Him, I said. Yeah. Good old Joe.
What it boiled down to, was that we didn’t have Vince Potter in court when, after many delays, the time finally came to testify for the prosecution. But we’d known, as soon as Pot dropped with that slug in his head, how it would go. The men who could have proved Joe Cherry an accessory, at least, to several murders, and could have given intimate details about his narcotics operations, were all dead: McCune, Jake Luther, Vince Potter, Frank Eiverson and Danny Spring, Tony Kovin, Pot’s killer, Ruthie. Mrs. McCune’s testimony helped, as did Truepenny’s and mine. Not enough. We weren’t able to stick him for murder, but we got him on the narcotics rap.
The deputy D.A. proved that the six kilos of Heroin we’d seized belonged to Giannomo Ciari. The Mr. Graves memorial tomb was Cherry’s, and Truepenny testified not only to that, but also to seeing Cherry himself place the narcotics in the casket.
Cherry didn’t protest, didn’t even deny possession. He had no previous record, no convictions, he had a battery of expensive attorneys. He was afraid of only one thing: justice.
Under California law, the verdict was: guilty.
Cherry was convicted of illegally possessing narcotics. Convicted of one count, violation of Section 11500, Article 4, Division X of the Health and Safety Code of the State of California.
The Superior Court judge was a kindly old coot with fuzzy white hair and a twinkle in his eyes. Clearly he was chockful of compassion for his fellow man — and Ciari was a fellow man, wasn’t he? Clearly he loved his human brothers — and Ciari was a human brother, wasn’t he? Clearly, he was a senile old fat-head.
The law had Giannomo Ciari. And the law gummed him.
He was sentenced, under the law of the State of California, to be punished by imprisonment in the county jail for six months.
Joe Cherry, multiple murderer, narcotics wholesaler, went smiling to the county can. Convicted and sentenced, in effect, for possessing narcotic drugs without a prescription.
But all that was in the future when I’d left Samson at the L.A. police building that Friday night in May, my hands still aching from pounding on Joe Cherry’s face. Pot was still alive then, and it looked as if we had a pretty good case. I felt like a drink.
There is a bar named Pete’s on Broadway near my office. So, after visiting Evelyn Spring, reporting on the case and her brother’s death, and waiting till her tears had temporarily dried, I told her I’d call again, and went to Pete’s.
I had a bourbon and water, then another. When I was halfway through the second highball, a girl sitting two stools away asked me if I had a light.
I’d barely noticed her, but as I held my lighter to the cigarette around which her soft, red, smooth, yummy mouth was puckering, I noticed. She was gorgeous. As she puckered and puffed on the cigarette, the reflected flame of my lighter put little hot spots of fire in her bright blue eyes.
She tossed her head and blew smoke between those wild red lips, and, smiling, said, Thanks. Haven’t — haven’t we met somewhere before?
I grinned. Why, my dear, I said, it is quite possible —
I stopped as she tossed her head again, long blonde hair swirling like the smoke curling from her mouth. Blue eyes — blonde — stacked —
Oh, no, I thought. Not another of those gorgeous, blue-eyed, stacked blondes. I’d had enough gorgeous, blue-eyed, stacked blondes to last me a lifetime. Several lifetimes.
What’s the matter? she said.
She said it leaning closer, taking a deep breath. Or maybe it only looked as if she were taking a deep breath. She was one of those tomatoes who always look like they’re taking a deep breath. The voice was warm and vibrant, like the sound of blood boiling.
Just out of curiosity, I took a little extra look. About five-five or so, smooth, smartly dressed, with a body that made those after pictures of Vic Tanny girls look like before pictures of Vic Tanny. Very friendly face. Very friendly everything, as far as I could see — which was pretty far.
But I pulled my gaze away, swallowed some of my drink. I have had enough of gorgeous, blue-eyed blondes, I told myself.
Is something the matter? she asked. Have I done something wrong?
I looked at her again. No, I said. No —
Because she was even closer, holding an even deeper breath, and I noticed that those little hot spots of fire were still in her bright blue eyes — even though my lighter, if not my name, had gone out. She was still smiling, too, a go-to-hell smile, a go-to-hell with me smile.
Then, knowing I was slipping, knowing the almost frightening truth that a man never gets enough of gorgeous blue-eyed blondes, knowing she’d stopped smoking but smoke still seemed to be curling from her mouth, knowing she was easing onto the stool next to me, and knowing with final surrender that I was glad, I beamed upon the lovely blue-eyed blonde and said, grinning, No, my dear, you haven’t done anything wrong. At least — not yet.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1961 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Copyright renewed 1989 by Richard S. Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9895-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
