The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Yeah,” Stacey agreed, panting. “Gahdamn disc of mine's sprung. I think it's split plumb in two."

  “O.K., just a second,” Cork said, and they all stopped.

  I stopped too, but about half a second later, and my shoe hit a little pebble.

  The little pebble rolled over the ground, passed a couple of feet to Dope's left, and stopped. He just happened to be looking that way, and saw it.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Nobody answered him.

  “Hey,” he said again. “I got to have help with this one."

  Without looking around, Cork snapped, “What in hell you gabbing about, Dope?"

  Dope screwed his head around slowly and looked at me. He looked straight at me. Then he screwed his head slowly back around again.

  “Hey,” he said, “wait a minute. How many of us is there?"

  “Oh, shut up, Dope."

  “No, they's something ... Lessee, you got a arm and you got a arm, and you got a leg, and ... I got a leg?"

  There was silence for a few seconds. Finally Dope said, “What in hell has he got?"

  “He?"

  “Yeah, him.” Dope looked around at me again. And at my gun. And, I suppose, at about half a grin on my face. “Fellows,” he said, “they is five of us."

  “Sure, counting Omar—"

  "I ain't counting Omar!"

  Well, this could go on forever. So I said, “He means me. Fellows, you're all under arrest. For grave robbing."

  It hit them all at once and in almost precisely the same fashion. First, rigidity. Followed by a kind of blah looseness. Then they swung their heads toward me and almost immediately up toward the now-unmistakable sound of the chopper's rotors nearly straight above us, their four heads whipping around at me and then skyward like citizens watching a vertical tennis match.

  Cork said a foul word.

  And I said, “I'll shoot the first guy who lets go of Omar."

  They stood there, debating.

  “Let go of him one at a time,” I said. “Make it easy for me."

  They stopped debating. “Carry him to the car,” I said. “But don't drop him when you get there."

  They moved. Swearing, but moving.

  At the car Dope looked at me and said, “How'd you know we was digging him up?"

  “Well, I had a hunch you were transplanting him."

  It was odd. We were talking about Omar as if he were a bulb. But, after all, Omar wasn't here any more, just his used skin and bones and such.

  “We didn't kill him, Scott,” Dope went on seriously.

  “Who says you did?"

  “I wouldn't want you thinking that, Scott. The boss told us who done it. It was Chunk and Two-Time and Liver."

  “How'd Alexander know that?"

  “He got there right after it happened. At Omar and Cork's house there."

  Remembering the holes in Omar I said, “Don't tell me Omar's supposed to have spilled that to Alexander, with his last breath."

  “Hell, no, he didn't have no last breath. Boss seen them bastards leaving. If they'd seen him it would've been different. We wouldn't've known who done it."

  I remembered that phone call from Omar. He'd said he was expecting Alexander any minute. Expecting him “here at the house any minute,” if I recalled his exact words.

  I said, “How come Alexander went there in the first place?"

  “Beats me. Just Omar wanted to see him about something, he said.” Dope paused, then went on, “Look, you got to believe we didn't kill him. Not Omar."

  “I believe you."

  “We just buried him. They blasted him, but we couldn't leave him layin’ there for the fuzz to stumble over. So the boss told us to plant him."

  “I know.” I did. It was the way it had to be. It just didn't make sense that Domino's hoods would blast Omar and then haul him out and bury him—caught with a stiff in their car they'd really be in the soup; they could draw San Quentin for speeding. No, simple logic said that if they planned to kill him they'd simply blast him and leave him where he lay, or else take him alive to the sticks and shoot him.

  So it had been obvious that, whoever killed him, or even if Omar had shot himself for target practice, it had been Alexander's boys who planted him, like a bulb. And, therefore, if anybody dug him up, it would have to be Alexander's boys who dug him up.

  Stacey looked at me, his face a kind of visual grumble. “This guy's awful heavy,” be said. “Besides, I got this thing in my back—"

  “You just hang on anyway, friend,” I said. “All of you hang on. You'll have plenty of time to rest."

  The pilot did not land “Chopper 14” on the Wilshire Country Club grounds again, for which I didn't blame him. Instead he cleared to sit down atop the tall Lee Tower on Wilshire Boulevard, let me off, and was on his way—back to the studio. The cameraman was in a fever of impatience to get his films developed.

  I was a little impatient myself. I guess there's a bit of the old ham in all of us, and I was sort of looking forward to seeing myself on Channel 14's seven-thirty telecast. I hoped those films came out. I hoped I looked brave. I hoped I lived till seven-thirty.

  I took the elevator down to the ground floor of the Lee Tower, called a cab, bought a newspaper, and went out onto Wilshire to wait. It seemed as if it should be about nine o'clock at night, but it was only one p.m.

  Not one, but three police radio cars had arrived at the little do-it-yourself graveyard, only about a minute and a half after I'd told Stacey to keep hanging on to Omar. The helicopter pilot had phoned in even before Omar's body came into view, almost as soon as those four hoods started digging; after hearing my story, he said, he figured they weren't looking for oil. I told him that was smart thinking.

  Anyhow, the hoods were on their way to the slammer for interrogation and incarceration, even before I finished telling my story to a couple of sergeants. I told them I'd be downtown later and took off. Took off literally, in the helicopter.

  When the cab arrived I climbed in and gave him the Spartan's address, glanced through the newspaper. Nothing very exciting; maybe tomorrow's paper would be better. One p.m., and a few ticks after. I guessed Alexander's gang—what was left of it—was climbing into the black suits and somber ties, putting on their diamond rings, and diamond tie clasps, and diamond cuff links, getting ready to go see Geezer. For the last time.

  Even deleting Cork, Brill, Dope, and Stacey—and Omar and Geezer, of course—I guessed there'd be about a dozen members of Cyril Alexander's criminal cabal present in the flesh at Eternal Peace; plus another fifteen or twenty of Cyril's part-time associates, and a scattering of miscellaneous thieves, muscle men, torpedoes, bank robbers and such, assembled to give their late colleague and fellow creep a proper send-off.

  Aside from those I knew quite well, there'd undoubtedly be black-eyed and thin-mustached Tamale Willie, a Mexican killer who liked to use a knife; Big Horse, who'd stomped two guys to death; Sad Mick McGannon, an old-timer who'd done time in Folsom after peppering a number of his friends with a machine gun in a fit of pique; and no telling who all. It was going to be a sight to see, and I almost wished I could be there this afternoon to watch them all filing gravely to the grave.

  Come to think of it, for the Alexander gang this was a big day for graves.

  The cabbie turned off Beverly into North Rossmore. The Spartan was just up ahead on the right, and—as I've mentioned is my habit—I looked over the area, almost casually. And then looked again, not so casually.

  It was just a little thing.

  At the top of the Spartan's cement steps, leaning against the wall, was what appeared to be a delivery boy. At least he held a package and was wearing a green cloth coat and a billed cap. The package was an oblong box like pretty flowers come in. I could even see the flowers—gladioli, I guessed they were—sticking prettily out of the end of the box. There was just no way you could mistake that package for anything but a box of flowers. That's what got me. I couldn't remember ever seein
g flowers sticking out the end of their box.

  Besides, the delivery boy was pretty old for a boy; catching up to forty, I'd say. And he was eagle-eyeing the street in front of the Spartan as if it were filled with uninhibited dancing girls instead of asphalt—and a taxicab beginning to slow down.

  I leaned back in the seat. “Keep going."

  “Isn't this the place?"

  “Not any more, it isn't."

  I kept out of sight, going by. My Cad was still parked behind the hotel, so if anybody was looking for me it was at least possible they would expect me to arrive in my car. They, not he.

  Because across the street was a panel truck, another guy standing alongside it, also watching the dancing girls. I slumped way down in the cab's back seat, but managed to notice that the side panel of what was apparently the delivery truck didn't have “Pretty Flowers” or anything else painted on it.

  “Where you want to go?"

  “Up ahead for two or three blocks, pull around and hit Beverly Boulevard again, and turn right on Rossmore. Do it over again."

  “You mean back where we was?"

  “That's it."

  He shook his head. Didn't make sense to him. I didn't give a hoot. Made sense to me.

  If that guy was waiting on the Spartan's steps for a little old lady, so he could give her a box of gladioli, I wanted to get my Cad and head for Cypress Road and the possible hangout of the Domino gang. But just in case he was waiting for me, I wanted to know that, too.

  If a hood is looking for you, with evil intent, the best thing you can know is the time and place. It's when you don't know the time and place that you get severely killed. On Beverly I found a bill in my wallet and pushed it over the front seat.

  “Here's the fare and a little extra."

  His hand found the bill. “Hey, that's a lot of—"

  “You'll earn it. Just before we get to the Spartan, slow down. But don't stop. I'm leaving while the cab's still moving. When I hit the street, dig out. And don't take your time about it."

  “I don't get it. Why should I dig—"

  He was turning into Rossmore for the second time now, and I didn't have time to argue with him. “You can stick around if you want to. But there's a small chance if you do you might get shot."

  I had my Colt out, and draped the newspaper over, holding it against the Colt with my thumb. The cabbie glanced around, saw what I was doing. “What the hell—” he began, but cut it off. He turned his head back, stared straight ahead, and said, “Yes, sir."

  Delivery Boy was still there. The other man was standing next to his panel truck. We started slowing. I held gun and newspaper in my right hand, left hand on the handle of the door. When the front of the cab was ten feet short of the Spartan's steps, I shoved the door open and jumped to the street, kept going toward the Spartan's entrance.

  I heard the cab's engine pick up speed fast.

  I wasn't sprinting, just sort of loping toward my hotel. If that guy was a delivery boy, I was merely a tenant carrying a paper, in a hurry to get home.

  He wasn't a delivery boy.

  When he got a good look at me, his eyes widened, and an audible sound of surprise popped from his lips. While it was still popping, he whirled, lowering the package, shoving his right hand into the back of the box, swinging the bright and colorful end of the box toward me.

  It was obvious. He was going to kill me with flowers.

  His knees were bending, and his expression had the tortured rigidity of a death mask. The box was moving fast, almost centered on me. Almost, but not quite yet.

  Not before I poured two into him.

  I squeezed the two shots off and jumped to my right as he staggered, turning away from me. The posies exploded. He'd convulsively triggered the gun and the deep, heavy blast sent shredded blossoms—and buckshot—flying past me. A shotgun, sawed off. Shot hit and glanced from the sidewalk before the hotel, and simultaneously I heard a yell from behind me.

  Across the street the man by the panel truck was looking down at his left arm. He grabbed for the truck's door, started to clamber in. Delivery Boy was on his knees—but that box was still in his hands. His death-mask face was dissolving in pain and shock, but he was still trying to pull the hidden shotgun barrel toward me. I fired again, and he fell, that last slug in his head.

  The truck's starter ground. I heard the engine catch—and the sound of a siren only a few blocks away. Across the street the man fed gas to his engine, and the truck jumped forward. I leveled my Colt, turning, but couldn't get a shot at him. Brakes squealed as he swung around the corner. The siren was much louder, close now. I trotted into the hotel, up the steps, and turned in the hall, headed for my rooms.

  I would have sworn the car with the wailing siren was on Rossmore, almost in front of the Spartan. But it couldn't have come here in response to the shooting—not within seconds. As I reached my apartment door and got it open the siren growled into its lowest register, started to stop. My phone was ringing. And, unquestionably, the car outside had stopped right out in front.

  I slammed the door shut, jumped to the phone. There was a muffled pounding on the carpeted stairs I'd just come up. With the phone to my ear I heard a voice saying, “Shell? You all right?” It was Samson's voice.

  Feet thumped in the hallway.

  I aimed my Colt at the door, thumbed back the hammer. The door flew open, and Bill Rawlins was there, gun in his hand.

  I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath, but it went out of me in a gush, and I lowered the Colt. “Yeah, Sam,” I said into the mouthpiece. “This is Shell. Hang on a second."

  “You all right?"

  “Yeah."

  I eased down the hammer of my gun and shoved the Special back into its clamshell holster. “What in hell's going on?” I said to Bill.

  He said the same thing Samson had, “You all right?"

  “Sure, I'm all right. I don't even think I leaked in my pants yet. I guess you saw the dead guy."

  He nodded. Then his chest rose and fell as he sighed deeply, relief showing on his face. He put his service revolver back in its belt holster and said, “I didn't check to see if he was dead. My partner's down there now."

  “Well, he's dead. I don't know who he is, though. Never saw the sonofabitch before. Sawed-off in the flower box, by the way."

  Bill nodded. He didn't seem a bit surprised.

  Samson's voice sounded tinny, filtered through the phone in my lowered hand. I put it to my ear again and said, “Sam. Bill Rawlins just came in like a landslide. What's—"

  “Thank God for that,” he said. “Shell, every hood in town is going to be trying to kill you before the day's out."

  I laughed—not much—and said, “Surely not every—"

  “Every one with a gun,” he interrupted. “Whoever hits you gets twenty-five grand."

  “You're kidding."

  “Twenty-five G's. No questions asked, in cash to the man who kills you. Must be fifty punks getting set to have a try at you already. No trouble yet?"

  “Well ... a little.” I stopped, remembering finally that my phone was tapped. Probably it didn't make too much difference now, but I figured I'd better end the conversation anyway. I said, “Sam, I'll get the rest of this from Bill, as long as he's here. He can fill you in later on the situation."

  Rawlins had come inside and shut the door, was sitting in my big leather chair now.

  “All right, as long as you're O.K.,” Sam said. “Bill can give you what we've got so far. I have to get out to the Eternal Peace, anyhow. Late now."

  That was right. Services for Geezer started at two-thirty. I looked at my watch. One-twenty-five p.m. already.

  Sam was going on, “We haven't got much yet, still checking. We got the word from one of those four hoods you sent in. How in hell did you manage that?"

  “Uh, let's skip it for the moment, Sam."

  “That wasn't a bad piece of work,” he said grudgingly.

  “Sloppy, very sloppy ... but a
t least those four are out of circulation. And, thank God, nobody else was killed."

  From Samson that was monumental praise. I grinned and said, “Ah, then you've forgiven me for slightly disturbing your relations with the chief. I'm glad, Sam. That's the spirit I—"

  “The hell I have!” he roared. “The hell I have. You should have heard—"

  “Well, if that's the way you want to be,” I said cheerfully, “as long as you're on the line you might as well send the meat wagon out here. I just killed a guy on my doorstep."

  In the silence, I hung up.

  “What's this about twenty-five G's for my scalp. Bill?"

  “Straight goods."

  “Who's the philanthropist?"

  “According to our information it's Cyril Alexander."

  “Good old Cyril, huh? I didn't know he cared—not that much, anyway."

  “Well, there's no corroboration yet. It's always possible this is a plant, a phony. If it is Cyril and not somebody else, we'll pick him up. But we need more than one guy's word."

  “Which guy? Sam said it was one of Alexander's men, one of the four I sent in."

  “Yeah. It was the one they call Dope. Officers who took them in split them up for interrogation. Dope started talking right away, no hesitation at all. The other three clammed."

  “Dope, huh? Well, he just might tell you the truth. What he believes the truth to be, at least. But he'd be pretty easy to con, too. What was his story?"

  “Claims Domino's triggers shot Omar last night, and that he and Luddy, Stiff, and Brill, the four of them, lugged Omar's body from his house and buried it last night. Idea was to keep it quiet he'd been knocked off."

  “That fits. Buried him on Alexander's orders, the way I get it."

  “Right. Also on his instructions, they hightailed it out to dig him up and bury him somewhere else. At the same time Alexander told them to move the body, he chewed hell out of you, said you'd double-crossed him, broken it off in him."

  “Double-crossed him?"

  “That's what Dope claims Alexander said to the whole bunch of them. At the same time he told them there'd be twenty-five thousand clams for whoever knocked you down. The word was going out not just to them but to any interested ears."