The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  He had on a pair of striped shorts, his knobby legs sticking out of one end and his thin torso up out of the other. Hattie had been right; his face was really a mess. Both his eyes were circled with ugly purple and his lower lip was split. An angry bruise swelled high on his left cheekbone and the whole left side of his mouth and cheek swelled out in a lopsided pulpy mass. He'd really been worked over.

  He sank down on the side of the bed and said awkwardly through his swollen lips, “Dressed? What do I gotta get dressed for? What's the matter? Take it easy, huh? What's the matter?” He was really scared.

  I hated to keep it up but I growled, “Drag wants to see you downtown. He wants to talk some more, friend.”

  He whimpered in a high voice, “I already talked to him. I didn't give him no crap. Honest.”

  “He thinks maybe you were kidding him along about Joe and you. Would you be kidding him, Zerkle? Maybe someone else is in on the payoff and you just say Joe because Joe can't say no.”

  “Honest, mister, I give it to him straight.” The words bubbled out. He certainly didn't want to see Dragoon again. Looking at his face, I didn't blame him. He rattled on, “Joe and me was in on it together like I told him. We pulled the deal ten, twelve times when a nice price come in. I'd go up to the window and Joe'd pay me off and slip a ticket on the winner in the stack. Then I'd cop a heel and Joe and me would meet and I'd split with him. That's all there was. I swear that's all there was. Nobody else, just the two of us. I told Drag that; what do I have to tell him again for?” He rubbed his hands together nervously and sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “All I know is, Drag said if I found you to bring you down.”

  “Please, mister,” he whined, “don't take me down there. He'd kill me.” His voice sank lower, “He'd kill me sure this time.”

  I asked, “You positive you couldn't tell him anything about how Joe got knocked off? Wasn't Joe supposed to meet you the night he got killed?”

  He shook his head. “I don't know nothing about Joe getting killed. What's he want to know about that for? Why didn't he ask me when I was down there? Joe says maybe he'll see me, maybe not. He doesn't show so I just thought he decided not to come by.” His face screwed up as though he was about to start bawling. “The cops ask me. They grill me and ask me and I tell the cops I'm here. I was here. I don't know nothing about Joe. Nothing, nothing,” he moaned, “I already told him everything about Joe and me. Why don't you leave me alone?”

  I looked down at him, small and crumpled on the side of the bed. “O.K., Zerkle,” I said. “Relax. I'm not taking you anyplace. Dragoon didn't even send me up here. I came on my own.

  He lifted his head and stared at me incredulously.

  I went on, “I wanted the truth from you and I didn't think you'd tell me if I just asked. It was a dirty trick. I'm sorry, but I had to know.” I slipped my gun back in the holster.

  Relief spread over his face and he whispered, “You didn't come from Drag? He doesn't want me downtown?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry I had to do it this way. My name's Scott. Shell Scott. I'm a private detective. If I can make us even sometime, look me up. I'm in the book.”

  Relief stayed on his face, but his eyes narrowed as he thought about it. Anger grew in his eyes and suddenly he snarled, “A spotter! A dirty, stinking spotter! You stinking bastard! You dirty son of a bitch!”

  His face twisted as he spat words at me and his lower lip split again and a drop of blood oozed to the surface and smeared his mouth. He yelled foul curses at me; I let him yell. I felt as if he'd earned the privilege.

  On the way out I nodded at goon-girl sitting on the porch. “I believe I have everything I need, madam. Thank you very much.”

  She blinked at me. “Everything all right?”

  “Sure,” I said, “everything's all right, Hattie.”

  Chapter Ten

  IT MUST have been ninety-nine in the shade. I had the top down on the Cadillac and the cushions felt like a griddle. My eyes burned, my head hurt, my back ached—practically every portion of my anatomy felt in need of repairs. In a drive-in, I gulped coffee, then pointed the Caddy back downtown.

  Henry was showing another couple the art slides. I went through the door behind the bookcase and into a buzz of activity.

  A beefy, baldheaded man in slacks and a white sport shirt leaned against the wall next to me studying a scratch sheet. I asked him, “What race coming up at Hollywood?”

  He looked up. “Fifth. Just a couple minutes. Making anything?”

  I shook my head. “Just got here. How's it going?”

  “Terrible. I had a big chunk on this Fancy Dan back East. He crawls out of the gate, runs all over the track, swings wide on the turns, then loses in a photo. And me with him on the beezer. I ask you.”

  I clucked my tongue sympathetically. “Maybe you'll make it up on the next one.

  “Maybe,” He looked dubious. “This Judy's Dream looks like a lead-pipe cinch. But after that last one, I don't know. Say,” he added brightly, “catch this Fancy Dan next time out; they'll beat the price down, but he ought to win sure. Pick up what you bet anyway.”

  “Sure,” I said. I went over to the pages of the Racing Form pinned on the wall, ran down the entries for the Fifth at Hollywood Park, a mile and one-sixteenth route race for $5,000 claiming players and settled on Ambassador. He was a three-year-old racing against older horses which made it a bad bet in the first place, but he looked like the class of the race. If there was any. Anyway, I liked his name.

  Ten horses in the race and there'd be plenty bet on all ten. If everybody bet the same horses the only books you'd find would be in libraries. I learned a long time ago you can beat a race, you can even beat a lot of races, but the only way to keep beating the races is either to make book or leave the horses alone altogether.

  So I went over to the window and put a sawbuck on Ambassador to win.

  This being Saturday afternoon, there were two guys taking money. I gave my ten to a big-eared individual on the right and told him, “Number seven in the fifth, to win. Holly-Park.”

  “What's your initials?”

  I told him S. S. and he wrote it at the top of a square, white slip of paper followed by “7-5-HP.” Underneath that cryptic notation he added “10-0-0” and an initial. He dropped my ten through the slot of a metal cash box and handed me a copy of the slip. I now had ten fish on Ambassador's silken nostrils.

  Between the two cashiers, on a high stool, sat a wooden-faced, muscle-bound character about six feet tall and five feet across the shoulders. You know the type, a guy with cast-iron muscles and a brain to match. I said to the cashier who'd taken my money, “What's the matter? Dragoon give you boys a guardian now?”

  He looked at me squarely for the first time and said flatly, “It's Okay, pally. I like him here. Everybody knows I can't get away with nothin'. There's some guys behind you wants to make a bet.”

  I moved out of line. Evidently Dragoon was taking no chances on a repetition of the Brooks-Zerkle business. I saw how their little gimmick might have been worked, though. Pretty neat at that.

  I looked around the room. At his ease in one of the overstuffed chairs in a corner of the room was my bosom chum, Eddie Kash. I walked over and sat down in the chair next to him.

  “Judy's Dream,” I said. “Hot tip.”

  He looked up, a half-smile getting a toe hold on his sensual face, but when he saw who it was aimed at he murdered it quick.

  “You!” he said as if he were swearing.

  “Me,” I said pleasantly. “This Judy's Dream. Straight from the feedbox.”

  He half rose, scowling at me, then sank back into his chair. “Look, peeper,” he hissed at me, “I don't enjoy you even a little bit. You annoy me just being around. Keep out of my way.”

  I smiled at him and lit a cigarette. “What have you got against private dicks, Eddie?”

  He continued glaring. “I've got nothing against private dicks. I just don't crave your
company, Scott.”

  “Suits me.” I dragged deep on my cigarette and asked casually, “By the way, Eddie, just what was it that happened to Elias? You know, your late partner. Didn't he drop dead or something?”

  His hand tightened on the edge of the chair, then relaxed. That was all. He looked at me coldly and didn't answer. Then he snarled at me suddenly, “That's exactly what I wish you'd do, Scott. Drop dead.” He glowered at me from hard brown eyes. “Maybe I could arrange just that.”

  Squawk suddenly started coming out of the P.A. system and I leaned back in my chair. Post time. The announcer gave us a quick rundown, told us Easy Guest was acting up at the barrier and then that familiar, pulse-quickening cry, “There they go!”

  I leaned forward almost unconsciously noting the sudden quiet, the movements stopped in mid-air, the tense, strained expressions on dozens of faces. “At the start, it's Dandy Fox going to the front, Ambassador is second, Honey's Pride is third, Little Joe is fourth, Easy Guest and Holiday. At the quarter, Honey's Pride in front by a length, on the rail Dandy Fox is second by a nose, Little Joe is third by one length, Easy Guest is fourth and there goes Judy's Dream running fast on the outside.”

  I never did hear Ambassador mentioned after the break. They came down to the finish and it was Judy's Dream by three lengths and just galloping. I glanced over at the disgruntled expression on Kash's face and I couldn't help it; I almost strangled trying to choke a big guffaw. Half a dozen disappointed bettors turned and glared at me, but if looks could have killed, Eddie's narrowed gaze would have had me drawn and quarter-horsed. Then I remembered and glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand. I stopped gurgling; what the hell was I laughing about?

  I got up slowly and said to Eddie, “Some things a guy just knows. I let him wonder what I meant by that and walked over to the door leading to Dragoon's office.

  The big, red-faced guy I knew from the night before was lounging up against the wall between the two doors in the hall. I said, “I want to see Dragoon.”

  He didn't say anything or hiss at me or shoot me, just walked up and tapped twice on Dragoon's door. The door opened and he motioned me in and followed behind me. Dragoon passed his coal black eyes over me, said hello and went back behind his desk. The yellow couch was empty this time so I relaxed in it and draped a leg over the side.

  “What's on your mind, Shell?” Dragoon asked.

  I looked at the tough boy by the door, then back at Dragoon. “Just a little chat. Only get rid of Junior here; I don't like the idea he might get behind me.”

  Dragoon nodded and Junior went out and shut the door quietly after him. Dragoon rested his pendulous arms on the desk. “How's the investigating?”

  “Good enough. I pick up a little here, a little there.”

  “What do you expect you'll pick up here?”

  “Don't know. I picked up Harry Zerkle here. If that means anything.”

  “It doesn't. Not if you're checking on Joe like you said you were. I got nothing’ on Joe that concerns you.”

  “Anything on Joe concerns me right now. About Zerkle, though, I hate to see a little guy get all messed up like he got messed up.”

  He grinned wolfishly. “Yeah. That was too bad. He'll get over it.”

  I said, “You sure all you wanted out of the guy was the dope on how he and Joe worked that race gimmick?”

  “What else? You might not like my methods, Shell, but they work. And a guy in my business can't let the help get too free with the cash. Word gets around I'm an easy mark and then where am I? Now word gets around about Zerkle and nobody else tries anything. Simple, only the shoe's on the other foot. See?”

  “Uh-huh, I see. What does it make you when word gets around about Joe?”

  He learned over his desk and the corners of his mouth pulled down. “Look, Shell,” he said steadily, “you're awful free with some of the cracks you make. You shouldn't want me carrying a grudge against you. In the first place, there's no word to get around about Joe, not with me in it; in the second place, if there was any word, it'd be terrible unhealthy for you to go around spreading anything.” He paused and leaned back in the squeaking swivel chair. “You already got two of my boys carrying grudges.”

  I said, “They'll have to get in line.”

  “They might. You shouldn't have roughed the boys up, Shell.”

  “Okay. So now we're even. I wouldn't want any word to get around about me either. You know, not in my business.”

  He grinned but didn't say anything.

  “Oh yeah,” I said casually, “another thing. I had a visitor this morning. A Mrs. Maddern. Said something about you telling her to see me.”

  “That's right. I didn't want her weepin’ around here. Not good for business. You're the boy scout. Anyway, I figured I'd be doin’ you a favor. Seeing as you're interested in Joe.”

  “Interested, yeah. In Joe Brooks. Not in Joey Maddern. She was looking for Joseph Maddern, too. Not Joe Brooks, Dragoon. How come you knew right away who she meant? The guy that worked for you was Joe Brooks. Not Maddern.”

  He took a cigarette out of a tray on his desk, lit it and blew smoke into the air. Then he said, “Didn't I tell you before?”

  “You didn't tell me before.”

  “Guess it didn't seem important. Sure, I knew he was Maddern. Probably I'm one of the few people that did know it. Didn't think of it when you dropped in last night. Wouldn't have thought it was important anyway. Well, when he first comes out here, he tells me who he is, Joey Maddern, but he says he just wants to be known as Joe. Plain Joe, drop the Maddern, see? There's lots of guys around wants to be just Joe or Bill or something like that. I think he's got a rap over him somewhere, maybe, but what the hell? As long as he's Okay on the job, it makes me no never mind. Later he takes this Brooks handle and I find out he's a lamster. Small stuff. It's not hurting me and if he wants to shack up with some doll and latch onto her handle, it's no skin off my nose.”

  “It turned out to be twelve grand off your nose. Funny you'd take a guy like that on.”

  He wagged his head and pushed a tendril of black hair back in place. “Not funny. He just don't pan out. I learn my lesson. I make a mistake, that's all. A guy makes mistakes, Shell. I'm wrong about another guy once and he's got no rap at all over him. You can't be right all the time.”

  I nodded. “Could be, Dragoon. Could very well be.” I thought of something else. “One other thing, Dragoon. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, how'd you find out the boys were running up the overhead?”

  He grinned. “A little thing. It wasn't too hard, but I was lucky, too. See, I check all the slips-you know, the ones we pay off on. We keep copies of all the slips, but the payoff slips are kept separate. I keep them a while just for a check, then burn them. Well, when Joe gets killed I naturally give all his slips a good check for the last week or so, just so I can see everything's in shape. Now, all the slips got the sucker's initials on them and I happen to notice this H.Z. gets paid off on some pretty good bets. I might not have paid much attention, but a Z initial, that's a screwy one, and the only guy I ever heard of around with a Z is this punk, Zerkle. The H fits too—Harry Zerkle—and from what I remember he's strictly a deuce man. I check back a little farther, all the slips I haven't burned, and that takes me back about three weeks. I see where this H.Z. makes some more nice plays—all on nice fat prices. I'm curious now, but I can't go back no farther; no more slips. So, just for hell, I check copies of the slips we don't pay off on.”

  He stopped talking and grinned. “There's where they slip up. Everything's covered; all the payoffs are covered by a slip. But the funny thing was, this H.Z. character never did bet on a loser. Either they didn't think about that angle or they thought it'd never be checked. Anyway, I haven't seen the guy yet who can pick the long ones bang, bang, bang, like that and never miss. So, just to play it safe, I had Zerkle down for a little talk and he was nice enough to tell me all about it.”

  “Was nice of him,” I said. �
�Of course, you asked him pretty. Okay, Dragoon. Thanks for the chatter. I'll see you around.”

  “Sure thing, Scott,” he said. “Keep your nose clean.”

  “I try to. Incidentally, I just placed a bet outside. Ambassador. I didn't get paid off; you can check it to make sure.”

  He grinned.

  The hopefuls were still trying to make their fortunes the easy way. I looked around and saw Kash stuffing his wallet back into his pocket and looking at a slip in his right hand. He sat down, apparently set for the rest of the day. I went out.

  In the novelty shop I stopped and said to Henry, “Every time I come in there's somebody squinting at slides. Art slides. What's with art?”

  He smirked at me and led me down the counter. He handed me a little plastic viewer and half a dozen slides from a box on the counter. It all became clear to me.

  The first one was a glamazon, built to size, hiding coyly behind what might have been a piece of butterfly net. She still looked as naked as seven nudists. The other five were of approximately the same order and well worth ordering. I clucked my tongue at Henry.

  He cackled, “You ain't seen nothing’ yet, Shell,” peered around him, then reached under the counter. He was right; I hadn't seen nothing’ yet. I looked, moved over to where the light was better, looked again and handed the outfit back. I shook my head. “Henry,” I said sorrowfully, “you'll come to no good end.”

  He cackled some more, as if he'd laid an omelette.

  Chapter Eleven

  I CLIMBED into the Cadillac and wiped perspiration from my forehead with my handkerchief. I sat and thought a while. I wondered when the hell I was going to tie the strings together. I also wondered if I was even pulling the right strings.

  I thought about Eddie. I'd struck out at the bank, but there was another way. Eddie had looked settled for a while at Dragoon's and if he stayed put, maybe it would work.

  I jumped out of the car and went back inside the novelty shop. I got Henry aside and asked him, “You know Eddie Kash?”