He shook his big head. “Uh-uh. Too many of them. And too many of them stink. The only way it figures is that some bastard or bunch of bastards is behind it. Another thing, who knows how many of them don't show. A neat job and how the hell you going to tell it wasn't just an accident? How you going to trace a front bumper or a lead pipe?” He started sinking his teeth into the cigar butt again, rolling it from one side of his wide mouth to the other. “Besides,” he went on, “Kelly here's been working on it, too, and that's the way it adds.”
Kelly came out of his retirement. He nodded his head vigorously. “Yeah,” he said, “that's the straight copy all right. I been with the Examiner over a year and I got some, well, kind of shady friends I guess you'd say. He grinned self-consciously. “It stacks up like Captain Samson says, though. These friends, they don't come right out and say some gang's behind it, but they've dropped a lot of hints and stuff while I was nosing around.” He grinned, “Man, what a story. If I could bust something like that, they'd give me the paper. They sure would.”
“How about this Joe Brooks?” I asked Samson. “That's the one I'm on.”
“Another funny one. He's picked up on Solano Avenue out there at Elysian Park about eleven at night, stiffer than a frozen mackerel. He's mashed up pretty fair and scratched to beat hell front and back and his face messed up some, too, like maybe he'd been tossed and rolled quite a way along the side of the road.”
“You look at the body?” I asked.
“No. I got all the reports, though. When the body's posted, he's so full of hooch he could stay drunk for a week.”
“Maybe,” I said, “he went partying and stepped in front of a truck.” Samson scowled at me disgustedly and I said, “Weak, huh?”
“Weak. Somebody did a job on the guy. He wasn't hit by a car in the first place and in the second, the top of his head's bashed in. The top. We gave it out as another drunk hit-and-run for the time being.”
“Enter the proverbial blunt instrument, huh?”
“Yeah. Besides that, what's he doing way the hell out on Solano? How'd he get out there? If he's on a binge or a party, where's the rest of the party? I don't know; we're checking all the usual angles. Sent his prints and description up to the ICC in Sacramento and sent the dope air mail special to the FBI in Washington to see if they got anything on him. He's new to us.
“How'd you find him? Somebody call in?”
“That's right. There's practically no traffic out on Solano, particularly that late at night in the middle of the week. A kid out on a date—looking for a dark road, I guess—saw Brooks folded up at the side of the road. He stopped but didn't get out when he saw the way the guy was sprawled out, turned around and hightailed it to a phone. The call came in to the complaint board and the fast car got out a few minutes after that. He'd only been dead maybe an hour or so.”
I asked, “You checked the sister and the place where he worked?”
“Sure we checked. Nothing much there; not yet anyway. The sister says the last she knew, her brother took off to see a little punk named Harry Zerkle. She doesn't know what for. We check Zerkle, and Brooks was going to see him all right, but he never got there.”
“So Zerkle says?”
“So Zerkle says.”
I remembered Kelly. “You're pretty quiet, kid,” I said to him.
“I guess so; I been listening. I'm interested in the story.
See, I came out here about a year back and got on with the Examiner. This is the first really big thing I've had a chance at—putting my own time in on it.” He grinned, “Like the Captain is.”
Samson said, “Kelly's stringing along with us on this; nothing breaks till we say go. Turnabout, he gets some of the inside from us.” He took his cigar from his mouth and deposited it in a glass ash tray on his desk; he'd practically worried the end of it off. “It isn't just one job, like Brooks, with us. It's a lot of guys, how many we don't know for sure. We got a list—Kelly's got a copy. Hit-and-runs, out-and-out kills and borderline cases. We're trying to check up on them all. The ones still listed as accidents or unsolved, open. Some of them go pretty far back, but maybe we can pick up something, fit them together.” He turned to Kelly, “Give Shell a gander at that list, son.
Kelly reached into his coat pocket and handed me a clear carbon on thin tissue, a list of names. Long ones, short ones, American, Mexican, Polish: Jesus Atencia, Elias Johnson, Holdak Kryzinski, William Martin, Howard Hansen, about twenty of them ending with the name of Joseph Brooks. I glanced over the list and handed it back to Kelly. “That looks like it could be a hell of a mess of work.”
Samson growled, “And it could be a hell of a mess of murder, too. Those are just the funny ones. There's a lot more that weren't screwy.”
Kelly looked at his watch. I'll run along,” he said. “Thanks for your time, Captain Samson.” He turned to me, “Awfully glad I met you, Mr. Scott.” He smiled pleasantly and stuck out his hand. I shook his hand, and he left.
I looked across the desk at Samson.
“What about this Harry Zerkle? You said you quizzed him.”
“Just what I told you. We talked to the guy and Brooks was maybe going to see him that night, Wednesday. It wasn't definite, but Zerkle stays at his house and waits for him, but he doesn't show.”
“How do you know Zerkle stayed there and waited for Joe?”
“He lives at a boarding house out on Alvarado off Olympic. Ten people saw him there. He even played pinochle most of the night.”
“I might want to talk to him. What's his address?”
Samson gave me a number on Alvarado and I made a note of it. A couple of ideas were playing around in my head trying to mate, but nothing had come of it yet. I said, “You think this Brooks thing is just one more in a line, huh?”
That's the way it adds.” He squinted at me and said slowly. “Something else that's screwy.”
“What's that?”
“What're you doing on a case that's supposed to be a hit-and-run? What's any private eye doing on it for that matter? How come this client of yours, whoever he is, has you checking up on a little punk that's found alongside the road?”
“You know as much about that as I do, Sam. All I know is the guy wants me working on it. And for very pretty money.
“A guy, huh? You wouldn't want to tell me what guy?”
“Uh-uh. That's part of the conditions of the job. The guy keeps clean. And maybe I just said guy to throw you off. Maybe it was a gal.”
Samson rested his eyes on me for a long second. “O.K., Shell, you know I'm not going to press you. But give a listen a minute. I know you think you can take care of yourself and you've been able to so far, but could be there's some mighty rough boys mixed up in this. Don't miss any bets.”
I stood up and grinned down at him, “Don't worry yourself into an early grave, Sam. I'll carry an extra gun or something.”
“Sure. Knowing you, you've probably lost the one you've got.”
I peeled back my coat and showed him the butt of the short-barreled .38 Colt Special snug in its spring shoulder holster. “I have to carry a gun,” I told him, “the girls wouldn't think I was a private dick if I didn't.”
He hauled out a fresh cigar and sank his teeth into it. “Go on, stupid. Get the hell out. I got work to do.”
I left him shoving the black cigar back and forth in his wide mouth.
Chapter Five
MY CAR was parked in the San Pedro Street lot be hind the Police Building. I walked out of the building and turned right toward First Street. It was nine o'clock and it had cooled off a little. A feeble breeze trickled down from the north. A guy stepped out of the shadow.
“Mr. Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Kelly, I thought I'd wait and talk to you, if it's all right with you.” He fell into step beside me.
“Sure, Kelly, what's on your mind?”
“Well, about this case you're on. I'm kind of working on the same thing, you know, like Captain Samson said.
I thought maybe we could kind of work together on some of it.” He laughed, embarrassed.
“Okay by me.”
“I've got lots of ideas,” he said in an eager voice, lots of them.”
We were at my car. I said, “Where you headed?”
“Well, home, I guess. I just waited around to talk to you a little.”
“Hop in. I'll drive you.”
He jumped in and I slid under the wheel and revved up the motor. Kelly lived at the Holloway Hotel on Norton Street off Wilshire, he said, so I swung over to Wilshire, and took a right.
We were well out Wilshire and up ahead on the right I could see the lights of the Seraglio. Out front was a big neon sign that lit up the sky like a naughty rainbow. It was supposed to represent one of the Sultan's more voluptuous cuties. Her hips swung from side to side provocatively each time the lights flashed on and off. Not too subtle, but it made the sightseers wonder if there were live ones like that inside.
I suddenly realized I was hungry. “You eat?” I asked.
“No. Not yet. I got to talking to Captain Samson.”
“The Seraglio's up ahead. Come on in and I'll buy you a meal.”
“Well,” he hesitated. “Sure. That'd be well. I'll have to call my wife, though.”
“You're married?”
“Sure am. Got the best wife in the world. Two years now. You ought to meet her.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You married?’ he asked.
“Nope.”
“Gee, how old are you, Mr. Scott?”
“Thirty.”
“And you're not married?” He seemed mildly incredulous.
The Sultan's cutie was swinging it almost directly overhead now so I wheeled in and left the car with the attendant.
The willowy blonde was standing behind the counter in the check room with a bored expression on her face. She swung her merry eyes up at me and smiled. I took Kelly's hat. “I'll check this for you,” I said. He nodded and looked around him.
I asked. “You ever been here before?”
He shook his head, no.
I said, “See what you've been missing?” He laughed and said he sure did and didn't the girls get cold?
I walked over to the blonde. She had high cheek bones and pleasantly curved lips. “I borrowed this just for you,” I said extending Kelly's hat. “I'm curious to see where you check it.”
She tilted her head back in a way I was beginning to like and looked down her nose at me. She didn't say anything, just pursed up her lips and took the hat from my hand.
She was put together as if I'd planned it myself: full, high breasts; slim, bare waist; pleasantly swelling hips; and long, long, terrific legs. She took the hat, turned on her heel and walked to the back of the booth, jiggling just a little. I watched her walk. It was like watching a floor show.
She came back and gave me a check. “Where've you been?” she asked dryly. “I thought you'd be back hours ago.”
“Busy,” I said just as dryly. “Had to go break my dates.”
“You're Shell Scott, aren't you? The private eyelid?”
“Private investigator, madam. How'd you know? And what's your name?’
“Maxine. And I asked about you. I asked Mimi. She told me all about you.” The last a little slyly, I thought.
“Mimi?”
“Mimi.” She nodded at a point behind my left shoulder.
I looked around at a little, dark, cute lass hanging onto a tray of cigarettes. Mimi. She stared at me coldly. I smiled pleasantly at her. She stared at me coldly. I gave up.
I said to Maxine, “Oh.”
She smiled. Not vicious, just a nice smile. “Mimi said you eat raw beefsteak for breakfast.”
“She said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well,” I said, “not always. Sometimes I eat hormones.
She smiled and raised an eyebrow, “What I want to know, Mr. Scott, how does she know what you have for breakfast?”
I leered at her and walked to Kelly. He was still looking. “Come on,” I said. “Let's grab a table.”
The nightclub proper wasn't what it had been at six in the afternoon. Almost all of the white-covered tables grouped around the dance floor were filled with people laughing, drinking, talking. A pleasant hum of conversation, giggles, and the tinkle of ice in tall glasses replaced the quiet of the afternoon. An eight-piece orchestra was playing Body and Soul while dreamy-eyed couples swirled around on the tiny dance floor; also couples not so dreamy-eyed, but just plain pie-eyed. Half a dozen smooth, well-upholstered lasses in the spangled, not-transparent bras and the transparent Turkish trousers undulated among the tables like houris out of the Arabian Nights.
Marcel, the dapper, thin-mustached head waiter, approached us smiling and rubbing his hands together. A table? But, yes. An exquisite table. The floor show would soon be commencing; our table would almost be part of the floor show. Certainement, monsieurs, but exquisite. He finally got us seated at a table near the dance floor. I wouldn't have called it exquisite myself, but it wasn't behind a post.
We got settled and I said, “How about a drink before dinner, Kelly?”
“All right. Wow, I forgot. I better call my wife.”
“Okay. I'll order while you phone. What you drinking?”
“Martini, I guess. Be right back.”
He got back just as the drinks arrived and we sipped at them while we studied the menus. I ordered the prime-rib dinner and Kelly settled for a top sirloin.
Three more Martinis later the food started arriving and Kelly said, “My wife would sure like this.”
“Should have asked her down,” I said.
“Couldn't. She has to stay with the kid. Year old.” His face brightened, “Look,” he said, digging in his hip pocket.
I knew what was coming and I steeled myself for the ordeal. It was quickly over. I looked at the pictures of young Kelly, mumbled words to the effect that undoubtedly no finer example had ever been produced and the pictures were back in his wallet, his wallet in his pocket.
He nodded at me seriously, “Yes siree, sir. Smart. Smart kid, that.”
I was saved by the prime-ribs.
You know prime-ribs? To me they're the quickest and most luscious short cut to gastronomical pleasure. You should have seen these. I almost hated to see them go. Conversation died while we attacked the prime-ribs and steak and spurted up again when we leaned back with almost simultaneous sighs of pleasure.
“I'm stuffed,” Kelly said. “Wonderful food.”
I ordered more drinks. We drank. I ordered more.
We drank more. Things were very pleasant and rosy. I felt wonderfully relaxed and comfortable.
Kelly expertly polished off the last of his Martini and took out the olive on its little yellow stick. He examined it intently through slightly droopy eyes, top, bottom, sides. Before he got through, he knew much about that olive. Then he popped it into his mouth and leaned over the table.
“Scott,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I got a plan.” He sounded like a conspirator.
“Okay. What's the plan?”
“Big thing,” he said. “Really big. Scoop.”
“What's the plan?”
“I hire the organization to do a job for me. Murder somebody. Get a terrific scoop.”
I sat up straight and almost spilled my bourbon-and-water. “You nuts?”
“Not nuts.”
“You're drunk. Forget it.”
“Not drunk. One of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Say it again,” I said. “Say it slow and easy. Elucidate. Stop drinking. Give it to me again.”
“Okay. Elucidation. One. You talked to Captain Samson, you know the set-up, people get knocked off all the time, hit-and-run, no clues. Two. Somebody's doing the jobs for pay, for money, business. Three. I hire them, find out all about the organization, expose them, tremendous scoop, they give me the newspaper. Elucidation, simple
.”
I stared at him incredulously. “Kelly, you're off your trolley. Just one simple question. Supposing this wasn't just a screwy pipe dream, which it is, what do you pay the boys with? What do you use for money, marbles? No, that wouldn't work; you've lost all your marbles.”
“Got money. Anyway, pay them later. Don't really pay them at all. How do I know how much they charge? Maybe I get a bargain job. Nothing to worry about.” He lowered his head and looked at me from bloodshot eyes. “Say,” he said gruffly, “Whadda you mean, lost my marbles?”
“Of all the crackpot capers.” I glared at him. “This takes the cake. This ties it. Another thing,” I said with maybe a trace of exasperation, “just in case you didn't know, it's against the law to go around arranging to have people bumped off. It's illegal, see?”
“Relax,” he said. “Nobody really gets bumped off. I'm just pretending. Once I get it set, we call the cops in. All kinds of cops. Protection. Put everybody in jail.”
I stared at him blankly, as if he were in a museum. “This is great. You blithely say, look, organization, this poor sucker here has done me a grievance. Knock him off.” I shook my head. “Incidentally, who is this poor sucker?”
“You.”
Just like that. No hemming. No hawing. Just “You.”
He up-ended his already empty glass and burped gently.
I sighed. “Kelly,” I said, “you kill me.”
He thought that was funny. Finally he calmed down and looked at me through bleary eyes. His jaw hung a little slack and his lips were loose. He said, “I don't feel so good.”
“I don't wonder. You're plastered. I'm floating a little myself. Lay off and have some coffee.” I signalled the waiter and ordered two coffees, black.
“Kelly,” I said, “what you need is either a good night's sleep or a thorough psychoanalysis. I'll buy the sleep. Drink your coffee and run along home. Call me tomorrow.
“Sure thing,” he said. His eyelids drooped.
The lights got dim in the Seraglio and I wondered if my eyelids were drooping, too. Then a spot centered on the tiny dance floor. Show time. Marcel had said the floor show would soon be commencing. This must be what he'd meant by soon. A glib MC shot a few breezy words of patter into the mike, then hauled the mike away to make room for an Apache team. Apaches in a harem. They were good, even if they were in the wrong place.
The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 4
