I landed on the floor, left knee banging it first, and then my face sliding over the carpet. Pot dropped toward me with both his big hands reaching for my throat. I raised one leg and kicked at Pot’s face, missed. My heel jarred his shoulder, turning him in the air.
I heard pounding in the hallway — then a muffled bang and crash from the front of the house. Pot thudded onto the floor next to me. The whole room shook. He started up again as I got to my knees. Those pounding feet were close now, a man running toward me. Pot swung a beefy arm as he came up from the floor, his fist landing alongside my neck like the kick of a kangaroo. It knocked me to my left, but I threw my hand against the floor and shoved myself back, swinging my other arm up over my head and down.
I aimed the blow at his face, but he was moving aside and my hand’s edge hammered hard and solidly against the arch of his collarbone. The deep, muffled sound as the bone broke was surprisingly loud. There was sudden movement in the doorway as Pot let out a roar of pain, slapped his right hand toward me, dug thick fingers into my throat. A shot cracked in the hallway, followed almost immediately by the deeper, and nearer, boom of a .45 automatic.
Pot’s one hand held my throat, pressed my chin so tightly I couldn’t turn my head toward that movement near us. My vision started to blur. I clasped both hands together, yanked them up against Pot’s hard forearm as two more rapid shots sounded in the hall.
Pot’s fingers tore from my throat. My arms were already raised and I threw my open right hand down toward his collarbone again, deliberately this time, aiming for the other side of his neck. The blow landed and the bone popped as somebody almost inside the room made a soft coughing sound.
I jerked my head around. Jake was bent forward in the doorway. As I looked at him, the automatic slipped from his fingers, hit the floor. He raised one hand toward his chest, toward a spot red with welling blood; but the hand never got there. The arm fell to his side and his knees bent more — slowly, at first, as if he were straining to keep them from giving way. Before he fell, Jake pulled his head around, stared at me with death in his eyes.
So long, you son-of-a-bitch, I said.
Chapter Seventeen
Jake lasted only a second longer, but he heard me. I wanted him to hear me. Then his knees buckled. He dropped limply, the top of his head smacking the door frame. He lay still, neck bent far to one side.
Pot had rolled back toward me, and tried to brace himself against the floor; but his arm crumpled, unable to support his weight. He cried out in pain and toppled forward.
Samson, chest heaving, stepped over Jake’s body, his gun held ready in front of him. As Pot fell forward, Samson flipped the gun toward him.
Easy, I said. He won’t give us any trouble.
I got to my feet, wound Pot’s coat in both hands and yanked him up. He grunted, arms bent at the elbows, but only slightly raised. I grabbed his left wrist, twisted the arm behind his back. He yelled, and it was pretty loud.
What’s with him? Samson said.
He’s got a busted collarbone. Busted in a couple of places. Pot won’t be swinging at anybody else’s skull for a while. Not for a long while.
Samson glanced quickly around the room, stepped into the hall and looked up and down it, then swung back toward me. As he turned, his coat flapped away from his body and I saw a red strain against the white of his shirt.
Phil, I said, you’re hit.
He rubbed the back of his left hand against his side. It’s nothing, he said. Just pinked me. Samson nudged Jake with his foot, bent and picked up the automatic. Missed this one with my first shot, he said almost apologetically. Looked like he was drawing a bead on you in here. Had to rush it.
I thought about that, now there was time to think. Then I gulped in some air, shakily, let it out Thanks, Phil.
Yeah. No sign of Cherry?
Not yet.
Samson knelt by Jake, felt his pulse, then ran his hands over the limp body. He pulled a braided leather sap from Jake’s hip pocket, tossed it to me, then stepped from the room and trotted down the hall.
I let go of Pot’s arm, wrapped my fingers around the grip of the spring-loaded sap and said, Pot.
He turned his head. I smiled, and swatted him between the eyes. Then I dropped the sap into my coat pocket, picked my .38 off the carpet and stepped to the door of the adjoining room, in which I’d been left yesterday afternoon. The door was locked. I kicked it open, went inside. The room was empty.
A few minutes later I met Samson in the big living room. Find anything? I asked him.
No. No sign of Cherry.
How’s that side?
O.K. I told you he just pinked me.
I stepped next to him and pulled back his coat. He was right; the bullet had torn a groove in the flesh, but it wasn’t deep.
I said, Pot’s resting uncomfortably. Jake’s dead. And I found this.
I handed a large Manila envelope to him, and as he opened it and looked at the gun inside, I said, Found that thing in the same place I got the envelope to put it in — Cherry’s desk. It’s a sawed-off, sixteen-gauge shotgun. Crude pistol grip, barrel cut to about four inches. Some heater, huh?
Yeah, looks like a smudge pot. Must be the one.
Right, the one used to put my slug into Tony Kovin. I didn’t handle it, though I doubt there’s much chance you’ll find any prints on it.
He nodded, then walked to the front door and looked out as a car’s tires crunched in front. Police car, he said.
Two officers came inside and Samson spoke to them briefly, gave one the envelope. Both men went through the room, and I heard them moving down the hallway.
Samson said, Well, that’s two down. But I wish to hell Cherry had been here.
You don’t wish it as much as I do. Maybe Pot can give us a clue to where the bum is.
But Pot, when he came around, added little that was new. The main value of his conversation was that it corroborated much of what I’d told Samson. Knowing that Danny, Frank, and McCune had been buried at Rand Brothers, we were able to hit Pot with that, plus what Truepenny had told us. Finally, Pot admitted helping Jake haul the bodies to Rand Brothers, and later dumping them into the already occupied caskets.
Samson said, Give us the rest of it. Potter.
That’s all there is.
Cherry told you to bump them and you pulled the jobs, then took the bodies to the mortuary. That it?
No, you got it wrong. These were guys Jake had trouble with. He plugged them, then asked me to help him get rid of the stiffs. I just helped a friend out. Pot started to shrug, then let out a gasp as broken bones ground together. Probably I broke a law, but that’s all I had to do with it.
Listen, Pot, I said, you haven’t a prayer. We already know how it happened. That Sunday night Danny and Frank went to heist Mr. Graves. He glanced toward me. Yeah, the H, I said. Danny went into the tomb first, and that trick door kept him there. Frank took off — and undoubtedly phone Jim McCune, the guy who dreamed up the heist in the first place. You and Jake, tipped by the alarm, high-tailed it to Rand Brothers. You grabbed Danny, forced him to spill, killed him that night — then started hunting Frank Eiverson. By that time McCune had powdered, but you got Frank in a day or two. I’d say it was early Tuesday morning, probably at his home. Frank needed his junk, but Cherry made damned sure none was available in the places where Frank usually made a connection. Like Danny, Frank undoubtedly had a fix at his room, and it’s eight-to-five you just waited there for him. That took care of Frank. You caught up with McCune at the Orange Coast Motel last Sunday. I’ve got witnesses who can prove you and Jake took McCune away from the motel about one o’clock Sunday. I paused. Sure, you just helped Jake bury some people.
Pot silently stared at me, then looked at Samson. I think I better chin with a lawyer, cousin.
And that was the last thing he said.
/> At five, that balmy May afternoon, Samson and I stood near the swimming pool behind Cherry’s house. Pot and Jake had left us, Pot on his way to the prison ward of the general hospital, and Jake headed for the morgue. If Pot knew where Cherry was, he hadn’t dropped any hints.
Samson ran a hand over his gray hair. He’s a cool one, that Potter. A cool bastard. He sighed, then turned to me. What was that about witnesses seeing Luther and Potter take McCune from a motel? Were you laying it on him a little, or was it straight?
It was straight, I said.
They could testify in court?
I don’t know why not. Then I remembered my dizzy moments with those two gals. That is, I said, they could testify, but I’m not certain what kind of witnesses those two babes would make.
Two babes?
Yeah. A couple of tomatoes, enormously endowed with everything except brains. They were by the swimming pool at the Coast Motel. One of them saw the two hard boys arrive, and leave with McCune. Blonde and a redhead. At least, they could place Pot with McCune, which might help put the squeeze on Pot.
Uh-huh. Two babes. Endowed. How come you always run into such babes?
Just live wrong, I guess.
Samson shook his head, snorted, found a cigar and stuck it into his mouth. He swore softly again, then said, Well, we got the local and APB out on Cherry. Maybe that’ll turn him up.
Maybe.
That’s all we need now. Just him. And the babe who helped frame you.
Yeah, I said, thinking of lovely June Corey. Well, she sure had the frame for it.
We started toward the radio car, and right then it hit me. Not just one thing, but closer to half a dozen. I spun around, ran back to the house.
Samson yelled, Hey! What —
But I kept going.
Chapter Eighteen
I ran into the house, across the living room, down the long hall, into Cherry’s office again.
I jumped to the phone but didn’t use it, just looked at the number in the little white circle on its base: Zenith 4-6089. Of course. I ran back down the hall, mentally banging myself on the head.
Samson was standing next to the radio car.
Come on, I yelled, and jumped in.
He slid under the wheel, started the car. What the hell’s happening?
Dig out, Phil. I’ll explain on the way.
We parked halfway down the block, walked to the front door. I rang the bell. In a few seconds, I heard the sound of high-heels clicking on an uncarpeted part of the floor.
Ah, I said, the lovely is home.
The lovely? I thought you said Joe Cherry might be here.
Oh, he is, I think. But I refer to the hot-eyed blonde tomato who lives here.
Here? I thought you never met Mrs. McCune, Samson said.
That’s where we were, on Sunset Plaza Drive in Hollywood, at the home of the late James McCune.
Sure I did, Phil, I said. Only she told me she was June Corey.
The door opened a crack, started to close suddenly, and hit my foot. Then my shoulder hit the door, banged it open. June stepped back, hands falling limply to her sides. Mrs. McCune, really, but it would be quite a while before I stopped thinking of her as June. I was a little disappointed, though, that I hadn’t put two and two together before this.
I remembered phrases I’d heard in description of Mrs. McCune, from policemen in the Missing Persons Detail, the neighbors I’d talked to here on Sunset Plaza Drive: Them hot blue eyes like to melted me — , In her twenties — tall and a real looker — man, the legs!, Good-looking blonde gal with hot blue eyes and a stunning pair of — Not conclusive, maybe, but description which could apply equally to Mrs. McCune and Miss Corey. Conclusive enough when added to all the rest of it.
Hi, June, I said softly.
She tried to smile, but nothing smiled except her mouth; and it takes much more than that to make a smile. The corners of her lips moved up, then sagged down, went up, down again. This time they stayed down.
Oh, she said. Oh. That was all.
I walked in past her, pulling the .38 from its holster.
Finally she got some words out. He’s not here.
He? Honey, I said, I didn’t ask you anything.
He wasn’t in the living room. I looked at June. Listen carefully, sweetheart. If he’s here, I’ll find him. So make it easy. I looked at the big blue eyes. Don’t keep on lying now. It’s too late to lie.
She held my eyes with hers — for a long time. At least, it seemed a long time. In the den, she said, and nodded toward a door. Last room at the end of the hall. On the left. She paused, glanced at the Colt in my hand. He doesn’t have a gun.
I’ll check that part for myself. Samson stood alongside me and I said, Watch her, Phil. She’s good.
We’d better both take him, Samson said. He looked at June. You answered the door. So you must not have seen us walk up. Right?
Yes. But he’ll be wondering who rang.
Come on, Samson said to me.
Let me have him, Phil.
He scowled. I said, There’s just a chance he’ll think I’m alone. And I hope he does. I paused. He might try to get away.
Samson continued to scowl.
I said, I know it’s a little irregular. But I really want this one, Phil.
Finally, he shrugged, Watch yourself. Then he grinned. This one’s pretty sick, too, you know.
Yeah. And he’s going to be a lot sicker.
As I walked from the room, Samson took June’s arm, led her toward a couch. At the end of the hall, I stopped, tried the door on my left. It opened, and I stepped inside.
He was really very surprised to see me.
His expression told me better than words that he’d been sure, until this moment, that I was in a cell at the L.A. police building. Samson and I had been careful during the day, and apparently, he hadn’t heard anything about the activity at Rand Brothers. I knew that neither Jake nor Pot had been able to get in touch with him. He’d known the heat was on him, but he sure hadn’t realized it was scorching his fanny. I said, Hello, Cherry. How are thing with Charlie Lucky?
He was rigid. His black eyebrows had gone far up on his forehead, and his mouth had opened half an inch as he sucked in his breath. For him, that was close to complete collapse. But he recovered quickly, and said, Hello, Scott. What brings you here?
You. You’re under arrest. Cherry.
He laughed. Hell, you can’t arrest me —
I’ve just done it, you son of a bitch. And it’s legal — a private person can make an arrest when he knows a felony has been committed.
Felony? Scott, I haven’t even spit —
Try murder. Conspiracy to commit murder. Complicity in hit-and-run, homicide, auto theft, violation of the California Health and Safety Code — hell, this could go on for an hour. On your feet, Cherry.
He was sitting in a large modern chair, his legs outstretched, feet resting on a low leather hassock. He was in shirt sleeves, the crease of his brown trousers sharp as a knife. A cigarette was between the fingers of his left hand, and a large diamond ring glittered on his little finger. Casually, he flicked ashes into a tray near him. You don’t mean you’re taking me downtown?
You’ve got it
He filled his lungs with smoke, spewed it out. I read you were in a little trouble yourself, Scott.
Only a little. And you didn’t read it, you did it. It was almost good enough, too. Cherry. But there were little holes in it. And we poked them bigger.
We?
Me and the law. Captain Samson, Rawlins, a whole mess of law. How do you think I sprang from the can? Chewed through the wall? No, the frame came apart at the seams, Cherry. We found the Cad at McCune’s, the sawed-off shotgun at your dump. Hell, we even know you fired my Colt into your swimming pool. It was good, yes; goo
d enough, no.
That struck him, finally. Cherry looked like a man stabbed with a sharp icicle. He tried to be casual, though, and carelessly flicked ashes from his cigarette. Too carelessly; he missed the tray. Then he slowly glanced around the room, at the closed door behind me.
It pleased me. I wanted him to start thinking about getting away. Unless he figured the jig was up. Cherry was the kind to go quietly to jail, knowing he wouldn’t be there very long. Even from jail, he could contact his highly paid and respectable attorneys; then would follow — if really necessary — a hundred thousand dollars or so spread around in the right places. That much money can buy a lot of sympathy — a lot of propaganda — and many transfusions for bleeding hearts. Then, back to the big home, the lush blondes, the race tracks and night clubs. And his negotiable asset: Heroin. He might get away with it, too, I thought. But not with me, not with me. So I gave him some more, a little at a time.
We’ve got the H, I said. Mr. Graves.
That hurt him.
Truepenny talked, Cherry. So did Pot. It was true. Maybe Pot hadn’t said all we’d wanted to hear, but he’d talked a little. Jake’s dead.
He started to say something, held it back.
There’s another item, Cherry. Three items, in fact. I spoke slowly, gave it time to sink in. Three, all at Rand Brothers. Where we picked up the six kilos. One was Danny Spring. One was Frank Eiverson. His face had gone pale, and the normally dark skin looked sallow and ugly, like something rotten. It was something rotten. And one was James Randall McCune, I said. How does it look now, Cherry?
I had seen Joe Cherry’s veneer shatter once before, suddenly, when I’d said I’d dump him into the same grave with his two hoods. Now it was happening again, but in a different way. Slowly, like time-lapse photography of a man aging, or of a face decaying. I thought, oddly, that if a moving picture were taken of a dead man’s face as it shriveled and wasted away for days, and the film were then run off in the space of a single minute, the picture might look very much like what was happening to Cherry’s face now. But he wasn’t soft. He was very tough.
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 13
