The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “I didn't say anything about dinner, Miss Dragoon.”

  “I know it; you're taking me to dinner. That's the price of my conversation.”

  “Is the conversation worth it?”

  “Just wait and see, Mr. Scott. And call me Sara. When people call me Miss Dragoon, it limits my conversation.”

  “Okay, Sara. Seven-thirty.”

  “'Bye, Shell.”

  I hung up. My palm left moist spots on the receiver. I couldn't understand it. That's what I told myself.

  I showered and dressed in my favorite suit as a relief from my drab costume of the afternoon's emoting. I felt better. I went into the kitchenette and mixed a drink and felt better still.

  The black panther comparison popped into my mind again when she opened the door. She was wearing an ankle-length gown of black rayon jersey that fit her like a plastic surgeon's best graft. It was plain and unadorned except for a gold sash that made a vivid splash of color around her small waist. The top of the gown was square-cut and just low enough to be smart and provocative without being ostentatious. Carmined toenails peeped from the open toes of high-heeled gold shoes that brought the piled black hair on the top of her head to a point just above the level of my chin. The only other spots of color were in her face: the strange, long-lashed green eyes and the small, sullen red mouth, and a pair of long, green earrings dangling from the small, white lobes of her ears.

  I glanced down at the ankle-length gown. “I'm afraid I didn't dress for a formal dinner.”

  She curled her lips back from the small, even teeth pressed lightly together. “It won't make any difference, not where were going. If I can choose the place. May I, Shell?” She held the door open for me.

  “Sure. Name it and you can have it.” I went in and sat down in a gold chair to the left of the door.

  On an odd, gleaming black table at the left side of the room were two drinks on a hammered-silver tray: greenish liquid in long-stemmed crystal glasses.

  She picked up the tray and offered it to me. I took one of the glasses and she said, “Good thing you're on time. I had the drinks waiting.”

  She took the other drink, put the tray back on the table and turned to face me with her left hand on her hip, the right hand holding her drink in the air over her head.

  She said, “I only wore this because I think I look good in it. Do I look good?”

  “You look good, Sara. You even look dangerous.”

  “Do I?” She liked that. She pressed her teeth together in a tight smile and peered sideways at me through the screen of her lashes; posing, affected, looking like a siren out of Poe, or a passage out of Baudelaire. I had to admit it; she repelled me a little, but in a strange, kind of hypnotic way, she fascinated me, too.

  “Taste your drink,” she said.

  I sipped at it. Warm, strange, smoky liquor like licorice and ambrosia filtered down my throat. It was good. “Where'd you get this, Sara?”

  “It's not anisette; it's real absinthe, Shell.”

  “I wondered. You don't see this around. It's narcotic, against the law now.” I added, looking at her, “I understand it's an aphrodisiac.”

  “It's good though, isn't it? A friend of mine smuggled a bottle in from Spain. Just for me. I've had it almost two years.”

  I raised my eyebrows and she said softly, “I only serve it for special people, on special occasions, Shell.”

  I looked at her without saying anything, but I still felt flattered.

  I looked around the room, really noticing it for the first time. It hit me like a sneak punch and I knew, even if I never saw it again, I wouldn't forget it. “I like the room, Sara. It's startling, but I like it.”

  “I hoped you would. Whether people like it or not, it's all mine. I didn't get it out of a book.”

  That was probably the best way to describe it. It wasn't exactly modern; it certainly wasn't provincial; it wasn't Louis Quinze or anything like that; I guess it was essentially Sara.

  I sat in a deep gold chair against the wall to the left of the door. The chair was tilted a little away from the wall so it slanted sharply to the right across the room. The table, too, I noticed, was in the shape of a parallelogram, the back flush against the left wall, the ends on the same, sharp slant into and across the room. A thick, deep-pile carpet, black as Sara's hair, stretched from one wall to the other. And there was only one other piece of furniture. That's right, just one. It was a huge divan; angular, bizarre, like nothing I'd ever seen before. It squatted just behind the center of the room, midway between the left and right walls, its back to me and the door. Long arms like right-angle triangles with the long, flat edge parallel to the far wall stretched from the sides of the divan like black, sharp-edged wings. The divan itself was black, matching the carpet beneath it and in its center were two thick cushions of creamy white. In front of the divan, sprawled on the ebony carpet, its gleaming claws half buried in the thick nap, was a snowy white bearskin rug almost shocking in its impact.

  The right wall was plain; no furniture, no lamps, nothing. It needed nothing. The slanting, diagonal lines of the chair, table and bearskin rug gave the room a feeling of movement that demanded space, emptiness on the right. Light suffused the room softly from fluorescent fixtures hidden at the juncture of the walls and ceiling.

  The room was a series of shocks that built up to the strangest, most shocking thing of all; every line of the room led the eye inevitably to it. A painting.

  The picture was on the wall directly in front of the divan and above the bearskin rug. It was huge, about eight feet high and six feet wide, reaching from the low ceiling almost to the floor. It was done in oils, thick, heavy blobs and smears of color and yet it wasn't really a picture at all It was a fragment torn out of a nightmare, a scream captured in oils.

  It completely dominated the room, filled it, crowded everything else into insignificance. At first I thought it was almost completely red, the brazen splashes and streaks of crimson leaping from the canvas like gaping wounds; but there were swirls of liquid green, touches of vibrant yellow, and pools of sombre black. Almost at the top of the canvas was one area of deep black spreading like a stain across the top of the painting. The whole thing was crazy; it didn't make sense. But there was a kind of rhythm to it, a sort of aliveness.

  That was the room. I couldn't have lived in it, but it fascinated me. It was Sara's room, all right.

  Sara said, “Pay some attention to me.

  I grinned at her. “I was admiring the room. It's strange; I never saw anything quite like it.”

  “What do you think of the painting? Do you like it?”

  “I don't know. Where'd you get it?”

  “I didn't get it. It's mine; I painted it.”

  I looked at her with new interest. “I didn't know you painted.”

  “I don't. But I painted that. I just wanted to do it. You know, it's not a real painting. It isn't modernistic, it isn't anything.” She came over and took my hand. “Come on. Bring your aphrodisiac.”

  I got up and she led me over to the huge divan and made me sit down. The divan was surprisingly comfortable. I noticed for the first time that the right rear leg of the bearskin disappeared under the heavy base of the divan as if imprisoned there. Sara walked over to the painting and pulled a fine string hanging down at its side that turned on a small light in a chromium pin-up reflector at the upper right-hand corner of the picture. She came back and sat down beside me.

  Sitting close under it like this, light spilling down from the corner of the painting, it was strange, eerie, almost over-powering. I sipped the absinthe, breathed in its aromatic fumes and stared at the matted patchwork of color.

  “Have you any idea what I call it?” she asked.

  I shook my head, looking at the tangled colors.

  “It doesn't really have a name. Self-Portrait, I call it.

  “Why?”

  “Because, I suppose, I just started on it and let it grow. It almost grows by itself. Whenev
er anything happens to me, or whenever I feel like it, I do some more on it. It doesn't really finish saying anything. It isn't finished; it never will be finished.” She looked at me, her green eyes veiled, distant. “You know, I started the thing when I was eighteen. I've been fooling with it for almost five years now.” She looked back at the picture and said, “It's really sort of ghastly, isn't it? A thing like that probably shouldn't have a name.”

  The sparkle came back into her eyes and she said, “Aren't we serious. I'll probably paint some more on it after you bring me home tonight. Something symbolic.”

  “Like what?

  She grinned and squinted at me, “How should I know? You haven't brought me home yet. And you never will if we don't get started.”

  I'd almost finished my drink so I let the last few drops trickle down my throat and handed her the glass. The absinthe lay warm and pleasant in my stomach.

  The place she'd chosen was out on La Brea and it was almost eight-thirty when I parked the Cad. It was a small building just off the highway near Bangor Street, with a flickering neon sign out front, “The Place.” Sara hugged my arm as we went inside.

  It was a small, intimate spot and I didn't see a soul I knew. It looked like a hangout for dipsomaniacs, nymphomaniacs and maniacs.

  Sara seemed to know everybody. Guys in tuxes, guys in sport shirts, gals in formals and dolls in bobby-sox said hello to her and she called most of them by nicknames. A five-piece combo played soft music in the back.

  We chose our own table, one luckily still left in one of the quieter corners and I said, “You seem to know your way around here.”

  “I do. This is my favorite place.” She smiled. “You meet such interesting people.”

  I looked around. “I believe it.”

  At the next table a tall blond-haired man with a definite widow's-peak and a slightly shorter man with black hair sat close together. The short man covered the other's hand with his own, patted it and talked earnestly into the blond's ear. The blond looked bored. The short man leaned closer and kissed the blond gently on the cheek.

  I turned back to Sara. She was taking it all in and watching me with an amused quirk on her lips, but the trace of a frown wrinkled on her forehead.

  I said, “Some guys have all the luck.”

  She threw back her head and laughter rippled out of her white throat. She smiled at me pleasantly. “Thanks, Shell,” she said. “I was a little afraid maybe you'd be mad.”

  “Not mad.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me, reached across the table and patted my hand.

  I said, “Now you kiss me on the cheek.”

  She didn't say anything to that, just let her hand rest quietly on mine and gave me a slanting, green-eyed look. Her lips were closed but moving slightly, imperceptibly. I could imagine her teeth sliding together in that strange sideways motion I'd seen before in Dragoon's office.

  I said, “You're a strange, strange creature, Sara.”

  She looked down at the tablecloth. “I suppose I am.”

  “Last night, for instance. What made you jab those long red nails into my neck?”

  She got a funny look on her face and answered, “I just felt like it.” No apology, just matter of fact.

  “You always do what you feel like doing?”

  She grinned a little, “Almost always.”

  I didn't see the waiter come up. He roared in my ear, “What'll it be, kids?”

  I looked at Sara. “What'll it be, kid?”

  “It'll be steak or shrimp. You takes your pick. That's all there is.”

  “That's all?”

  She nodded.

  “Steak, then,” I said.

  “Two steaks. I want mine rare.”

  Over red, rare steaks I said, “About last night, Sara. Just before I was lugged in. You were there all the time, weren't you?”

  She chewed on steak and nodded.

  “Wasn't it kind of, well, sickening?”

  “Not exactly. I was there when it started; I stayed till it was over. I didn't love it and I didn't hate it, but I didn't want to leave. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Maybe. I'm not sure.”

  “Look, Shell. I'm no angel; I'm bad. I've been called immoral and vicious and maybe I am. But I don't try to kid anybody.” She grinned like a kid caught in the jam. “And sometimes I'm lots of fun.” She lowered her voice and whispered between her teeth, “Lots of fun.”

  “Look, you siren,” I said. “I brought you out here to quiz you, see?”

  She pouted. “I know what quiz means. I'm almost sorry. All right. Quiz me, Shell. I'm going to finish my steak before it gets cold.” I watched her while she worked on a piece of steak, then she looked up at me from under her eyebrows and said, “I'll get you, Mr. Shell Scott. That's fair warning.”

  We batted everything around but the weather and when the steaks were gone and replaced by highballs, I said, “You know all about the little play Zerkle and Brooks worked on your brother, then.”

  She nodded. “I don't think Zerkle kept anything back. I heard it all.”

  I asked, “Do you know anything, Sara, about Joe's accident?”

  “Uh-uh. It's funny, that's all. I wish I did; I kind of liked Joe. He was a nice little crook, anyway.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “He worked for Drag four or five months. I couldn't help knowing him. He came to see me a couple of times.” She pressed her teeth together in that funny smile. “Maybe I fascinated him, huh? Like I fascinate you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I'm hypnotized. Did Dragoon ask Zerkle about Joe's getting killed?”

  She leaned over the table, her eyes merry. “Let me tell you something about Joe. He kicked me once. On the leg. Way high on my leg.”

  “What'd you do, scratch him?”

  “Uh-huh. High on the thigh he kicked me. Want me to show you where?” She stood up and reached for the hem of her gown.

  “Murder!” I yelped. “Sit down, woman. Want to start a riot?”

  She laughed and sat down. “I wasn't going to, really.

  I just wanted to see what you'd do.” She lowered her voice and said with mock secrecy, “I'll show you later. All right, Shell? Later?” She was having a lot of fun.

  “Sure,” I said. “Later. You had me scared. Now, answer the question of the quizzer without strip-tease or fancy stuff. Did Drag ask Zerkle anything about Joe's getting knocked off?”

  “Nope. And you're an old stick-in-the-mud.”

  “Okay. So I'm a stick-in-the-mud. I'm also a private dick. What are you laughing at?” She said it was nothing, so I went on, “Don't forget, I bribed you with a steak. I want answers. I've got a job to do, so I combine business with pleasure.” I leered at her. “If you can call this pleasure.”

  She raised a black eyebrow in a high arch. “Don't kid yourself; it's pleasure.” She got serious. “It is a pleasure, isn't it, Shell? I mean, you do like being here with me, don't you?”

  I glared at her. “Okay, you little minx. I'm enjoying myself. Now stop trying to seduce me.”

  “I will not.” She grinned.

  “One more question, sweetheart. A little while back when I asked you about Joe you said it was funny. What did you mean?”

  “Just funny. First place, Joe didn't drink so much he'd be full up to the neck like he was. Second place, what was he doing way out at Elysian Park? Particularly if he was so stinking? It's just funny, that's all.”

  “Excellent deductions, Miss Dragoon. Same as mine.”

  “Don't call me Miss Dragoon. Be intimate.”

  “All right then. Sara. Very nice deductions, but just how did you know Joe was full up to the neck, as you yourself put it, with hooch? Answer me that?”

  She looked at me coldly. “What is this, a cross-examination? It was in the papers, stupid. All the papers.”

  “Sorry. I'm stupid.”

  “No, you're not stupid. You're nice. Nice Shell.”

  She went from f
rigid to steaming in the sweep of a long eyelash. It was a bit disconcerting.

  I told her so. “You're a little disconcerting.”

  “Wonderful. That's an improvement. You haven't even told me how you like my hair.”

  “I like your hair.”

  “Can't you be a little more positive about it?” she snapped. Ice again.

  “Sure,” I said easily, “I like your hair. I'm positive I like it.”

  She pressed her red lips together tight. “Sometimes I could kill you, Shell Scott.” She leaned back in her chair. “Questions all over?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Want me to take you home?”

  “All right. First, though, you have to dance one dance with me. Then we'll go. You haven't even asked me to dance.”

  I'd almost forgotten the band was playing.

  I got up and went around to her side of the table. “May I have this dance, Miss Dragoon? Woops, Sara.”

  “Why thank you,” she smiled. “Charmed.”

  The five-piece combo was good. Three rhythm, one reed and one brass. They played with a heavy, pulsing beat that talked to your feet. I liked the way Sara danced. She came into my arms and pressed close against me, her left arm resting on my shoulder, fingernails teasing the hair on my neck.

  “You're too tall,” she said. “Stoop down a little.”

  “Careful with those long fingernails.”

  She leaned back a little way from me, looking up. She opened her mouth wide, then half closed it and said under her breath, “I'll be careful. You afraid?”

  “Scared to death. I never know when you might make like Lizzie Borden.”

  She took her right arm off my shoulder and waved her hand in front of my eyes. Her red nails were long, just beginning to curve down at the ends. “Who needs an ax?”

  I said, “Shut up,” and concentrated on dancing. The combo played Laura and they played it right. Soft and slow, lights dimmed, a vocalist I hadn't noticed before whispering the words. It was nice.

  The music stopped and Sara stood with me at the side of the floor, still pressed tight against me, fingers drawing little tingling circles on my neck.

  I said, “You lost? No more music.”

  “I'm lost. Who cares about music? I'll hum.”