The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “The mayor. Yeah. You got the right impression.” Bannister started to speak but I held up a hand. “That guy, with the graying hair, bushy eyebrows, sideburns a foot long, sparkly blue dinner jacket—it is not Mayor Everson Fowler.”

  “Shell, I told you, that sonofabitch—”

  “Hugh Grimson. Oh, brother. He is the guy I talked to today. Twice.”

  Bannister tried to say something again but I shook my head. “Give me a minute, Ban. I’ve got to think. Just a minute.”

  I used maybe a minute and a half. Then Canada was back with our drinks. There wasn’t much gay conversation this trip, and when she ankled away I sighed, had a pull at my bourbon highball, looked at Bannister.

  “Well, here it is,” I said. “To start with, I have today experienced the snow job of my life. And it requires of me strenuous rearrangement of my thinking, you should excuse the expression. By the numbers: One, the man who met me this morning—and again this afternoon—at Mayor Fowler’s home was Hugh Grimson. Two, God knows where the real mayor is, or even if he’s alive. Three, there could be another explanation for some of this, but eight to five Mayor Fowler’s phone is tapped—very likely has been for some time. Four, since I did not at any time speak with the real mayor, you can bet your boots I didn’t talk to the real informant, either. So Yoogy Dibler—like the mayor’s dear sweet daughter, Kitty-Melinda—was part of the snow in which I have been buried throughout this interesting day. It follows that somewhere, either upon or a few feet beneath the earth, is the real informant ... whoever the hell he may be.”

  “Shell, you’re going too fast for me.”

  “It takes some getting used to.” I paused. “Tell me something, Ban. Does Grimson look at all like Mayor Fowler?”

  “No—” Bannister cut it off, letting the sharp blue eyes rest on me. “I see what you mean. So let me start over. Yes, he does. To someone who’d never seen either of them before. They’re about the same height and weight. Both have graying hair, long sideburns. But that’s about it. Nobody who’d seen them both could possibly mistake one for the other.”

  “Uh-huh. Nobody who’d seen them both. Grimson counted on that, obviously. Had to take a small chance, but after we’d traded our first sentence or two he knew I’d swallowed the hook.”

  I had a second sip of my bourbon and water. “What I can’t figure is how the may—damn, I still want to keep calling that wart the mayor—how Grimson could have believed the con would work. Maybe for an hour, even for a while longer, but in time I was certain to....”

  I stopped, thinking about it. “Yeah, it just might have worked like a charm—if I’d flown back to L.A. soon after our talk. Which I was supposed to do. Which I came damned close to doing. But once Grimson realized I was still in town and was going to stick around for a while, which he knew for sure after our second chat, he also had to know he couldn’t show himself in public, like here tonight for example, as long as there was a chance I might see him and—”

  I cut it off and let the rest of the breath sigh from my mouth as that novocaine feeling rippled over me again and then was replaced by heat, a sensation like fire swelling up from my gut into my chest and burning the inside of my head.

  “Why, that sonofabitch,” I said softly. “He sent that kamikaze trucker to kill me.”

  I was halfway out of my seat when Bannister grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Why, I’m going to have a little chat with the darling,” I said. “I may pull his tongue out and strangle him with it. Yes, something like that—”

  “Shell, I’ve done more than hint at this before. Grimson may not look it, but he’s Trouble with a capital T. I’m serious, the man is dangerous.”

  “I know. He told me so himself.” I pulled my arm free.

  “Well,” Bannister sighed. “If you’ve got to, I’ll stroll along.”

  “I can handle this alone.” I no sooner said it than I changed my mind. “It might be interesting to see how he reacts to me—while you’ve got an eye on him—at that.”

  I walked across the room, Bannister close behind me.

  When I was still ten feet from where he sat, Grimson saw me and his face registered shock, perhaps mixed with alarm. But only for a second. Then his face smoothed, he let his eyes glide from my face, looked up at Kitty again. At least he looked at the girl Bannister had said was Kitty, the little lovely who’d told me she was Melinda Fowler. Among other things.

  Grimson said something quickly to her. I didn’t hear the words, but saw her glance quickly at me, eyes widening, then back at Grimson. By then I was next to the table, pulling out a chair, sitting down, smiling at Hugh Grimson.

  He looked blankly at me, then past me to David Bannister and rose smiling to his feet.

  “Welcome to the festivities, Dave,” he said cheerfully.

  “Sit down,” I said to him.

  He stared at me, managing to look sincerely puzzled, and remained standing. “I could help you,” I said. “If that’s what you want.” He frowned, but slowly sank into his seat again.

  “Mayor Fowler,” I said gently, “I think I’m going to need your help in finding Mr. G.”

  Grimson carried it off quite well. The half-puzzled, half-amused expression, dark eyes raised to Bannister, quick glance at me with the heavy brows lifted, then the more serious look up at Bannister again. “Dave it’s one of my busy nights, and if this is some kind of joke—”

  I reached across the table, hooked two fingers beneath his blue-velvet butterfly tie, and pulled him six inches closer. At the same time I leaned forward, so our faces were no more than a foot apart. “Who was driving the truck, friend?”

  “Get your goddamn hand—”

  I gave him a pretty good tug toward me. Unfortunately, the tie wasn’t a do-it-yourself job but one of those held on by a little hook, and the hook either bent or broke because the tie came off in my hand. I dropped it on the table.

  “I don’t suppose it would have been Sergeant Samuels? Or Officer Jonah? I don’t suppose you’d tell me anyway, right? Not right this minute, I mean.”

  His face was a little flushed, but impressively hard, with that almost stern and forbidding expression I’d seen hints of earlier, open and undisguised now. And no longer “almost.” He lifted a big fist, pushing his teeth together, glanced around, let his hand drop. But the jaw stayed clamped shut.

  “Maybe not this minute,” I continued, “but you will. You can bet your life on it.”

  Grimson managed to stay on his side of the table. After a long silence he sighed and got to his feet.

  “Dave,” he said to Bannister, “I’ve no idea what the hell’s going on, but I hope this man isn’t a friend of yours.”

  “He’s my guest,” Bannister replied coolly. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen him before?”

  “Of course not. What’s the meaning of this charade? Who is this”—he let it slide off his lips as he turned to stare down at me, then deliberately finished the question—”son of a bitch?”

  I stood up, grinning, getting ready to pop him. But Bannister yanked on my arm. “Haven’t you made enough mistakes already, Shell?” he asked quietly.

  There was so much painful truth in the question that it cooled me down a little. Not a lot, but enough. Bannister was going on, speaking to Grimson, “Hugh, this is my good friend, Shell Scott. Shell, Mr. Grimson.”

  “If he’s a friend of yours, I’d suggest you get him out of here, Dave.”

  “Is that a request, Hugh? I mean, do I have a choice?”

  Grimson struggled to do it, but managed to put on a more congenial expression. “Of course it’s a request—I mean, it’s entirely up to you. It’s simply that”—he let the hard eyes dig me again—”I didn’t invite this sonofabitch to my table.”

  Bannister jerked his head toward me, but I was well in control by this time. Well enough, at least, that I managed not to hit him. I even had a small idea instead.

  We were all standin
g at the table now, in rather tense postures. Even Kitty, who so far hadn’t said a word. Nor had she so much as looked at me since that one quick glance.

  “Ban,” I said, “I don’t suppose you need any convincing about the tale I told you.” He started to shake his head but I went on. “I think I can arrange a little fun for us, anyway. This young lady—did you say she was Kitty Wilson?”

  Bannister nodded.

  “Miss Wilson?” I said, speaking directly to her. She looked at me finally, face quite composed, lids drooping over the sapphire eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen me before, either.”

  “Of course not.” She swallowed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Hold that thought, dear—ridiculous, I mean.” I looked at Bannister. “I’m going to say something that isn’t funny. So nobody should laugh, right?”

  Kitty swallowed again. It was obvious she was keyed up, in the kind of emotional state when a girl—anybody—is most open to suggestion, so I laid it on a little more. “Ban, before I pick up the table and tap Mr. G. with it, and possibly drop this dear girl out the window, I shall drop a senseless remark or two. And nobody will laugh ... except Kitty.”

  She was starting to look scared. As though there was not a bit of fun, not anything even remotely near laughter, in her anywhere. Which was the way I wanted her.

  I stared at Kitty Wilson until she looked at me, waited till her eyes were on my face. Then I hunched over a little and sucked air through my teeth, letting them click like chilly castanets, and said, hoking it up quite a bit, “Muh—Muh—Muhlinda.”

  I knew what had to be instantly in her mind’s eye. A picture of me, freezing my recently—and oh-so-briefly—bared butt while she frolicked in the eighty-degree pool. And the first ten percent of the bit went off nicely. The corners of her lips curved up automatically, as she came very close to smiling. So close that it scared her even more—she did not, definitely did not want to smile at any “senseless” thing I might say in front of Hugh Grimson. Who’d never seen me before either.

  So I tried for the other ninety percent.

  “Melinda, whuh-whuh-whuh—” I stopped, made myself shiver, clicked my teeth some more, and started over. “Baby, wh-wh-where did I g-go wrong?”

  Perhaps at another moment she wouldn’t even have smiled. But it was the right moment. She cracked up. She dissolved. She cackled and snorted and tried very hard not to laugh, but then just let the shrieks peal out.

  “You bitch, get your ass out of here!”

  That was Grimson, of course, and she heard him, but she couldn’t stop. Not soon enough. When she did manage to cut it off, suddenly, after four or five shrill seconds, I thought she was going to faint.

  She was on my left, Grimson straight across from me. I walked around the table, came up behind Grimson while he was still glaring at the girl.

  I planted the fingers of my left hand on his biceps, squeezed hard, pulled him halfway around to face me.

  There was momentary indication of pain on his face before he smoothed it away. Fine. I’d wanted him to feel it when I clamped onto his arm.

  I grinned at him and said, “That wasn’t really for Kitty, Grimson. And Ban didn’t need the convincer. It was for you, sweetheart.”

  “You stinking son—”

  “Chop it.” I moved closer, put my face six inches from his, and went on softly. “I give you the first rounds, all the points. It was a smooth con, you took me for a sweet ride, made a marvelous sap of me—that part’s O.K., it’s happened before. I could even overlook it. But the truck, sweetheart, that I can’t overlook.”

  Grimson started to speak, splitting his lips and looking as if he were going to spit in my eye, but then he let out a shuddering sigh and pulled his eyes from mine.

  “Bannister,” he said flatly, “I told you I don’t know who this sonofabitch is—”

  “Hold it.” I got my fingers around his bicep again and leaned into him. “I was planning to leave, Grimson. But if you call me a sonofabitch once more, I’ll stay long enough to satisfy you.”

  Then I let go of him.

  Maybe, as Bannister had said, you couldn’t tell the man was dangerous just by looking at him. Well, probably that was true most of the time. But not at a time like this. He looked dangerous, deadly, teetering on the edge of mania. That and more, none of it reassuring, was in his dark eyes as he stared back at me.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Find out. Try it one more time.”

  He looked at me for a long while. Probably five or six seconds, not more than that. But it was a long while. Then he kind of shivered, like a man breaking out of thin ice, and turned his head away again.

  “Bannister, I was about to suggest to you,” he said, the words smooth, quiet, cold and slick as icicles, “that this—individual obviously has confused me with someone else. I give you my word, I have never seen him before. However, in view of his insulting and irrational actions, he is not welcome here. I realize, Bannis ... Dave, that you would probably like to enjoy the Club Rogue’s entertainment tonight, but as for your friend—”

  “Forget it,” Bannister broke in. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Sure we do,” I said pleasantly.

  Bannister gave me a quick dirty look and went on. “I was just about to ask Mr. Scott to leave with me. Within the next few minutes, that is. I appreciate your implied invitation to stay and enjoy the program, Hugh, but I would prefer to leave with my friend.” He looked at me then, cocking his head on one side.

  “Splendid,” I said cheerfully. “Hell, I only came to hear the mayor’s speech. And I guess we’re out of luck there, what?”

  Nobody answered me.

  When Bannister walked off, I followed him. He led me back to our table. We’d left our barely touched drinks there, and Bannister picked up his glass, put it down empty.

  “Good Scotch,” he said blandly.

  “Swell. What else is new?”

  He looked at me, shaking his head very slowly, as if his neck was stiff. “I’ve had a bit more than I can readily absorb in these last few minutes. But I do know this, Shell. In a short time I have come to have a strange, possibly warped, and admittedly ephemeral, affection for you. More, you are only thirty years old, by my lights a youth in the first bloom of maturity—or, perhaps, judging by your actions, the last bloom. You are too young, too vigorously offensive, too callow a boy to die within the week.”

  He paused, holding his head still at last while he looked soberly at me. “Which, had it escaped your awareness, your little exercise of suicidal bravado, just concluded, has made as inevitable as the sunrise.”

  “You make my assassination sound almost poetic. Speaking of which, do you think Fowler’s dead?”

  “I can’t believe that. Oh, it’s not just wishful thinking, though Ev is a damned good friend, of many, many years. Nobody murders the mayor of a big city unless he’s some kind of psychotic. Certainly nobody with sufficient imagination to visualize the almost inevitable consequences. And Grimson’s no fool. I know much more about him than you do, Shell, and he’s not just hard and dangerous. He’s shrewd, intelligent, a very canny bastard.”

  “Yeah, and he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us. Maybe he’s a very hard-boiled boy, but he’s got soft spots all over him. I never met a hood who didn’t. And that exercise of—suicidal bravado did you call it?—just might have psyched the sonofabitch a little. Even if it didn’t, what could I lose?”

  “Do you really need me to tell you?” He shook his head, frowning. “But forget that. Right now we should decide what, in the light of our present understanding, we should do. Any suggestions?”

  “A few. I’ve no doubt I talked to Fowler last night—Grimson wouldn’t have had any reason to phone me. But we know I didn’t talk to Fowler this morning, nor to the alleged informant. We can assume everything the mayor told me last night was true, and start from there. Including Fowler’s remarks about his caller’s information, info th
at got him charged up enough to phone me. The informant, I repeat, who was not Yoogy Dib....”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just a minute.... Yeah, sure. Before we walked over to chat with Grimson, I told you Fowler’s phone must be tapped. Unquestionably true. I just didn’t carry the thought far enough. It could explain, at least partly, how come Grimson was there to meet me at the mayor’s home, and more important, how he managed to pull off the con without blowing the mark, me.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve already suggested he was aware you hadn’t met Ev Fowler, wouldn’t recognize him—”

  “Sure, but it was more than that, Ban. Grimson had Fowler’s voice down pat—well enough, at least, so a man who’d only heard the mayor on the phone wouldn’t tumble, wouldn’t have any reason to suppose he wasn’t talking to the same guy he’d had a long-distance chat with.”

  Bannister nodded once, moving his head in a little jerk. He hadn’t been just listening, he’d been thinking, too, and he jumped ahead of me. “Shell, Ev’s a bit pompous and he had a distinctive way of expressing himself at times, certain words or phrases he uses—”

  “On the button. And—hindsight—Grimson almost overdid it. He rolled off bits like ‘Excellent, excellent!’ and ‘Precisely so!’ about right. But there were other things the mayor said last night that Grimson repeated to me today in almost exactly the same words. Maybe a little too rehearsed, if I’d been looking for it. Which, of course, I wasn’t.”

  An idea was starting to grow, wiggling around up there, but I couldn’t quite bring it into focus. I had a sip of my drink, lit a cigarette, then went on. “I’m the only man with firsthand knowledge that Grimson was impersonating Fowler, in the mayor’s home, this morning. Even the girl, Kitty, probably doesn’t know what Grimson was up to. I’d guess he got word to her and told her to keep me there somehow until he arrived. But why? And how did he know I was there?”

  Bannister shook his head. “Anyway, how could she have kept you from leaving if—”