“OK,” I said, “maybe you're the one. Won't take long to find out. If you're really the lady I'm looking for, then you've got a small birthmark right about there.” I pointed in the general area of her left breast, careful to keep my finger at least a foot away from her fuzzy pink sweater. “And you can tell me your mother's maiden name.” I smiled. “Then maybe you'll be rich."
There wasn't much change in her expression even then. But there was enough so I had not the slightest doubt that she knew for sure the jig was now up.
She ignored my comment about the maiden name. Instead, she raised her right arm, clutched her left breast in her hand. Actually, I figured she could have clutched it in two fingers. However, she cupped it in the whole thing, but gingerly, as if even she didn't like it much, and then her expression changed quite a bunch.
Lips twisting in what appeared to be definite distaste, she cried hoarsely, “So, you're one of those, are you?"
“One of what those?"
“One of those. Birthmark—yah. I know what you're after. Next, I suppose I'll have to take off my brassiere, right?"
“Wrong!"
“So you can check, and peek, and fool around—"
“Heavens, no."
“And then—I know your kind—you'll say I've got a mole on my sitter, and I have to take my pants off."
“Oh, Lordy. Wonderful. Could you lower that stentorian cackle just a little—?"
“Well, I won't do it, I won't. I won't take off my bra and pants for anybody."
“I'm certainly not suggesting you ever did. Not even once in the last forty—"
“I'll tell the others, too.” She was already on her way out, halfway to my front door. “I'll tell—"
“Wait a minute."
I scooted after her, but she had the door open and was thudding down the hall. By the time I reached the open doorway she was almost out of sight, clumping down the stairs, bits of foaming dialogue trailing after her. Some of which was, “Don't let him take your bra off. Or your pants. He tried to do it to me—"
I stuck my head out the door. “Tattletale!” I yelled after the old bat.
There were only two Michelles left in the hallway by then. One of them, a cute little redhead, put a hand over her mouth and laughed merrily.
I was thinking it would be great if the real Michelle had a reasonably healthy sense of humor, and I was going to invite the redhead in next. But then I noticed—and it is a measure of how unnerved the sour babe's screeches had made me that I had not noted the fact instantly—leaning against the wall, where he had apparently been lounging while engaging those last two ladies in conversation, was my next-door neighbor, Dr. Paul Anson.
Paul is a friend of mine. A good friend. Also a fine, very high-priced physician, and a very eligible bachelor. But not even once a year would he allow a chance to dig me, to stick me with a zinger, pass without critical or acerbic comment, some of which uncalled-for remarks were as sharp as the scalpels he used for cutting patients in two, or almost so. Tall, lanky, with a kind of “rangy” look, like a western hero sauntering in off the plains after ending the Indian wars single-handed, he was a good-looking guy. Too good-looking, it sometimes seemed to me. Particularly when he breathed hotly over a date of mine, as if attempting to dry her hair with his mouth while simultaneously assuring her that she was obviously too good for a lout like old Shell.
He straightened up, flashing a crooked grin at me.
“You're Scott, right?” he said happily. “Recognized you from your mug shot. I'm Sergeant Anson. It's warm in Los Angeles. I'm working out of vice—dum-de-dum-dum."
“Paul, dammit. I don't need this. Knock it off."
“I hope you'll come along quietly, Scott. Again. You have the right to several expensive attorneys, free of charge—free to you of charge—even if you are innocent, but especially if you are guilty as sin. You have the right to remain clammed—"
“Paul—” I stopped, took a deep breath, started over. “Can't you see I'm working?"
A glance at my pal's expression, indicating clearly that he was about to crack up, convinced me I had not chosen the most felicitous response. I flapped my hands up and down against my thighs, looked at the little redhead, and said, “Your turn. If anybody cares."
“I—” She looked from me to Paul, back at me again. “I don't know if I really should, really."
I jerked a thumb at Paul. “Don't worry,” I said. “The idiot sergeant there will protect you."
“Oh. Well, all rightie, then."
That's really what she said. And, her fears put to rest, she walked up to where I stood in the open doorway of my apartment and on inside. Followed closely, of course, by Dr. Paul Anson. Paul always walked right on inside, uninvited, if the door wasn't locked, and particularly if I was at the same time walking in with a creature of surpassing or even passing attractions.
Fortunately, the last two interrogations went rapidly. With the little redhead I started right out with, “OK, tell me your mother's maiden name."
And she said, “Oh, pooh. I never thought of that."
Just about the same with number ten, except that she slapped her forehead with the heel of one hand, saying, “Stupid ... stupid.” Then she, too, was gone.
I let out a sigh, collapsed against the cushions behind me. Paul ambled over, sat on the edge of the coffee table. About six inches from Kay Denver.
“How do you do?” he said, showing Kay all his teeth except the upper molars. “My friend, Shell, my dear bumbling old buddy, is a dazzling detective, is he not?"
Paul, presumably, was hoping the lady might say she hadn't been all that dazzled yet—which would surely have been true enough—but instead she said, “Actually, I'm beginning to think he may be quite good. I wasn't sure at first."
“You weren't? Well, trust those first impressions, my dear. Avoid jumping to hasty conclusions. Consider the man's limited and unimaginative technique. Or, instead, let me try it out on you. What is your maiden name?"
“Kay Denver,” she said, smiling, and making little wiggly heat waves in the ether with her lips.
She glanced at me as I noticed Paul raising his eyes to the ceiling and blinking rapidly. I'd have trouble getting rid of my pal now, I thought. Then he bent even closer to Kay, saying, “By the way, I am Paul Anson. I live right next door. It would please me very much if you would call me Paul. Or call me next door. In the meantime, my advice to you—"
I broke in, “Kay, this character who is apparently trying to drop his teeth into your lap is Dr. Paul Anson, a fact he refrained from mentioning. Refrained for fear that his license would be jerked. Jerked because of the operation he is now attempting without sufficient anesthesia."
“Tut, tut,” Paul said, attempting to look handsome, amused, blasé, and aloof all at the same time, and very nearly succeeding. “The blighter is trying to come between us already. Shouldn't we ask him to leave, love?"
Kay had an odd little smile on her face as she looked directly into his eyes and said softly, “Paul, darling, he'll stop that foolishness once he knows you slept with me last night.” Pause. “And ... that it was our wedding night.” Another brief pause. “But, dear, after your performance, I filed for divorce this morning. I'll mail you your shorts.” The smile widened, didn't reach her eyes. “You can't win ‘em all, Paul."
For a moment, Paul looked as if he might never win another one. It was the only time I ever saw him open his mouth to speak and leave it ajar, open it wider, and then shut it firmly. He first lost the amused expression, then the blasé, then the aloof, and finally even some of the handsome.
But after all that, he managed a fairly good crooked grin and said lightly, “Sorry, love, I was worrying all night about my indictment for polygamy.” Then he scowled. “Best I could do in a hurry. You win, Kay. You're really very good.” Then he got to his feet, looked down from his rangy height, and added slowly, “You know where the balls are, don't you?"
He waved a casual hand at me and wen
t out.
I was still trying to absorb all that myself. “Kay, dear,” I said finally, “I'll bet if you really tried, you could get almost mean."
“Mean's easy,” she said pleasantly. “I was nice to him because he's a friend of yours."
“That was nice, huh? I'd hate to see rotten."
“I can be nice, Shell. I mean, really nice."
I looked at her. “I believe it."
“Do you have gin and vermouth?"
The change of pace caught me off guard. “Gin?” I echoed. “Vermouth? Sure. Even onions and olives. And frozen peppers. I like to be prepared for any emergency."
“So why don't you mix us ... let's see. Earlier we had two at Pete's, right?"
“Right."
“And—how does it go? Three under the table?"
“And four...” I let it pass.
The familiar, and somewhat crude, old toast goes, “One martini, mmm ... two at the most ... three under the table ... four under the host.” But I assumed Kay meant something else by her comment, or perhaps didn't know the entire toast after all.
But she said, “So make two more for you, Shell.” Then a big sigh, tongue moistening those restless lips. “And ... two for me."
She knew the old toast, all right. Including two verses I'd never heard of.
* * * *
I was already about half awake, in that nebulous nowhere between dreams and the day, when I felt, more than heard, Kay slip out of bed.
Then I did hear some definite noises, clinks and little clatters from the kitchenette. I hoped she wasn't suddenly getting domestic and cooking breakfast. Kay sure hadn't been domestic last night—unless domesticity is wildness and abandon, beauty and softness, and an uninhibited sexual athleticism unique in my personal experience, and possibly in the memory of the planet.
I heard water running briefly, something faintly bubbling, scraping of metal against metal. Yeah, she was cooking some kind of alleged edible. Which was a mistake. No matter what she was cooking, if it wasn't my usual lumpy mush or burned toast, it was wasted effort as far as I was concerned. Probably I should have told her I never eat a hearty breakfast before lunch. But we hadn't gotten around to the subject of nutrition.
Five minutes later, fresh from a hot and cold shower, I dressed in white slacks, white loafers, and a wonderfully colorful sport shirt. The shirt was one of my all-time favorites. Its basic cloth color was a kind of lavender-orange but not much of it was visible because that was the background for about a hundred little peacocks. Little male peacocks with their little tails spread open. I really like peacocks. I think maybe they're my favorite bird. Next to fried chicken—but fried chicken would look really dumb on a shirt.
I admired my reflection in the full-length mirror. When I wiggled back and forth rapidly, it looked like the peacocks were flying. After a little of that, I inhaled some huge breaths and sent them whooshing out like Pete's door closing.
“Was that you, Shell? Did you say something?"
It was some broad out there in the kitchenette, clattering around. Kay. Yeah, had to be Kay. I ignored her. First, before I even attempted intelligible conversation, I had to finish waking up. I sprang about for a few seconds, then decided nothing was going to help much except the passage of considerable time.
So I closed my eyes, finally cranked them open again, walked out of the bedroom, and peered into the kitchenette.
I had been correct. It was Kay in there, clattering. “Hi,” I said. “You're Miss Denver, I'll bet."
She turned, smiling. She was wearing the same outfit she'd worn into Pete's last night, but minus the black jacket with up-slanting collar points. Just dark skirt, and white blouse with the deep V exposing smooth curves of soft breasts.
“You win the exploding cigar,” she said brightly. “Did you have a nice sleep, Shell?"
She was just full of loathsome zip and zing and energy and smiles and vitality. It ticked me off.
I know it's foolish, and not in the least admirable, possibly inexcusable. But, perhaps because it is a minimum of half an hour after I get out of bed before my blood begins to move, much less warm up, I feel it is unconscionable of other people to arise and act healthy, act as if they're having fun. At least, so ridiculously early in the morning. It shows crude insensitivity, and a lack of consideration for the rest of us. It is cruel. It is heartless. It is really dirty. The more I thought about it, the more ticked off I got.
“Oh, yeah?” I said.
“What? Shell ... didn't you hear what I asked you?"
“Umm. Yeah. But ... I think I forgot the question."
“I asked you if you had a nice sleep. It was just—conversation."
“Well, I had a nice something. Don't remember if I got any sleep. Until now. Well, good morning. OK?"
She pulled her head back, looked down her nose at me. “You're not Dr. Jekyll in the morning, are you?"
“Dr. who?"
“Jekyll. I think I'm seeing your Hyde side."
“No, I told you, I'm Dr. Who. What's going on here? A medical conversation? Before I've had my coffee? That's proof of the insensitivity—"
“Coffee's ready,” she said a bit icily. “Should I pour it into your mouth?"
“Don't get picky,” I said. “But, as an emergency measure, it's worth considering.” I shook my head rapidly back and forth, rubbed both hands over my chops. “Look, Kay, I apologize. I should have warned you not to speak to me until after my eyes open ... to just lead me around by the hand and point at things."
She took my hand, hauled me over to the small breakfast nook, and pushed me into the curving seat. Then she placed coffee before me. And pointed at it. I had a sip. Then another.
“Breakfast is going to get cold,” she said.
“That's all right. Doesn't make any diff—"
“And I went to so much trouble. There wasn't much to work with, but I fixed—"
“Don't tell me. Dear, really, I'd rather you didn't—"
“— what I could find, some steak, and some eggs—"
“Oh, God."
“— and some green peppers."
“Those were for my special margaritas."
I did manage to finish my coffee, and even got down most of another invigorating cup, before she slid a plate of stuff in front of me. I knew I couldn't look at it just yet. I also knew I should have told her long before now that the normal “hearty breakfast” impresses me like a plateful of germs. Toast and coffee, maybe a little mush, in the a.m., that's my dish.
I really felt bad. Here Kay had gone to all this trouble fixing a nice breakfast for me, and I wouldn't even look at it. So I forced myself to take a peek. The steak didn't look half bad. But—there they were. Those other things. The bane of my gustatorial life. Two eggs. Both fried. Both ugly.
The thing that's important about eggs, at least in the early morning, is that only a little while before then you've been asleep, and maybe dreaming. And in some of those dreams there are these great gooey creatures that slither around and gobble you up. Usually they have—at least mine do—these huge bulging yellow eyes, or maybe red or purple or bloodshot but usually yellow, and they look you over with this piercing yellowish gaze before—ack, it was turning my stomach.
I looked up at Kay, who of course was beaming expectantly upon me. “I knew it,” I said.
“What, dear?"
“Don't dear me,” I said. “But ... boy, I've got to hand it to you, girl. You really went to a lot of trouble."
“I hope the eggs aren't cold."
“Yeah. That'd be a crock, wouldn't it? I probably couldn't eat ‘em if they were cold."
Well, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I'm not mean. So I picked up a fork. Looked down at the plate. Maybe mean was better.
“Look at those eyes!” I said. I didn't mention it to Kay, but I knew the rest of him had to be down there under the plate. “Golly, it looks like a huge Elmer."
“What's a hugelmer?"
“Just Elmer
. I buried him in a little hole. But I tell everybody the other fish ate him."
“I'm going to freshen up,” she said.
She hadn't even sat down in my little kitchenette breakfast booth yet. “Aren't you going to eat?” I asked her. “Or did you already?"
“Oh, I'm never hungry in the morning. But I know how much a big man can eat."
“Sure, you do."
She walked away, toward the bedroom. When she went out of sight, I was still nodding slowly, and saying, “Uh-huh."
I got the remains down my garbage disposal before Kay came back, makeup expertly applied, carrying her black jacket and large black handbag. She put the bag on the floor, near the end of the coffee table, then sat on a hassock and looked at me.
I was seated on the divan, just getting ready to call the Hamilton Building and check with Hazel. It was only a few minutes after eight, but I knew she'd be there working. Or moving a bunch of roses around—I'd almost forgotten about those posies—before firing up her IBM PC.
I was reaching for the phone when it rang.
Ah, Hazel had found the flowers. She was hugging them to her bosom, sniffing in their sweet fragrance. She was calling to thank me profusely and tell me she wasn't mad at me. Mad? Ha-ha, silly boy —
Smiling, I plucked up the phone and said, “Hello, hello. Is this the rarest flowerpot of them all—ah, flower. Really meant flower, dear. Sorry. Not quite awake yet. Well, is ... Is this—"
“What in the world ...? Have I got the wrong number?"
“Yes."
“This is—are you Mr. Shell Scott?"
It was a lovely voice. Not Hazel, of course. Someone who spoke in soft sweet tones that had a strange kind of music in them. It was vibrant, pleasant, a little husky. Still, I was sorely tempted to reply No, Mr. Scott had just stepped out and would not return until he finished having his head fixed.
But, instead, I said, “Sorry. I thought you were someone else—my ... gardener. No, that's not true. Why should I lie? But, yes, I'm Scott. Who's this?"
“I'm ... not sure..."
“You don't know?"
“I don't know if I should tell you. Are you really Mr. Shell Scott."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 8
