The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Whatever it was, it didn’t detract from the overall blood-warming effect she almost surely had not only on me but on most males, or the impression I got that beneath the wintry surface might be a whole month of Fourth of Julys. On the contrary, that bit of surface frost added something, like salt rimming a Margarita, or the chill in a good white wine.

  Occupied with such ruminations, I’m not quite sure how I happened to notice the number she was dialing with one red-tipped finger.

  I did, however. Noticed, and also recognized the number, since I had dialed it twice myself within the past hour. She, too, was calling Mayor Everson Fowler.

  She listened in silence for several seconds, then hung up the phone with an expression of mild annoyance on her face—an expression which, when she glimpsed me standing three feet away, became somewhat less mild.

  She stared at me from eyes the bewitching cool green of goblins’ blood, smooth brows pulled down, full lovely red lips that should never have pooched except for the chummiest of reasons forming an almost prunelike pucker of disapproval.

  I won’t say it was an encouraging expression. But I am, if nothing else, a man of optimism, persistence, and daydreams. So I said, smiling harmlessly, “Ma’am, I beg your p—”

  I felt the breeze, I believe, as she whirled and sped away. For a moment I stared after her, my rudely interrupted mouth still open, chin hanging down in a fashion reminiscent of Yoogy. Then I snapped my chops shut with a sharp click, thrust my jaw forward, and started thudding after her. Who did she think she was? I was not some oaf inviting her out behind the garage to vulcanize a flat, I was Shell Scott, persistent, optimistic private eye with an important question to ask her. Several important questions.

  Including how come she was phoning the mayor who’d hired me, and fired me, and to whose home had so recently gone some extremely suspicious characters, myself excluded.

  I even began thinking some dark, suspicious thoughts about the shapely green-eyed lovely as I followed her, watching the miraculously fluid and rhythmic swingy-sway of firm rounded hips beneath trim taut waist—which made it somewhat difficult to think dark, suspicious thoughts. And I watched it sit down on the brown-leather seat of a booth, and slide sweetly over it, and come gently to rest.

  And then, enlarging the area of my gaze, I realized not only had she returned to the booth where I’d see her before, but there were now two men seated at the same table, the gray-haired billionaire, and—Hank Wainwright.

  That was a moment not only of some surprise but of multiple pleasures. Part of it was my instant understanding of why the cool-hot-looking lovely with the provocative walk and eyes of goblins’-blood green had been phoning Mayor Fowler, and that, thank goodness, she was one of the good guys. Part was from finally locating the mayor’s three “associates,” which was why I’d come here in the first place. But most it was from suddenly seeing Hank Wainwright once more.

  Not that we’d spent a lot of time together when he was working out of Central Intelligence in Los Angeles; we hadn’t. We’d toured the town two or three times, that was all. But he was a bright, energetic, happy-go-lucky go-to-hell guy, a few years older than I, who was always a pleasure to be around and, now, a pleasure to see again.

  Hank noticed me walking toward the table right after I spotted him, and he sort of reared back in the booth and started grinning. When he grinned, you could tell it from two blocks away, because even in sober repose his good-looking, slightly satanic face looked ready to crack wide open in a smile.

  As I stopped next to the booth he stood up, bent slightly forward as he stuck his arm out over the table, a man about six feet tall but so lean he looked longer.

  “Shell, you sonofagun,” he said. “What in hell are you doing in Newton?”

  “Same old thing, Hank,” I said, shaking his hand and grinning back at him. “Nose to the grindstone. I was following this young lady here.”

  I gave her a suspicious sideways glance, as Hank said, “Sorry I asked,” and noted she was looking at me with mild interest. Which was a considerable improvement.

  “I have some kind of reason to believe,” I went on, “that she may be the long-lost daughter of the late Emir of Istanbul, and thus heiress to eleven billion piastramis. My most vital clue is the fact that the real heiress has a tiny mole the size of a gnat, located, I am excited to reveal—”

  “Behind her left ear,” Hank said dryly.

  “You took all the excitement out of it. But, yes, behind her left—”

  “It’s good to see you anyway,” Hank interrupted. “Shell, I want you to meet Miss Monet.”

  I beamed down at her, and she came very close to smiling, I think, and nodded her head slightly.

  “And Mr. David Bannister,” Hank said, indicating the heavyset man seated on my right.

  We shook hands. His grip was firm, blue eyes clear and bright as he looked up at me. He appeared fit, with a bit of tan and more muscle than fat on him. He had the look of a man accustomed to steam baths and massages, golf at the country club, good food and drink, and money.

  “So you’re Mr. Scott?” he said. “Henry was speaking of you only a week or so ago.”

  “I know.”

  “What does bring you to Newton ... you know?”

  “Yes. Mayor Fowler mentioned Hank’s interesting comments about me. I assume you are the people he referred to. He said he was going to have lunch here at the Sherwood with three of his ‘associates,’ and mentioned Hank Wainwright’s name.”

  Hank said, “We’re the three, all right. The mayor should have joined us by now.”

  “I just phoned him, Hank,” the girl said, “but there wasn’t any answer. He must be on his way here.”

  Bannister was still looking at me. “Mayor Fowler mentioned this luncheon to you? Spoke of us?”

  “Yeah. Last night, when he hired me. And he mentioned you, that is his associates, again this morning. When he fired me.”

  There was silence around the table for several seconds, then Bannister said, “How extraordinary. Please sit down, Mr. Scott. You can join us, can’t you?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I glanced at the cool dark lovely, and she smiled. Only a small smile, but she moved a foot or so to her left.

  As I sat down next to her she said, “So that’s why you were lurking around. And there really isn’t any huge inheritance?” I shook my head sadly and she asked, “How much would eleven million piastramis be worth?”

  “Eleven billion. But at the present rate of exchange, nothing. So I guess it doesn’t make much difference.”

  I was satisfied with the way the conversation was going, but Bannister—who seemed to be the let’s-get-down-to-business type—broke in with, “I’m interested in what Mayor Fowler said to you, Mr. Scott. You say he employed you? Last night?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “And you spoke with him this morning?” I nodded. “Would you explain, please? I assure you, we would all be extremely interested in further details.” He paused. “I’m puzzled that he asked you to come up here—without consulting us, I mean.”

  “I’m sure he intended to. This morning, most likely. But in the meantime—let me start at the beginning.”

  I told the story quickly, merely hitting the high points but covering everything of importance, including my brief conversation with Yoogy Dibler.

  When I finished there was more silence for a while, then Bannister spoke. “This is all quite extraordinary. I can understand Ev’s—well, his excessive enthusiasm, when he thought there was an eyewitness to the Ramirez shooting, because we’ve all discussed the problem of Mr. Grimson at great length, on many occasions. But ... this Dibler? Incredible.”

  “His reaction was the same, Mr. Bannister. When he realized who the informant was.”

  Hank was nodding. “Yeah, he couldn’t have known the guy on the phone was Yoogy. Hell, I can’t blame Fowler for jumping the gun. We’re pretty sure Grimson killed Ramirez, or had the job done, but
it’s only suspicion, not proof. And an eyewitness, well, that would have been our best break in a long time. We’ve been trying to get something solid on Hugh Grimson for a good year now. The mayor tell you about that?”

  “He hit it lightly. He was going to fill in the details this morning, but Yoogy sort of changed his plans.”

  “I’ll fill you in later myself, Shell. If you’re going to stick around?” It was a question.

  “For a while,” I said. “I did just get my walking papers, but I’m interested in why those two guys were so interested in me.”

  Bannister said, “Entirely apart from that, Mr. Scott, I would personally like to request that you stay in Newton for at least a few days. At my expense, of course, and I’ll pay your usual fee if that’s agreeable to you.”

  “O.K. by me.”

  “I don’t understand why Ev didn’t make the same arrangement, certainly when you were already here. But he can undoubtedly explain that when”—Bannister glanced at a thin gold watch on his wrist, and frowned—”if he ever gets here.”

  He asked me what my fees were and I told him. He merely nodded, and then indicated I would receive a sizable bonus if I was even half the help to him and their “group” that Hank had suggested I might be.

  “There are,” Bannister said, “several areas of investigation we’ve discussed during the last few weeks where your efforts might prove of great value to us. Don’t you agree, Henry?”

  “It was my idea in the first place, remember.” Hank looked at me. “I’m as interested in those two guys as you are, Shell. You didn’t get a look at the man driving?”

  “No. I guess my description of the other one doesn’t ring any bells.”

  He shook his head. “How about the car? You get the registration?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled my notebook from an inside coat pocket, flipped it open, and tore out a page. “Dark Chrysler sedan, two years old. I wrote down the number.”

  He took the paper. “I can check this later, if it’s necessary. But I’m sure the mayor can explain who they are and why they were on you—if he knows anything about it. You’re sure, after leaving the airport, they drove to his house?”

  “They must have.”

  I described the narrow tree-shaded road leading off Mulberry, while Hank nodded his head, then I added, “I didn’t actually see them drive in, so I don’t know how long they were there, but it couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes. All I know is, they had to come out of the drive and turn toward town to wind up behind me again.”

  “No place else they could have come from, Shell, and Fowler’s is the only house up there. Could they have just driven up and around and back, you know, like a private security patrol? Checking?” He shook his head. “Hell, you wouldn’t know.”

  “Nope, and I wouldn’t buy it, either. A private patrol checking on me?”

  “A point. So, we ask the mayor.” He frowned, chewing his lower lip. “Wonder what the hell’s keeping him?”

  It became evident that it was most unusual for Fowler to be late, and after all three of them made comments to that effect, I said, “Let me throw something at you. This is just a wild guess, but I’m starting to wonder if the mayor was alone when I talked to him this morning.”

  Bannister lifted his brows, and Hank said, “You didn’t see anyone else there, did you? A car or anything?”

  “No, but I didn’t look around, and I was only in the living room. I did get the impression Fowler was wound up, nervous, though. Of course, I don’t know the man, maybe he’s like that all the time.”

  Hank shook his head. “Not Ev. Not unless something was really bugging him.”

  “Anyway, he struck me as noticeably edgy. I wondered about it then. And since he hasn’t shown up here yet, well....” I let it trail off.

  After a short silence, Bannister said, “I’m sure we’re getting edgy ourselves, for no reason. However, Mr. Scott, since you’ve agreed to work for us, I would suggest that you do return to the mayor’s home. Let’s say, if he had not arrived by”—he glanced at his wristwatch—”quarter of one. Just to make sure everything is ... all right.” He turned the sharp blue eyes toward me. “You did phone him before joining us here?”

  “Yeah, twice. I intended to go back and talk to him then, but called first, and there wasn’t any answer. If he doesn’t show, I’ll ring him again, and if there’s still no answer I’ll check out the house.”

  “I think we’d all feel better if you did that, Mr. Scott.” Bannister finished a drink on the table before him. “And now, I must go—I’ve an appointment, but I will be at my home later this afternoon. You’ll inform me of what you learn, Mr. Scott?”

  “Sure thing.”

  He slid a little to his left, preparing to get up from the booth, then stopped. He rubbed an index finger against his lips, apparently thinking about something. Then he looked at Hank. “I hesitate to suggest this, Henry. But, since Mr. Scott is here in Newton, perhaps he should be my guest tonight at the Club opening. I know you’ve been looking forward to this evening, but—”

  “Forget it. That’s a damn good idea. I can go next week, and there won’t be a better chance than tonight for Shell to meet nearly everyone we’re interested in.” Hank looked at me. “Half the men in town’ll be there. Hugh Grimson, and a couple of other respectable crooks. Police chief. My boss. A pack of politicians.” He shrugged. “Including Mayor Fowler, for that matter.” He looked back at Bannister, nodding. “Done.”

  Bannister got up. Miss Monet said, “I might as well go, too.” She glanced at Hank, then let the deep green eyes rest on mine. “I’m sure Mr. Scott and Henry have some old times to talk about.” Her expression, or so it seemed to me, said they must have been simply scandalous old times. Then she slowly lifted her gaze from my eyes and looked up, saying, “Can you drop me off, Ban?”

  He said he could, and I moved, stood next to the booth. She slid sweetly over the brown-leather seat again, and I said, “When people stop calling you Miss Monet, Miss Monet, what do they call you?”

  As she stood up and started to step past, she leaned slightly toward me. “It’s Martinique,” she said softly.

  I felt the heat. I swear I felt it whoosh out from her and wallow all over me. Like when you open the oven door and look in to see if your TV dinner is cooked. Then, with one of her hands resting on David Bannister’s arm, she walked with him from the Lotus Room.

  I sat down, looked at Hank, and said, “Wow.”

  He flashed his quick grin at me. “She’s a bright girl, too. I.Q.’s around a hundred and sixty, they tell me. Well, you old goat, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Hank and I jawed a bit about old times, and quite a lot about Newton, the mayor, Hugh Grimson, Yoogy, and such. I also learned some more about Martinique and Bannister. They, Hank, and Mayor Fowler, plus on occasion a police officer named Delcey, had for about a year been meeting for lunch or dinner here or at a small Italian restaurant, the Rigoletto, and sometimes at one of their homes—usually Bannister’s—in the evening.

  The get-togethers had begun simply as casual and private discussions among citizens interested in the welfare of their city, and the problems accompanying its rapid growth. In recent months, however, their attention and concern had become focused almost entirely upon the undeniably increasing, and increasingly visible, evidences of criminous activity and political skulduggery in Newton.

  Bannister was among Newton’s wealthiest citizens, most of his money coming from construction and real estate, one of his companies having been responsible for some of Newton’s more attractive residential developments.

  Martinique was one of those gals with such a superabundance of energy that she’d naturally assumed positions of leadership in several local organizations such as the little theater group and musical guild, and had on two or three occasions served as chairman for fund-raising parties and balls. About a year and a half ago she’d run for, and been handily elected to, Newton’s seven-member City
Council. As the only woman “councilman,” and a good friend of the mayor’s, she’d been part of the weekly get-togethers from the beginning. I also discovered from Hank that she’d been married in her teens and divorced a few years later, and was now my age, thirty, though I would have guessed she was several years younger.

  Inevitably the conversation turned to Hugh Grimson, and I said, “Hank, I’ve just picked up bits and pieces about the guy. Is he a pro hood, an ex-con?”

  “That’s the trouble. He’s a hood, take my word for it, and he’s pulling millions out of this town in a dozen different crooked ways. But he’s clean, he hasn’t got a record. Oh, he was busted a couple times back east, but he’s never done any time.”

  “Where did he operate, before he came out here?”

  “New Jersey. Hit Newton four years ago. And after him, the deluge. Lot of hard cases showed up, we began getting hints, then some evidence, heists, hijacking, muscle, extortion, and even if we can’t prove it we know most of the rough stuff was handled by the mugs who work, or hang around, at Silvano’s. None of it’s rubbed off on Mr. G. yet. He’s smart. Lets his boys take the falls, if any, stays clean and sweet himself.”

  “This Silvano’s Garage sounds like a lot of fun.”

  Hank shook his head. “Any day of the week, there are so many toughs, ex-cons, paroled felons in that place it might as well be a branch of the state joint.” He paused. “That’s where Joe got it.”

  “Joe?”

  “Joe Ramirez. He worked directly under me, in the D.A.’s office. I don’t mean his body was found in Silvano’s, but I figure he got it there. Body was found a couple blocks away, on Fifth and Spruce. The way it looks to me, whoever killed him didn’t want to get tagged driving his corpse around and dumped him fast. Two blocks. Might as well have left him propped against the front wall.” He paused. “But that’s not the kind of argument the prosecution gets very excited about.”

  “How many times was Ramirez shot, Hank?”

  “Three times. Gut shot, chest, and head.”