Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  She’d told me one thing without putting it into words. Mr. Truepenny had known, for sure, who I was the moment I walked into Rand Brothers. Not only had there been that slip when he’d called me Mr. Scott instead of Mr. Sheldon, but there had also been the sudden and unpleasant appearance of Jake and Pot. And now June had informed me she’d learned who I was from Mr. Truepenny. So one of my deductions, at least, had been correct. It gave me hope. But not much.

  There had been numerous other items of interest in June’s brief moment or two on the phone, urgent, vital. It is probably not to my credit that, above all the rest, was the intelligence that she powdered after every shower.

  Chapter Ten

  For ten minutes I had been parked on Normandie, in semidarkness between two street lamps. There had been no sign of June Corey. I was a little itchy, considering the day’s earlier events, and my .38 was on the seat next to me. It seemed unlikely that anybody would choose such a peculiarly complicated method as this if they wanted to knock me off, but my hand was around the gun’s butt, just in case.

  Then, at fifteen minutes after nine, I heard the rapid click of high heels on the sidewalk. I turned and watched her move through the illumination of the street lamps, into deeper shadow, her head a pale glow as if her hair tangled and held the light. It was June, alone.

  I stuck the gun back into its holster, leaned across the seat and opened the door. June slid in, pulled the door shut.

  Hello, she said brightly. I’m a little late.

  Hi. No strain — you’re here.

  I got all dressed, then decided to change, she explained. Into something I thought you’d like more.

  She’d done it. June looked tremendous. No matter what her first choice of dress had been, she had guessed correctly that I would like this one more, since it was undoubtedly less. It was pale blue, with thin shoulder straps, and looked like one of those backless cocktail dresses worn backward.

  Like it? she asked me.

  Yes, it’s — lots. I mean, I like it lots. Sure a — sure a pretty color.

  She smiled. Thank you, Mr. Scott.

  Make it Shell, huh?

  Fine. She smiled again. Let’s not be formal.

  Let’s not. How, I thought, could we? If she got any more informal she’d be arrested. That was certainly an arresting dress. It was at least a misdemeanor. A narrow-minded cop might pinch her for carrying unconcealed weapons — without even holsters — or maybe for felonious assault. Or — I tried to force my mind blank. I couldn’t do it.

  Well, June said, what now?

  I’ll tell you what —

  Let’s go someplace else, Shell. All right?

  All right, sure, O.K. I know a dandy place way up in the —

  Can we go get a drink somewhere? I feel a little nervous.

  I’m a little nervous myself. Swell, a drink sounds swell. I know a dandy place way up in the —

  How about The Wild Tomato? Would you like that?

  Would I!

  You know it, then?

  I know a lot of them.

  But there’s only one, isn’t there? The little place on Western?

  What in the hell are you talking about?

  The little bar on Western, Shell. They make the best gimlets in town. But we can go somewhere else if you want.

  No, that’s fine, I said, a little of the zip leaving me. Now that she’d straightened me out, I remembered the joint. It had been a beatnik dive before most of the beatniks died of the itch, or committed suicide, or whatever happened to the slobs. Now, if I remembered correctly, it had been repainted, renovated, fumigated, and a Latin combo had replaced the cretin poets.

  So let’s go, I said, to The Wild Tomato.

  We sat in a booth at opposite sides of a narrow table, our first drinks in front of us. Bourbon and water for me, a gimlet for June.

  June narrowed her blue eyes at me, lifted the gimlet and said, Happy days.

  And nights, I said.

  I’ll drink to that.

  While we sipped our booze, June went back over what she’d told me earlier, said she’d picked up the phone to call a cab and heard the men talking. One had mentioned my name, which by then she’d learned from Truepenny, and she’d listened to the rest.

  They were actually talking about killing you, she said, blowing you up.

  Pretty tricky. How were they planning to do it?

  That’s where the part about when to do it came in. One of them said one a.m. would be a good time. If you weren’t home, the fellow was to go in and put the football under your bed. I thought it was a joke until he said something about when you flopped on the bed it would blow you through the roof. Then I guessed it was something that would blow up.

  Yeah, it must have sounded like that. A football in hood argot is a pineapple, a bomb.

  He said he’d phone your place to check, or have somebody else phone and get you out of there if you were home. Then this Luther would put the football under the bed.

  Uh-huh. They sound like most unpleasant — Luther?

  Yes. One fellow called the other one that.

  Did Luther happen to mention a name?

  He called the other one Mac.

  Mac? I blinked at her. Luther would naturally be Jake Luther. But Mac? You say you overheard this in the — at Rand Brothers?

  Yes. I was in my office. The one I was in when you came by earlier today.

  That means one of the bums must have been at Rand Brothers.

  She leaned forward, thinking, chin cupped in one long-fingered hand, elbow on the table. But her elbow was not all that was on the table. I tried to make my mind blank. Again, I couldn’t do it.

  She said, He must have been there. On one of the other extensions. I hadn’t thought about that.

  Which of the men were there?

  Well — I don’t know, now you mention it. All I heard was part of the conversation, and I don’t know which was which. One voice was louder. Either it was the man on the extension, or else he just talked louder.

  Which one?

  She shook her head, blonde hair swinging, several things happening. I’m not sure. The one called Mac, I think.

  What time was this?

  Close to six. Usually I leave at six. Tonight I stayed a while, trying to phone you. And I was a little scared, anyway. It was such an — awful conversation. I mean, it was so ordinary, except for what they said.

  Do you know a man named McCune?

  Only Jim McCune. It jarred me, but she went right on, I think he has money invested in Rand Brothers. Anyway, he’s been in a few times to see Mr. Truepenny.

  Could this Mac have been Jim McCune?

  She frowned. Well, I’ve never talked to him on the phone. But I don’t think so. She shrugged. It’s hard to tell now, thinking back.

  We each had another drink, went over her story some more. She was sure it hadn’t been Truepenny on the phone. Neither did she know if McCune, or anybody else, had been in the mortuary at the time. As far as she knew, Truepenny was the only person who’d been there.

  I finished my drink, thinking about it. The call had been made around six p.m. From about five-thirty until six-thirty, I’d been at Joe Cherry’s, so the call had been made shortly before I left there. Jake Luther on the phone from Cherry’s talking to Mac? To McCune? Could be, but it sure didn’t make much sense to me.

  I said to June, Did you ever meet McCune’s wife?

  No, I didn’t even know he was married. She smiled. He doesn’t act married.

  I grinned back at her. Neither do I.

  But you’re a bachelor, aren’t you?

  And how.

  She laughed softly. Let’s get out of here.

  O.K. by me.

  I feel — uncomfortable with people around. You know, suppose somebody should see u
s together, and those awful men found out about it. I might get a bomb in my bed some night.

  I had come to the conclusion that June had a bomb in her bed every night. But I naturally understood her concern, and we slid out of the booth.

  June had chosen the bar, and she also picked the next place, which, I was surprised to discover, was an isolated and very pleasant spot. We reached it after driving over a mile on bumpy dirt roads. The place was several yards off the road, at the edge of a steeply sloping hill.

  Near us was a group of slim trees, their drooping limbs shadowy against the night sky, above us, blackness pinned with stars. The moon was high, not yet full. Below us, spreading for miles, was the splendid sight of Hollywood and Los Angeles at night: millions of lights, the slow swirl of moving traffic, bright dots of neon.

  I lit cigarettes and we smoked, talking about that phone conversation, but we’d covered the high points earlier. After a while, June said she felt safe from prying eyes for the first time tonight.

  Except yours, Mr. Scott, she added laughing.

  Shell. We weren’t going to be formal, remember? And lady, forgive my frankness, but you are never going to be safe from prying eyes. Not while there are men around. And, especially, not while I’m around.

  Yours I don’t mind, Shell. She put out her cigarette, leaned closer to me. Yours I don’t mind at all.

  Her voice had softened, become lower, huskier than usual, hotly rushing like the sound of a distant forest fire. Her breath warmed my cheek as she said, I like men like you, Shell, big and rough and tough, men with a growl in their eyes.

  Well, now, I — growl?

  I had turned to look at her. Her face was inches away. Light glimmered faintly on the moist curve of her lower lip as she smiled. I told you a lie earlier, Shell, a little white lie.

  About that phone call?

  No, not that. It was when I mentioned showering, walking around nude to get dry, then powdering my body, all of my body. Do you remember?

  I hope to shout I remember.

  I told you I hadn’t meant to mention that — it just slipped out in the conversation. That was the little lie. I said it on purpose, Shell. Deliberately, with design. I wanted you to think about it.

  You got your wish. In fact —

  The rest was true, though. I mean, I really do powder all over after I shower. With White Midnight — that’s what it’s called.

  Every word June spoke was a picture in my thoughts, a film zipping through my mind. In Technicolor, Cinerama, even Smell-O-Vision. And that distant forest fire was less distant now, louder, hotter.

  White Midnight, I said. Crazy. My arm was around her shoulders, fingers on the warm flesh of her arm. Uh, maybe you’d better not tell me any more about it. I have a mind like a steel trap. That’s not what I mean. I mean, I have a mind —

  It makes me feel so luxurious, she interrupted. Almost sinful. She pressed gently against me, head raised, her breath on my mouth now.

  Sinful, she went on, sinful but good, wonderful, like a caress —

  My mouth pressed the words into her throat. My hands went around her, stopped on the bare softness of her back as she moved her body against me, moved her lips on my lips. Then she slid her mouth from mine, moved slightly away from me and laughed softly. Still laughing, she mashed her mouth on mine again.

  Well, kids, lean back. Let me tell you.

  Those fire-engine-red lips of June’s were soft cushions for hot kisses, all right; but that first kiss had been a mere sample, the kind you write home about. This one was the kind you don’t dare write home about. It was like learning other kissers had been using falsies instead of lips and this was the real thing at last.

  June moved her head from side to side and I felt her teeth press without pain into my lower lip. Then she pulled her head back and looked at me.

  Mmmm, she said. Shell, you make me feel so good. She laughed. You make me feel so good! How do you feel. Shell, how do you feel?

  I think you lit my lips.

  She laughed again. Let’s burn ’em off. Burn ’em, mmmm —

  And the mmmm — became a caress that spread like raw gin in a starving stomach. It was like kissing a gal with three lips, like wow, like crazy, like — words failed me, lips failed me, everything failed me. Well, not quite everything.

  Slowly, lingeringly, June took her mouth from mine, leaned away, arms sliding from around my neck. She let her head fall back, smiling and shaking her head; moonlight silvering her arched throat, her blonde hair waving silently. The narrow straps of the blue dress slid outward with her movement, crept over her shoulders and slipped down as she pressed her arms to her sides. Then she raised her arms and crossed them over her white breasts, fingers kneading her shoulders as she lowered her head again and stared at me from wide eyes.

  June sucked in her breath, still smiling, lifted both arms high over her head, arching her back and leaning even farther from me, pale silver in the moonlight. Then she swayed toward me, leaned against me and curled her arms behind my neck. The scent of White Midnight rose like perfumed darkness from between warm silver breasts, and then her breath rushed over my mouth, and my lips found hers.

  Found them, held them, kept them.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was nearly midnight when we turned off Sunset into Vine. Vine, after a few blocks, becomes North Rossmore, which passes in front of the Spartan Apartment Hotel. I had argued with June that I should drop her off and go home alone, since there was a possibility the boys would decide to move up their plan to an earlier time. An earlier time, like right now, say. But she insisted she wanted to go with me, and, without too much reluctance, I agreed.

  As we neared the Spartan, June said, Is there any place in back where you can park, Shell?

  Sure.

  Then park in back, will you? I’m — I’d rather not go in the front way.

  Now that we were close, she sounded a little less eager to stick by me through thick and thin and bombings.

  I should take you home, June.

  No, it’s all right. Really.

  I parked behind the Spartan and we went in the back entrance, as I had done earlier in the day. I told June to wait down the hall while I opened the apartment door, went inside and looked around. Nothing blew up when I switched the lights on. In the bedroom, I crawled under the bed and examined the springs, using a flashlight, then carefully peeled back the blankets and sheets, felt over the mattress. All seemed normal, but just to be sure, I tossed a heavy chair onto the bed from the doorway, ducking around the wall as it landed. The only noise was the chair bouncing, then hitting the floor. I righted the chair, went into the hall.

  June walked toward me and said, Everything all right?

  Yep. There is no bomb under the bed.

  She smiled. I’m glad to hear that.

  I grinned, took her arm and led her inside. She looked around the apartment, commenting on the fish and Amelia. We sat on the chocolate-brown divan.

  Drink? I asked.

  She glanced at her watch. I’d love a gimlet. Shell. Or a plain old martini, if you don’t have any lime water.

  There’s no such thing as a plain old martini. But when it comes to drinking, I’ve got everything from lime juice and little pearl onions to Obawalla Scotch, Waterloo Brandy, and fermented corn squeezings. I expect to get liquid rocket fuel as soon as it’s available to civilians.

  June glanced at her watch again, almost nervously. I supposed she was making sure it was still a while till one.

  A gimlet, then, she said. I do need a little refueling.

  Coming up. I slid on the divan and went into the kitchenette, began hunting for the gin and lime water.

  While puttering around I called to June, Speaking about refueling, these science cats have progressed from liquid rocket fuel to solid, so why couldn’t they invent solid booze?


  Solid booze?

  Sure. Why not? They say the solid stuff’s better, provides more thrust, burns with a fine blue flame or something. Why, the day may come when we can go to the freezer, haul out a chunk and bite off a martini.

  And burn with a fine blue flame?

  Now you’ve got it. A couple of bites and you go into orbit. There’s more than one way to reach outer space, you know. Shucks, I’ve been in outer space.

  Really?

  Sure. More times than you’d think. Lots of times.

  She chuckled. What’s it like?

  Oh, it’s not so much. I shrugged. Take the dark side of the moon. I’ve seen it. It’s so dark you can’t see a damn thing. Ah, but Arcturus. How well I remember Arcturus. There was a green-eyed babe there I’ll never forget. Green-eyed, green-eared, with green teeth, and three gorgeous green —

  Shell, if you can’t find the lime water, I’ll have a plain glass of —

  Ah, here it is. Little beggar was hiding behind, the passion-fruit juice. I took the bottle from the refrigerator. You shall have your gimlet in half a minute. A whole pot of gimlets, in fact.

  A whole pot of gimlets sounds like more than I need.

  But it’s got to last us the whole trip, dear. And some of it’s for me, anyway.

  Trip?

  Of course. To outer —

  Never mind. Shell, we haven’t known each other very long. Do you always talk like this?

  Naturally not. I never talk like this. But tonight is special. There’s madness in the air. Can’t you feel it twitching all around us?

  Well, if you say so. It sort of tickles, doesn’t it?

  Exactly. Glorious, isn’t it? But wait until you get these gimlets tickling you on the inside. Tickles inside and outside, tickles reaching for each other, tickles meeting, tickles mating. Wow, I can hardly wait!

  I wouldn’t have believed — oh, dear.

  What? I peered out through the kitchenette door at her. June was looking around, examining the divan. She bit her lower lip, and said again, Oh, dear.