Dumb-waiter, Iris had said. That sounded like a kitchen. I looked through the glass window of the cafeteria, past the tables and the long serving line with its steam tables at the right, to a pair of swinging doors in back. As I watched, a man in a white jacket came through the swinging doors and walked behind the steam tables. I said, "Here goes nothing, Scott," and went in. I walked past the sad-looking characters shoving food down their throats, down the length of the serving line, and stopped at the cashier. She'd been busy making change and hadn't seen me.
I leaned over toward her and said, "Say, miss. I'd like to compliment somebody on the food here. Best meal I've had in a month."
She smiled halfheartedly like that was great but I could drop dead if I felt like it. "Thanks," she said listlessly.
"I mean it," I said. "Food never used to be this good here. It's chock-full of downright goodness."
She batted her eyes at me. "New chef," she said. "About the nine hundredth. Tell it to the boss." She nodded vaguely toward the front of the cafeteria.
"Thanks. New cook, huh? How long's this been going on?"
"Couple weeks." She frowned. "I don't remember you, mister."
I grinned at her. "That's too bad. I sure remember you."
"Oh, gowan," she cooed.
I left the gal, waited till she was making change, and walked through the swinging doors in back.
It was a kitchen, all right. It was almost two-thirty P. M. now, and only one man, a cook in a white puffy hat, was in the kitchen. He was stirring a conglomeration in a big metal pot with a long wooden ladle.
He glanced around at me as I came through the doors. "Hey!" he said. "Don't you know you're not supposed to be in here."
I smiled pleasantly at him and said, "You must be new here. I'm making an inspection. I'm Scott, L.A. Bureau of Sanitation. Been a complaint."
So far I was on fairly safe ground. The L.A. Bureau of Sanitation does make inspections of complaints, and I had plenty to complain about, and my name was Scott, and I was making an inspection.
There was one short, bad moment while he stared at me, then glanced around the kitchen, but then he wiped his hands on his not very clean apron and stuck out a paw toward me.
I shook his hand and he said nervously, "Sorry. I only been here a couple weeks. I think everything's all right, I think."
While I shook his hand I glanced slyly at his fingernails to see if they'd pass, then let go of his hand and said, "I'll take a look around. Where's the boss?"
"Out front. Want me to get him?"
"In a minute, maybe. Not yet." I sure hoped it wasn't yet.
I took out a notebook I carry and made doodles with a pencil while I wandered around glaring at the pots and pans. The kitchen ran the entire width of the back of the cafeteria and was about as wide as two or more ordinary rooms. I'd noticed when I first came in that there was a closed door in the kitchen's left wall, which was next to the alley outside, and in the right wall were two little doors about a yard square.
I worked my way over to the little doors, swung them open, and found what I wanted.
"This thing," I said. "What's it for?"
He wiped his hands some more and said nervously, "There's a club down under here. Night club. No kitchen there. Didn't used to be a club. They use this place for what food they serve. Don't serve much. I don't have nothing' to do with that, though. Boss could tell you more."
I nodded. "How about getting him for me?" I didn't care if I never saw the boss, but I wanted to get rid of this guy.
He said, "Sure, sure," and went out.
As soon as his back disappeared I raced clear across the kitchen, yanked open the door leading to the alley outside, left the door open, and jumped back to the food lift. I hoped that open door would make it look as if I'd left.
It was a tight fit, but I got inside the lift, facing in toward the far wall of the kitchen and the open door to the alley, and I couldn't help thinking as I grabbed for the doors to swing them shut that I'd have a hell of a time explaining this to the boss if he should bust in while I was sitting there cross-legged like a yogi and not even contemplating my navel.
But I got the doors shut, pulled the little rope that lowered the dumb-waiter, and was on my way.
I wasn't sure what I'd be getting into down below in the Pit, but I had an idea it wasn't going to be good, and even though I was going down, down, down, I felt as if my stomach were still up there in the kitchen.
Chapter Six
THE LIFT stopped at the bottom of the shaft with a slight jar and an almost inaudible thud that was quieter than the sound of my heart beating in my ears. I pulled the.38 out from under my coat, squeezed it tight in my right hand, and waited a moment, listening.
I couldn't hear a thing. There wasn't even any light snaking through the crack that I could feel in the little doors before my face, so I guessed the room ahead of me was dark. I shoved gently on the doors and there was a faint click as they swung outward. I couldn't see anything. Leaning out, I looked around and saw a thin slice of light spilling from under a door about ten feet straight ahead of me. In the glow, as my eyes got used to the darkness, I could see I was at the edge of a small room undoubtedly at the back of the club. This was where the waiters picked up food that occasional customers might order. And now I knew why the service at the Pit had been so lousy.
I eased my cramped legs outward and down till they touched the floor, then I slid out and straightened up. Soft, rustling conversation reached me like someone talking in a dream. I walked slowly to the door on my right, letting my feet down gently on the floor and shifting my weight carefully as I moved. With my ear pressed against the door, I could hear voices, one deep, rumbling voice and two higher-pitched ones. One of them sounded like a woman. I listened for about a minute but couldn't understand any of the words of conversation. The other high-pitched voice seemed to be doing most of the talking, but it didn't tell me anything.
I'd come this far; I couldn't just stand here. But if there was a canasta game going on inside I was going to look damned silly.
I grabbed the doorknob in my left hand, lifted, and turned the knob. It moved easily and the door cracked without a squeak.
I shoved the door hard, swung it wide, and stepped into the room with the gun solid in my right hand, hunched over like Billy the Kid.
It was a good thing. There wasn't anything like canasta going on and I didn't feel a bit silly any more. I felt relieved and a little scared.
Iris Gordon sat in a chair with her right profile toward me and I could see that her hands were twisted behind her back and taped. She turned her head quickly toward me and opened her mouth, long red hair swirling as she moved. Behind a big, pure-white desk on my right a man was sitting, leaning forward with his chin cupped in his hands, his elbows on the top of the desk. On the far side of the room two men leaned against the wall, casually. Both of them were tall; one was heavy, one thin.
As I busted in, the guy at the desk jerked a little, then started lowering his hands slowly to the desktop. One of the men against the wall, the thin one, spun around fast to his left, his legs spreading wide and his left foot hitting the floor with a solid smack. The motion sent his unbuttoned coat swinging out away from his body, baring a gun nestled against his left arm. As he spun around and crouched, his right hand streaked toward the gun and slapped against it before I could get a word out of my mouth.
He was good. He was better and faster than I am, but I had my .38 already in my fist.
As his palm slapped the gun butt I said, "Watch it." I didn't have to speak loud. The room was so quiet I could hear the dull smack of his hand against the gun metal.
The words dropped into the room and hung there. The guy froze with his hand crossed over his heart. He didn't move. He didn't take his hand away, but it didn't come out full either. I'd flicked the muzzle of the .38 over toward him, ready to squeeze down on the trigger if I had to. But I didn't want any shooting. I still didn't know who the hell
I'd be shooting or why.
The man at the desk moved his right hand slowly, out in plain sight with no menace in his movement, and still looking at me he waved his hand a couple of times toward the two men. The tall thin guy relaxed a little and let his hand come away from the gun. Both men held their hands slightly in front of them where I could see them.
So far nobody had said a word except me. For a moment there was a sort of tableau, with the three men motionless and Iris staring at me, and in that moment I thought to myself that I hoped to Christ this caper started making sense pretty soon. In all my L.A. private eyeing I'd never run around so much or stuck my neck out so far without knowing what the score was or who was winning. And here I was throwing down on Marty Sader, calm and quiet behind his big, white desk, two other guys I'd never seen before, and a beautiful girl who'd said maybe twenty frantic words to me.
This way, I thought, lies the booby hatch.
And then Iris was spraying words at me for the second time this topsy-turvy day. Seemed like she couldn't see me without busting out in quivers.
"Shell, Shell, Shell," she said in a gasp like one word. "Oh, Shell, I'm glad." I thought she was going to say, "Glad! Glad! Glad!" but she didn't. She stopped talking and stared at me as if I were her mother.
Sader had his hands flat on the top of the desk now. He looked at me and said disgustedly, "Well—" and added a vulgar monosyllable I never use.
I eased the door shut behind me with my foot and leaned back against the wood. I said, "Hello, Marty."
He inclined his head. "Mr. Scott."
His was the high-spirited voice I'd heard doing most of the talking; I remembered it now. No nervousness about him. Calm. Almost pleasant. He might have been at a cocktail party for all the nervousness he showed.
Marty didn't look particularly formidable except for a solid, square jaw—and his complete calm. Sitting behind the big desk, he looked even less than his five-nine or five-ten. He had black hair that was starting to thin at the top, and it was carefully combed sideways over the pinkish spot. A few flecks of gray dotted his hair and the close-trimmed temples. Brown eyes stared at me from behind rimless glasses. I'd say he was in his late forties, but he was well barbered and looked tanned and in pretty good shape. He was half smiling, and his teeth were so white they almost glowed at me. He wore a black suit and was wearing a black knit tie over a white, long-collared shirt. He really stood out against the white of his desk, a fairly good-looking guy.
He kept the little smile on. "What can I do for you, Mr. Scott?" I almost grinned. He acted as if I were a customer instead of a man with a gun on him. I said, "Just everybody keep still for now."
I was tired of trying to watch all three men at once. I jerked my head at the tall thin character up against the wall. "You," I said. "With your left hand, very slowly, take out that gun you're carrying. Thumb and first finger
—and your left hand."
He didn't move right away. He glanced at Marty Sader and I could see Sader nod his head slightly. Damn it! I was supposed to be in charge.
But the thin guy eased his hand up slowly, got two fingers on the gun, and pulled.
"On the floor," I said. "Drop it."
He dropped the gun.
"Now you," I said to the other one. "Same deal. And no tricks if you're left-handed."
He hadn't moved since I busted in. Maybe he hadn't even breathed. I didn't expect any tricks from him and I didn't get any. He dropped the gun on the floor.
"O.K.," I said. "Kick 'em over toward me, then shove your coats back off your shoulders. Both of you. Leave your arms in the sleeves, but drop the coats down to your elbows."
The thin guy started to say something, but stopped. He shrugged and they did as I'd said. That was the best I could do for the moment, but they'd have a hard time pulling anything or pumping me with their arms cramped in their coats.
I looked at Sader. "Your turn."
He kept smiling. "Interesting, Mr. Scott. Neat enough. But I never carry a gun."
He grabbed the lapels of his black suit gingerly and pulled them apart. No shoulder holster.
"Shove back from the desk," I told him. He moved back. "Now stand up and try it again."
He got up and held the coat out from his body.
"Turn around."
"All right," he said easily.
There wasn't a gun in sight anywhere, but I said, "Now the coat pockets, Sader. Inside out."
He shook his black head. "I'll say one thing for you, Mr. Scott. You're thorough." His white, pleasant smile came back. "Maybe that's why you're still alive."
While I tried to figure out if there were anything between those lines, he started to dip his right hand into his right coat pocket.
"Uh-uh," I said. "Left hand."
"Awkward," he grumbled, but he reached across his body, first with the left hand, then with the right, and turned the pockets inside out. If he had a gun on him I'd eat it.
"All right, Mr. Scott? That enough? This isn't very neat—and there's a lady present."
I wonder what it took to get him rattled. I nodded at him and walked over to Iris. She whispered to me, but there was no point in whispering. It was so loud and ragged you could hear it bouncing off the walls.
"Thank God you came! They'll kill us. They'd have killed me, Shell. Get me out of here." She was coming apart at her beautiful seams. I listened, but somehow she didn't have to repeat that bit about Marty's wanting to kill us; even if it didn't make good sense yet, that idea had never been out of my mind. Well, I'd wanted in here, and I was here, and now that I was, I was dying to get far away.
Iris' hands were taped together, and I reached behind her and felt for the end of the tape and yanked. She let out a little gasp, but in a few seconds she had her hands free and was rubbing them together.
Then she stood up and pressed against me, clinging to my left arm. This was one hell of a time for her to start pressing against me, but I didn't shove her away. I'm weak. I could feel her heart beating fast like a rabbit's.
She whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so damned sorry."
Sader spoke up. "It won't work, Scott."
"What won't work?"
"You won't get out. Even if you should, you couldn't get far. It will take you exactly sixty seconds to go up in the elevator." He stopped speaking and frowned. "How did you—" He clamped his teeth together and ridges of muscle bulged at the sides of his square jaw. He glanced up toward the ceiling above the wall in front of him—the wall separating this office from the rest of the club. I followed his gaze and saw a small unlighted light bulb above the close door leading into the club. He looked back at me and said, "But of course you didn't use the elevator. Stupid of me. I deserve this."
Then he glared at Iris. It had suddenly hit him how I'd come in—and how Iris had got away from him earlier. He said to her, "Then I did lock you in, didn't I? I'm glad to know I wasn't that careless." He shrugged and added more to himself than to any of us, "I've been careless enough."
Iris whispered, "Let's go. Let's get out of here."
That was fine. That was great. What were you supposed to do, dissolve? I couldn't see both of us squeezing into that dumb-waiter. Not that it wouldn't have been fun; there just wasn't room. And, besides, our three chums couldn't be expected to twiddle their thumbs while we played footsie in the dumb-waiter. Or, for that matter, while we were crawling twenty feet in an elevator.
Sader said to me, "Complicated, isn't it, Mr. Scott?"
They were just idle words. I could have sent Iris up the lift while I stayed here like Galahad, but I was damned if I was letting her out of my sight again till she'd cleared up all the loose ends that were dangling around me. But there had to be another way out besides the dumb-waiter and the slow-moving elevator.
"Sader, how about that front exit? There must be more ways out of here than the elevator. Where are they?"
He looked at me and shook his head slowly.
"I'd hate to rough you up, Sader
. But we're leaving."
He didn't say anything.
I was temporarily stumped. I could shoot them all, but obviously if I entertained ideas like that I was getting as near the padded cells and strait jackets as Mrs. Sader had appeared to be. Or I could simply bat them all on the head—during which process I'd probably get well batted myself.
I said, "Look, Sader. You haven't got a prayer. I can work on you guys one at a time or all at once, but you'll spill."
He started to speak, but though his mouth stayed open, he didn't say anything. He was looking over my head toward the door again. I turned sideways and glanced up where he was staring. The light I'd noticed him look at before was burning brightly now.
"What does that mean?" I asked him.
He frowned. "It means we're having company. That light goes on whenever the elevator starts down. It's—ah—a precautionary measure."
And then I remembered the Plymouth that had whizzed by me when I'd been standing in front of Clark's Cafeteria. I tried it for size.
I said, "That reminds me. Before I dropped in here I noticed one of Breed's boys up in the alley. Seemed like he was waiting for something."
"Breed!" For the first time he lost some of his noise. But not for long; I don't imagine he ever lost it for long. He said rapidly, "Perhaps I've acted hastily, Mr. Scott. There is another exit in this very room. In the corner." He jerked his head toward the corner of the room at his right. "You can see it if you look closely enough. Even from where you are. Here." He ignored the gun I had on him and fished in his pants pocket. He pulled out a key ring, separated one key, and placed the ring on the desk. "That unlocks it. There are steps up to the alley at street level. You may leave."
What the hell? I stood stupidly in the middle of the room with Iris pressed warm and close against me while the seconds ticked away.
Everybody Had A Gun Page 5