It could happen. There are a lot of ways to kill a man in a barroom brawl. When he’s down, the toe of a shoe driven against the temple, splintering the fine bones; stiff fingers jammed into the right spot, the side of an open hand slammed into throat, back of neck, kidneys . . . dozens of ways. And in a spontaneous brawl it wouldnt be first-degree murder; it would be simple manslaughter, third degree, an easy rap.
I’ll ask you once more, I said slowly. Blow. Vanish. I’ll ask you — politely, if you like. Drop it now; pick it up later if you want it, but drop it now.
Pete said mildly to me, Bag your head, punk, then glanced at Zia. Say, sorry I spilled the drink on you, honey. Then he reached toward her and began mopping at the black riding pants. Not with a handkerchief or napkin, but with his scarred, big-knuckled hand.
That was it.
Zia turned her head to one side, eyes tightly shut, teeth pressed into her lower lip.
There was that cottony feeling in my mouth. I ran my tongue over my lips, but they stayed dry. I was just about to pop out through the top of my skull, and I fought to hold the anger down, keep anger from jumbling my thoughts.
Zia, I said. Slide over, honey, and let me out, will you? I felt her move beside me — and then it came, the anger lessened, and a chill settled over me, falling from brain and face down over my skin. It was a real, physical chilling, and I got quite cold.
Zia was standing beside the booth, both hands clenched before her. I slid to my left, got slowly up out of the booth, my back almost square to the three men. I was pretty sure they were going to let me get in the first punch, start the fight. Well, if I did get the first punch, I meant to make it a good one.
The fish-faced sonofabitch was right behind me, and he was the one I wanted right now. So as I straightened up, before turning around, I said, primarily so they would listen to the sound of my voice, turn at least part of their attention to the sound, Pete, I tried to ask you politely —
But by this I was turning, feet planted, left foot pulled back so there was plenty of freedom for body movement as I turned, and I turned fast. I hadn’t straightened all the way up, but as I turned I straightened, shoving with all the strength in my thighs and calves, jerking my shoulders around, uncorking my coiled right arm and slamming my fist up and out toward Petes face.
Everything was right. Weight shift, timing, direction — as if Pete had unconsciously placed his chin in the precise spot where my fist would arrive with maximum effectiveness, and when my knuckles landed on the point of his chin the sound must have been heard in the hotels South Wing. I felt the skin over my knuckles split. The jar sent pain clear up into the joint of my shoulder. But by then Pete was feeling no pain.
His head snapped up and back, then bounced forward, flopping to one side as he sailed away from me, slammed into an empty chair, crashed against the floor. He rolled over once and lay still.
I’d hit him so hard I was off balance, and the damned cowboy boots made it difficult to get my feet planted under me again. It probably wouldnt have made any difference, because Dodo was all set, anyway. He was right in front of me, in a slight crouch, knees bent I caught my balance, started to shift my weight — not in time. Dodos big fist snapped two feet through the air and smacked into my face.
I managed to jerk my head aside but not far enough. His fist caught me on the side of the jaw, just under my left ear. That almost ended it; a solid blow would have ended it for sure. The blow threw me backward and my hips jarred against the tables edge. I went clear back on the table top, hearing the sound of glasses breaking, screams from the girls.
Still on my back, I saw Dodo move toward me, hands reaching. I pulled my legs up and kicked at his face. The heels of my boots caught him on the forehead. The skin ripped. He staggered back a step or two, still on his feet but with blood streaming down into both eyes. I scrambled off the table top, slipped and stumbled to one knee. Dimly, as if from a distance, I could hear people in the bar yelling. Farmer was a yard away, stepping toward me, right leg swinging.
I grabbed at his foot, slowed it, but the toe of his boot dug into my chest. Then I had my feet under me, stood up fast, hanging onto Farmers leg, yanked it up as high as I could. He fell, head smacking the floor. He was turned sideways before me, and as he started to get up I stepped over him, raised my left arm, hand opened and thumb pulled as far from the fingers as I could stretch it, tightening the ridge of muscle on the outer edge of my palm, then swung toward him and down, hacked my palms edge against the back of his skull.
It was a blow that could have killed him. A little lower and it would have for sure. Whether it did or not, I couldnt take time to tell. Dodo came out of nowhere, beefy fist slamming into my chest. He yelled suddenly and at the same moment I felt the jarring pain — under my holstered gun. Dodo grabbed the knuckles of his right fist, then let go and swept fingers over his eyes, raking at the blood.
But that gave me time. I got my right shoulder and right leg shoving at the same time, landed one on his left eye, then a left on his mouth. He didn’t go down, swung, caught my ear with his left hand. But he couldnt see well now. And I could almost leisurely pick my spots.
It was like hammering a spike. You smack it and it goes down an inch, then another inch, and another. I must have hit Dodo ten more times, and the last time he was on his knees. I gave the last blow every ounce of strength I had, caught the side of his jaw, and he sprawled face down on the floor. Finally.
I stood in the silent room, and felt my arms drop of their own weight. I was suddenly, in that instant, extremely tired. My knees shook slightly, and pain started throbbing in my chest, skull, the side of my face.
I looked around. Ten or twelve people were still in the room, but theyd moved clear over against the walls. Except for one couple five or six yards away at a table. It was the old duck and the little shot-belting lady.
It was horribly silent. Then the little lady spoke in a shrill, completely sober voice. Henry, take me back to Pasadena.
That broke the tension. I looked at the mess around me. The three men lay still. Dodos face was turned toward me, and it didn’t look very good. But it looked better than mine had after that washroom party.
I stooped down by Farmer, felt his pulse. It still wiggled, even if he didn’t. So Farmer wasn’t dead.
I got up, turned to the girls, who were still in the booth — jammed close to the wall. Lets get the He’ll out of here, I said. But there was a pause in the middle of the sentence, while I got enough breath in my lungs to finish it.
Then moved, trancelike. All four of them slowly got out of the booth.
Delise, near me, put a hand on my arm. I’m . . . sorry, Shell, she said slowly.
Huh? I didn’t know what she was getting at. Sorry?
Yes. For a minute there, I — I thought you were afraid of them.
I managed a grin. Dont kid yourself, I told her. I was.
We headed for the swinging doors, then I stopped and looked at the bartender. When my friends come to, I said, they may want a drink. If they do, put it on my tab, will you?
A true telepath, he nodded, lifted up the bottle of Old Crawdad, and grinned. I grinned back, then turned to the girls, and we went out.
chapter nine
At eight p.m. I was still alive, but my muscles were stiffening in a kind of friendly rigor mortis. I’d soaked in a hot tub, changed into clean clothes identical with the ones I’d been wearing before, and tossed down a shot of brandy.
There were no more repairs I could make, and at least my face hadn’t been badly marked up — not that it made a lot of difference — so I put on the calfskin jacket to conceal my gun, and went out into the Wild West again.
An insistent commotion in my stomach reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat since early this morning. And I’d used up a lot of calories a little while ago. So it was me for the barbecue. Then, maybe, a whirl, or buck and wing, or whatever activity people engage in at square dances, though I’d confessed to the girls
that I wouldnt have the faintest notion of what step to make or foot to kick. They would show me, theyd said.
So far, those gals were all that had saved this trip from total catastrophe. But they stuck closer together than was normal, certainly than was fair. They were going to the barbecue together, to the dance together, and — I got the impression — to bed together, which was certainly a sickening impression.
There was already a lot of activity around the two big stone barbecue pits, maybe a hundred colorfully costumed people milling about, steaks sizzling over glowing charcoal on the grills, three ancient musicians playing a couple of fiddles and a banjo. Usually I go for Les Baxter, Latin rhythms, and mood music with low screams in it, that sort of thing, but this rickety-ticky music was a lot of fun, peppy and crammed with rustic bounce. I liked it. Plenty of hayseed in the city boy, I guess.
I found Russ near one of the barbecues and we talked for several minutes. He had, naturally, heard about the wreckage in the saloon, and I told him what had happened, suggesting he add damages to injury by including repair costs on the bills of Farmer, Dodo, and Pete.
He nodded dumbly and said, Whats happening here, Shell?
I wish to He’ll I knew.
Something sure was, but exactly what? I saw Hal Calvin walking alone toward one of the long tables set up for diners. As usual, the guy had lied to me — about Jeanne Blair, at least, and April, too. I couldnt figure him. But, then, I never had been able to.
Gradually, though, and without any proof yet, I had become convinced that Hal had neatly taken over what had once been Jules Garbin’s collection of thieves, muscle men, and torpedoes. But that was only a part of it, and I had to admire even while I deplored.
Take a look. A year and a half ago, maybe a little more, Harold Calvin had been a relatively minor hood, even though second-in-command to Garbin. Then I’d seen Garbin crash through a window and smashed on pavement, and I’d seen Hal Calvin smiling. Two months later Hal was married to Letty — who, it should be considered, was Jules Garbin’s widow, the lady who inherited all. Nine months after that, the lady was dead. Which meant — in the natural order of such things — Hal Calvin would inherit from the lady.
What it boiled down to was that Handsome Hal Calvin, sometimes called Hal the Bastard, was literally and figuratively Jules Garbin’s heir. From next to nothing approximately a year and a half ago, to a millionaire today. Head of a criminal complex, not a very big or impressive one as such things go, but head of it nonetheless — and possessor of houses, lands and cash-money totalling at least two or three million dollars.
Not bad. But none of it told me whether Jeanne Blair had been killed or just died accidentally. Nor, for that matter, did it explain the sudden, violent, and continuing antagonism to me. I let it all stew, while I got a plate and silverware, waited in line for a thick top sirloin steak and trimmings, then headed for a seat.
I was looking around — for the gals, actually — when somebody called, Hey, Scott.
It was Hal, waving me over. I joined him and he pointed to an empty spot next to him and said, Sit down and chow up. Between bites you can tell me what happened to Pete and Farmer —
Word gets around.
Doesnt it? And especially tell me about Dodo. Howd you ever get past that hulk?
Just lucky, I guess. But, Hal, you shouldnt have sent those apes to slaughter me in the first place.
He shook his head. What you need is a long rest, Scott. Youre getting suspicious of everybody. Even me. That’s what comes from being a black sheep, an outsider —
Me?
— an outcast. And honest. Why, just because a man is a crook you think there’s something wrong with him. But to refute your implication, I didn’t send those demented savages after you.
That’s a load off my mind, Hal. Thanks a lot. By the way, you told me you met Jeanne Blair here. Didn’t you know her when she was going around with Garbin? In L.A.?
It didn’t faze him a bit. Sure, Scott. I’m a liar. What else is new?
What do you do with a guy like that?
He looked at my mangled red knuckles, then at my face. You know, Scott, youre a little bit better than I thought. Is that steak cooked, or are you eating it raw?
Rare, and it’s delicious. Arent you eating? He had a glass in his hand, but no food before him.
I already ate, and it is interfering with my drunkenness, he said soberly. I can’t square dance unless I’m stiff enough to be very loose. Swing your partner, shake your bustle —
Youre going square dancing?
I’ll try anything.
I dont suppose Farmer and Dodo and Pete will be there.
He smiled. They are — resting, in their rooms.
Something I wanted to tell you about that episode, Hal. The next time one of your boys jumps me —
Scott, please. They are not my boys. I wouldnt even want them if they were grown up. I’m here on a vacation, that’s all. I knew the lads pretty well when Jules was alive, so when we run into each other we cut up a few touches, that’s all.
Yeah. I’ll tell you anyway. The next time one of these slob jumps me I am not going to hit him — my hands hurt already. I am going to shoot the bastard.
That’s the spirit. That’s the way I like to hear you talk, Scott. You can’t be all good —
A question, by the way. When we talked there at the pool, I saw Green and Pete. But who was the other egg? He looked familiar, but I havent been able to make him.
What other guy — oh, you mean the gray-haired cat?
Yeah, mustache, dark glasses.
That’s Everett. You wouldnt know him. Simon Everett. Sis from back east, a struggling businessman.
Sure. Like youre a businessman, and Tay Greens a businessman —
No, he’s legit. Youd probably get along famously. He owns a factory in Pennsylvania.
Making what?
Caskets.
It figures.
He laughed. Scott, you kill me. If a guy stabbed his wife with the silverware, youd hang the salesman. Come on, lets go square dance.
I’d been making headway, or toothway, on my steak, and now shoved the plate from me and got up. After a little digestion, I said, I’ll do just that.
The Cactus Corral was a big barn, nothing fancy, high-ceilinged and almost bare. But at one end of the barn the three musicians whod been outside earlier were on a raised platform, scraping and plucking. The lead fiddler and caller was a bewhiskered character about a hundred years old, or maybe a little more, with the improbable name of Zeke Goober. Zeke was clattering one foot on the floor in arthritic spasms while sawing wildly at his fiddle, and cackling, Do-si-do and fiddle-dee-dee, go to the middle now, one-two-three — or something equally nutty.
At least forty people were stomping about in the middle of the big barn, moving in numerous directions, with very little correspondence between what they were doing and the beat of the music, and no apparent understanding of the words Zeke was cackling, which didn’t surprise me a bit. Saturday night. Big deal.
Ah, but then a tall, slim-but-not-thin, blonde tomato, astoundingly decolleté, scurried across the floor toward me, saying as she approached, Come on, Shell, do-si-do, and had it not been Delise I would have said Do-si-do yourself, but it was Delise, so I said, Crazy! and away we went.
Well, we did our own version of Swing Your Partner, and I got lost a couple of times but each time made my way back, and I probably looked as silly as I felt, but about all I remember about the dance was that Delise sure as He’ll bounced a lot. Then wed finished and shed whirled off with somebody else — and hot-eyed, sweet-lipped, dandy-everythinged April was next to me.
Shall we? she asked brightly.
Why not?
I cocked an ear. Zeke was wheezing at the top of his old lungs, Round and round and round you go, round you go like thunder . . . up and down and round you go. . . . You pop her under!
Ye Gods, I said, I take it back. I can’t do that!
Oh, c
ome on, silly. Dont be scared.
I’m not scared. But, April, I can’t pop you under.
Try. Those hot blue eyes burned holes in my reluctance.
O.K. I shrugged. Youre the one that gets popped. I warn you, I am not exactly light on my feet. I can break a gals leg doing a waltz, and when I really get going I’ve been told it’s like guerilla warfare —
I’ll take a chance.
You can say that again.
As we started toward the lively people, Hal Calvin walked past us and said to me, You sure looked like a nut out there.
Ah, shut up. I noticed he didn’t look so good and said, Whats the matter, Hal? Are you — oh-ho, the old ulcer, hey?
He stopped briefly and said, Ulcer, He’ll. I should never have eaten, that’s all. I asked for a nice rare steak, but that damned cook gave me a bum steer. Man, the thing was tougher than teeth. Youd need diamond choppers just to gum it. Then he suddenly got a kind of green-taste-in-the-mouth look and said, You will forgive me if I leave in the middle of a sentence — and left in the middle of the sentence.
As he went rapidly out the door April, laughing, said to me, Shell, is he really a criminal. Really?
In practically every sense of the word, April.
But he just can’t be. Why, he’s intelligent, and amusing, and — well, he’s beautiful. He can’t be completely bad.
Who is? But he’s bad enough. Honey, sometimes you can’t tell by looking — and in Hals case, even by listening. It’s unfortunate. In a lot of ways he’s a nice guy.
It’s not just unfortunate. Shell. It’s — it’s tragic.
Maybe she was right. But I said, Take my word for it — and stay away from him. Just pretend he’s Pete or Dodo, on the inside.
She tossed her head, mass of rust-brown hair flying, then hauled on my arm and soon we were flying. We got into a bunch with three other couples, and none of us knew what we were doing, but I was getting the hang of it until Zeke cackled:
The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 7
