This guy sure thought he was tough. I had a hunch he really was tough, despite the getup and roll and side-of-mouth dialogue. His eyes were hard, cold. I had a hunch he’d kill a guy for kicks, saying, “Down you go, dads.”
I grinned at him and said pleasantly, “I’d like to see the boss. But in this joint, he might be half a mile away. Where’ll I find him?”
He was staring at me. “Man,” he said, “you look crazy.”
“You look pretty cuckoo yourself.”
Yeah, they were cold eyes. There wasn’t any doubt about it now. He moved a foot back, faced me squarely and lowered his head a little. For a moment I thought the guy was going to take a poke at me. He said, “You want a fat lip, don’t you, dads?”
This one was really starting to gripe my frozen butt. “No,” I said quietly. “I don’t want a fat lip. Not on either of us. But if you don’t stop leaning on me, friend, it may come to that. Now why don’t we stop insulting each other and see if we can’t find—”
He interrupted me. “What’s your name?”
I sighed and said, “Shell Scott. What’s yours?”
His eyes had widened when I told him my name. “Scott?” he said absently. “Well, now. What can I do for you, crumb?”
Crumb. That was the one that did it. “You can,” I said gently, “take me to your leader.”
It took him about two seconds, and for two seconds his face got darker and uglier, and then he pivoted suddenly and jabbed his left fist at my mouth. I jerked my head, let it skim the side of my face and started to go in on him and all over him, feeling almost happy about it.
But just as I started my fist driving a deep voice from the doorway behind me called sharply, “Morty!”
I pulled my punch. Even so, it bounced on his belly and he let out some air. It wasn’t sweet air. But then he wasn’t a sweet kid. He flicked his eyes toward the doorway, his balled-up right fist relaxed. I hadn’t taken the fight out of him—not yet—but whoever was in the doorway had.
I looked over my shoulder.
The guy in the doorway looked like the doorway. He was a monster. He actually looked almost like the “leader” I’d asked the kid to take me to. I didn’t know who the man was, but he was enormous, fat and messy, short, but between 250 and 300 pounds, and all of it unpleasant. “What’s goin’ on here, Morty?” he asked.
The kid he’d called Morty walked to the doorway. I walked along behind him. “This crumb’s Shell Scott, Mr. Abbamonte,” he said. “From the Coast. He come in and started throwing his weight around.”
“Wrong again,” I said. By that time I was next to him. He glared at me, but the man he’d called Abbamonte looked at me and said, “Wrong?” From the way Morty acted, this guy was one of the bigshots. So I spoke to him.
“Yeah. This kid’s just been fed too much raw meat, is all. Broke out of his cage. I asked him a civil question and he started slobbering.”
I got the impression that Morty was getting ready to hit me, Abbamonte or no Abbamonte. But the fat guy said, “What the hell you talking about? You’re from the Coast?”
“That’s right.”
“They talk a different language out there?”
“No, just here. At least Morty does. Look, all I asked the guy was where I could find the boss.”
“Yeah,” Morty said. “It was the way he asked. But he did want to see you, Mr. Abbamonte.”
I blinked. Something was wrong here. “This kid can’t get anything right,” I said. “I’m looking for Mike Sand.”
Abbamonte chewed on a fat lip, then said to the kid, “Beat it, kid. I’ll take care of this.”
“You know who he is?” Morty asked. “I said he—”
“Beat it.”
Somehow this was all pretty creepy. I was twenty-five-hundred miles from my beat, but just my name seemed to rub some of the guys here the wrong way.
Abbamonte said, “Come on up to my office, Scott. We can talk there.”
He led the way, out of the room and up wooden stairs to the second floor. You would think a guy that big, that fat, would have to struggle up stairs and would get to the top wheezing. But he didn’t. He took each step almost gracefully, as if springs gently lifted him up. Maybe a lot of what I’d assumed was fat was muscle. It was a kind of chilling thought.
I looked around as Abbamonte walked ahead of me. Up here, the walls were mahogany-paneled, a contrast to the rough woodwork below. Everything gleamed, and it was quieter. We walked past the door on which it said, townsend holt, Public Relations. Holt, I knew, was the man Drum—or somebody; I didn’t really know it was Drum—had killed.
I tried it out on Abbamonte. “All right if I see Mr. Holt while I’m here?”
“He’s dead,” he said, without looking around.
The next office was Abbamonte’s. This time the door told me my host was:
A. ABBAMONTE
International Secretary-Treasurer
National Brotherhood of Truckers
He opened the door and we went into an expensively furnished and very comfortable office, done in soft browns and beiges, with a springy dark brown carpet underfoot. Abbamonte sat behind a heavy desk and as I took a chair he said, “What brings you out here, Scott?”
“I didn’t really come here to see you, Mr. Abbamonte. I wanted to talk to the boss. Mike Sand.”
He smiled. “Well, you got to understand what’s goin’ on around here, Scott. Mike’s the president, but he—he depends on me a lot. You got to put everything through me.”
“I’d still like to talk to Sand.”
“He ain’t even in the building today. Take my word for it, anything you want to know about the setup here, I can spell it out for you.”
“You know who I am, don’t you? And that I’m a detective.”
He said easily, “We keep in close touch with the local in L.A. And you ain’t been exactly out of touch with them boys yourself, Scott. We got a word or two about you—and nobody’d claim you was hard to recognize.”
That made sense. I dropped it and said, “You mentioned Holt was dead. You got any idea who killed him?”
“Thought you didn’t know somebody killed him.”
I grinned at him. “So I knew he was dead when I walked in here. But I thought I might get you to offer an opinion about it.”
He didn’t grin back. It seemed doubtful that he ever grinned back. “You should of come right out and asked me about it then, Scott. Don’t play no games with me.”
“Okay, then. Who killed him?”
He shrugged. “What the hell would I know about it? Maybe you can find out and tell me. I’d like to know.”
“Could be. What can you tell me about a guy named Chester Drum?”
“Why him?”
“I heard he got tossed in the Front Royal pokey right after Holt got it.”
“Yeah.” He paused, then said slowly, “He could of done it. Yeah. That makes good sense.” He paused. “Now you mention it.” He bit a thick lip. “You hear about him gettin’ sprung by Torgesen’s kid?”
“I heard it.” That, at least, was corroboration of the info Tootsie had given me. I asked Abbamonte, “How’d he happen to get sprung by Torgesen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on out there. All I know’s Holt got hit.”
He seemed to come to some sort of decision, because he reached abruptly for the phone, dialed the operator and asked for a Front Royal number. While waiting he said to me, “Might be I can help you, Scott.”
I didn’t know whether that was good or bad, coming from this guy, but I lit a cigarette and waited. He got his number and said, “Lindzey? Okay.” He waited another minute then said into the mouthpiece, “Yeah. Abbamonte here, Lindzey. I got a man in the office name of Shell Scott. Yeah, from L.A. He’s wondering about Holt getting hit. Thinks maybe Drum done it. What you got on it?” He listened, ran his tongue under his lip and said, “Looks like he might of done it, huh? Yeah, the connection’s no good. I c
an’t hardly hear you. Kane and Mahoy? Well, that ought to do it, huh?” He listened some more and said, “Be glad to co-operate. They ain’t been in today, but I’ll see they talk to you ... they’d maybe of done it themselves, but it ain’t usual for them to get chummy with no law. That’s right, I say the word and the boys jump. Don’t worry none about it.” He then hung up.
He turned to me, appearing almost pleased. “Looks like you got the right dope, Scott. I just talked to an officer there in the Front Royal can—one that took Drum in. Had to let him go, but he thinks like you do, that Drum done it. There’s supposed to of been a couple witnesses seen this Drum around there, but the officer ain’t been able to find them.”
“You don’t have any idea where I could find this guy Drum?”
“No. You lookin’ for him?”
“That’s right. By the way, you said Mike Sand wasn’t around. I want to talk to the man. Do you think he might be with his wife?”
“How in hell would I know?”
I’d had enough of this guy. And I hadn’t come here to see him in the first place. So I stood up. “Thanks for the help.” I grinned at him again. “If that’s what I got.” Again, he failed to grin back. I went out.
Thinking about Abbamonte and the way Morty had acted, I walked back down the hall to the door labeled townsend holt, Public Relations. Two men, one a big heavy ape, and the other a pale-faced little guy wearing glasses with thick lenses that looked like pieces of old headlights, were just leaving the top of the stairs and turning my way as I reached Holt’s office. Both of them looked straight at me.
I glanced at them, put a hand on the doorknob and turned it, started to go into the office. But then I heard one of the men let out a weird noise, as if he’d accidentally run a tooth through his tongue, followed by, “Lookit! Geez, it’s that white-haired shamus the L.A. local’s gunning for—”
I yanked my head around and saw it had been the big ape talking, and also saw his big hand come out from under his trench-coat, filled with a big gun, which he pointed at me. I froze, fingers on the doorknob.
The little guy was bugging me, and when he bugged you, you really got it. His eyes, behind the thick lenses, gave the impression of two small one-eyed monsters, side by side, staring at me. His lips flapped away from slightly protruding teeth, and he said, “Kee-rist! We ain’t got enough trouble?”
Finally the big guy said, “He’s prob’ly got a gun, Glasses. Go get it.”
I turned to face the two men. As the little guy nodded and stepped toward me I said, “Keep the hell away from me!” The one called Glasses stopped. I didn’t have a private detective’s license permitting me to operate in Washington, D.C., not even a license to carry a gun here. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to be caught surrounded by Truckers—who had obviously heard from L.A. about me, and didn’t like what they’d heard—without the Colt under my coat. License or no license.
I looked from Glasses to the big guy. “Slow down, friend,” I said. I glanced at the Colt Automatic in his hand. “That’s a lot of heater, and I’ve a lot of respect for it. But if you think you’re going to take my gun, without any argument from me, you’re even dumber than you look.” I meant it, but the last phrase was perhaps an overstatement. He could not possibly have been dumber than he looked. I had never seen either of these guys before, so naturally I was again wondering what the hell.
They were quite a pair, but somehow they didn’t seem to add up to two. The little guy was now peering up at me, bug-eyed behind the thick glasses, and if there was the light of intelligence in his eyes, it was a very dim light indeed. If any original thoughts had ever struck him, they had surely struck a glancing blow. They had not bounced off onto the other boy, either. No, this was a case where two heads were not better than one. Between them they appeared to have enough brains to scramble with a one-egg omelette. In fact, they gave me the impression that perhaps something like that had already happened inside their heads.
The little tableau here had lasted for perhaps five seconds, which under the circumstances was a very long time for me. I said to them, “Okay. By now you should have memorized me. But I’ll bet you’ve forgotten what I said. So I’ll repeat it—keep the hell away from me.”
They looked at each other, searching through their egg for the answer to this impasse. The little guy said, “What you think, Rover?”
Rover looked at me. He looked at me quite nastily, and that was a thing he could do well. “You’re askin’ for it. Jack.” He glanced at the little guy. “Go ahead, Glasses. If he wiggles, I’ll let him have one. Get his gun.”
Glasses took another step toward me. He really meant to do it. And maybe Rover was sincere when he said he’d let go if I wiggled.
But I was going to wiggle.
CHESTER DRUM PLAYS IT COOL
Los Angeles, 6:00 P.M., Thursday, December 17
Bucking headwinds all the way, the Boeing 707 Jetliner made it from Washington to Los Angeles in just under seven hours. I hadn’t had much time to sleep and even less to think. It was Thursday the 17th of December.
I had spent the early morning hours, until dawn, in Senator Hartsell’s office with the Senator and two of his Committee staffers and a few dozen Tidewater Maryland close-scale county maps. As far as we knew, they showed every beach shack and outhouse in Tidewater Maryland, the scale was that small. But we still hadn’t been able to find what we wanted.
An abandoned garage close enough to shore to smell the tidewater and feel the onshore wind. A large high flag whipping in that wind. A waist-high cyclone fence between the flagpole and the garage. We spent five hours on it over coffee and cigarettes, getting nothing but bloodshot eyes. The Senator wasn’t discouraged. His staff would roam Tidewater, he said. They’d fan out on the side roads and dirt trails off Benning Road. They’d find the place. But I wasn’t convinced. We hadn’t driven far off Benning Road in the panel-truck, and according to the maps the combination of shore, garage, flagpole and cyclone fence just didn’t exist.
I had gone back to my rented house in Georgetown for a few hours of sleep, then the Senator had called to say he had a round-trip American Airlines ticket for me to Los Angeles. He had called Dan Moody, the Special Investigator out there. Someone would meet me at the airport.
We took off from Washington National Airport at two in the afternoon into a bleak overcast that threatened more snow and landed in the balmy twilight at Los Angeles International Airport at six o’clock Pacific Coast Time. I carried my topcoat over my arm and picked up my B-4 bag at the baggage counter. Someone tapped my shoulder.
“I beg your pardon. You must be Mr. Drum. The Senator described you.”
I hefted the canvas bag and turned around. I saw a small, plump woman. She wasn’t pretty, but she had a warm, pleasant face tanned by the Los Angeles sun, smiling eyes and a contented full-lipped mouth. “That’s right,” I said. “I’m Drum.”
“Dan couldn’t meet you, Mr. Drum. I’m Cora Moody.”
“His wife? And call me Chet, will you?”
“Yes, I’m Dan’s wife—Chet. Dan had a couple of things to attend to, but he ought to be home by the time we get there. I hope he is. The baby-sitter’s a teenager; she has to be home for dinner.”
We drove in Cora Moody’s three-year old Ford through Inglewood and downtown L.A. and Glendale to Pasadena. The house was what is known as a California bungalow—one story, redwood, with wide overhanging eaves and a deep porch. The porch light was on. Scarlet hibiscus bloomed in front of it. Cora Moody pulled into the carport and we went inside. “Dan?”
“Your husband isn’t home yet, Mrs. Moody.” A teenager in a sweater and skirt came across the living room toward us.
“Isn’t home yet?” Cora Moody repeated. “That’s funny.” She placed her pocketbook on an end-table as I set my B-4 bag on the floor. “Judy,” she said, doing the introductions mechanically, but with a worried look on her face, “this is Mr. Drum. Chet, Judy Jaffe.”
Judy said, “Are y
ou a private detective like Mr. Moody?”
“That’s right.”
“Gee, you must lead an exciting life.” She went into another room and came back with three books. “Well, I’d better get home.” Cora Moody gave her a dollar.
“Where are the kids?”
“Downstairs in the playroom, watching TV. Well, g’night, Mrs. Moody. Good night, Mr. Drum.”
After Judy left, Cora Moody bustled about preparing dinner. She kept looking up as if expecting the doorbell or the telephone to ring. I asked her if there was a hotel nearby where I could get a room.
“Don’t be silly. You’re going to stay with us.” She told me to make myself a drink in the living room while she fed the children. They were a couple of pre-school kids, a boy and a girl. By seven-thirty she had them tucked in for the night and came back to me.
“He always calls if he’s late. He always calls.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be along soon. Call his office?”
She brightened then and went to the phone. She dialed it and held the receiver at her ear a long time. “No answer. I’m scared, Chet. Now I’m really scared.”
“Take it easy. What was he doing when you went to pick me up at the airport, do you know?”
“He—he’s working on this Trucking Union case, like he said you were.”
“Senator Hartsell told me he stumbled onto something big.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Dan’s a cautious man but ... he doesn’t talk much.” Her smile was as weak as the winter sun in Labrador. “I guess I do enough talking for both of us.” She got out a cigarette and I lit it for her. She said, “Rex Marker.”
“Marker?”
“He works for John Ragen and the Union. Dan said he was going to break the case for the Committee. Through Marker.”
We both heard a car driving up outside. Cora Moody sighed and went to the window. The car drove by without stopping. When she turned to me, her face was white. She had been holding the Venetian blind to one side. It dropped with a rattle. “He would have called. I know it. I know something’s wrong.”
Double in Trouble (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
