4
THE GUY at the head of the table was Torelli—Vincente Torelli, sometimes called Gorilla, but only behind his back. Now I knew who he was. Now I knew, and it made me very sad. No matter what he was called, he was poison—and he was The Top. You couldn't go any higher in the international crime syndicate.
My eyes almost popped out, not only because he was who he was but because he was the last guy I'd expected to see here. He'd been deported from the States several years back, and the guy was supposed to be in Italy.
I could taste death in my mouth. I was looking right at the syndicate and the Unione Siciliano. I didn't have much time to look around the room, but the place was swarming, absolutely swarming, with some of the deadliest killers and gang bosses and dope pushers and up-from-the-bloody-ranks elite of the syndicate and the Maffia. This was no place for a private detective. This was no place for anybody.
I caught all of that in half a second and then there was pandemonium in the room. Three or four guys jumped out of their chairs and one guy started toward me and about a dozen men started talking and shouting all at once.
All but Torelli. His face didn't move a muscle, even when he spotted me. He just stared at me coldly from dark eyes as expressionless as a dead snake's. When the hubbub and noise roared up he let it ride for about two seconds, then lifted his hand and waved it slightly.
It was as if he'd pulled a switch. Everybody stopped talking at once and the room got as quiet as a graveyard. The men who had jumped up eased back quietly into their seats. A lot of eyes were on me, eyes that had watched too much torture and death already and would calmly watch a lot more.
In the quiet Torelli said softly to me, in a purring voice with a definite Italian accent, looking coldly at me with his dark eyes fixed on mine, "You're not Gunner."
I said the first words that popped into my mind, knowing I had to say something. "Gunner? Who the hell's Gunner? And who the hell are you?"
His swarthy face hardened like a quick-drying cement, and that should have scared me. But it didn't. I knew, suddenly, that I couldn't have said anything else, that out of my subconscious mind had come the only words that were right. I had to make Torelli believe that I'd simply stumbled into this mess, and I had to convince him that I didn't know who he was. It was quite an order, and I didn't really think I could do it, but I had to try something in a hurry.
Torelli said, "Listen, mister," and his voice was like a knife edge at my throat. "Say your piece fast. What were you doing in Gunner's room?"
I strained to keep my voice normal, keep it from cracking. I had to pull this through, pretend I didn't know what he was talking about. If I knuckled down to him completely, crawled even a little, he'd know I had him pegged for who he was. In one way, my next words and actions were the most foolish of my life, but it was the only way I could handle this and have the slimmest chance.
So I said, "Will you quit yapping about this Gunner, whatever he is? I already told you I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
I was still standing with my back to the door, and now I walked around the table toward Torelli. Two men near me half rose from their chairs and some right hands crept toward left armpits. Torelli waved his hand slightly and everybody relaxed again.
I stopped three or four feet from Torelli, and it suddenly occurred to me that if I'd had time to dress carefully and wear a gun, I might very well be dead now. One funny move toward a gun and I'd grow holes like sponges.
I swallowed and looked down at him, trying to make my face look angry. I said, "And what business is it of yours which room I sleep in?"
For the first time his expression changed a bit. He winced. I don't know what he might have said then, or what might have happened, but from behind me came a voice I recognized. It was a deep, rumbling voice and it said, obviously to Torelli, "Uh, excuse me."
Torelli glanced past me and nodded. I craned my head over my shoulder and looked at Garvey Mace. He was looking at me and his broad face was serious.
I tried to make it light. "Mace! Why, you old crook. What the hell is this, man?" My voice didn't quite make it on the last word and it wobbled a little.
Mace said softly to Torelli, "He's Shell Scott, a soft heel from L.A. I know him well, saw him earlier today. Says he's down here on vacation." Then to me he said, "Take a tip, Shell." It was the first time he had ever called me anything but Scott. "Give your answers pretty."
I shrugged. "OK, if you say so, Mace."
I looked around the room. I was getting a hazy idea of what was going on in Acapulco, and I wasn't too surprised to see the head of a union that had been expelled from the CIO for Communist activities, and a wheel from an AFL labor union that controlled, I knew, well over a hundred thousand members. I was a little surprised, though, to see a United States senator. Only one. That left ninety-five honorable men unaccounted for.
I said to Torelli, "OK. What's the trouble?"
He just looked at me. He'd asked me once, and he wasn't in the habit of asking people twice. I wasn't about to make him start. I said, "About the room? Like I told you, I don't know what you mean. I pulled in here yesterday afternoon from Mexico City and had a hell of a time getting a bed. Didn't have a reservation."
He said flatly, "You got a room here."
"Sure I did. Finally hit here and got on the clerk. Had to slip him a little grease, but he had a cancellation and let me have it."
Torelli's dark eyes left my face only briefly, flicked to the floor and then back to my face, but I heard the door open and close softly.
He knew, of course, that there was a chance I was telling him the truth, so he stopped playing it hard. He was plenty smart; that's why he was the top. He said, pleasantly enough now, "What'd you come here with the bellboy for?"
I glanced over my shoulder to see if the bellhop had gone down to check my story at the desk. He was still there, so it was somebody else talking to the guy I'd paid a hundred dollars. I wished now I'd given him a thousand.
I jerked a thumb at the bellhop and then grinned at Torelli. "He can tell you," I said. "Here I was in the room and he walks right in and says something about my getting dressed in fifteen minutes, then blows. I figured he must have escaped from somewhere. Then this Eve doll breezes in dressed in next to nothing. She says I must be Gunner and starts to make a play. So, if she wants to play with some Gunner, I'll be her Gunner. I forgot all about this bellhop character. I figured his attendants must have picked him up by now, and I was doing pretty well as Gunner when the guy banged back in like he owned the place. The fact is, I had no desire to come down here, but that lug wouldn't take no for an answer. Made me jump into some clothes and then dragged me down here." I pulled up my pants leg. "Look at that. I didn't even have time to tie my shoelaces. The guy acted just crazy enough so I didn't want to argue with him." I stopped. Then I said, "When Garvey Mace tells me to do something, I generally figure it's a good idea. But why all the questions?"
Torelli nibbled on his lip, glanced at the bellhop for a long second, then back to me. Then he looked around the room. His eyes stopped on the senator and he paused for a moment. I could almost feel his brain cells working. He smiled at me; the smile made his face look like the front end of an old locomotive. "Perhaps I should explain. We're having a kind of convention here, Mr. Scott. Elections coming up in November, you know. Naturally we wouldn't want word of our strategy to leak out in advance of party conventions." He looked across the room. "Isn't that right, Senator?"
The trained, healthy voice answered, "Indeed it is. We might be helping to determine the future course of the ship of state here in this room." He cleared his throat. "In these trying times—"
Torelli cut him off with a nod; this was no time for a speech. Almost anybody but a senator would have known that. The senator shut up.
I looked back at Torelli. I said in my politest tone, "I'm sorry for my rudeness when I came in here. I can understand your curiosity, though. I might be a Republican spy, huh?
Ha—"
I got out only one "ha" because nobody thought that was funny. Torelli said, "In that case you wouldn't mind a few more questions."
"Not at all."
"What are you doing here at Las Américas, Mr. Scott?"
"I was just fortunate to get a room here, that's all." I heard the door open and close softly again behind me and it suddenly got harder to push the words out. I kept it going while Torelli glanced to the door and then back at me again. "I'm just here on a vacation. Like Mace said"—I jerked my head toward him—"I'm a private detective. Finished up a case in Mexico City yesterday, so while I was close, I figured I'd take a look. Never been here before."
"Mexico City? What took you there? I'm interested, really."
"Guy named Willie Lake lifted some jewelry from an old dame in L.A. Name of Bradenton. Worth about fifty grand. I picked up the guy in a flea-bag hotel on Donceles—his doll fingered him—and picked up the swag with him. They're holding him in Mexico, and I sent the stones back to L.A. Figured I deserved a vacation." I grinned, then let it die. Torelli wasn't the grinning type.
"I see," he said. He was quiet for a few moments, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on my face. He asked a few more questions, which I thought I answered OK. So far the answers I'd given him could be checked; the Willie Lake robbery had been set up by Joe so that it would appear my work had nothing to do with Joe himself, and apparently Torelli had got the right nods or winks or whatnot from the guys behind my back. The desk clerk had probably come through with the story about the fake wire from "Jacob Brodney," but it wouldn't take much pressure to get the truth out of him. When and if Torelli found out Gunner had been shot through the head, though . . . I refused to think about it.
Torelli said finally, "I hope this hasn't inconvenienced you too much, Mr. Scott. You can go to your Eve now."
I grinned. "I'm afraid the insistent bellhop queered that for me. She left when he started throwing his weight around. Well." I took a big breath. "I'll see you around." I looked around and said, "See you, Mace, and nice to meet you, Senator. Hope your man gets all he deserves." And then I turned my back on Torelli, which is usually a very foolish thing to do, but it seemed that I had done so many foolish things already that one or ten more wouldn't make much difference, and I started walking toward the door, wondering if I'd make it.
The ugly bellhop swung the door open just as I saw, sitting in the corner, George Sudden Death Madison, still staring at me with hate in his eyes.
I took one more step toward that open door and Torelli spoke from behind me and I very nearly broke and ran. But all he said was "Mr. Scott, because of the importance of this . . . convention, I'd suggest you stay close to your room—the hotel, at least—until the convention is over."
I didn't even turn around. "Oh, hell," I said. "I've got no place to go."
Then I walked out that open doorway and heard it shut behind me.
5
THERE WAS sure a convention here, all right. Only it was a convention of mobsters and torpedoes like nothing I'd ever heard of before. I had an idea what it was about now, but I wanted to be sure. I remembered seeing Archie Crouse, my grifter acquaintance, in the bar this morning. Maybe I could get the word from him. Knowing his breed, I knew he'd like nothing better than to be quits with me. He'd been charged with a crime and I'd cleared him, not because I wanted to help him, but because I wanted the guilty guy, and got him. The charge was murder, and Archie never forgot it. Not many people would, but especially not a con man.
I wandered around the hotel grounds for fifteen minutes, and finally I spotted Crouse in a chair in the lobby. The only trouble was that I'd spotted my bellhop earlier, in a double-breasted suit now, keeping an eye on me. So I walked casually by Archie and said out of the corner of my mouth as I passed him, just like a tough guy, "Meet me at the bar, Archie." I walked on out to the front of the hotel, stood there for a minute, then turned around and almost bumped into the ex-bellhop.
This guy wasn't Vincente Torelli. I said, "What do you think you're doing, playing tag? Keep out of my way, friend. I've had enough trouble with you already."
He didn't say anything. I brushed by him and walked out past the pool and into the bar. Archie was on a stool and I climbed onto the one next to him and ordered a bourbon and bottled mineral water from the bartender. Between sips I laid it out for Archie. He wasn't crazy about talking, but he gave it to me, all of it, everything I hadn't already been sure about. It scared hell out of me.
After a few minutes of quiet conversation I said, "This convention doesn't have anything to do, then, with Gunner's big caper—the blackmail touch?"
"Only indirectly. But you can see how nice it ties in."
"Yes. It's one of the neatest jobs I ever heard of."
"You know Gunner."
"Yeah," I said. "None better." I wondered how Archie would feel when he found out Gunner was dead; he'd known the guy. I said, "You don't know who it was Gunner was putting the squeeze on?"
"No, just some big Commie that pulls a lot of weight."
That one slammed into me. Joe had mentioned his ex-Communist background, but he'd definitely stressed the ex. I thought about that for a minute, finished my drink, and ordered two more. "Archie, what about this recording? Some union guys, was it?"
"Yeah, half a dozen or so. Pretty big union men, and they couldn't afford to let that dope get out. That tape's a real lever. That's what I hear, Scott. I never saw any of this stuff, you understand."
"Uh-huh." Something buzzed in my brain and I hung onto it, thinking up a storm. A dozen things were tying together, and I could see how this thing might wind up. It would very likely wind up with me dead, but I pinned down the buzz in my brain, my mind jumping ahead. I might be able to plant an idea in Archie's thoughts now, this minute, that could conceivably work into something big later.
I sipped at my drink, put it down, and said, "Archie, the way it sounds, Gunner got together this blackmail file on—on a big apple, and headed down here to present it to Torelli. Gunner would then be aces with Torelli, right?"
"He'd get a blank check, Scott. What Gunner has will set the whole program up."
"Uh-huh." That "program" worried me even more now than my client's problem. Archie had given me most of the lowdown on the program of this convention. I brought my mind back to the immediate problem. I said, "Beautiful job of Gunner's—if it's on the level."
He frowned. "What you mean by that?"
"No offense, Archie, but you can count the really top confidence men on your fingers. You know that. And clear up at the very top you'd have to put Gunner. He'd be just the man who might try to con Torelli."
Archie swung around on his stool and stared at me. "Con Torelli! You must have been sprung from the cackle factory. Not even Gunner would try that."
"Why not? Couldn't he fake a bunch of stuff, spread some fat rumors, and get Torelli panting as hot as any other mark? Gunner might get killed, yeah, but if he didn't there could be millions in it."
Archie frowned, bit his lip. He said softly, "That would be the biggest score of them all."
I stopped pressing. "It was just a thought. I doubt Gunner would try it. You might ask around, see if anybody knows anything for sure. There's some of Gunner's pals around here." I grinned. "They might have to protect him from himself. Torelli would have him pushed for sure, you know. Torelli isn't an ordinary mark; he'd bust his wig."
Archie let his tongue roam around inside his cheek, thinking.
"Well," I said, "that does it. Thanks, Archie." I finished my drink.
He said, "Scott, now we're quits. Even. Right?"
"Right."
He turned back to his drink. I said, "One thing for free, if you don't mind, Archie. Who's the ugly lob at the end of the bar chilling us? He's dogging me. Doesn't seem to care if I know it or not."
Archie glanced at the end of the bar, then at me, frowning deeply. "If he's on your tail you better get rid of it. Hell, don't you know that's the Joker?"<
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I didn't even say thanks. I got out of there, went to my room, and bolted the door. I knew the Joker, but I didn't know him when I saw him. I know a lot of gorillas by their names, records, and revolting characteristics without knowing them by sight, because most of the crooks I see are the Southern California variety. The Joker was actually Abel Samuels, a Chicago conk-crusher who got his moniker because he looked so very unfunny, and because he was fruit for practical jokes. He always cracked wise before he killed a guy. The boys in his own set thought he was a scream; none of the victims said anything. He was alternately up and down in the favors of the top racket boys because, though he was tough, efficient, and deadly, he was, like most avid proponents of the practical joke, not very bright, and he too often got carried away by his delight with his own latest gag, such as knocking out a chum's teeth when said chum had a hot dinner date.
The main trouble with the Joker was that, though he was subservient to his own bosses, he had no respect for any law, assuming, rightly or wrongly, that he could get away with anything. Maybe rightly, because I now remembered that he was the man who shot and killed Art Fly, a Los Angeles bookie, on Seventh and Spring in L.A. Ten people saw him do it, one of them testified shakily against the Joker at the trial. The Joker beat the rap. Three months later the brave witness who testified died in bed; he bled to death of gunshot wounds. Also, the hood was a junky and a close friend of George Madison.
I went to the bureau and took my snub-nosed .38 Special out of the drawer. It didn't seem as if anything less than a death ray would be much good to me in this town, but I swung out the cylinder and put a sixth cartridge in the empty chamber I usually carry under the hammer. So I might shoot myself in the arm, but that seemed relatively unimportant.
I got dressed in a pale blue tropic-weight suit complete with gaudy sport shirt, loud socks, and gleaming cordovan shoes, then I lay down on the bed and thought about what I'd got into. It was big. It was the biggest.
Darling, It's Death Page 4
