“Dance, Mr. Puma?”
She stood there looking very blonde, very soft — very everything.
I put down my drink. “I grew up in dance halls,” I said.
She put a rhumba on the record player and then she was in my arms. Her body was firm but yielding; her breasts were taut against my chest.
She danced well, with grave and instant response but still with enough individuality to make her presence felt. Her mouth was close to my ear and I thought she nibbled.
It’s the booze, Puma, I told myself. You’re imagining this; it’s wishful thinking.
And then her sharp eye tooth sent pain dancing through my ear lobe and I knew it wasn’t the whiskey, it was the wench. I stopped dancing and found her mouth.
Her body melted into mine and she whimpered and trembled.
SWEET
WILD
WENCH
By WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
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8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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18
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20
The Convertible Hearse
Also Available
Copyright
1
THAT WAS SOME AUTUMN. Deke had graduated from college and was hanging around with the wrong people. And business was lousy. So when Griffin offered me a temporary job, I took it.
Deke’s my brother and Griffin was the D.A. at the time. I knew Griffin’s sister very well. Thirty-seven years old, she was, and it bothered her. Adele is her name. A looker, a real looker.
Deke was twenty-seven; he’d gone to college late. He’d had three years in the army and a little over a year at Las Vegas before enrolling. And he’d learned to gamble. He’d paid his way through school over a poker table.
He’s all right. Don’t get me wrong. His friends you can have, but Deke’s okay. Mom always used to call me her “steady son” and in front of Deke, too. Mom didn’t know about child psychology.
I tried to straighten him out about his new friends without playing the heavy brother, but as usual Deke had an answer.
“It’s not morality you’re preaching,” he said, “not you, I hope, a dame chaser like you.”
“So I like women,” I said.
“And horizontal only,” he added.
Which was unfair and untrue. I like women — all ages, sizes and colors. I like the way they walk and dress and gossip. I like the way they face reality much better than men.
Naturally I like them best when they’re at their best, and that’s quite often horizontal.
As I implied earlier, it was a woman who suggested me to the D.A. I’d known Adele for six years and we understood each other. No strings, live for now, these few moments, some of them ecstatic.
She knew I’d had a rough couple of months and mentioned my name to her brother on a touchy investigation he was just starting. And he looked up my old record with the Department and called me in for an interview.
He’s a solid piece of man, this Griffin, about five-ten and broad as a chopping block. He has the most direct, cynical eyes I’ve ever seen and he kept them on me all through the interview.
Everything went pretty well until the last few minutes. Then he asked, “Is Deke Puma your brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
He frowned. “He associates with some — questionable people.”
“I know it,” I said. “That could help if we need a pigeon. Not that Deke is, but some of his friends might be.”
He continued to frown. “You see a lot of him?”
“I do. But not his friends.”
A silence of a few seconds. And then, “All right. You’ll start working out of this office Monday. I haven’t got the assignment ready quite yet, but it will be ready Monday.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
And was halfway to the door when he added, “Oh, by the way, this — thing between you and Adele — ”
I turned and looked at him. I said nothing, waiting.
He seemed to be blushing. “I just wondered — She’s uh — quite a bit older than you are.”
I smiled, enjoying his blush. Then I said, “It’s nothing serious, Mr. Griffin. It never was. Adele wouldn’t be likely to settle for a man of my limited income. She makes four times that much on her A.T. and T. stock alone.”
He smiled then. “All right, Joe. See you Monday morning.”
I had always thought of him as an invulnerable man, but Adele could be his Achilles’ heel. I’m ashamed to admit I made a mental note to be nice to Adele. It had been a hungry summer, as I’ve said.
This was Saturday afternoon, and I went over to Lippy’s.
Lippy had been a cop at one time and a pretty good one, but he was addicted to talking when he should be listening. That hadn’t won him any friends in the Department. And if you haven’t any important friends in the Department, it’s better to get into another line of work.
He was behind the bar this afternoon, two hundred and ten pounds of muscle and mouth.
I ordered a rye and he put a bottle of it on the bar. He slid over a shot glass and said, “You’re looking smug.”
I shrugged.
He chuckled. “One of Griffin’s Golden Boys now? He okay you?”
“You’ve got big ears,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’ve got eyes. You’re in here how many times with the man’s sister? And I know your business has been lousy. Right now you look like you own the town.”
“All right, Lippy,” I said.
“Don’t ‘all right’ me. You’re working; don’t you buy me a drink?”
“Have a drink,” I said.
He brought another glass and poured himself some rye. He lifted his and I lifted mine and we drank.
“Is your cook here? Could he fix me a steak sandwich?”
He was and he could and I took it over to a booth to eat it with a bottle of beer. I had finished the steak and was nursing the beer when Deke came in.
He saw me and came over to slump in the seat on the other side of the booth. He looked worn out and his eyes were glazed with fatigue.
“Coffee?” I suggested.
“I’m full of coffee. All night and all morning, coffee and cigarettes.”
“Poker?”
He nodded.
“How’d you make out?”
“I lost my ass. Could you let me have a couple hundred for a few days?”
“If Lippy will cash a check for me. Deke, aren’t you ever going to work?”
“Lay off,” he said. “I never worked harder in my life than I did the last seventeen hours.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Lippy cashed the check and I gave Deke the money. He put it carelessly into his jacket pocket and studied me, smiling. Then he put a fist gently alongside my jaw. “You know, maybe you are the ‘good’ brother. Maybe Mom was right about that.”
“Get some sleep, Deke,” I said quietly.
I had my weekend at Palm Springs, where Adele has a small house with a kidney-shaped pool. Between swimming and soaking in the sun and listening to records and this and that, she told me about her brother.
The Griffins are an old Los Angeles family and her brother never forgot it for a moment. He loved the town. He resented any outside criticism of it and was determined to keep it as clean as any town its size can be. He needed the salary not at all.
“Sounds like a Boy Scout,” I told Adele. “I probably won’t make much money on the expense account.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “He’s a realist. He went over your record very carefully, Joe, and he knows good investigators cost money.” She paused. “He knows more about you than the record shows, too.”
“You’re telling me?” I agreed. “He knows about us, too.”
She smiled. “Only we know all about us. Right?”
She was right about that.
Monday morning just after nine I was in Griffin’s office. He told me about the job.
It was a cult. This town is full of off-beat religious cults and there isn’t a hell of a lot the law can do about it. Some of them are operated by con-men and some by crackpots and some — maybe — by devout believers.
There was a folder on Griffin’s desk and it held some information he’d tapped another private operative for.
“This has to be handled tactfully,” he warned me. “Some rather influential citizens are involved and we don’t want any kickbacks. Those religious con-men can always scream ‘persecution,’ you know.”
I nodded and asked, “How was this private man involved?”
“He had a client whose daughter was contributing very generously to the cult. I know the girl casually.” He shook his head. “A weird one. You can get more on her from this operative.” He handed me the folder. “Good luck. The man’s address is in there.”
The address was an office building on Selma in Hollywood, a three-story stucco building of winding hallways and fly-by-night tenants. The office of Burns Murphy — Investigations was on the second floor.
Enter, the chipped lettering on the door commanded me. So I entered.
There was no outer office; just a small, neat and plainly furnished room in which Burns Murphy sat behind a steel desk. He was typing a letter.
He looked up and smiled as I came in. He’s a lanky gent, fairly handsome, and as honest as his trade permits.
“Greetings,” he said. “What brings you into this cheap neighborhood, Joe?”
“Children of Proton,” I answered. That was the name of the cult.
“Ah, yes,” he said and chuckled. “The great god Proton, idol of the positive thinkers.” He stood up and stretched and came around the desk. He leaned against it and indicated a chair for me.
I sat down and he said lightly, “I heard you were working with the D.A. You always land on your feet, don’t you?”
“I make out,” I answered stiffly.
He grinned. “Don’t ruffle your tail feathers, Joe. I knew you when you were starving.” He paused. “Last week.”
“Let’s get down to business,” I said.
He sat down in a nearby chair. “Sure.” He looked at me directly. “What do you want to know?”
“Is your client still interested in the outfit?”
“My client never was. His daughter seems cured, though maybe she’ll have a relapse. You know, post-hypnotic?”
“Uh-huh. What are they selling?”
“Nothing. No courses, no charms, no idols, nothing.”
“Then what in hell is the pitch?”
He looked at me seriously. “Maybe it isn’t a pitch. Maybe it’s time somebody came up with a new religion.”
“Well, what was your client worried about?”
He shrugged. “Wealthy man. Very conservative man. Believes in the status quo and that old-time religion.”
I said nothing for a few seconds and the room was quiet.
Burns Murphy said, “You Catholic, Joe?”
“I used to be. I’m not anything else.”
“Used to be,” he said. “This town is loaded with used-to-be’s. Ex-Catholics and Lutherans and Orthodox Greeks. All looking for something they lost. What they lost was their youth and their faith. And now the grave is yawning at them and they want both back. But all they can buy is faith.”
“Was your client’s daughter old?”
“No. But she’s scared. She hasn’t any roots and no rock.”
“The town’s full of churches and synagogues,” I pointed out.
“The town’s full of churches, but you left yours,” he said.
“The grave doesn’t frighten me,” I answered.
“Something must frighten you,” he said, “the way you keep trying to crawl back into the womb.”
“Let’s stick with the business at hand,” I suggested.
“All right. I’m a cynic. And I wouldn’t say the Children of Proton was a racket. Of course I wouldn’t say it wasn’t, either. Because I know the donations some of the faithful were making.” He took a breath. “And some of the sermons I listened to there are still with me.”
“You sound sold,” I said.
He shook his head. He reached over and took a package of cigarettes from the desk. “Not quite,” he said.
“What’s the gimmick?” I asked. “What new angle are they selling?”
“Well, basically it’s that God is energy. And we’re all manifestations of energy, of course. I mean, we’re bundles of atoms. You know what an atom is, Joe?”
I nodded and looked smug. “It’s composed of a nucleus around which the planetary electrons revolve. It’s a minor planetary system. The nucleus is positive, the electrons negative.”
He nodded. “So, Joe, you’re more or less immortal if you consider yourself as merely a bundle of atoms.”
“Who wants to be an immortal atom?”
He smiled sadly. “Well, the truly elect are Protons and I would guess about six hundred of our citizens hanker to be one of those. Including some big money names in this town. Don’t laugh, Joe. Not until you’ve met Jeremiah Adams.”
“He’s the head man?”
“He is the prophet of the new electrical God.”
“Electrical? I thought it was atomic?”
Burns said, “They’re all related, according to Jeremiah. Magnetism, electricity, gravity, molecular action. They are all manifestations.”
I shook my head and stood up. “Maybe this Jeremiah Adams can show me the light. I’ll try him. I may bother you again, Burns.”
His smile was cynical. “Any time. I can always use a friend who’s close to the D.A.”
I made no comment on that. I went to the door and something bugged me and I turned back.
“Burns,” I said, “if I’m a bundle of atoms, I’m not really immortal. Because the atom is breakable now, you know.”
“Ah, yes,” Murphy said. “And that big fat bomb carries the seeds of our Armageddon, according to Jeremiah. And that too is part of his — pitch.”
All nonsense, of course, but I went down the winding halls past the cheap offices feeling very small, and I’m not.
2
THE BUILDING was a long, low and broad place of Lannon stone in Brentwood on San Vicente. In a stucco world, Lannon stone looks more sumptuous than it normally does. The built-in sprinklers were throwing a sun-dappled mist over the rich green lawn that sloped up from the walk.
I knew the building, and I searched my memory. It hadn’t always been a cult. Then I remembered it had been a mortuary, the over-ambitious venture of an innocent who hadn’t realized how competitive that business was in this town.
In the short wall of the L there was a door. The upper half of the door was glass and I could look directly into the paneled study that the door served.
There was a man sitting behind the desk in there and he was facing my way. He saw me, smiled, and beckoned for me to enter.
He rose as I pushed the door open and he was standing in front of his desk by the time I’d closed the door behind me.
At first, all I could see was the color of his eyes. They were blue, but a blue I had never seen before. They had the intensity of a high voltage arc. I was lost in his eyes when his soft voice came through.
“How can I serve you, sir? I am Jeremiah Adams.”
“My name is Puma,” I told him. “Joe Puma. And I’m
not sure just how you can serve me.”
He indicated a barrel-backed chair near his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Puma.”
I sat down and he went over to sit behind his desk again. There was a silence of about ten seconds.
Then he said quietly, “Something must have brought you to my door, Mr. Puma.”
I lit a cigarette and tried to look even dumber than usual. “All of us are looking for something, I guess,” I began lamely. “It could be you’ve got what I’m looking for. Oh — I don’t know what I mean.”
“Most of us are looking for immortality,” he murmured.
My attention went beyond the blue eyes then and I saw him as a whole man. He had a thin, aristocratic look about him, a Mayflower-descendant look. His suit was heavy Italian silk in an Oxford shade. His hands, on top of the desk, were long-fingered, beautifully manicured and strong. A real solid-looking man.
I fidgeted like a man in doubt and said, “I don’t know if it’s immortality, though that would be nice.” I sighed. “There’s so damned — little to believe in these days.”
He reminded me, “Whatever you’re looking for, it has brought you here. You’re a realist, Mr. Puma? You can believe in what makes sense?”
“Sure,” I said.
He studied me and the eyes engulfed me again. “We make sense here.”
It must have been his eyes. He went on from there, talking softly and fluently and I can’t remember much of it. But it made sense at the time. It didn’t seem logical he could have hypnotized me without my cooperation, but it could have been.
I went out with a handful of literature and promised him I would attend one of the meetings.
A new God for the Atomic Age. And a racket? At the time I wasn’t sure. This was no minor-league spellbinder.
I went to Lippy’s for lunch and from there to the home of Burns Murphy’s client.
It was one of those big places on Sunset not visible to the vulgar eyes of the commoners on the boulevard. It was an old place, built when MGM Spanish was the architectural motif. The entrance hall could have been lifted from an ancient movie; tapestries and crossed lances and a thread-thin oriental rug on the tile floor.
The Negro maid came back to tell me. Mr. Deering would see me. She told me to follow her.
Sweet Wild Wench Page 1
