approaching.

  The girls marched up to us and said in unison, "Why not?"

  Well, friends, unless you have heard at least one tomato as well-ripened as these crying with gay abandon, "Why not?" you won't know what I'm talking about — and maybe it's just as well. But the total atmosphere changed in that one twanging moment. If you still don't know what I'm talking about, try jumping from a cold shower into a hot tub.

  "Hey-hey," said Jim eagerly. "This is sure the night for it!"

  "For what?" Laurie asked, perhaps a bit dubiously.

  "Well, ah . . . ah . . ." said Jim.

  "I'm with you," Eve said, smiling more broadly than I'd ever seen her smile before. Then she put her hands on her ample hips, and pulled her shoulders back, straining the sweater dangerously, as if aiming at us. Hell, even to an innocent bystander it would have been an obvious act of deliberate aiming, and Jim, unashamedly staring, pushed me aside as though to accept the whole charge himself and cried, "To hell with the blindfold!"

  For a second or two I thought he was going to charge forward like the Light Brigade and hurl himself upon the cannons, but instead he spun around once in a speedy circle and then said, "Well, we all have to drive back to L. A. tonight, anyway. My place sort of hangs over the Sunset Strip. How about a late supper there?"

  "Sounds fun," Eve said, and Laurie chimed in, "Fine."

  Jim went on, "Then, after chow, we can do something jolly, like — well, we can work out chess problems, or read Proust to each other, or play cards. . . . "

  Eve smiled. "Cards. And you live over the Sunset Strip." She glanced at Laurie. "Honey, what do you bet they suggest Sunset-Strip poker?"

  I could feel something steamy creeping up on me. It was blood. "Hoo!" I said. "Laurie, I have a full house!"

  "But I've got a straight flush," she laughed.

  "We've got this thing backwards — "

  "Who cares?" interrupted Jim. "How can you lose?"

  Laurie, I was pleased to note, was laughing, her brown eyes wide and bright. Eve, also laughing, cried, "I'll raise!"

  "Yeah!" Jim yelled. "Yah! Why not?"

  People were looking at us by now. Some were even getting the hell away from the area, and one old gal about a hundred and forty years old was eyeballing us with her gums going up and down.

  "Well," I said, "we've raised hell already. Guess there isn't much left to do."

  "I'll bet there is," Eve said. "Let's try to think of something." The look in those pale green eyes said she'd thought of a thing or two all by herself.

  It steamed on for another couple of minutes, and we agreed to meet later. Both girls had driven from the city, Eve in her white T-Bird and Laurie in her little red MG, so they suggested we all go our separate ways and they'd join us at Jim's. Eve suggested midnight, so it was to be the witching hour. Without witches.

  After the girls took off, Jim lifted what was left in his glass and said, "Here's to success."

  "May you sell lots of lots."

  He grinned. "That, too. Wow, how about Eve? For six days I've been yakking it up with her, but it was like melting a glacier with matches. She looks — well, you've seen her. But it was freeze and chill until tonight."

  "Something sure defrosted her."

  "Persistence. Positive thinking. A good fairy. Who cares? Man, when she got off that gag about Sunset-Strip poker, I almost swallowed my tobacco. At least, I guess it was a gag." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You don't suppose she was serious, do you?"

  "I don't suppose. Probably just conversation. Uh, don't you suppose?"

  "I wonder," he said. "I wonder. . . . "

  As a matter of fact, I wondered, too. All the way home.

  Chapter Three

  It takes only an hour to get from Laguna to Los Angeles on the Santa Ana Freeway and I'd left well before ten, so by eleven-fifteen that balmy p.m. I was driving my convertible Cadillac up the Sunset Strip, top down, breeze cooling my freshly showered, shaved, and after-shave-scented chops.

  Decked out resplendently — I thought — in creamy-beige silk-gabardine slacks, white jacket cut to conceal the slight bulge of my .38 Colt Special nestled between jacket and white shirt, and wearing a blazing peacock-colored necktie, I felt ready to grapple with anything the evening might offer. Though I didn't really expect to need the gun.

  Jim lived on the high side of Forest Knoll Drive, well above street level, in a low and modern eight-room house which jutted from the side of a steeply sloping hill and was supported on the downhill side by thick concrete pillars. It seemed to float in the air like a huge wing, high over the Sunset Strip, and on a clear night the view of the city's lights spread out below was dazzling. Because of the location, there was plenty of seclusion and privacy, and the land was so thickly landscaped and overgrown it would discourage the most prying eyes.

  I drove up Sunset Plaza Drive, turned off on Forest Knoll, and parked on Laurel at the foot of a long flight of wooden steps which led up to Jim's place, then started climbing them. At the top of the steps was a gently sloping earthen path which ended before a ramp curving up to both the big wooden deck in front of the house and a side door which opened into Jim's sunken living room. As I started up the dirt path, a movement on my left caught my eye.

  The area here was lush with shrubs and tropical plants, ferns and elephant ears, philodendron and birds of paradise. Ahead and on my left was a clump of three Senegal date palms, and that's where I thought something had moved.

  "Jim?" I called. "That you?"

  There wasn't any answer — but something moved there, for sure. More quickly now. And away from me. Squinting, I could see it was a man's figure, a man bent over and starting to trot toward the narrow street behind Jim's house.

  "Hold it!" I yelled — and at that moment light spilled from the side of the house. I heard Jim's voice calling something. He'd opened the door up there and light from inside brightened the area — but it fell on me, not the other man, and I could barely see him, now.

  "Hold it!" I yelled again, and the guy started running as if pursued by the hounds of hell. He was pursued, at least briefly, by me. I leaped forward and my foot skidded on slick grass. My feet went up, and I went down. By the time I got to my feet and started sprinting forward I could hear the sound of the man running well ahead of me. Then the quick slap-slap of shoe leather on paving, the sudden sound of a car's acceleration, and then the car door slamming. I reached the street in time to see the flare of taillights, then the car was gone.

  As I walked up the ramp Jim said, "What the hell was that?"

  "You know as much as I do," I said. "You see the guy?"

  "Just a glimpse. Any idea who he was?"

  I shook my head.

  We didn't get anywhere guessing about the man, so we dropped it and went inside. Soft music from hidden speakers throbbed in the air. From the door, three carpeted steps led down into the living room. It extended almost the entire width of the house, to a wall paneled in pecky cedar, beyond which was th
e master bedroom. On the left, two wide and curving steps rose to an area that while actually part of the living room seemed separate from it. The area was furnished with an off-white divan slanted near a fireplace, a hanging pierced-metal lamp that looked Persian, a low bar in dark wood, another off-white overstaffed chair, and four big brightly-colored "harem" pillows on the floor.

  "Now that you've caught your breath," Jim said, "I have a drink that'll take it away."

  I grinned. "What's it called? Halitosis?"

  "No, this is my special Martini — you don't stir the gin and get it all diluted with water, and you use vodka instead of vermouth. Or would you prefer a Blastoff?"

  "I doubt it. It sounds like a Russian corporal — "

  "Not at all. It's one part Kahlua and four parts kerosene."

  "That's a drink?"

  "Of course not. You just light it and watch it burn. But obviously you're a man who can't make a decision. I shall therefore give you one of my Martinis in a beer mug, which will render all decisions academic."

  We perched on stools at the bar, and I discovered Jim really had made his special Martinis, poured the poison into two one-quart champagne bottles and inserted the bottles into silver wine buckets filled with crushed ice.

  "Suppose the girls don't like undiluted gin-vodka Martinis?" I commented.

  "Then these are all for us," he said sadly. "Or, I shall tell them it's very cheap champagne, the kind that doesn't tickle. Cheers."

  We drank. It wasn't bad, I guessed. It wasn't good, either. In fact, I decided, it was lousy.

  I had another sip, and bang, out of nowhere, I placed a face. Earlier I had unsuccessfully squeezed my mind trying to remember who was the guy I'd seen talking to Adam Preston. As so often happens when you worry an idea and then drop it out of mind, it had sprung back into consciousness when I least expected it.

  It had been years since I'd seen those cold eyes and pinched features, but now I remembered them — and his name. Mickey M. he was called among the light-fingered lads and the boys on the heavy. Some years ago in L. A. there'd been a loosely-knit gang of heist men and hop-heads engaged in making a fast buck from whatever was illicit, four or five crumbs headed by a mugg named Lou the Greek. Two of the others were Mickey M. and Anthony "Ants" Cini. It was possible that Mickey had gone legit since then, but most underworld cats, like leopards, never change their spots, and it was a solid bet that Adam's acquaintance was still on the turf.

  I said to Jim, "Do you know if Adam has ever been mixed up with guys in rackets?"

  He looked startled. "What the hell kind of question is that? What brought this on?"

  I told him what I knew about Mickey M., mentioned seeing him with Adam earlier, and repeated what I'd heard of their conversation. "I don't know what it was all about," I said, "but the little guy was talking pretty big. It's just a thought, Jim, but a multi-million-dollar operation like Laguna Paradise is the kind of thing today's muscle boys would love to muscle in on."

  Jim was frowning, silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "He mentioned Brea? This little guy?"

  "Yeah. That's all I heard, just the word. Or name. Mean anything to you?"

  Jim's face smoothed. "Probably Brea Island."

  "What's Brea Island?"

  "A little island off the coast about fifty miles. As you know, Shell, if the Laguna project pans out it'll be the first in a series of similar developments. There'll be one in Baja California, a Monterey Paradise, maybe one down near Torrey Pines. And then there's the one I'd really like to do — Paradise Island." He looked past me, silent for a moment as he thought about it. "It'd be on Brea, big hotel, pools, beaches, cabañas, there's even room for a golf course and a little bay where we could build slips for pleasure boats."

  "You own this island?"

  "No, but Adam does. When he showed up last October, when we met I mean, he'd just bought it. Didn't have any special plans for it, but when he came in with me on the Laguna thing we got to talking about developing the island." He grinned. "If we didn't go broke in Laguna first, that is. I went out there with him a couple times and looked it over, and Adam's spent a lot of time there the last few months. He really got steamed up about it — even had a crew of men with him for a while, surveying, clearing a section away, building a little shack. Anyway, that could be the next project: Paradise Island. How does it sound?"

  "Great. Save me a cabaña for the opening. But what's that got to do with Mickey M.?"

  "Maybe nothing, except you say he mentioned Brea. He must have been talking about the island." Jim frowned. "Funny thing, last Sunday, when we opened the Laguna development, there was a guy out there in the afternoon talking to Adam about the island. Trying to get him to sell it to him."

  "A guy like Mickey M.?"

  Jim laughed. "Hardly. This was a real harmless-looking old duck named Lorimer, Horace Lorimer."

  "What did this Lorimer want it for?"

  "He's got some kind of factory out there, on the north end of the island. I gather — "

  "Just a minute. A factory — on an island? What in hell kind of factory, what do they manufacture?"

  "It's some kind of food-processing plant. Handi-Foods, Inc., I think it's called."

  "Handi-Foods . . . on an island, huh? Goofy. How in hell do they ship the product? Do the workers live on the island, or what?"

  "Lorimer's got a yacht, converted for carrying the product into ports along the coast here, and I think most of the workers stay out there during the week, go back and forth on a company boat when necessary. I'm not too sure how they operate, I never saw the factory. But Adam was over there a few times, so he could tell you more about it if you're curious."

  "I'm curious. You say Lorimer was talking to you and Adam about the island last Sunday?"

  "Not to me, just Adam. They were alone in one of the model homes and I heard part of the discussion before I stepped inside." He squinted. "They shut up when I came in — kind of odd, now that I think about it. Anyway, I mentioned it to Adam later and he said when he bought the island the deal included leasing the north half — the part the factory's on — to Lorimer, or to his corporation. So the man could stay in business, apparently. But now Lorimer's interested in buying the rest of the land, owning the whole island outright. Well, there's only an oral agreement between Adam and me, nothing on paper, that is, and after all the island is his — he can do whatever he wants with it. But he told me he had no intention of selling, even for a good profit, as long as we had plans to develop that south half of Brea."

  I had another sip of my Martini — or whatever it was — and seriously wondered if my tongue was dissolving. Then I said, "Well, it would be interesting to know what connection, if any, this has with Mickey M. — "

  Jim interrupted, "Oh, the hell with Mickey M. I'm in no mood for him, pal. Tonight I'm in the mood for . . ." He paused, seeking the appropriate phrase. As if to supply it, right then the chimes went off, three notes rising in jolly pitch: bing-bong-clong!

  I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to midnight. One of the girls was eager. I was glad.

  Jim said, "I'll get it!"

  "Maybe it's for me."

  "Ha!" he said, strode to the door and flung it open. "Darling!" he cried. "You came back!" He babbled on for a bit, some nonsense about his being sorry he'd beaten her for burning the toast, then stopped. "What's the matter? You can come in, dear." He paused. "Really."

  It had been quite a while, and I was wondering who the devil was out there. Then, finally, Eve stepped inside, undulated past Jim, spotted me and waved, aimed a thumb at Jim and tapped her head. I nodded, tapping my head. Jim escorted Eve to the bar, slipped a lightweight orange coat from her shoulders, then stepped back and admired her with his eyes and with pursed lips through which he whistled an admiring whistle.

  Understandably. There is a cloth called jersey, from which women's garments are sometimes made, and jersey clings to skin like skin does to nudists, and Eve was wearing jersey. The dress was bright ora
nge, a simple one-piece cocktail dress scooped out deeply at the neck — scooped so deeply, in fact, that it was hard to decide whether it was simply falling down or whether Eve had started to take the thing off. It was a grand dress, I thought.

  Jim said, "Lady, I should wash out my eyes with soap. You are absolutely gorgeous."

  Smiling, Eve delicately touched her gleaming, perfectly set black hair, and thanked him. Then she said, "What's that? Champagne?" looking at the poisoned champagne bottles.

  "Well . . . not exactly," Jim said. "Are you game?"

  She looked at Jim and smiled, slanted her green eyes briefly toward me, then back at Jim. "I'm game," she said. That was all. Two words. Practically a book.

  Jim poured from the bottle into a champagne glass and Eve took a delicate sip, then grimaced indelicately. "What the hell?" she said. Then, "Oops."

  "Good, huh?" Jim said, grinning.

  "Oh, marvelous." She paused. "Is it hydrochloric acid?"

  "I'll fix something else, if you'd like."

  "This is fine. It doesn't matter, anyway. Something else would only taste like this now."

  We all sipped and went "Haah!" and talked it up a bit, then: bing-bong-clong.

  "I'll get it," I said.

  When I opened the door and saw Laurie, everything that had happened to my nervous system the first time I saw her happened again. She wore a black dress with a "V" neckline, and looped behind her neck was the thin strap of what is called a "halter," though the name conveys an entirely erroneous impression since the halter was doing very little halting. I simply looked at her silently, not saying a word. It was, indeed, a face to stop a heart, and a body to start it again.

  Finally she said, "Well, shoot, you don't remember me."

  That snapped me out of it. "Sure I do," I said smiling. "You're . . . ah, uh . . . You're Lucy — no, Annie . . . Arly? Cathy? Rachel? Joy?" I paused. "Francine? Frank? Bill?"

  "That's who," she said smiling, and swept past me as I stepped aside, still puzzling over her name.

  Soon the four of us were at the bar, and Laurie — by this time forewarned of what she was about to sink her teeth into, and what was about to sink into her teeth — had sipped the cocktail and was saying, "Ack, wonderful. Isn't it, ack, wonderful?" while making ghastly faces and shaking her head back and forth vigorously.