Georgia said, "You sure fixed him."
It struck me funny and I laughed. Not much, just heh, heh.
"Thanks," I said. "Yep, I shore fixed him." The food had arrived, so I poured hot sauce inside a taco and added, "Georgia, honey, I'm jumpy. Usually on a case I know what I'm looking for. This time it's blank. I just keep expecting something to happen."
"Don't apologize."
"I'm not. I'm trying to worm some more out of you." —"I'll tell you this, Shell: I don't know an awful lot, myself. But I think somebody here may get nervous and jumpy himself when it gets known that I've hired a private detective. That you're working for me, on my side, and that you're looking for my sister. And I intend to let it be known before we leave."
"Just throwing a little weight around, huh?"
"That's about it."
"Why here? Who's supposed to get nervous?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know, or you can't tell me?"
"No, I honestly don't know who."
I left it there. I had one more piece of information, anyway; I was supposed to scare people. I was getting off to a great start.
The tacos and chili left my tongue feeling like a slice of crisp bacon, but by the time I'd waded through the fried beans and ordered more drinks for Georgia and me I'd learned from her that the knife thrower was Miguel Mercado and the luscious half of the act was French and Spanish and named Lina Royale. Also that El Cuchillo was run by a monster that answered to the name of Mrs. Margaret Remorse, or just plain Maggie.
El Cuchillo itself was definitely informal. Colored gourds hung from the beams of the ceiling and anyplace else they'd fit; big, floppy straw hats and guppy-colored serapes spotted the wooden walls; and on every small table was a huge candle, varicolored wax melting and running down the sides. The press of people jammed inside and the rain still·coming down outside made the air here in the club heavy and muggy. The entrance was just an open space off the sidewalk, and from the table I could look out and see the wet cement lighted intermittently by the neon sign as it flashed on and off.
A crowded bar along the fight wall served everything from beer to cheap champagne, but mostly tequila. In back, jammed against the wall, was a six-piece combo, the players all wearing serapes over their shoulders and wide straw hats on their heads while they played rumbas, tangos, sambas, and screwy things with lots of drums and maracas. On the right of the orchestra there was a door that led back into some kind of private quarters.
While I watched, the door opened and Lina came out as the combo started playing a samba. Guys applauded and yelled and she broke into a couple of quick steps designed to raise blood pressures, then started walking straight across the floor to the table where Georgia and I were sitting.
She made walking alone across that floor something to remember. Everybody was watching her—the men, anyway—and she knew it and loved it. She walked straight up to the table and stopped. I stood up.
She didn't even glance at Georgia. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "May I sit with you, querido?"
My tongue felt as if it was nailed to the roof of my mouth. I just stood there and looked.
And don't get the idea I'm wet behind the ears and lose my voice every time something sharp strolls up to me. I've known a flock of women, maybe more than I should have. I'm no Casanova by a long shot, but if women don't drool, they don't run screaming either.
But this Lina had something. Something wild in her eyes and wicked in her walk, I-dare-you and the-hell-with-you stuck out all over her.
Let me give you a picture, a sketch of her; she's worth it. She'd changed from the knife-act costume into a simple black skirt and one of those plain white peasant blouses that left her shoulders bare and a lot else besides. Her hair and eyes were even blacker than they'd looked in the spotlight, and her dark eyebrows were thin and expressive and wicked as the ends of Spanish whips. She had strong, white teeth that looked as if they could do away with a tough steak or nibble gently on an ear with equal effectiveness—and you'd like to buy her the steak and lend her the ear.
The skin of her face and shoulders was smooth and golden tan, and she wore her breasts the way a general wears medals: high and proud and perfectly aligned, and right out in front where nobody could miss them.
Nobody wanted to.
Her voice was more Spanish than French, and she said "querido" as though it meant "Kiss me." That was Lina.
"Querido," she said again, "may I sit here?"
"Please do." I got my tongue unstuck and pulled out a chair for her.
She sat down, said, "I am Lina Royale," and finally looked inquiringly over at Georgia. Her eyes seemed to be saying, "What is it?"
I said, "Miss Royale Miss Martin Miss Martin Miss Royale," all in One breath, then sat down and bit into my bourbon while they peeled lips back in unison, then slapped them down over their teeth like guillotine practice.
Lina turned back to me and smiled. She reached over and wrapped her fingers gently around the hand I was using to hold my highball glass. She leaned toward me, forgetting or ignoring the fact that her loose blouse billowed forward alarmingly, and said, "I came over because I wish to apologize."
"Apologize? For what?"
"For laughing. I should not have laughed at you when you wished to help me. I am appreciative. Six weeks we have done this act, every night three times, and no one before has ever lifted their fingers even."
She threw back her head and laughed softly. It sounded like a gurgle in her throat. "But you looked so funny. I could not help it, but I am sorry now. And thank you."
I said, real brilliant, "Sure. 'S O.K."
"But who are you?" Lina asked me. "What is your name?"
Georgia came in right on cue. "He's Shell Scott, darling. He's a private detective. It's his business to rescue troubled women. Right now he's working for me." The period on the end of her last sentence was the size of a baseball.
Lina gave her the guillotine again, then asked me, "Is that why you try to help me? Because it is your detective business? Hmm?" She leaned toward me again, damn her.
There I was. I said, "Well, I just didn't stop to think. Foolish habit of mine."
"Foolish habit." Lina pursed her lips and looked at me from narrowed eyes. "So. You are a detective, then?"
I don't know where the conversation might have gone from there, because right then the knife-tossing Miguel Mercado came up, pulled out a chair, and sat down without being asked.
"Detective," he said. "Who's a detective?"
I leaned over the table. "Who asked you in, friend?"
He blinked at me while I looked him over. He was about thirty-five and as thin as one of the knives he played with, and his black hair was all stuck up with some kind of gook that smelled like crushed gardenias two weeks in the garbage. He had a thin, sharp nose and beautiful white teeth, and he was wearing a black suit draped like a theatre curtain.
Lina broke in between us and introduced Miguel. He said how-do-you-do to Georgia and answered my silence with silence.
He turned to Lina and rattled off a bunch of Spanish.
She turned to me and said, "Pardon," then rattled Spanish back at him. He rattled some more and jerked his head toward the back of the house. It looked as if he was telling her to beat it, but she stuck a hand on her hip, tossed her head back and forth, and tore into him. He gave up and turned to me.
He said in a voice with practically no accent, "You sure were funny out there tonight, Mac. How about coming back tomorrow, Mac?"
This beetle was starting to screw under my skin. I kept my voice down quiet and said, "Friend, the name is Scott. Mr. Scott. Please do not call me Mac."
"O.K., Mac."
I tightened up on my highball glass so hard I almost broke it, but I didn't say anything. I knew if I opened my yap I'd bust him one. I could have cracked him in two with one hand. So, for that matter, could a large high-school boy.
Lina looked up at me and smiled sweetly.
"Ponch him," she said. "Ponch him in the nose. For me."
I grinned at her. "You little hell-cat! Pull in your fangs. And put on a brassiere." Ordinarily, I'm not so damned crude, but I was still burning so hot from Miguel I was about to bust wide open.
She didn't seem to mind a bit. She grinned back at me and said, "I will not. I do not like brassieres. Besides, you are fooling with me anyway."
Miguel started rattling again. He looked over at me and then spouted Spanish at Lina. I got curious.
"What's he giving you?"
Lina looked at me with her lip curled just a trifle. "He says you are a yellow-belly and a stupid pig. He says you and all your ancestors are pigs. He says—"
I didn't hear any more. That popped me. I got up slowly, took a deep breath, and walked around the table. I reached out with my left hand, grabbed Miguel by a bunch of white shirt and draped coat, and yanked him up out of the chair and close to me.
"I'll tell you just once, friend," I growled into his face, "lay off. Lay off now and forever, or there isn't going to be any tomorrow. Be good. Be a chum, or so help me—"
That was as far as I got. A booming voice in my ear said, "What's goin' on here?"
I relaxed my grip on Miguel and he folded down into his chair. He said, "Madre de Dios!" He looked bewildered.
I turned around. "Just chatting," I said.
"Chatting, hell!" she boomed. "I'm Maggie. I own the joint. And I asked you, what goes on?"
It was a woman. She was wearing a dark-blue skirt and a print blouse covered with what looked like withered flowers, but what a woman she was!
She was six feet tall and a horrible waste. She must have weighed two-fifty and her face looked as if she was tired of carrying it around. She was what has been called, facetiously, a mess, but there was nothing facetious about her. She looked like the kiss of death with halitosis and no lipstick, and her curves were huge and rambling like mountain ranges rising out of Death Valley. She'd apparently forgotten about her face along about 1930, and as a result nobody else ever would. That's enough about Maggie; I'm sick of her already.
"You're the owner?" I asked.
Her voice came out as if she was calling hogs. "Yeah, I'm Mizzus Remorse. Whatsa beef?"
Georgia came roaring into the breech again. She stood up and came around the table to face Maggie. She said easily, "Perhaps I can explain. My name is Georgia Martin. My sister, Tracy, didn't come home last night. She's missing. This is Mr. Scott, a private detective I've engaged to help me find her. I got religion and suggested to Mr. Scott that we come here to start with. Mr. Scott and Mr. Mercado aren't getting along."
She spat that all out without taking a breath, stopped, then walked back around the table and sat down, plop, Me? I could have been on the moon. I didn't have the foggiest idea what was going on. Lina and Miguel just looked blank. Maggie screwed up her fat face and said "What the hell! Chicken, you talked like you're looped, You been drinkin' that cactus juice?"
Georgia didn't say anything.
Mrs. Remorse turned to me and said, "Look, Mac."
I winced.
"Look, Mac," she said. "I like everybody to have a good time in my place here. But leave us not be bustin' anybody. Huh? Least, not in here. Bad for business. Besides, that's my knife thrower. Wouldn't want nothin' to happen to that wing a his'n. Might make him stick sweetie-puss in the gizzard." She lumbered around and peered down at Lina. "Huh, sweetie-puss?
Lina said, "Yes, sweetie-puss."
"Mrs. Remorse," I broke in. "Sorry if I caused a disturbance. This shiv artist got in my hair. Take him away and bury him someplace. Stick him in a drawer. No more trouble."
She lifted four pounds of fat in a smile. "Good-o, Mac." She jerked her head at Miguel. "Scram!" He scrammed and she heaved away from the table like a pregnant elephant.
I watched her lumber off. Just before she got to the door in back, a small, dark-complexioned guy leaning against the wall a few feet away jerked his head at her. She changed course and walked over to him. He looked like a midget beside that awful mass of woman. They talked for a few seconds, then both turned and looked back at our table. They could have been looking at me or at Georgia or at Lina. Or maybe they were just stretching their necks. Both of them went through the door by the orchestra and disappeared inside.
I went back to my chair and sat down. "So that's the boss. She's real cute."
"A mess," Lina said. "One mess, she is. She stinks."
"That guy," I asked her, "the little gent she was talking to. Know who he is?"
"He is some friend of Maggie's. Juan, his name Juan Porfirio. Why?"
"I dunno. Just curious. He have anything to do with the club?" "No. He is just around sometimes. Once before only did I see him. A few weeks ago. He was very fresh, so I remember. I think he comes from Mexico."
She got up. "I have to get ready for the next show. Will you see me?"
I looked at Georgia. She shook her head.
"Uh-uh," I said. "Not right away."
She smiled down at me. "But you will come back, querido." She wasn't asking.
Lina walked off artistically and I faced Georgia. "What sort of a play you giving this? I may not be the world's best detective, but from where I sit this party smells like amateur all over it."
She shook her head. "Everything's fine. Just right."
"What the hell, honey. You think this kind of junk's going to get anyone jumpy or nervous like you said?"
"Yes, I do, Shell. I scared somebody."
"You're off your trolley. Who, for instance? Nobody I saw looked scared to me."
"I don't know who. But I'll bet I scared somebody,"
"Damn! You're the don't-knowingest woman I ever saw. O.K., Georgia, your party. If you're through here, what next?"
"Come one," she said, "we might as well leave."
The rain had slackened off to a cold, miserable drizzle blown by a sharp wind from the north. I helped Georgia into the Cadillac and climbed behind the wheel. I'd left my buggy out at her place when I picked her up earlier, so we were driving her shining Cadillac. With the top up this time.
"Head back toward Hollywood," she said.
I switched on the windshield wipers and pulled out into the Chavez Ravine Road, headed toward Elysian Park Avenue and Sunset Boulevard. We'd driven maybe four blocks and were about opposite the big U.S. Naval and Marine Corps Reserve Training Center when I saw the headlights in the rear-view mirror. The car was coming like a bat out of hell. I eased over to the right so there'd be plenty of room for passing, then turned my attention back to the road.
The wind caught the drizzle of rain and whipped it up through the path of the headlights and blew it onto the windshield almost faster than the wipers could brush it away. One rotten night for speeding. I said it over again in my mind: One rotten night for speeding.
The ugly idea and a chill prickling on my spine came at the same time. The car traveling like a bat out of hell behind us should have passed us by now. I flicked my eyes to the rear-view mirror and at the same time out of the corner of my eye something blurred on my left. I swung my head around. The car was alongside us, just pulling ahead. The right window was down and even through the rain I could see the snout of the gun.
I slammed on the brakes with all my strength, yelled, "Duck!" and all hell broke loose.
A red splash of fire blazed in the open window of the other car and the windshield in front of me cracked and splintered as I felt the brakes grab. More spots of fire blinked as the Cad swerved, the tires slipping on the wet pavement. I fought the wheel with my left hand, and with the right grabbed Georgia and pushed her down toward the floor of the car. The Cad slowed and I grabbed under my left arm for my .38, threw open the door of the car, and leaned down and out to my left.
One last tongue of fire blinked from the back of the car gunning down the street ahead as the Cad stopped and I jumped out. I swung the revolver up and fired five shots as fast as I could pull the trigger. The car was ha
lf a block away before I could get the gun leveled, and I couldn't even be sure all five shots hadn't missed.
I slipped the Colt Special back into its spring shoulder holster and walked around to the right side of the car.
I opened the door. "They beat it," I said. "The bastards beat it with their tails between their legs."
She was still crumpled up half on her back on the floor of the car. Her left arm slid slowly down the edge of the seat and dangled out over the side of the car. Her fingers moved once in a little jerk.
"Georgia! Georgia!" I slid up onto the seat, bent over, and reached around her. I grabbed hold to lift her up, and as soon as I touched her my hand was wet and messy with her warm blood.
"Georgia, honey. How bad is it? How bad is it?"
"Shell…" It was just the whisper of her voice. "I…"
"Easy, Georgia. I'll get you to a doctor."
She moved her head back and forth a fraction of an inch. Her fingers twitched again against my leg. "I…killed…" And the last word was "Narda…" It came out wrapped in blood, and died in a sibilant whisper.
Her hand went limp against my leg, her head sagged with a last ripple of long blonde hair, and a trickle of red blood ran out of the side of her mouth. No movement, no pulse, no nothing. All over. Just like that.
I sat and looked at her for long moments. Kind of a screwy gal, but nice. I'd sort of got to where I was liking her. Among others things, I was the guy supposed to protect her. Shell Scott, the fabulous detective. The cluck. Maybe she'd had some crazy ideas, but she'd been right about one thing.
She'd scared the hell out of somebody.
Chapter Four
AT A LITTLE HOUSE a hundred feet back down the road I put in a call to the complaint board at Headquarters while an old man listened with his eyes bugging and his mouth hanging open. When I hung up he started pumping me, but I wasn't in any mood to go over it again. I thanked him, shook my head at his questions, and walked back to the car. I climbed in and looked down at Georgia. There wasn't anything I could do for her now.
The Case of the Vanishing Beauty Page 2