Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  The door crashed open and Lou Grecian barged in yelling, "What in hell are you pulling, Scott?"

  I was dancing around next to the fallen man, making belligerent noises. Grecian stopped next to me, looked down at the man on the floor, then at me, his features much as they'd been when I'd first seen him standing in the office doorway.

  Then the anger faded a bit, and his eyes flicked around the big room. They seemed to linger overlong on the two cases by the wall, but I could have imagined that. "What happened here?" he said in a voice that could give tender ears hernias.

  "This slob got big-mouthed and made a grab at me, so I had to lean on him a little, Lou."

  Grecian didn't say another word until some cold water had been tossed on the unconscious man's face and he'd become conscious. He sat up, eyes not quite focused, and Lou put his face close to the shaken man's and said, "Scott here says you popped off at him, and took a grab at him. Just tell me clear and simple. Did you?"

  "Well, he was tromping on — "

  "Shut up. What I want to know is, did what he says happen, or is Scott lying?"

  "Well . . . yeah, it happened. I called the lousy bastard a lousy bastard. And I guess I grabbed him but it was only he was tromping — "

  "Ah, shut up." Lou was disgusted. He straightened up, walked forward a little, looking around, then came back to me. "What's with them flares?" he said.

  "Flares?"

  He uttered his favorite word, smacked his lips, and said, "Oh, hell, why in hell don't you get the hell out of here?"

  "O.K., Lou. Isn't very exciting in here anyway."

  He kept me in conversation in the office until one of the workmen, who had been in the plant briefly, came back in Lou, I thought, looked relieved. Just as I was ready to leave, a big guy stepped up behind me and started to pat me under the arms and along the legs.

  I spun around and slammed the edge of my palm against his biceps, and was about to slam him again when Lou said, "Hold it, Scott. Easy, dammit."

  I looked at him.

  Lou said greasily, "You don't mind a little shake, do you?"

  "Warn me first."

  Lou nodded to the guy who'd started patting me. He was squeezing his arm. I said, "Just a minute. You must know I carry a gun, Lou, so don't get all excited." I took the Colt out, and lifted my arms so the guy could give me a quick shake, which he did, while I kept the .38 pointed at Lou.

  Then I put the gun back in its clamshell holster and said to Lou, "What in hell you looking for? Carrots?"

  "Union rule," he said, and his eyes were cold enough to frost his nose. He wanted to keep me here. That is the definite impression I got. Maybe I was wrong; but it was sure a strong impression.

  Outside, I could see the Matthews a couple hundred yards off shore. I walked toward it, waving one arm and indicating that Jim was to go back toward the dock. On the far end of the island. Far away from gardener Lou the Greek. Nobody came after me. From there on out, it was easy. Jim pulled into the dock, I jumped aboard the cruiser, and we put-put-putted away.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I was sure we were free of the island and nobody was following us, I told Jim most of what had happened back there. Then I thought for a while about what I'd seen and heard in these last couple of hours. But I was also thinking about Laguna Paradise.

  I knew the total value of improvements on that land when the development was completed and everything sold, would probably reach sixty million dollars, a good portion of which would be profit. I knew, too, that though a few of the people associated with Laguna Paradise had invested money and would share in the profits, the bulk of the investment and risk — and thus profit — would be Jim's.

  Now I said to him, "Jim, with Aaron's death you fall heir to his interest in Laguna Paradise, don't you? And to Brea Island, for that matter?"

  "I guess that's right. I hadn't thought much about it, Shell. But, yeah, I guess I do."

  "Uh-huh. Next question. What if Mickey M. had hit you dead center last night? What then?"

  "I don't get you."

  "Who'd wind up with your interest in Laguna Paradise? Your money, estate? Who'd inherit?"

  "Nobody."

  "Come on, Jim. When anybody dies — "

  "No kidding, Shell. Aaron and I were the only children, Mother died two years before Dad, neither of us has a wife, there are no living relatives. None."

  "Well, somebody's got to . . ." I stopped.

  Jim said, "When a citizen dies and there are no legal heirs, the estate escheats — all of his property and estate goes to the State. The State makes sure it gets its gravy, either by taking it all, or at least grabbing estate and inheritance taxes." He shrugged. "Which is a very fat grab, by the way."

  "Well, suppose somebody knew that and wanted to bid on Laguna Paradise, in case it went on auction — "

  "Shell, the Laguna thing isn't worth a bent penny at the moment. Right now it's owned almost lock, stock, and barrel by the banks, the finance companies."

  I thought about that for a minute, then went on, "O.K., back to the island now. I told you that Mickey M. worked for Lou the Greek, and Lou's in charge of that factory. They actually brew baby food out there, can it and ship it to various spots on the mainland. I'm convinced of that. But consider: this Lou is a hard-boiled hood; he hasn't been out of stir very long, but here he is running a factory making — I'm not kidding — Da Da Baby Food."

  "Making what?"

  "My reaction, exactly. Bear with me. Lou went to the sneezer for pushing narcotics. He now claims to be a reformed character, giddy with the joy of planting asparagus and such. O.K., maybe; but suppose he is a great big liar, and hasn't reformed a bit? Suppose he, instead, is planting H in cans of strained gooseberries, say?"

  "H? You mean heroin?" Jim's eyebrows went way up over his blue-green eyes.

  "Exactly."

  "In cans of baby food?"

  "Why not? Look, one of the toughest — and most dangerous — factors in the junk business is getting large quantities of junk from the major producing areas — Red China, Mexico, and so on — into the point of sale, the place where it's to be cut, sold, and used. Like the U.S.A. International hoods have spent a lot of sleepless nights figuring better, safer, more certain methods of transporting and delivering narcotics. It's not just important to them, it's vital. So junk has been carried by couriers; hidden in big brassieres on flat-chested babes, and in false bottoms of trunks and coffins and people. And one hell of a lot of other techniques that worked for a while and then went sour."

  Jim was nodding. He ran a hand slowly through his black hair and said, "I'm getting the message."

  "Sure. Look, I'm talking about the big leagues. If a little pusher in L. A. gets picked up, he loses a few decks, or at most a half ounce or so, of heroin. But when a big shipment, a kilo or two, gets grabbed — man, that's murder." I smiled slightly. "Figuratively speaking, that is. If it gets through, then it's murder literally. Anyway, the loss of big shipments means a loss of millions of dollars to the big-time punks. But suppose you could easily get the junk to a safe spot — an isolated island, say — and little packets containing an ounce or two of heroin were sealed into cans, in a separate run at the plant, maybe in the middle of some gooseberry soup . . ."

  Jim was frowning. "Yeah, they could ship it openly, anywhere in the States. In the world, for that matter. And who would suspect narcotics in — what did you call it? Da Da?"

  "Yes, ugh."

  "Do you actually think that's what's going on out there?"

  "Hell, I don't know. But judging by the charming Handi-Foods personnel, if I'd seen any poppies growing on the island I'd think they were raising their own opium, and somehow processing it into morphine and then heroin. Actually, it's just a wild guess, but maybe I'll know more tomorrow. There were a couple cases of gunk out there and either I'm a nitwit or there was something more than canned burps in them — judging by the reaction of those characters. Anyway, I managed to pull a switch with som
e cans set to be shipped ashore tomorrow." I grinned. "But probably they're producing delicious, organically grown baby foods for health food stores. When I'm wrong, I'm really wrong."

  "In case you're not wrong . . . Do you suppose Aaron might have stumbled onto something like — " He stopped. "No. If he had, he would have said something to me about it."

  "Well, you can bet your life on this: If the Handi-Foods setup is a front for smuggling narcotics, the boys who went to such pains and expense to set it up would kill several dozen guys before they'd let the racket be exposed."

  "Probably. But it can't have anything to do with Aaron. Or his death. But . . . just supposing it did, why the try to kill me last night? I sure as hell never heard of that stupid baby food, much less anything about narcotics. So why me?"

  I shook my head. I didn't know why. I let it all simmer, as we headed back into the smog.

  After dropping Jim off at the development, I found a phone in Laguna Beach and called the Police Building in Los Angeles. I talked to Captain Feeney, head of the Narcotics Division, described the setup on Brea Island, told him of my suspicions, and explained about my slipping the can of mashed bananas into the spinach case. His men would check and determine if a shipment from Handi-Foods, Inc. really was going to the M.W. Wilson chain tomorrow, and if so would arrange for a "food inspector" to find and examine the case I'd marked when it arrived in San Pedro. It would be handled as a matter unconnected with a police investigation, to avoid stirring up the animals if I was right and to avoid embarrassment if I was wrong; and until the result of that check was known we would all sit tight.

  From Feeney I learned that Grecian had been sent to Q on the narcotics rap in late 1957 and got out in early 1959; he hadn't served much time. But narcotics murderers have a pretty soft touch in California — especially since the U. S. Supreme Court voided California State law by ruling that addicts mustn't be sent to the can for addiction. That wouldn't be nice at all, so California mustn't do it, said the Warren Court in effect; it would be "cruel and unusual punishment." The presumption was that the hypes deliberately sticking needles into their arms — and usually pushing dope, stealing, mugging, boosting, prostituting, pimping, or even murdering in order to get their "medicine" — were "sick" and not really guilty of any crime.

  The next step, I presumed, would be a ruling that rapists and murderers and safecrackers were sick rather than criminal, and instead of being imprisoned should be sent to Sunnybrook Farm. Eventually, I supposed, it would be a criminal offense to be a law-abiding citizen.

  It was interesting to note, however, that Grecian was in San Quentin in 1959; and at that time, so was Aaron Paradise.

  I asked Feeney if he would arrange to have Aaron's body checked for evidence of narcotics addiction; he would, and I hung up.

  Next I phoned Ralph Merle. He was still in his office, and after gabbing a bit and commenting that he'd been reading about me in the newspapers, he got down to business.

  "Here's the dope," he said. "Brea Island, owned by the Spanish until — you want all this?"

  I grinned. Ralph was a guy who believed if a thing was worth doing it was worth overdoing, and he had probably traced the island back to the time of Columbus. "Just the last few thousand years or so, O.K.?"

  "Start in 1948, then. Purchased in March of that year by Drake Patterson for $35,000. He owned it until he sold it to Horace H. Lorimer in August 1955 for $20,000."

  "Wait a shake. He sold it to Lorimer? Of Handi-Foods, Inc.?"

  "The same, manufacturer of Da Da Baby Foods. Not bad stuff, by the way."

  "You mean you've heard of — I hate to say it — Da Da Baby Foods?"

  "Sure. Fed it to my own kids for a while. It's good stuff. Why?"

  "You can really buy it in the stores? It's not just some fly-by-night outfit?"

  "On the contrary. It's been on the market for several years, and it's good. Sold in some supermarkets here on the coast, and in most health-food stores — carefully selected and processed for nutritive value, that sort of thing."

  "I'll be damned," I said. "In health-food stores, huh? O.K., go on."

  "Lorimer, owner of Handi-Foods, Inc., built his first plant on Figueroa here in Los Angeles in February of 1956. In November of '57 he sold out and built a factory on Brea Island — which he'd bought from Patterson more than two years before. Nine months ago, in September 1961, he sold the island to Aaron Paradise."

  "Huh? He sold it to Aaron Paradise? But . . ." I stopped. "But Lorimer's the guy who was trying to buy it . . ." I stopped again.

  Ralph continued, "Anyway, Lorimer sold the island to Paradise for $420,000 — "

  I interrupted again. "For how much?"

  "For $420,000."

  I whistled. Where in hell had Aaron Paradise gotten $420,000? Plus another $50,000 or so which Jim had told me he'd had when he showed up in Southern California. The total of 470,000 clams was a lot of chowder for anybody to have, but especially a man only a year out of prison. Of course, Aaron was — at least had been — a con man. Something wiggled in thought, but then stopped wiggling.

  I said, "This is goofy. And how come the island sold for $20,000 in '55, and only six years later brought $420,000?"

  "Don't ask me. I'm just telling you what's on the record."

  "Uh-huh. About this Lorimer. I take it he's a legitimate businessman."

  "Oh, yes — well, yes and no. As I said, the product's a good one, the company doesn't make a lot of profit but seems in good shape. Lorimer, too — except that he had some income-tax trouble recently." I heard him chuckle. "As who doesn't?"

  "Yeah, funny. What kind of tax trouble?"

  "Just a second. I've got the dope here somewhere." I heard the rustle of papers. Then Ralph grunted and went on, "Government sued him for back taxes for the years fifty-seven, -eight, and -nine. Suit was initiated just a year ago this month and settled last December. He wasn't prosecuted for fraud, but he paid up, $360,000 including penalties. In fact, the government released its lien on his property and put a claim into escrow — the escrow on the sale of Brea Island — for the amount of their lien against Lorimer."

  "Whatever that means."

  "It means the proceeds from the sale were enough to satisfy the government's claim." Ralph was silent for a moment. "Then Paradise leased the north half of Brea Island to Handi-Foods, Inc., the corporation to pay him rent of $50,000 a year for the twenty year life of the lease."

  "Hold it. Is that legal?"

  "Not only legal, but sale and leaseback is quite common — and smart, under today's tax setup."

  "The lease was so Lorimer would have the use of the land his factory was on, huh?"

  "It was to Handi-Foods, Inc., from Aaron Paradise, and I quote, '. . . only for the purpose of agricultural, storage, warehousing, manufacturing, and all other uses incidental to the manufacture of, Handi-Foods products.'"

  "And this resulted in Handi-Foods' agreement to pay Aaron Paradise $50,000 a year?"

  "That's right."

  "Interesting. How about this Patterson? Anything fishy about him?"

  "I should say not. He's Drake Patterson, designer and builder of the Patterson boats, sailboats, cabin cruisers. You must have heard of them."

  I had heard of them, seen several of the boats at Newport. The "Drake" cabin cruisers were world famous.

  I said, "Have you got anything on a man named Louis H. Grecian?"

  I heard the rustle of papers again. "General manager of Handi-Foods, Inc. Since . . . December of 1959. That's all I have on him, just the name."

  "That's O.K. I've probably got all I need on him." I smiled and added, "He's an ex-gardener."

  Ralph, with his usual efficiency, had dug up Patterson's and Lorimer's addresses for me. Patterson lived on nearby Lido Isle, which I could pass on the way back to Los Angeles, so I headed over there.

  Drake Patterson was an old man now, seventy or more, I guessed, but he impressed me as being a vigorous old character, and he had an outdoors
look about him. He was a big florid, white-haired man, the flesh a little loose on what once must have been a powerful frame, but he still looked as if he could handle any other seventy-year-old who might give him a hard time. Patterson was bluff and hearty, open and frank in his speech. I liked him on sight.

  He lived on the top floor of a luxurious new cooperative-apartment building on Lido Isle, adjacent to Newport, and we were sitting on the small deck off the living room of his apartment. It was nearly eight p.m. now, not quite dark, and from here we could see the full length of the lovely harbor, hundreds of boats in the water, lights coming on along the shore.

  I'd told him I was a private investigator but had only hinted at the information I was after. He'd made a bourbon and water for me, and was sipping brandy in a shot glass. "Brea Island," he said. "All right, young man, what do you want to know about it?"

  "I understand you owned the island for a while, then sold it a few years back. Is that right?"

  "Yes. Bought it in, let's see, forty-eight, I think it was. Meant to build a home there for my wife and me. I like the sea, the solitude out there, and an island's the next best thing to a boat. The home was really for my wife, but I kept putting off getting started, for one reason or another. Busy making money, keeping the company going, figured there was plenty of time. I did finally get the plans started, but before they were finished, Mary died."

  He paused, then added, "Mary was my wife. After that there didn't seem much point to, well, to any of it. I turned most of the business over to my associates, started getting rid of things — property mostly. Among the property was Brea Island. That went in fifty-five I think it was. Don't remember who bought it, offhand."

  "Horace Lorimer?"

  He nodded. "That sounds right."

  "Then you sold the island to Lorimer for $20,000?"

  He started to answer, then stopped. "What difference does it make what he paid for it?"

  "Well, the island's changed hands since then, and less than a year ago it sold for $420,000. It seems strange that in six years it would bring twenty times what it originally cost."