The Big Enchilada (A Sam Hunter Mystery Book 1)

by L. A. Morse

  In front of my apartment building a bunch of kids were playing a game they called Muggers in the Park. In a few years they’d be playing it for real—on one side or the other. Whatever happened to cowboys and Indians? Maybe that was what I was playing.

  I parked my car. Somewhere close by a woman with a voice like a banshee was screaming, “If you go out that door now, don’t you fucking bother coming back.” I heard a door slam. I guess he wasn’t coming back. I could see why he wouldn’t.

  Fifty-five minutes on a crowded freeway is just about what it takes to make my apartment look good. I was hardly through the door before I had stripped, poured myself a big glass of gin, and jumped into the shower.

  I finished the gin and the shower at the same time. I tried to phone Watkins, but he wasn’t at the cop shop or at home. I lay down on my bed to relax. I must have been tired because I went out pretty quickly.

  I dreamed I was chasing shadows. They looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place them. Suddenly they turned and started chasing me. I tried to turn around to see who it was, but they kept moving out of my vision. I was tripping over bloody corpses—a lot of them. Stubby Argyll popped up, saying, “It’s not the heat, but the humidity.” I listened as though it meant something. One Arm Shifty kept asking, “Do you want to play a game, sport?”

  I woke up and it was dark. I was covered in a thin film of sweat and I felt chilled. Either I was getting spooked or it was a mild flare-up of malaria, another memento of Nam. After I was awake for a couple of minutes, I knew I wasn’t spooked, so I took a couple of the pills I keep around. By the time I washed off the sweat, the pills were starting to work and I was feeling hungry.

  I would have liked to stay in, but I still had one more call to pay in my shit-stirring program. I dressed and went out.

  I let my stomach lead me to the Golden Dragon, a greasy little Chinese restaurant between a topless bar and an auto-parts shop. There were a few clowns at the Formica tables who thought they were being daring and exotic by eating chop suey and some deep-fried crap in bright-pink sweet-and-sour sauce, the usual North American Cantonese garbage. I’d rather starve than eat that stuff. Somewhere along the line, though, I discovered that the cook really knew his Szechuan food and would fix me things that weren’t on the menu.

  I sat down at a table and sent the cockroaches scurrying for cover. They were large and obviously well fed. I shrugged. If the food was good enough, I didn’t mind competing with a few dozen insects for it. I figured I was more than their match.

  The waiter came over, giving me a big smile that showed a lot of gold. I told him to have the cook make me three dishes, whatever he felt like, just so it was good. If it wasn’t, I said, I’d see to it that he’d never wok again. The waiter looked at me blankly. Inscrutable.

  In a very short time the cook himself brought out the dishes. He was just over four feet tall and humpbacked. On his chin there was a mole with several three-inch-long hairs growing out of it which he lovingly pulled at from time to time. He looked like a refugee from an opium den, and was said to be the best Mah-Jongg player on the West Coast. He put the plates down, squawked “Hot! Hot! Hot!” like a malignant parrot, and went back to the kitchen chuckling to himself at some unknown joke.

  The food was good as ever. There was a dish with thinly sliced chicken, dried orange peels from Shanghai that cost $25 a kilo), and a big handful of dried hot chiles. You took a piece of chicken, a piece of orange peel, and a chile into your mouth at the same time and let the flavors explode. There was a dish of matchstick beef and shredded carrots stir-fried with lots of crushed chiles. The sweetness of the carrots enhanced the hotness of the chiles, and the pieces of beef absorbed it all. The third dish was bean curd covered with a soupy ground meat sauce filled with fagara, the aromatic Szechuan peppercorn. Not bad, and a nice contrast in texture to the other dishes. I had three large bowls of rice and a couple of beers. It was all right.

  On my way into town the various flavors and the hotness of the chiles lingered in my mouth. My belly felt full and warm. I was ready for the third installment. After this I would wait for them to make their move.

  The door to the Black Knight Club was opened and I was admitted without comment. Bulldog I glared sullenly at me. Bulldog II stood at his shoulder and did the same.

  I looked them up and down. I fingered the lapel of Bulldog I’s jacket. Polyester.

  “Hmmm. Nice. Who’s your tailor?” I said. “I need a tuxedo for my performing chimpanzee, and this is just what I’m looking for.”

  I heard a growl in his throat. I shrugged and moved off.

  I stood in the entrance to the lounge. The night’s performance was getting under way. It was announced as “The Revolt of the Slaves.”

  Three immense black men clad only in loincloths, their bodies oiled to show off their incredible musculature, advanced toward a small blond girl wearing a frilly white hooped skirt. She looked like the same girl from the previous evening. She seemed to have survived the Spanish Inquisition okay. The black men grabbed her and began to prod and poke her with quizzical expressions on their faces, as though she were some species of strange animal.

  I felt a touch on my arm. It was Nicky Faro. He was looking terrible. His long body was stooped over, and there was a terrified expression at the back of his eyes. He drew me off to one side.

  “Jesus Christ, Hunter! What have you been doing?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “All hell is breaking loose. Everybody’s nervous. Lascar is jumping around like a spastic. He’s on the phone all the time. I try and find out what’s going on, and nobody says anything. They just look at me kind of funny.”

  I nodded. Things seemed to be progressing nicely.

  “Come on, Hunter.” Faro seemed near to cracking. “You said you would keep me out of it. I don’t like what’s happening. I’m getting pretty scared.”

  “That’s too bad, Faro.”

  “Hunter!” My name was almost a wail. “You can’t do this to me.”

  “Faro, you’re a stupid, slimy schmuck, trying to play a big boy’s game. I owe you nothing. I love to see punks like you go down the toilet.”

  “Hunter!” Panic.

  “But you’re lucky. I’m going to help you.”

  Relief.

  “Not because I think you’re worth saving—because you’re definitely not—but because it happens to be worth my while to do so.”

  Gratitude.

  “Now listen close. Everything’s going to come down in a crash. I don’t know if there’ll be any survivors, but if there are, you can be damn sure you won’t be one of them.”

  Panic.

  “You are in deep shit. I can get you out, but you have to cooperate. If you do, you’ll get a stake so you can clear out. What you do after you leave is your business.”

  “What do you want me to do?” His throat sounded-dry and his voice was a barely audible croak.

  “You’ll talk to someone, tell him what you told me.”

  “Cop?”

  “Reporter.”

  “Jesus Christ, Hunter!”

  “And you’ll turn over all your pictures.”

  “They’ll kill me!”

  “You’re already dead. This is your only chance.”

  He swallowed hard a couple of times. “Okay.”

  “Be available tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded miserably. His face looked like a death’s-head.

  “And lighten up or you’ll blow everything. In twenty-four hours you’ll be clear.”

  He shook his head. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to goose Lascar and see how high he jumps.”

  Faro groaned and shuffled off, a bent beanpole.

  I went down the corridor and opened the door to Lascar’s office without knocking. He was sitting behind his desk, motionless, staring into space. He seemed somewhat the worse for wear from the previous evening. He was still dressed all in black, and, while he w
as still immaculate, the impression was that he was covered with a fine layer of dust and dandruff. He jumped when I came in.

  “Who!— Oh!— What do you want?”

  “I wanted to find out how our deal was coming.”

  “I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to do, but you’re not wanted here.”

  “Does that mean the deal is off?”

  “You’re funny.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the girl I wanted had been in the club?”

  “She wasn’t. Who says?” His head started twisting and jerking on his neck.

  “I hear things around. She was seen.”

  “You been talking to your friend Faro? If he doesn’t watch it, he’s going to end up a grease spot in somebody’s garage.”

  “It wasn’t Faro. Other people saw her. What happened to her?”

  “Nothing happened to her ‘cause she wasn’t here. Understand? Never here. That’s where I want you to be—never here. Now get out or you’ll leave carrying your ass in a sling.”

  “That’s no way to talk to someone who’s here to do you a favor.”

  “The only favor you can do me is to leave. Now.”

  “You’ve got trouble.”

  “You’re my only trouble, but you won’t be in about thirty seconds.”

  “You poor sucker,” I said, shaking my head.

  “What do you mean?” he said between twists of his head.

  “They’re setting you up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jesus, you really don’t know, do you?”

  “You got something to say, say it.”

  “The whole thing’s coming down. The club—everything. It’s going belly up, and you’re going to be left holding your cock and pissing into the wind.”

  “You’re full if it.” He didn’t sound too confident.

  “No. You’re going to be closed up.”

  “Can’t happen. We’re safe.”

  “You were safe. Ratchitt’s cutting you loose. Things are getting too hot.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “And Domingo’s clearing out as well.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy.” His head was twisting so hard it was pulling his body around.

  “You keep saying that up until the time they throw you in the joint. Domingo’s not stupid. He knows what’s coming, and he’s getting out, clean and healthy. You’re being left to take the fall. And it’s a good one. Shit! Is it ever! Prostitution, running a bawdy house, use of minors for immoral purposes, corruption of minors, white slavery, probably Mann Act violations, blackmail, bribery of law enforcement officers, possession and distribution of pornography. And there are a dozen or two more charges they can throw at you if they want. And you’re going to be the only one left around to pin it on.”

  “Where do you hear all this?”

  “It’s all around. Man, you must be the only one who doesn’t know. It’ll probably be in the papers tomorrow.”

  “Yeah? Now listen to me. That was a good number you just ran by me, but I been told about you. I been told you’re full of shit, and that I should deal with you like any other piece of garbage I find.” His finger pressed a button on his desk.

  “Who told you that? Domingo? Well, of course. He knows I’m after him. He’s just making sure that you’re going to stand in the way. You think he cares what happens to you?”

  The door opened and the Bulldogs appeared.

  “Show this jerk out,” Lascar said. “Hard.”

  “Okay, Lascar,” I said, “but you’d better look into it.”

  I went through the door between the two heavies, shutting it behind me. I took a couple of steps and stopped.

  “Hold on a second, I forgot something,” I said, and quickly turned and opened the door. Number three. Lascar was on the phone and froze when he saw me. “Give him my regards,” I said and shut the door.

  A Bulldog took me by each arm and muscled me toward the door. On the way I looked in to see how the revolt of the slaves was going. Progressing nicely. All parties were naked and the southern belle had each of her openings filled with thick black cock. The girl looked busy. The men looked bored. The audience was shouting requests.

  The front door was opened. I was clubbed between the shoulders by a heavy fist and given a hard punch to the kidneys. It hurt. I was then pushed out onto the walkway where I fell to my hands and knees. My trousers ripped at the knee. Son of a bitch.

  I got in my car, started it, and drove around the corner. I parked, waited about ten minutes, and then lit a cigarette and walked back to the club. I knocked and pressed myself against the door so I couldn’t be seen. The spy hole opened. I stood up and blew a big mouthful of smoke into it. There was a puzzled exclamation followed by some loud coughing. In a second the door flew open and Bulldog II came charging out, but I was ready. I buried my toe in his crotch. As he doubled over I put my hands on the back of his head and pushed downward, hard. His face met the concrete walk with a satisfying sound and he was still. That took about four seconds.

  I jumped into the shadows next to the door. Bulldog I came out. One hand was furiously rubbing his eyes, which were watering badly. His other hand held a gun. I sadly shook my head: that was a definite escalation of the conflict. He looked around angrily, trying to see me through his blurred vision. I grabbed the barrel of the gun, catching his finger in the trigger guard, and twisted it until I heard the bone snap. I yanked the gun from his hand and, with the butt, hit him solidly on the bridge of his nose. He fell straight forward onto his face. I found his wallet and took out thirty-five dollars.

  That would cover a new pair of pants.

  No one had heard anything. Too engrossed in the performance, I guess.

  I went back to my car and drove home.

  I checked the bedroom and was glad to find that no one was there.

  The only message on my answering machine was from Charlie Watkins. He wanted to talk to me. He said it was important.

  I tried but couldn’t reach him. I was starting to get bothered about not being able to reach people. Tinny voices on my machine and then nothing.

  There was no message from Clarissa Acker. Shit.

  I threw my trousers in the garbage and went to bed.

  EIGHTEEN

  I was draining my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.

  A voice I didn’t recognize said that if I wanted the goods on Domingo, I should be at a parking lot near Venice Beach at eleven o’clock. I tried to get the caller to identify himself and tell me what this was all about, but he hung up.

  I thought about it. It sounded phony, like I was being set up. On the other hand, my agitating might be bringing in dividends. I weighed both sides, figured I could take care of myself if it was a setup, and decided to keep the appointment. I had nothing else planned for the day anyway except to wait and see what developed.

  I heard a key turn in my front door lock. I started moving to the bedroom for my gun, but the door opened before I got halfway. I was lucky again—or maybe not, depending on how you looked at it. It was the woman who ran the apartment building, the mother of Miki or Kiki or whoever. I couldn’t remember her name either, but I began to see where her daughter got the habit of coming into my apartment uninvited. Damn these women.

  “Whatever happened to knocking?” I said. It wasn’t a very good line, but I was standing in the middle of the room with only a towel wrapped around me, and it was the best I could manage.

  “Then what would be the point of having a passkey?” She grinned and stood with a hand on an out-thrust hip. The resemblance to her daughter was striking, except the mother had a few extra pounds. They had accumulated mostly around the breasts and hips, and did her no harm. She worked hard to create the illusion that they were sisters. It even looked like she wore her daughter’s clothes. She had on a long T-shirt, and from the way it clung to her, there was nothing under it.

  The front of the shirt said, “If love is
the answer, what’s the question?” I could think of several.

  “Well?” I said. I was really sharp this morning.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  “Not really.” I had a good idea. Two, in fact.

  “I gather you’ve been screwing my daughter.” Right on one count. It figured the girl would brag, being locked in competition with her mother.

  “Guilty,” I said. “But could you accept that she seduced me?”

  She laughed. “I could... that bitch. But you’re not going to tell me you were an unwilling participant.”

  “Well, my heart wasn’t in it—”

  “Something else was though,” she cut in with a harsh laugh.

  “—and it was unpremeditated.”

  “Hey, Sam, I’m not complaining. If she’s going to fuck around, she’s going to fuck around, and she might as well learn from the best, which is what you are, baby.” Another entry for my book of testimonials. “All I want is my fair share of the goodies. I haven’t seen you for a while.” I was right on both counts.

  She grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it over her head. She was naked, and she stood there with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, looking like she meant business. She was fleshy but still firm. Her breasts were slightly cone-shaped, capped by hard, pointed nipples, and they swelled slightly with each breath she took.

  “I’m not so bad, am I?” she said hoarsely.

  She wasn’t. I said so, though the movement of the towel I had on made my answer unnecessary. She hungrily eyed the mounting bulge.

  “And I still know a few tricks that the girl hasn’t had time to learn yet,” she said as she crossed over to me. She pulled away the towel. “Oh, Sam!” She fell on me like she was dying of hunger and I was the Christmas turkey.

  What the hell. I had a couple of hours before my appointment.

  She wasn’t as good as she thought she was. They never are.

  Somewhere in the middle of the performance I decided I’d have to find a new apartment. The mother-daughter routine was getting to be a drag. The goddamn bitches.

  Not without a struggle, I managed to get the woman off me in time to shower, dress, and leave for my meeting.