You know the kind of room. On the right, guys with five o'clock shadow who take your money and fill out betting slips for you from behind a wooden counter, the speaker that gives out the wire service, results, odds. On the wall straight ahead of you and on the one to your left, scratch sheets, pages out of the Racing Form, dope sheets, showing what pigs are running at what tracks and how they've been running, and a ton of other information in an abbreviated code that's completely unintelligible to a sheltered boy and makes only a little more sense to a tout. So you take a last look at the code on your horse, who is named Stupendous, and he's been running like he had a fractured osselot and that's good because he should pay the limit, fifteen-to-one, when he wins, which you know is today because you've got it straight from the feedbox. So you get reckless as a high school flash on his second date with the same girl and you make it four dollars on the nose. The guy gives you your paper slip and the squawk box says the horses are at the post, they're off and running and then the race is over. And if that dope you got was straight from the horse's mouth, then the horse was lying in his yellow teeth and you think the dope might conceivably have come from another portion of his anatomy. Anyway, you wonder what the hell happened to Stupendous.
If you want to ask the boss what happened to Stupendous, or shoot the bastard or spit in his eye, you go through a door in the middle of the left wall of the gambling hell and you're in a narrow hall. On your right, a room that's a storeroom of some kind; on your left, Fleming Dragoon's office. But don't stand outside the door and listen, because there are two nasty guys who hang around in the vicinity.
Got it? Know how to get there? O.K. But take it from me: don't go. At least, don't bet on Stupdendous....
I came out of Dragoon's office into the narrow hall. One bulb centered in the ceiling spilled yellow light down the walls.
My pals with the red faces lounged up against the door of the storeroom. I walked down to them. The big guy was closest. He straightened up and sneered at me out of one side of his mouth.
He said, “How's the head, snooper?”
I landed hard in the middle of his stomach with my right fist and felt it sink in. The breath rushed out of his lungs with a whoosh and he let out a little sigh as if he'd tried to say help and couldn't finish, and the whispery sound hung on the air like the sound a man makes after a double shot of cheap bourbon. He bent over, gagging. I swung my left up from my hip and didn't worry about the so-called button. There is a chin there, which is enough, and if I land on it solid, it is all button. I landed on it solid and felt the satisfying jar travel up my wrist and into my shoulder. He went down like a wet mop and sprawled in a motionless heap.
It took only a second, but the little guy was crouched over, his right hand digging under his coat. I stepped over the big guy and grabbed the little punk's wrist. I twisted hard. He made a squeaking noise like air being forced out of a kid's toy ballon and went down on his knees. I kept twisting till he bent back and his mouth opened and he said, “ah, ah,” over and over.
I reached under his coat, lifted out the gun and tossed it down to the end of the hall, then gave him the heel and back of my open hand twice across the face. His head whipped back and forth on his neck and his eyes glazed. I left the big guy piled up on the floor, the little guy down on his knees, and went out.
I glanced at my watch. It was five till seven and all of the horse players were long gone. Even the die-hards that try to make everything up on the last race. In the novelty shop, open for another five minutes, a couple high school kids were giggling over “art” slides and Henry, the salesman, was looking bored. I nodded at Henry and walked out into the sparse foot traffic on Grand. I bought a copy of the Sentinel from the newsboy on the corner, walked half a block down Eleventh to where my Cadillac convertible was parked.
The Sentinel was still pushing its campaign against reckless driving and traffic accidents. A box over at the left proclaimed, TWO TRAFFIC DEATHS IN LAST 24 HOURS and underneath it was a two column spiel condemning the follies of reckless driving and, particularly, blasting the mounting number of hit-and-run deaths that was helping to give L.A. a black eye with the National Safety Council. I read it through—Joe Brooks, the guy I was checking, had been an apparent hit-and-run kill—glanced at the comics and started the car.
I'd been told that Joe was living with his sister, Robin Brooks, at the time of his death. She lived out on Windsor near Beverly, so I headed out there pronto.
Chapter Two
IT WAS a small stucco house, blue-green with white trim, just off Beverly in the 300 block on North Windsor. It was clean and cool-looking and small, like most of the other homes in that neighborhood. There was a well-kept green lawn in front, a flagstone path up to the front door.
I rang the bell and glanced down at my brown Cordovans. Calling on a lady, I wanted my shoes shined even if she turned out to be an old bat. They shined. While I admired their brilliance the door swung open and I raised my eyes slowly.
I saw a pair of low-heeled tan sandals with red-painted nails peeping out of the open toes; coarse strings tied around trim ankles; ankles curving gracefully into interesting calves; black, knee-length “clam-diggers” hugging swelling hips; bare white skin between the top of the clam-diggers and the bottom of a long-sleeved, cream-colored blouse that was tied tightly around the slim waist instead of tucked in conventionally; then the top of full, creamy breasts swelling above the open throat of the blouse like the scenes they cut out of movies; a smooth, white throat; and wham!
She was no old bat.
Maybe I should have started with the face, but if I had, I'd probably have missed all the fun I had getting to it. There was a dark eyebrow arched inquiringly over one eye and the eyes were dark and brown and big and wise. She had a small, straight nose and full, bright red lips curved slightly in an amused smile. Her hair was the rusty-red color you see once in a while in the early morning sky over South Pacific islands and there was lots of it. The thick hair framed the wise, beautiful face and brushed against her shoulders.
“Just come to look?” Her voice was pleasant, soft.
I gawked at her. “Sorry. You're Miss Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't come just to look. I'd like to talk to you. About your brother.”
The half-amused smile went away and her face got sober. “Of course. Please come in.
I brushed past her, pleasantly, and went inside.
The living room looked comfortable and was nicely furnished. On the left was a big flagstone fireplace, empty now and screened off for the hot summer months. Beyond it was a modern, lime-green sectional divan that fitted into the corner made by the walls. The two halves of the divan were separated by a black, Chinese-modern table on which four books rested in shiny new jackets between heavy brass bookends fashioned in the shape of the upper half of a Balinese dancer who apparently had no modesty at all. To the right of the door, against the wall next to the street, was one of those well-equipped home bars made out of bamboo and red leather and grooved plywood curves and angles. It was red and yellow and green and looked as if wild music would blare out if you dropped a dime in it. Across from the bar, against the opposite wall, was a combination television set and hi-fi cabinet, stacks of records in shelves at the bottom. A couple of deep chairs rested in front of the set. Almost in the middle of the room and facing the fireplace was a long, low, green divan.
On the divan sat a slightly rumpled guy with his tie loose on a thick neck. He was pushing forty and just about one more little push would get him there. He was a big guy, about my size, which would make him a shade less than six-two and better than two hundred pounds. He was wearing a well-tailored gray suit and he just sat there with a half-empty highball glass in his right hand, an expression of annoyance on his sensual face and glared at me. I glared back just for the hell of it.
I turned to the girl in the peek-a-boo blouse, “I'm Shell Scott,” I said. “I'm a private investigator—”
&
nbsp; “Yak,” from the guy on the couch, “a private eye.”
I looked over my shoulder at him, “Somebody asked you?” I inquired conversationally.
“Eddie!” the girl said sharply. Then to me, “How do you do, Mr. Scott. This is Eddie Kash. Eddie, Mr. Scott.”
He grunted at me. I grunted at him. We sounded like feeding time at the zoo.
Robin Brooks led me past the fireplace, deposited me in one half of the sectional divan and sat down in the other. She looked a little puzzled. “Did you say you were a private investigator?”
“That's right.” I showed her my credentials.
“I don't quite understand. That is, why a private detective would want to talk to me about Joe.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I hate to bother you so soon after your brother's death, but I have a client who wants me to get all the information I can. Just a few questions, if it's all right with you, Miss Brooks.”
I looked at her inquiringly and she slowly nodded her head, “I guess so.”
I said, “I'll be as brief as I can. One thing, when you learned your brother had been found, did you have any idea his death might not have been an accident?”
“Not an accident?” Her brown eyes were wide. “Why, no, of course not. Why would anyone...” her voice trailed off. She frowned and said, “The police came here the night Joe was killed. They asked me the same thing, but I just thought they always did that.” She leaned forward and looked at me, “Do you think someone might have,” she hesitated and then went on, “might have killed Joe, well, intentionally?”
The blouse tied snugly around her slim waist had four buttons in sight, but the top three were unbuttoned. I had a hard time keeping my eyes on hers as I answered, “There's always that possibility, Miss Brooks, however remote. Actually, I don't think anything so far. I'm just checking up, asking questions around. It doesn't mean anything yet.”
“But why?” She paused. “Who hired you? Somebody must have hired you.”
“I'm sorry, but I can't tell you the name of my client. He asked me to keep him out of it.”
Eddie Kash got up off the divan and walked over and stood looking down at me. I guess he was tired of being ignored. He stared at me, so I cocked my head on one side and looked at him, then cocked my head on the other side and looked at him some more. His face started getting red.
“Something?” I asked pleasantly.
Robin stood up and put her hand on his arm. “Eddie, maybe you'd better go. I'll see you later.” She guided him skillfully to the door and said, “Call me tomorrow. And you can put five on Blue Boy for me. All right?”
He said all right and he would, glared once at me over her shoulder and went out. She came back and sat down on her half of the sectional divan.
“He's like a little boy sometimes,” she said. Then she fluttered her eyelashes at me. I could feel them flutter in my stomach. “He's a little jealous,” she said.
“I don't blame him.”
She smiled, “Thank you.”
“About this Blue Boy,” I asked her. “You play the horses?”
“Not much. Eddie does. Once in a while I let him bet something for me.”
“What's he do? For a living, I mean.”
“Eddie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about Joe.”
“I do. But Eddie interests me. He's a lovely fellow.”
“Oh, he has a business of his own. Johnson-Kash Company. They make heating and ventilating equipment. I don't know much about it but Eddie makes pretty good money.”
“Business of his own? The name sounds like a partnership.”
“It is. That is, it was. Eddie's the sole owner now.”
“Now?”
“Four or five months ago Eddie's partner was killed in a traffic accident. Wreck or something. The way Eddie explained it to me, both partners carried a kind of partnership insurance so that if one of them died, the surviving partner would have funds he could use to pay off the estate's interest in the partnership. I understand it's quite common for firms to pay premiums on that type of insurance.”
“Well, well.”
“What do you mean, well well?” She asked it pleasantly enough.
“Traffic accident. Like your brother?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” She pulled down her thin, dark eyebrows a little and squinted at me. “You ask the funniest questions.” She ran her hands down the length of the abbreviated trousers and made patting sounds on her bare knees while she looked at me. The upper part of her jiggled delightfully, like Jello.
I swallowed prodigiously.
“Can I fix you a drink?” she asked.
“Swell. Love it.”
She went over to the colorful little bar and busied herself. “Bourbon?”
“Fine. With water.”
She came back pushing a low, chromium-and-glass table with rollers on the bottom and all the fixings on top. The table was low and she had to bend way over to push it. I couldn't help seeing. I shut my eyes a moment and said, No you don't, Scott. No you don't Investigate, remember?
I opened my eyes. She had the cool-looking drink extended toward my face and I could see her red lips curving in a smile behind it.
I took the drink. “Thanks,” I said. “Now tell me about Joe. What was he like? Who did he run around with? Who were his men friends, women friends, sweethearts. Any trouble he might have been in or anybody that might have had a grudge against him.” I stopped and looked at her, “I hope you don't mind too much. All these questions, I mean.”
She shook her head and the rusty-red hair brushed against her shoulders. “No. It's all right; I'm not too broken up about it, I guess. I hadn't seen Joe for years until he came back here. I'll tell you anything I can. I suppose you want to know about lately. Since Joe's been back here?”
“Since he's been back?” We were talking as if he were still alive.
“He was out East for several years. He just came to the coast again about six months ago. Last January, I think.”
“Good enough. Start there.”
I took a slug of my drink. It was good bourbon and it went down like good bourbon should. I peered at my watch. Seven-thirty; it was going to be one of those hot, muggy nights. I eased some more bourbon down my throat and relaxed against the cushions of the divan.
Robin said, “Well, Joe looked me up when he got in, of course. I put him up here and he started looking for a job. He got one with a Mr. Dragoon at a novelty shop.”
I grinned at her. “I know Fleming. I also know his novelty shop. Backward and forward. The novelty is that he calls it the Ace Joke Shop.”
She smiled with even white teeth, red lips and wise brown eyes. “All right, Mr. Scott. He got a job with a bookie. Better?”
“Better.”
“I didn't much like his working there, but he needed a job and there was an opening. One of Mr. Dragoon's help was ill.”
“I can understand that.”
She looked at me, puzzled, then went on, “He liked it there and worked there till—till the accident.”
“Who'd he run around with?”
“No one in particular. He was friendly with some of the other men who worked at the,” she smiled, “novelty shop. Then Joe knew Eddie, of course, and some of the other men who placed bets with him.”
“Eddie hang around Dragoon's?”
“When the Northern tracks were running or when he wanted to bet something back East. That's how I met Eddie.”
“O.K. You don't know of any trouble Joe might have been in?”
“No. None at all, Mr. Scott.”
“Call me Shell.”
“Shell. I like that; it fits you. I got tagged with Robin Victoria Ellen Brooks.”
“All that?”
“All that. You can cut it to Robin.”
“O.K., Robin, do you have a picture of your brother around? All I've got so far is a description.”
“Sure. Just a minu
te. Mix yourself a drink if you like.” I liked.
I poured bourbon and water into my glass and added an ice cube while she went off into the bedroom or somewhere in back and rummaged around. She returned with a handful of photos, clicked on bright overhead lights and handed the pictures to me.
Four of them were night club shots inscribed, “Robin—All My Love—Joe,” and “Robin—Happy Birthday—Joe.” One of them was a snap taken in front of the house and the last was a hand-colored, eight-by-ten studio portrait inscribed “Robin—All My Love—Joe” in red ink with a fine, flowing hand. I kept the studio portrait and handed back the others. He wasn't a bad-looking little guy, blond like me, a faint little wisp of mustache on his upper lip looking as though he'd forgotten to shave for a couple of days, the hair worn long, swept back over his ears and there was a small scar on his chin. Not bad looking but a little insipid, I thought. About twenty-four or five, say a year or two younger than Robin. I handed the portrait back.
“The earthly remains of Joe Brooks,” she said. A bit sadly, I thought.
To distract her a little I said, “Joe what? I mean, what names besides Joe?” I grinned at her, the bourbon warm in my stomach.
“Just Joe.”
“Just Joe?”
“Well, Joseph. Joseph Brooks. That's all.”
“They must have used all the names up on you, huh?”
She nodded her head at me and played with her glass. It was empty. My glass was empty too. Terrible.
“How about girl friends?”
“Nobody. Nobody I knew about anyway. He'd go out with the boys once in a while. That's about all. A little poker, a stag now and then. No women.” She waved the portrait at me, “He wasn't a bad-looking man. Just didn't fool around. Stayed home and read the Racing Form most of the time.”
“You sure?” I asked. That kind of attitude always throws me. Maybe because it's not my attitude. Definitely not.
“As far as I know,” she said.
“How about you?” I asked. “I mean the night he was killed. Where were you? Police come here?”
The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 2
