The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Yeah. Real name Harry Dyke, if you're interested."

  “I am. Turn up anything?"

  He shook his head. “Nothing worth a damn."

  “I might have something later. Maybe, I'm not sure."

  Bill raised an eyebrow. “You mean who killed him?"

  “Uh-huh. But don't count on it yet. I'm supposed to get the guy's name from, well, from a witch."

  He'd known me a long time, so he didn't say much to that. Just, “Yeah. Swell. Let me know when you solve the case. You haven't told me what happened to your complexion. Who worked you over?"

  “Nickie Domano and a couple of his hoods."

  He suddenly looked more interested. “No kidding. I suppose you asked for it."

  “Well, I was slumming."

  “We figure he put the finger on Geezer, but there's no way to tag him. Not yet. What got him mad at you?” He leaned closer, peering at my face, and added, “He didn't kill you, did he?"

  I laughed. “Come on in and listen while I tell Sam. He in his office?"

  Bill nodded and we walked to the door, knocked, then went inside.

  Samson was behind his desk, looking just about as broad and solid as the desk itself. He's a big, strong man with a big, strong jaw that looks as if it would come out winners in a collision with a truck. Detective Captain Phil Samson, the best damn cop I ever knew.

  He glanced up from the paper-cluttered desk and let his sharp brown eyes rest on my face. Then he picked up an unlighted black cigar from an ashtray and stuck it in his wide mouth. “Well,” he growled around the cigar, “you're looking good."

  “Feel great,” I said. Then I leaned over and peered at him the way Rawlins had peered at me a minute ago. “You forget to shave this morning, Sam?"

  He hadn't, of course. Only twice in all the years I'd known him had I seen any stubble on that pink face. And there was a good chance he'd been at his desk all night, too.

  “I broke my stainless steel blade,” he said gruffly, “What the hell do you want?"

  I straddled a wooden chair, and Rawlins leaned against the wall, while I told them what had happened last night, hitting the highlights—and most of the lowlights. I finished, “So when I leave here I'll call on Cyril Alexander. With luck I may run into his child monster and get the name of the guy who plugged Geezer. Hell, she may have done it herself."

  Samson laughed. It wasn't that funny. He kept laughing. His laughter got louder, booming, explosive. No, it sure wasn't that funny. The door opened, and a cop stuck his head in, looked around in startled perplexity, then pulled his head back and shut the door. This didn't often happen; possibly it had never happened before. Could be they thought the captain was cracking under the strain. Maybe he was.

  He scratched his iron-gray hair, whooped a couple more times, finally calmed down. “That's rich,” he chortled. “Oh, that's good.” I thought he was going off again, but he got everything under control.

  Sam opened a desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder and opened it, found a page, and ran a thick finger down it. “Yeah. Here it is. Yeah, I thought so. Shell, you've made me a happy man. I was kind of down in the dumps, but ... waah!” He was off again.

  “This is fun,” I said.

  Sam blinked his eyes and looked at the spot where he'd stuck his finger. “Zazu Alexander, that's right,” he said. “That's his kid. Last night, let's see ... she was seventeen days and twenty-two years old."

  “No, Sam, seventeen years. You've got it backwards. She was seventeen years old, she told—” I stopped. Sam was off again.

  “Well, fooey,” I said. Actually, I didn't say “fooey.” What I said was a horribly repulsive word it's better not even to think about. “Fooey, fooey, fooey!" I said.

  I thought Sam was going to fall off his damn chair.

  When things simmered down, I said, “I'll fix her."

  Rawlins chuckled. “Seems to me you already had your chance. Shell."

  “You just shut up, huh?"

  Samson grinned at me. “Best news I've had in longer than I can remember,” he said happily. “Here you're working for one hood, against what I've reason to believe is the most bloodthirsty gang of mobsters to show up here in this century—and you're not even getting paid for it."

  “Of course not,” I said. “I like my work. I'm doing it for the sport."

  Rawlins said, “Wait'll the rest of the boys hear about this."

  That grabbed me. “You bastard,” I said. “Don't you dare breathe a word of this.”

  “It's too good to keep."

  “I'll pop you. So help me, I'll ... pop you."

  “Go ahead,” he grinned. “As long as there's a breath left in me, I'll be saying, ‘Scott got screwed by a mobster's baby, but he didn't get—’”

  Samson broke in, “Rawlins, pass the word to the rest of the men. To Robbery, Narcotics, Administration—"

  “The Vice Squad!” Rawlins smacked his hands, together.

  “—Burglary, Traffic, the Juvenile Division—don't forget the Juvenile Division—"

  “And Communications!"

  “That's it. Especially Communications. That's an order, Lieutenant."

  I could have puked.

  “Thanks, friends,” I said, smiling stiffly. “You've ruined my life. But what are friends for?"

  It took about five more minutes before we could get down to business, but finally I said, “Well, I'm off. Mind if I use your phone, Sam? I'd kind of like to call Alexander from here."

  “Probably a good idea. A guy as dumb as you are needs police protection."

  I had a hunch I wouldn't live this down for a while. Samson went on, “I'll get him for you myself."

  That was good of him. He wasn't all bad. And, after all, men, especially men who constantly deal with the seamy side of life, develop what might be considered a rather rough sense of humor. Can't hold a candle to some women, of course.

  Sam got put through to the Alexander estate—estate was the word: ten acres, thirty-some rooms, perhaps three acres of just grass—and identified himself. Then he said he wanted Cyril Alexander called to the phone.

  He listened a moment, handed the phone to me. “He'll be on pretty quick. We had him down here yesterday."

  “Get anything?"

  “Usual song and dance, and four attorneys."

  Then the nasal voice was speaking in my ear. I knew the voice; I'd heard it several times before. “Captain Samson?"

  “Not now,” I said. “He placed the call, but this is Shell Scott. I just happen to be calling from the captain's office."

  Silence for a moment. Then, “Scott, huh? Hello. To what do I get this honor?” He talked like that, but you could understand what he meant. Usually.

  “I'd like to come out and talk to you for a while this morning. All right?"

  “Ah ... But, of course. Sure, you can certainly come. About what?"

  “I'll tell you when I get there, O.K.? About an hour?"

  “Fine, that's O.K."

  “Tell the boys I'm the white-haired guy with the black eye, just in case you've got some new boys who don't know me. I'd hate to get shot by a stranger."

  “Get what? I am not clear—"

  Sam said, “Let me talk to him,” and I passed him the phone.

  “Mr. Alexander?” he said. “Captain Samson. I would personally appreciate it if you'd give Mr. Scott all the coöperation you can.” He listened a moment. “I'm sure you're just as anxious as we are to apprehend Mr. Dyke's killer. Mr. Scott, as a private citizen, has also taken an interest in the case. A very great interest. He ... He...” Sam started grinning. “He...” He couldn't finish it.

  I yanked the phone out of his hand. “We were, uh, interrupted by a catastrophe,” I said. “See you in an hour."

  4

  I pulled up to a stop before the ornate, and very solid, gate barring the entrance to Cyril Alexander's driveway. A lean, hungry-looking man opened the gate and waved me on.

  I'd driven from L.A. through Hol
lywood and on past Beverly Hills, making good time. A few miles farther on, the highway passed through a stretch of more sparsely settled land, but even here in this meagerly populated residential area a man had room to spread out. Cyril Alexander had spread out over at least ten acres.

  Inside the gate on my right were two little cottages—about five rooms apiece—and a block away on my left, behind a huge carpet of green lawn, the big pink two-story house loomed against the sky. Thirty yards or so from the entrance to the house, a group of men sat on the lawn in the shade cast by a colorfully striped canvas above them. Cyril, undoubtedly, and his segment of the Mafia.

  I parked before the house and walked over spongy grass toward the group. Yeah, I could see Cyril, sitting in a canvas-backed chair, holding a drink in his hand. There were six other guys under the canvas awning with him. Should be enough, I figured, just for me. But Cyril usually had several armed creeps around him, to protect him from other creeps.

  Cyril waved a hand as I walked up, and one of his chums moved an extra chair toward me with his foot. I sat down and said hello, nodded around. I'd met most of the men at one time or another and knew them all by sight, at least.

  “Wanna drink, Scott?” Alexander said.

  “No, thanks."

  “More on the way. Clara's bringing some more out. Already mixed. You don't got to mix ‘em."

  Big deal, I thought; that's class. But I said, “No, just want a little talk."

  Cyril Alexander was about fifty years old, a medium-sized man with a thin, wiry body and a complexion that spoke of massages and steam baths. He had a sun-lamp tan—he didn't get out in the sun much—and I happened to know his thin black hair was dyed.

  He was wearing pink slacks and a loose red silk shirt and-straw-colored sandals, and he looked awful. He had exceptionally large eyes, a sort of muddy brown with pale gray bags under them, and they bugged out a little, unappealingly.

  Still, compared to at least three of the six others, he was a choice package. About a yard away on my left was Stacey, whose face was so red and shiny it resembled a piece of Alexander's shirt. He had cockeyed glands or something, or hot blood pressure, and he looked as if he'd been so horribly sunburned that in about two days his face would fall off.

  Beyond him was Stiff, appropriately named. Stacey was five-five and a hundred and twenty pounds; Stiff was over six feet tall but didn't weigh much more. Where Stacey was red. Stiff was white. He had a face like chalk. If he stayed very still, you couldn't help thinking maybe he'd died. He looked as if he'd been starving, had sold all his blood so he could buy food, and had lost the money.

  On my right, beyond a guy named Omar—Alexander's handyman, handy with figures, handy with books, deals, mergers, tax-evasion tricks, that sort of thing—was a hoodlum named Cork, who had, I positively knew, murdered three men. He'd done time for assault but never for murder. He was five-eight or nine, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds, solid, fit; but he had a cruel, twisted face. Broken nose, misshapen ear, knife scar by the other ear. One eyebrow was higher than the other. None of these guys really gave you a warm feeling.

  Seated next to Alexander was Matthew Omar, his handyman, and he was the best looking one of the bunch, almost good looking. About six feet even, with good shoulders, slim in the waist and hips but with legs that didn't seem long enough for the rest of him. At least he was a reasonably pleasant looking man. But he wasn't for muscle or pulling triggers like the others; he was the brain guy, the figurer. About forty years old, he was probably the most ambitious of this listless crew, and undoubtedly the only one who could keep track of all Alexander's enterprises if Cyril should have to take a long trip, like to San Quentin, or Heaven. In fact, that was Omar's job right now, and apparently he was good at it; there was a lot to keep track of. I guessed that Cyril Alexander owned or controlled twenty businesses in Southern California—used-car lots, dry cleaning plants, night clubs, restaurants, a couple of car-wash corners, apartment houses. You couldn't say he wasn't a legitimate businessman.

  The other two guys present at this charming gathering, Luddy and Dope—yeah, he was actually called Dope, for reasons that were almost instantly apparent—were simply muscle men. Beef-shouldered, ape-chested, sour of eye and stomach, thick of arm and thigh and middle, and practically everywhere, especially between the ears. Very little electricity between any of those ears; actually, I think Dope was a little brighter than Luddy.

  We sat there. Luddy was picking his nose. Dope was watching him. Red-faced Stacey belched gloriously—he was drinking beer—practically in Stiff's ear, but not even that disturbed Stiff's corpselike lassitude, which is a lot of lassitude. Omar smiled pleasantly, but Cork stared at me, his one permanently raised eyebrow giving him a quizzical, ugly expression.

  “Well,” I said, “so this is how the rich live."

  “Yeah,” Alexander said, flattered. “Beats all hell livin’ in the city, don't it?"

  “I guess."

  “You should've come out before. Why'n't you never come out before?"

  “I didn't want to get shot."

  He laughed. “I wouldn't shoot you."

  “Well ... somebody might.” Luddy had stopped picking his nose. That made me happy, but Dope seemed vaguely disappointed. I suppose there weren't many things that really interested him. I went on, “That's one reason I came out here this morning, Mr. Alexander."

  “To get shot?"

  “Nope. Nope, not that at all. On the contrary. I wanted to tell you I'm, um, working for you, in a way. I'll be prowling around, doing some digging here and there. And if word reached you, I figured you—and your boys—should know whose side I'm on."

  “I can't believe what my ears is sayin'. You're workin’ for me?"

  “In a way."

  “How'd that happen?"

  “Well, that's not important. Not now, anyway. But the fact is, I'll be trying to rid this entire area of Nickie Domano and various members of his gang, if I can. Which shouldn't make you unhappy."

  “Make me happy. I'd like to kill that bastard. Like to kill all them bastards."

  “Now, that's another point I wanted to talk to you about. I know for certain it wouldn't make Captain Samson happy—it would make practically nobody happy—if you decided to kill all them bastards. The captain asked me to pass on to you the word, which is to let the police—or even me, if it comes to that—handle Nickie Domano and his boys. He says you're to keep your heaters cool or you'll all get hauled down to the slammer. Got it?"

  He opened those big eyes even wider and bugged them at me. “I was only shootin’ my mouth off, Scott. Can't bust a man for that. Live and let live, I say."

  “Uh-huh. Only Geezer isn't living, is he?"

  “No, there's no denyin’ that. Gonna bury Geezer tomorrow. Too bad you can't be there, Scott."

  I wondered how he meant that.

  He went on, “But it's private. Only family and, uh, business associates. And close friends, like us. But that don't mean he won't have everything. Just the casket's costin’ two and a half G's. Special hearse, best plot in the cemetery, every kind of flowers what is."

  “Man, he never had it so good,” I said. “But I was referring to the word floating around that maybe Geezer was hit by some of Domino's wipers. And that you might try to get even by hitting back. Which is precisely the situation Captain Samson takes a very dim view of."

  “He don't need to worry none. Not about us.” Alexander rolled the big eyes around at his boys. “We don't bear no ill wills. Right, boys?"

  There was a chorus of, “Yeah,” “You know it,” “It don't make us no never mind,” and such, with expressions of such exaggerated innocence and purity it must have hurt their chops. They were like kids with double handfuls of cookies, saying, “What cookies?” So I guessed I knew what cookies. They meant to kill all them bastards.

  But I said, “Well, I'm glad to hear there won't be corpses littering the streets. L.A. is untidy enough as it is. At least you won't mind if I lean on
Domino and his buddies a little."

  “Why should I mind? I'd expect you to try gettin’ even, anyways."

  “Even?"

  He looked off into space and up a little, as if following the flight of a bee, then turned back to me and said, “Was it somebody else fixed you to look like a basket case?"

  “Smart thinking. No, it was Domino and a couple of his friends. Maybe you can tell me where they hang out in the daytime?"

  He shook his head. “We been tryin’ to find out oursel—” He cut it off, looking displeased with himself. If Alexander had been a little quicker of wit than I knew him to be, I would have suspected him of knowing where Domino was, and of trying to make me think he didn't know. Apparently, however, he really didn't know where I could find them—or where he could find them.

  He was looking past me, and I glanced around. A woman was walking toward us from the house, carrying a big tray loaded with drinks. “About time Clara was gettin’ here,” Alexander said.

  Clara. His wife. She grunted up and put the tray on a table, turned without a word, and stomped back toward the house. “Lots of fun, ain't she?” Alexander said to nobody in particular.

  She was something to see, I'll tell you. A few gallons of Metrecal would have done her a lot of good. But not enough. She was short, wide, and muscular, with the build of a wrestler who'd never lost a fall. And the face—ah, the face. Or maybe aahhk, the face! It was a face that would chew tobacco, a face about to spit, a face to which almost anything could happen without it making much difference. She looked like a guy who would carry a .44 Magnum in a clamshell shoulder strap. Yeah, it's true; money isn't everything. Of course, I've never said it was. I wouldn't even have blown her a kiss, not for a million dollars.

  Alexander was passing the drinks around and he asked me again, “You want some booze?"

  I almost took a drink, but I said, “No, thanks. You don't know where I might find any of the Domino gang, huh?"

  “Beats me, Scott."

  “It was some of his boys who blasted Geezer, wasn't it?"

  “I don't know who it was. I was tryin’ to get in a crack in the sidewalk."

  “Well, you were there. You must have seen—"