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Dead-Bang

Page 11

by Richard S. Prather


  “Now I get it. I suppose it’s too late to sneak your heap out of … yeah. No way.” I shrugged. “Well, Doc, I own a convertible Cad, so I’ll see you in hell. Probably be glad to see a friendly face, too.”

  “Yes, though Heaven may be a nice place to visit, I really wouldn’t want to live there. But consider: Would it not be sad, very sad, if the translator who wrote of the rich man, made, among his hundreds of other errors, a mistake there, too? What if the word should be, not rich, but mean, dumb, cruel—ding-dong—even poor?” He smiled sardonically. “I’m only guessing, I have no evidence. I do not contend that wealth, of itself, is virtuous.”

  I got up, walked to the phone, lifted the receiver.

  As I started to dial, Bruno said, “I know this will be difficult for you. But if it is at all possible, I think it would be wise if you continued to avoid mention of my name. For as long, at least, as you can.”

  I thought about it, mentally agreed, and nodded. Then I dialed, got the LAPD and, in another half-minute, Captain Samson.

  “Hi, Sam. This is Shell. I—”

  “Where in hell have you been?”

  “Well, first in Church, but I suppose you’ve heard—”

  “Are you coming in or do I have to put out a local on you?”

  “Coming right in, Sam, right in.” I decided instantly. I knew that biting-through-the-cigar note. “Can’t wait to tell you all the things—”

  “We’ll get to your howling and stomping around in Church in a minute—”

  “Ah, Sam, come on. Surely you of all people don’t believe everything—”

  “—but right now, what’s the story on those two stiffs at fifteen twenty-one Fifty-eighth Street? Two stiffs, isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yeah.” I squinted. Sam did not make dumb-sounding statements just for the fun of it. “Yeah, that’s what I said. That’s what’s there, all right. Right?”

  “You want to know how many we found? Try a guess.”

  “Not two?”

  “No.”

  “Well.… Three?”

  “Funny fellow. No, Shell, not three. None.”

  “What do you mean, none?”

  “What the hell do you think none means? It means NONE. No stiffs. Not three, two, or even one—less than one.”

  “You’re—” I cut it off. I’d started to say he was kidding. But I knew he wasn’t. And I didn’t want to upset him any more than was absolutely necessary. My pal, my good friend, was not averse to clapping me in a dungeon if it seemed to him a good idea. He had done it before.

  So I changed the question to: “You’re sure the officers went to the right address? It, ha-ha, can be identified by two stiffs and a lot of blood—”

  “Shell, don’t get gay with me. The report’s here on my desk.… At twelve minutes after eleven P.M. officers entered the house—exercising the great care which you so helpfully suggested. It was the right address, right house. In the back, door broken and two windows smashed. Front door unlocked. Room with smashed windows contained furniture, cut rope, strips of adhesive tape, broken glass, blood, a lot of blood, and no two stiffs.”

  “A lot of blood, huh? Well, that’s the place. But, Sam, the stiffs were there when I was. That’s where I left them.”

  “Did you also stiffen them?”

  “No—well, one of them, yes. When the lab finishes checking they’ll find a slug from his gun in the wall near the door where I came in, which slug he fired at me before.… Um, no gun, either, I’ll bet.”

  “You win.”

  I didn’t like the way he said it. It sounded like, “You lose.”

  “O.K., Sam. See you as soon as I can—on my way—take a little while to get there, since I’m someplace else, but I think it—you’ll get a clearer picture if we jaw person-to-person, just a couple of old buddies chewing the fat—”

  “Get down here.”

  “Sure. Right.” I paused. “Sam, you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

  I hung up and dug a finger into my ear. When the pain lessened, I took my finger out of my ear and looked at Doctor Bruno, at Dru, and told them:

  “I … think I’m in a little trouble.”

  12

  I explained to Dru and the Doc what Samson had told me, and for a couple of minutes we discussed what the info might mean. Then I said, “We need more facts before we can even make intelligent guesses. Our best bet is to get a lead to those guys who grabbed you and Cassiday. Ill give odds they also tossed those pills at Lemming. But I haven’t the faintest idea why they’d have done it.”

  “Nor do I,” Bruno said. He chewed his upper lip for a moment. “However, the unexplained disappearance of the bodies is fortunate in one way. The longer news of André’s death is unknown to the public, the better it probably is for us.”

  I nodded. “You don’t suppose, do you, that Festus hates you—us—enough that he might have arranged for one of his worshippers to let fly a couple of near misses at him?”

  “Anything is possible. But the element of coincidence disturbs. The good Pastor could not also have been responsible for removal of the two bodies, for he did not know about them.…” Bruno paused. “Or did he?”

  “Well, he seems to know everything else,” I said. “Anything is possible. It is even possible I will get busted for loitering unless I arrive very soon at the LAPD.”

  I had already told Bruno I would drive him home, and now he said, “Can you wait another two or three minutes while I phone Dave? He should be informed about the disappearance of those bodies, and he may not even know of Lemming’s most recent convulsion.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll sit on the couch and molest your daughter.”

  He smiled a sort of Papa Lisa smile and walked to the phone.

  I sat down by Dru. “Are you ready to be molested?” I asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind. If I have to explain it to you first, it’s going to take a lot of fun out of it.”

  “You’ve really never tried Erovite, Shell?”

  Earlier, at my apartment, I’d confessed I had never consumed even a drop of the stuff. So I merely said, “You’re changing the subject.”

  She laughed. “Not really. Be serious.”

  “You think I’m not? O.K., no, I have not tried Erovite. I figured maybe when I got to be about a hundred years old, if I was feeling poorly I’d give it a go. But why throw matches on the fire in July, why give a drunk double Martinis? Why carry coals—”

  “You have a repulsively poor opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

  “Would you rather I was conceited? The truth is, after what I heard I was afraid—”

  “Shell, basically, Erovite merely normalizes the body’s functions, purifies, and in a sense ‘recharges’ the blood, feeds the cells, nerves, glands—”

  “That’s not so good. I think I’ve got an extra gland that should be starved—”

  “—aids in the elimination of wastes and toxins, and tends to balance the entire endocrine system, while at the same time providing that system with a natural and effective stimulus. Its primary effect is simply to normalize the health and function of the body’s cells, all the cells in time, cleansing them of what should not be in them, and providing them with substances and nutrients they need. It merely makes people normal.”

  “That does it. That would ruin me—”

  She balled up her right fist and gave me a sharp smack in the gut. “Will you listen to me?”

  I was listening. In fact, all five senses and possibly more were on the qui vive. Not from the small but definite pain in my gut, but because Dru’s sudden flurry of activity had caused a flurry and commotion at and around and below the V-neckline of her pale green dress, and wiggled its skirt even higher on those smoothly gleaming thighs.

  “O.K.,” I said. “Live dangerously if you must. I’ll take a crack at it. Bring me the jug and a cup. But I refuse any responsibility for—”

  “Not a jug. Or a cup. Certainly no
t for you, you shy brute. Taken as directed, Erovite gradually builds up and strengthens the entire system including, of course, the sexual system, increases the sexual energies and drives and desires—which, as you know, is what all this ridiculous fuss has been about. People gradually become sexually normal, a condition so seldom experienced these days that many, particularly those who are themselves quite unwell, consider such a state of health abnormal. It’s strange, but they consider optimum health to be sickness.”

  “That is strange. Of course, when you’re not well you feel sick, and then damn near everything looks—”

  “But if a person doesn’t use Erovite properly—if he takes too much—it really does have a fantastic aphrodisiac effect. It isn’t actually harmful or dangerous, like cantharides, say, but that isn’t the idea. The whole purpose is for the individual to become, in every possible way, normal.”

  “Hey, this could be important. Besides, I’m curious. How much is too much?”

  That was a critical moment. Critical because Dru was prevented from satisfying my curiosity right then. In consequence, I did not learn how much was too much. Whether it was therefore a beneficent moment or a bad moment—a boost to man on his upward path or a kick in his pants on the road, paved with good intentions, leading in another direction—only future students of history will be able to say, and even they may be doubtful.

  But I say without fear of present or future contradiction: It was a critical moment.

  Dru opened her mouth to reply just as Doctor Bruno walked up to us and said, “Did you hear any of the conversation, Sheldon?”

  “Only part of it, Doc. Dru and I were discussing—scientific things. I heard you passing on the info I got from Samson, so I assume that was news to Cassiday. He was up to date on Festus?”

  “Yes, Dave caught it on another channel. Not Mr. Kyle, but essentially the same information. Including an interview with Pastor Lemming.”

  “Another channel, huh? That’s nice. Maybe they’ll print Lemming’s retraction on handbills and pass them out in supermarkets.”

  “In drugstores, more likely. Dave is nonplused. About the disappearance of the bodies, I mean. He also assumes the same two men who held us there at the house must have returned to it shortly after we left.” Bruno paused. “But he wonders, as do I, why they would then have removed the bodies. He made a sensible point. Finding all of us gone, the men must have realized police officers would soon be present. Their logical action then would have been to leave immediately, it would seem.”

  “Yeah. If I can get my hands on them, that’s one of the other questions I’ll ask. Ask in a way I learned in the Marines. Incidentally, I also heard you saying something to Dave about—was it a march tomorrow?”

  “Yes, a march, a demonstration. But I know you’re in a hurry, Sheldon. I’ll explain on the way home.” He walked to the apartment door.

  As I stood up, Dru put her hand on my arm. “Why don’t you come back when you’re through with the police?”

  “O.K. If the police are through with me. The way Sam sounded, he may want to have me arraigned first. But with luck it shouldn’t take more than half an hour at the police building.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If you don’t come back, I’ll know you’re safe in jail.”

  “That’s the spirit. Always look on the bright side. Well, the sooner I leave the sooner I’ll be back.”

  “So why don’t you leave?”

  “Well, that’s … look, don’t think I care. I’ve been thrown out of better places—”

  “Will you get out of here?”

  That’s what I did. In the Cad, heading back down the freeway, Bruno said, “About the march tomorrow, Sheldon. As the controversy over Erovite increased during recent months, a number of groups—hundreds by now, I suppose—were formed, some supporting and some opposing the sale of Erovite. The largest and most powerful groups in opposition are the voice of Organized Medicine, the AMA, and in the religious area Lemming and the members of his Church. But there are scores of others. The groups in favor of free and unrestricted sale of Erovite are smaller, less powerful, and the news media have given much less attention to them than to the medical-religious opposition. The most vocal of those groups that support me and Dave Cassiday, and campaign for lifting of the FDA ban, is composed of former users of Erovite. Many were debilitated, some seriously ill, most improved after a period during which Erovite was available to them and, now that it is unavailable, find themselves gradually reverting to their former condition. Unfortunately, they are probably no more than twenty thousand in number, but organized in all fifty states under the name ‘Citizens FOR,’ as it is usually called, though the full title is, ‘Citizens FOR: Erovite and Physical-Mental-Sexual Health and Freedom.’”

  “Let’s hee, that would be CF, or CFOR. Or in full, CFEPMSHF, or even GFOREPMSHF. Couldn’t they have figured out a jazzier name? Man, you can’t even pronounce it.”

  “It was felt that not choosing an acronymic phrase would make the name stand out from the opposition groups, nearly all of which form readily identifiable words. There are, for example, not merely the AMA but Members of the AMA or MAMA, and PAPA—Parents Against Pornographic Aphrodisiacs—and Mothers Opposed to Men and Sex, or MOMS, even Nuns in Opposition to Nudity and Other Obscenities, or NONOO.”

  “If they’d just left out ‘Other,’ they’d have had a dandy, what?”

  “Yes, it seems a shame. Most of these groups were long ago organized in opposition to, or against, numerous other evils and have now loosely united in opposition to the sale of Erovite. Which is one of the reasons for the name ‘Citizens FOR.’ At any rate, since tomorrow marks the climax of Festus Lemming’s campaign against virtually everything, in most of the fifty states, members of Citizens FOR plan some kind of march, meeting, or demonstration—the entire purpose being to achieve, hopefully, maximum coverage by various news media, especially television, so that the FOR side may be given more attention and publicity than has been the case till now.”

  I shook my head. “It looks like a rough battle, if they’re lined up against not merely the Lemmings but MAMA and PAPA and MOMS and NONOO—I wish they’d left out that ‘Other’—”

  “Their only real hope is to do something sufficiently dramatic that the news media will almost have to give it national coverage. In some states, membership is so small that not more than a few dozen people will be available for demonstrations, so the intent is to concentrate on cities where there are the most Lemmings. There are more Lemmings in Southern California than anywhere else, but also more Citizens FOR, so it is incumbent upon the local group to, somehow, take at least part of the play away from the Church of the Second Coming, and its Pastor’s announcement of the time of Jesus’ arrival.” He paused. “Perhaps ‘play’ is not quite the right word.”

  “I gather the local group is going to march somewhere?”

  “Not just somewhere, Sheldon. Up Filbert Street to Heavenly Lane and to the headquarters church of the Church of the Second Coming. They are aiming at the bull’s-eye.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “I guess.” But I got a funny little feeling all along my spine, as if it had wrinkled a little. “Not, I hope, while Festus is sermonizing his worshippers.”

  “No. That was considered, but was rejected for fear the march would be described as an attempt to suppress Religious Freedom throughout the Universe. And the members of Citizens FOR have no desire to prevent even Lemmings from meeting and holding whatever services they desire. They simply want to be left alone, so long as they do not themselves inhibit the actions of, or injure, others.”

  “They’ve got a nerve.”

  “Unfortunately, final plans are not yet completed, even though less than a day remains before the march. Most of the pro-Erovite people are strongly individualistic, they have minds of their own, are not easily led. In consequence, it is difficult for them to reach agreement—whereas all Lemmings everywhere can be instantly united by a word from their Leader.
In a way, tomorrow’s march may exemplify the conflict between reason and faith, and I’m afraid faith is much better organized, much more united. In the main, those who are pro-Erovite reason, argue, debate, question, doubt, and usually wind up with a compromise that is neither the best nor the worst possible solution. Lemmings, however, do not doubt their Pastor or the dogma of his Church—in fact, cannot, for if they doubt or question, they are expelled from their Eden.”

  “Yeah. You mean the local Citizens FOR still don’t know what they’re going to do tomorrow?”

  “Not every detail. It is agreed they will march, and to the Church of the Second Coming in Weilton. But as of tonight—Dave passed this on to me when I phoned him—it has not been decided whether the entire group will participate or merely a selected few from the large number available. They are also still trying to decide upon messages to be displayed on the signs and placards they will carry.”

  We were near the turnoff to Monterey Park. I swung into the right lane of the freeway, slowed for the turn. “How about …‘Try Erovite—Before You Die!’?” I asked. “Or—hey, here’s a great one—‘Feeling Poopy? Getting Droo—’”

  “Tomorrow,” the Doc went on, pretending he hadn’t heard me, “the groupy … group will meet at Dave’s house and, it is hoped, reach agreement on final details. Dave has worked closely with them for the last few months, since he—as do I, of course—supports completely their goal of assuring unrestricted sale of Erovite once more. I’ll give you his address and phone number, in case you need to get in touch with him.”

  “Good idea. I’ll want to talk with him tomorrow. Wasn’t a lot of time earlier.”

  “It has been an unusual night,” Bruno said in quiet understatement.

  I filled a paper cup with coffee in the homicide squad room, on the third floor of L.A.’s police building, then went on into the captain’s office.

  Samson was grinding out a cigar in the heavy ashtray on his desk. He’s a big man, solid, like a guy chipped from a boulder, with a clean-shaven pink face, fringe of iron-gray hair on his scalp, and sharp, alert eyes. Brown eyes they are, but subject to a sort of limited chameleon change, capable of turning from a brown like chocolate fudge to a brown like cold dark marble, depending on his mood. At the moment they resembled a kind of marble fudge, which I supposed meant he could go either way.

 

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