Kill Me Tomorrow

by Richard S. Prather

  Unfortunately the sound reproduction was of very poor quality, probably in part because of the equipment Jenkins had used but also because of a humming noise, perhaps due to air-conditioning equipment in operation nearby. I had to admit that Jenkins had done an admirable job in getting anything recorded at all, but while I was able to distinguish a difference in tone and phrasing when each man spoke, I was unable to identify any of them from the sound. Except, possibly, for one man.

  I knew Henry Yarrow’s voice almost had to be one of the seven, since the transmitter had been placed in his home, but the only voice I was able to pick out was quite distinctive, and I’d heard it very recently. It was a voice with muscles in it, flat and hard, a little louder on the tape than others. Maybe it wasn’t a hundred to one, but I called it eight to five that the guy was the slim-hipped and well-muscled cat I’d seen so recently on Willow Lane.

  Not knowing who the men were, though a few names—including mine—were mentioned, I mentally identified each new voice with a letter, from A through G in the order of their vocal appearance. I made a few more notes as the tape rolled through the machine for the second time, and the dialogue in those last six minutes went like this:

  A: OK, that’s enough of that. Let’s get a few things settled. First goddamn thing, what the hell are we going to do about Scott? Ace, you miss him. Fleepo’s at the wheel so you don’t even have to worry about drivin’, you’re in the back seat like it’s shootin’ ducks. You got him cold, so you miss him—

  B: I already told you. He was there, then goddamn he ain’t there. The sonofabitch ain’t human—

  A: Shut up. You miss him, then even The Nailer misses him. And what happens? He kills The Nailer.

  C: If I—if I could ask a question here … I can understand about Scott. And I certainly realize Reyes could have caused a great deal of trouble. But was it necessary to kill him? Scott wouldn’t be in this at all if—

  B: Christ, am I gonna get bugged by you, too? You mean we shouldn’t of hit him? When he’s blabbing all over about Civano?

  A: You know what that could of screwed up. First you, then me, then the whole goddamn works. If anything screws the setup now, when we’re so close—

  C: That won’t happen. Nothing is going to … screw the setup. I’ve guaranteed that—

  A: You goddamn well better keep it guaranteed—

  D: Gentlemen, that’s enough! It is true that Scott wouldn’t be involved if Reyes had not been hit. But Reyes had to be hit. He was not greatly exercised, but I feel certain he would have persisted and caused us serious difficulties eventually. Under the circumstances, I saw no reasonable alternative.

  A: You’re goddamn right, there wasn’t none. Next thing, that Mex bastard might have been kicking the Attorney General in the pants—and we got no line up that high in Justice.

  D: There has been enough argument, enough digression. The problem is serious, but not critical—and it will not become critical once Scott is eliminated. Therefore, the first question is how do we eliminate him? There is one way which keeps us out of it, and almost assures us that we can keep it in the family, so to speak—that the sheriff’s department will not conduct an intensive investigation, which is especially important after what has already happened tonight. That way is to give the contract to Jimmy Ryan.

  E: Lucky? Maybe nobody told you yet. He already gave it a shot and crapped it up. He’s just lucky Scott didn’t hit him in the head.

  D: I know about that. You overlook an important factor. We brought Ryan up here, but that was because of the trouble in Tucson—

  A: Yeah, I still want to know who the hell we look for in that mess. That’s just as important—

  D: One thing at a time, all right? All right?

  A: Yeah … sure. It’s just it’s natural … OK, OK, go ahead.

  D: We brought Ryan here, but not to kill Scott. Nobody knew that white-haired sonofabitch was going to show up at the Villas, he was supposed to be on a vacation. The important factor is that the fool play Ryan pulled was his own idea, it was not authorized. And because he is both stupid and impulsive, he made a mess of it. But, with proper planning, Jimmy Ryan is the perfect man for the contract.

  E: You mean on account of the beef in L.A.?

  D: Exactly. He tried to kill Scott in Los Angeles. That is well known. It would surprise no one if he did kill Scott. When Jimmy Ryan was brought here none of us could have anticipated the present situation. But he is here. He is available. We should make use of the opportunities presented to us.

  A: What difference does it make who kills him? Or how? Just so the sonofabitch gets off our backs—and goddamn quick. Especially now, with what we know he’s come up with somehow. Scott’s not the same thing as a Brizante—or even that Mex bastard. He already knows enough to screw us up plenty, maybe even all the way. Jesus, when I think of how close it was to blowin’ up if Henry hadn’t handled himself right, when Scott was asking him—

  D: If you will allow … allow me to complete the presentation, I will explain why it makes a difference. Of course we hit Scott as soon as possible. But we can’t just leave him on the street like a pile of garbage—not here at the Villas. Maybe it will come to that, maybe we’ll have to take that chance, the extra risk, but not yet. And if it can be worked with Jimmy Ryan as the hit-man there won’t be any loose ends.

  E: I don’t get it, either. If it’s smooth, nobody’s going to know who done it anyway—

  D: On the contrary, they will know. We plan it that way. There’s no advantage to having Ryan kill Scott unless it becomes known that it was Jimmy Ryan—right now awaiting trial on that ADW rap. And who is the chief witness? The man who will testify against Ryan? The man Ryan has the best possible reason to hit? Scott.

  A: Sure … yeah. Perfect. I’ll vote for it.

  E: Am I stupid or something? How’s anybody going to know who the crap kills Scott? What do you mean they’ll know it was Lucky? He’s just going to stand there and say I done it?

  D: It should be obvious. Ryan hits Scott. We kill Ryan.

  E: Well, crap. I guess I just hadn’t thought it far enough ahead. Who hits Lucky?

  D: Ace and Fleepo. They handled Reyes without any trouble, they work well together. And Ryan trusts them. It’s perfect all the way around. Are we in agreement?

  A: I already said it. I like it.

  E: Yeah, swell, now I understand how you meant it.

  D: Ace?

  B: Sure, why not? Only … Well, the bum owes me a couple hundred fish. If I kill him, there goes my two hundred.

  D: We can do without the jokes, Ace. Fleepo?

  F: Sure. You say so, OK for me.

  D: All right, Ryan gets the contract. Ace, it’s got to be arranged so you and Fleepo have enough time to get Scott’s gun and use it on Ryan. I don’t want any loose ends. Of course, this is predicated on the assumption the present situation does not deteriorate. It may develop that we’ll have to get rid of Scott any way we can, but if it’s at all possible we’ll do it this way.

  E: Just in case it doesn’t come off—like, look what happened with Ace and The Nailer both spraying lead at him, who’d have figured it?—maybe I could handle it my way, like I already mentioned.

  D: That remains a possibility, but right now there is too much risk involved.

  E: Yeah, OK. It’s just, if it comes to it, I wouldn’t mind handling it. I wouldn’t mind a goddamn bit.

  D: There is another thing you—all of us—should keep in mind. Scott has a great many friends in Los Angeles, especially Uncle Angelo. Including that goddamned Samson. Imagine what would happen if Scott was killed in an accident, say in a cell, on his way to the can, almost any kind of accident with even a little smell to it. There’d be enough heat in Los Angeles to reach here and halfway to Chicago.

  A: What’s worse? A little heat, or the big heat? It don’t matter if L.A. gets steamed up so long as they can’t prove Scott was hit. He’s dead, he can’t cause trouble, that’s the main thing. I m
ean … just in case something gets screwed up, we got to hit that sonofabitch in the head any way gets the job done. But your way’s the best … I agree, like I said. Very definite, best way to keep trouble down.

  D: That’s why I was sent out here.

  C: If I could ask another question. Will it be necessary to do anything about this man Brizante? I mean, you know who his daughter is. If he was hurt, or killed …

  D: I think we could both drink a gallon of wine with him right now and he wouldn’t do anything except open another gallon. He is an old fool, and very lucky to be alive, but he is no threat to us at the moment—thanks, in large measure, to your very clever and intelligent suggestion.

  C: Well, I must say … I appreciate …

  D: Consequently it is unlikely that we will need to consider any pressures against Brizante. And killing him, unless the situation changes very drastically, is out of the question. There has already been enough killing. Too much, under the circumstances. We must hit Scott, but if it is at all possible that’s got to be the end of it. You can kill a man like Scott and get away with it. But if you kill a movie star—or the father of a movie star—or a politician, you might as well kill a Fed. We all know you can hit a competitor, a businessman, even a—

  G: Hey, what the crud. Hey—lookit. Jesus Christ, lookit, it’s a bug, who’d of—it’s a bug—

  D: What the hell is the matter with you—

  G: It’s a bug! I dropped my smokes and just happened to look under the—oh, godalmighty, some bastard is on the earie while we’re talkin’—

  E: Shut up! Jesus, it is. Little bit of a short-range—can’t carry more than a block or … The bastard can’t be far from here right now—

  A: Sonofabitch—

  B: Fleepo, get the heap—

  And right there the voices, the sounds, everything suddenly ended.

  The last inch of tape, stretched and raggedly torn, passed between the record’s playback heads and the machine stopped automatically. For a moment I imagined Jenkins listening to those final shouted words. But then I put that chilling thought out of my mind and studied the notes I’d made on a sheet of Mountain Shadows stationery.

  Some of the names mentioned weren’t important. “Uncle Angelo” is merely a Mafia term for the law, law-enforcement officers, cops. And the Samson spoken of as a friend of mine is indeed a very good friend, the captain of Central Homicide of the L.A.P.D. I had to assume, however, that the “Henry” mentioned was Henry Yarrow. Also from the dialogue it was apparent that the second man to speak—the guy with the hard, flat, loud voice—was Ace, and the man I’d listed as F was Fleepo. Identification of the other five men would have to wait a while longer.

  There were, of course, several other obvious conclusions to be drawn from the conversation, and some guesses that could be made with reasonable hope of accuracy. But of special fascination to me, naturally, were the plans discussed for my as-soon-as-possible demise. Including the fact that it would help a lot—help them a lot—if it was unnecessary to leave me on the street “like a pile of garbage.” Further, that all which had been under discussion was “predicated on the assumption the present situation does not deteriorate.”

  Well, the situation—even before the boys completed formulating their plans for me—had sure as hell deteriorated. Not only had the bug been spotted, but subsequent to that there’d been the action on Willow Lane when Bludgett and Frankenstein spotted me and—it could be deduced with reasonable certainty—recognized me. Either that, or they’d felt like shooting the head off a stranger. Whether Bludgett and Frankenstein had been present at the meeting or not, they were tied to it by the arrival on Willow of Ace and Fleepo who had been present.

  I wound up dwelling on the words of the guy I’d listed as “A.” He was the one who’d seemed most bloodthirsty—most thirsty for my blood, at least—the guy who’d claimed there’d be only a little heat from L.A. if I was killed, but should I unfortunately fail to be hit suddenly in the head there might be “the big heat.”

  Well, that’s what I was going to see that he—and all the rest of those bastards—got, if I could manage it: the big heat. And I didn’t much care how I managed it, either. They’d all sat there in Henry Yarrow’s house and with the casual air of businessmen discussing whether or not to buy extra shares of Standard Oil agreed it was a splendid idea to murder Shell Scott. Neatly and cleanly if possible, but if the situation “deteriorated,” then what the hell, kill the sonofabitch untidily.

  OK, they’d asked for it. Call me pal, pal I’ll be. Call me jolly, I’ll be jolly. But most of those seven cats had called me “sonofabitch.” So they’d named it.

  I am not a lad who believes in turning the other cheek.

  The sun had been up for an hour, but it was not one of Arizona’s most bright and beautiful mornings. The sky was overcast, dull, and it looked as if it might rain. The brooding dawn had not, however, depressed me. I’d been busy.

  The cassette on which I’d duplicated the “Jenkins tape” was in place in the small battery-operated AIWA machine I’d used for recording it, ready to be played. In my coat pocket was the original tape and a typed transcript of its last six minutes, made for me by a male stenographer to whom I explained the risk he was taking in even listening to the recording, but who felt the bundle I paid him not only justified the risk but compensated him for being awakened at the crack of dawn. On the transcript itself I had identified the speakers with my letters from A to G. And I had used the stenographer’s typewriter to peck out a note—not on Mountain Shadows stationery—to Tony Brizante.

  I didn’t put Tony’s name on it, nor did I sign it. But at the end I typed a P.S.: “Lucrezia, don’t shake hands with any strangers.” She would know who’d sent the note. I hoped.

  I had phoned Walt Maypole, got what info he could give me about the Sunrise Villas Security Guards, especially Sergeant Striker, of whom he spoke highly. Walt also was able to give me the name of a professor—Elliott Irwin—retired after fourteen years at the California Institute of Technology, who might help me with some ideas I’d had about the Jenkins tape. I had talked for ten minutes on the phone with Sergeant Striker, learning several items of interest and also being assured of his cooperation later in the day, when events surely would begin to quicken. And, finally, I had phoned Professor Elliott Irwin—whom, like everybody else except Walt Maypole, I woke up—and explained my problem. He said he could probably help me; he didn’t say he would; he said I had phoned him at a ridiculous hour. I agreed. And he agreed to see me at eight A.M.

  With that accomplished, I made my last call. A young, brash, seventeen-year-old kid named Artie Katz had parked my car a few times and we’d chewed the fat a little. He lived near the hotel. He was a hustler. If I’d let him, he would have parked the Cad, washed it, changed the oil, and painted my initials on it—for a price. Four minutes after I hung up my phone I heard the slap-slap of somebody running fast and opened the door in time to save Artie the trouble of knocking. The bill I handed him made everything I said from then on OK with Artie Katz.

  “Go to Seidner’s Posie Post,” I told him, “florist on East Main in Scottsdale—”

  “I know where it is. They’re not open yet, Mr. Scott.”

  “Get them to open up early for you if they will; if not, you be the first customer when they do open. Buy two dozen long-stemmed roses and deliver them to this address.”

  I’d typed “Lucrezia Brizante” and the Mimosa Lane address on a plain envelope. “There’s a note inside here,” I said. “When you get the flowers, take the note out and put it in one of those little envelopes they keep handy in flower shops. Write the same name and address on the envelope and slip it inside the box with the roses. Deliver the box personally.”

  “Gotcha. Nothing to—Lucrezia Brizante? Her? Will I get to see her?”

  “Maybe, if you’re lucky. I want—”

  “Lucrezia Brizante—hey! This early maybe she’ll be wearing one of them negligeese.”
>
  He couldn’t even pronounce it yet, but he was sure anxious to see it. Well, that was normal; he was a growing lad. I hoped if Lucrezia was indeed wearing a negligoose, the sight didn’t arrest his growth.

  “Listen,” I said. “No foul-ups, Artie. Use your own heap to make delivery. If I recall, it is a heap.”

  “What do you mean? It’s a stripped-down fifty-nine Chewy coupe with a Merc V-8—”

  “Never mind, Artie. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble, but just in case, you know from nothing. A short bald-headed guy asked you to deliver the flowers.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Final thing. If possible, I’d like the flowers delivered by eight A.M., even eight-thirty. But no later than nine A.M.”

  “I wish I was deliverin’ them right now,” he said, and in his eyes I could see the geese flying north. I knew I could trust Artie not to dawdle along the way.

  “OK,” I said, “on your horse, pal.”

  He gave me a toothy grin, whirled and went off running. About ten years from now, I thought, that kid was going to be way ahead of a lot of guys who walked.

  The hell of it was, they’d hate him for it.

  At the tick of eight A.M. I rang the bell at Professor Elliott Irwin’s home. He opened the door immediately.

  “Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come in.”

  He was about sixty, small, lean, sharp-eyed. His hair was thinning, and gray, and he had a little pointed gray goatee. He looked—the word seems absurd for a grown man, but it fit—cute.

  “Come along, come along,” he said, leading me through the front room and into a hallway. I half expected him to hop like an elf or leprechaun. We wound up in a spacious, bright kitchen, square table with checkered yellow-and-white cloth on it, yellow curtains draped at the window.