Everybody Had A Gun

by Richard Prather

  I heard her quick footsteps inside right after I rang. Then she looked out at me, framed by the lights inside the house. It was nearly seven-thirty now, long after sunset, and all up and down the street, lights were on in the houses.

  She was a little bit of a thing. Five feet, maybe, with dark hair hugging her ears and a surprised look on her young face.

  She said, "Well, hello. Who're you?" And it was the same voice.

  "Hello, there," I said. "I'm Shell Scott. I wonder if I could come in and talk to you." I thought about it, then handed her my wallet, opened to my state license in the celluloid envelope, and added, "I'm a detective. Private detective. All right?"

  She glanced at the wallet, pressed her lips together, and lowered her head a fraction, looking up at me. Then she said, "Don't know why not. Come on in, Mr. Shelscott."

  I went in and said, "It's two words."

  "What's two words?"

  "Shell Scott."

  "Oh." She let laughter bubble out of her again. "How silly. Me, I mean. Sit down, Mr. Shell," pause, "Scott."

  I sat down in a straight-backed chair and she sank into an overstuffed one three or four feet from it. I said, "Shell's good enough, Miss Green. It is Miss, isn't it?" It was a good bet. She wasn't more than nineteen or twenty, with a schoolgirl face and a slender, almost boyish figure.

  She looked surprised. "Yes, it's Miss. But how did you know it was Miss Green?"

  "Isn't that right?"

  "Yes. Catherine Green—but everyone calls me Kitty." She smiled, "You, too, if you want. After you explain."

  I didn't know quite how to begin. She seemed like such a sweet kid. I said, "It has to do with Mr. Sader."

  "Marty? What's the matter with Marty?" There seemed to be real concern in her voice. "He's all right, isn't he?"

  "Yeah, he's all right. So far. But. . ." I was having a hard time, and finally I decided I'd have to be a lot tougher than this if I wanted to stay alive. This little chick could be snowing me under for all I knew. They come in all kinds of packages.

  I said abruptly, "You know Sader pretty well, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "How well?"

  She frowned. "Isn't that my business, Mr. Scott?"

  That was the trouble. It was her business, and ordinarily it wouldn't be any of mine. But this had been an extraordinary day. I said bluntly, "I know of your—friendship with Mr. Sader, Miss Green."

  She tossed her head, and before I could go on she said, "Mr. Scott, did you come here to deliver an essay on morals, or did you have something else to say?"

  "I'm sorry," I said. And then I threw it at her. "But Marty Sader ordered me killed this morning."

  I waited for the reaction, if any. It came slowly. It bounced right off her at first and she kept looking at me with the slightly fixed and belligerent expression she'd had just before. But then she got it on the rebound and the stern lines of her face relaxed. She cocked her head and said, "What? What was that? You must be—"

  I kept going. "And when I was good and dead, his boys were supposed to phone this number here and say, 'I delivered the flowers.' That meant me—murdered."

  Shock spilled over her face, then she pressed her lips tightly against her teeth and her face started getting red. "Why, you dirty, dirty liar!" she said softly. Then her voice rose higher and higher as she started yelling at me. "Why, you were the one who just called me. You did that! You thought I—Oh!" She yelled that I was low and unfit and cheap and out of my mind and a lot of other things, and finally she was on her feet and standing over me.

  She hauled one little hand back and launched it at me and I stuck up my arm and her hand bounced off my sleeve. She kept yelling at me and swinging and clawing, and it looked as if she were getting madder and madder every half second. Finally when she couldn't get a good grip on my face, she whirled around, took three steps away from me, and grabbed a foot-high vase that might have cost a dime or a hundred dollars, but was worth about two cents when she got through with it. She swung it around behind her head and hurled it at me, and if I hadn't ducked I'd have been picking vase out of my face for a week. It crashed into the wall behind me, shattered, and rattled to the floor.

  I was getting nowhere this way.

  I got up, took two steps toward her, and grabbed her small wrists. I held her so she couldn't get away—or get at me—and I said right into her face, "Listen, little tiger, somebody tried to kill me. Somebody took two shots at me and almost spilled my blood. And if it wasn't your Marty Sader, I've got to find out who it was."

  I knew damn well it was Sader's doing, but I couldn't talk with a buzz saw. Little five-foot Kitty had a ten-foot temper.

  The words got past her anger a little way, and finally she calmed down enough for me to let go of her. She walked over to her chair and sat down rubbing her wrists. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I just knew you were lying. You—you hurt me."

  "My apologies, Miss Green. You damn near hurt me." She smiled, then laughed lightly. "Now, what's all this nonsense?"

  "It isn't all nonsense, Miss Green."

  "Kitty. Let's make up."

  "O. K., Kitty. But can I talk to you without your getting mad again? I'm in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to dig my way out."

  She nodded. "I won't get mad, Mr. Scott—Shell."

  "Good. Don't forget. Now, was Marty here this morning? Before noon?" I figured if Ozzie had given me the straight copy, and I thought he had, I could cross off Kitty as the person supposed to receive the message. Maybe it wasn't entirely logical, but that's the way it was. If so, then Marty had probably figured he'd be here himself.

  But she said simply, "No."

  "He been here today?"

  "Not at all." But she was honest about it. She added, "He comes in and out any time. He might have meant to come out, then changed his mind."

  One phrase stuck with me. "He comes in and out any time." I glanced over my shoulder toward the curtained window. This would be one hell of a time for him to pop in.

  The whole idea so far made sense, though. It looked as if Marty had called his boys and sent them after me, planning to take the call at Kitty's—a relatively safe place for him to be. But then when he'd found Iris had flown his flimsy coop, he'd been too busy to stick to his original plans. Which had almost wound him up with Breed while Iris and I had been in the Pit.

  I said, "Kitty, you believe whatever you want to, but I've got good reason to think Sader bears me no good will. I've talked to Sader's hired muscle, his wife, even Sader himself, and things have happened today that—"

  There was no point in going on. She wasn't hearing any of it. She was staring at me as if I'd slapped her when she was expecting a kiss. Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide. I couldn't figure out what had happened.

  Then it was easy to figure. She gasped, "His wife! What do you mean? He doesn't have a wife!"

  I felt like walking over and putting my arm around her or holding her hand. She wasn't kidding; she meant it. And what the hell was I supposed to say?

  "Kitty, honey. Didn't you know he was married?"

  "Why, that's silly. I know he isn't." There was a small tremor in her voice, no matter how positive she tried to sound.

  I said, "I talked to his wife this morning, Kitty. I saw her. Did Marty tell you he wasn't married?"

  "Well, not in so many words. But it—he just couldn't be. We—I don't believe it." Her voice got stronger. "I just don't believe you, Mr. Scott."

  "Have you ever phoned him at his home?" I asked.

  "N-no. I never phone him at all. He—doesn't want me to." Her voice trailed off and she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  I said quickly, "What do you think you're doing now?"

  "I'm going to call him. I'll show you."

  "Honey, I wouldn't advise it. You'd better not."

  "I don't care what you advise!" Then she was holding the phone to her ear.

  "Hello," she said. "Is Mr. Sader there? He isn't? When will he be ba
ck?" She listened a moment, nodding her head, then frowned. "Who—who is this speaking, please?"

  I watched her face. I knew what was going to happen, but knowing didn't stop it from getting to me, twisting my insides a little. Her mouth got round, then sagged; her whole face seemed to fall apart, slowly. Then her teeth came together with a small click and her chin dimpled up as she pressed her lips tight. She sat quietly for long seconds, the receiver still pressed to her ear, her eyes staring at the table. Then she said, "What? Oh, I'm—Kitty Green. No, I—I won't be calling again." She listened a moment longer and said, "Oh!" suddenly, then slowly, "Yes. Yes, I will." She hung up.

  She sat very still for a moment, then without looking at me she said, "I guess you were right about—about that. But I don't believe anything else you said."

  "Kitty," I said, "I'm sorry." There wasn't a lot I could say. It was time I left.

  I stood up. "I'll be going."

  "No. Please don't. Mr. Scott, she—she knew about me. About Marty and me. She wants me to come out and see her. Will you take me?"

  The hell. In the first place, I didn't think it was a good idea for Kitty to go out there. In the second place, I didn't think it was a good idea for me to go out there. Marty, wherever he was, didn't like the idea of my living. And the more I thought about the son of a bitch, the less I liked the idea of his living. But added to that was the probability that now even Breed's boys were after me. I hadn't seriously considered that angle yet, but it figured. First of all, there was no doubt that Breed recalled me, with no great fondness, as the guy who crippled Lobo's gun hand about three months back. Then, down in the Pit, I'd sapped another of Breed's boys, Flick, and Flick had thought I was "one of Sader's guns." By now it was nine to five that Breed thought so, too.

  I think what rankled as much as anything was the idea that people might think I was on the same side of anything as Marty Sader, but that wasn't really so important. The important thing was that Breed and Sader and all their respective boys seemed to be right at each other's throats over the rackets and the racket gravy: Sader muscling in, and Breed starting to shove back. That part was all right, but the other part wasn't. And that was me, Shell Scott, right in the bloody middle.

  I said to Kitty, "It's not a good idea. Why don't you forget about going out there? You—you won't get any kick out of it."

  She faced me. squarely. "I'm going. I want to see her. I'm going if I have to walk. Will you take me?"

  "You have a car?"

  "No. Marty was going to get me one when we—" She stopped, looked away, and blinked rapidly. Then she said angrily, "Well, are we just going to stand here?"

  I knew I wouldn't have let her go alone even if she'd had a car. It was a lousy idea, but she'd made up her mind and I figured I'd go along. I didn't like thinking of Kitty alone with Mrs. Sader, either. Marty's wife had been too near the edge, as I remembered. Any moment now she might decide to fly and take off for the moon. Besides, Kitty looked as if she could use some company.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS colder now as we drove up toward Hollywood Boulevard, the Cad's headlights slicing a path before us. There wasn't much either of us had to say, and we spoke in monosyllables. I kept hoping Kitty would change her mind, but when I finally asked her if she still wanted to go, she said quietly, "Yes," and I let it ride.

  As I turned into Nichols Canyon Road I shook my head, wondering why I was taking a nice little gal out to see the potted horror who was the wife of a guy who wanted me cold and dead. And on a miserable night like this.

  It was a nice night for corpses, if any night ever is, for it was the kind that sends imaginary shadows sweeping across your mind and flickering in front of your eyes. The stars burned cold and hard in the sky and there wasn't any moon. The wind still prowled around outside the car, swelling and sighing, then dropping to a lonesome whisper.

  And on a night like this we were going out Nichols Canyon Road to see a witch. On purpose.

  I could see light before we got there. A porch light was burning at the big white house and I drove right up in the driveway and parked. As I stopped the car I saw the front door open and Mrs. Sader's horse face hanging out in the air. It could use some air.

  I went around and helped Kitty out of the car and we walked up to the wide porch in front of the house and up the steps. Mrs. Sader stepped out of the door and impaled me with a look.

  The look wobbled a little, but she finally got me with it. There was no glass in her hand this time, but you could bet it hadn't been gone long, because she was long gone.

  She glared at me and said with more care and less success than she'd had about eight hours earlier, in the afternoon, "What're you doing here?"

  "I came with Miss Green, Mrs. Sader. I drove her out here."

  "Well, go 'way."

  I shrugged, but Kitty laid a small hand on my arm. "No, Shell. Please stay. I hope it's all right, Mrs.—Mrs. Sader. I'd like him to stay."

  Mrs. Sader turned and looked at Kitty for the first time, and then I realized she'd never seen her before this moment. Her bleary eyes fell on Kitty's youthful features and fresh complexion, and unconsciously she ran a hand over her own tired-looking face. She let her eyes run over Kitty's trim little figure and neat suit, and for a moment I almost liked her. At least, I felt sorry for her, and that's pretty close to the same thing.

  She said softly to Kitty Green, "You're pretty."

  I got the impression that this was all she'd really wanted: to see the woman her husband had been with, was seeing some of these days and some of these nights. So far she'd simply been catalogued in my mind as "Old Goon-Girl," but now I wondered how a woman felt when she knew her husband was tired of her, or was finding his pleasure with a younger, lovelier woman. And I wondered most of all how a woman like Mrs. Sader would feel.

  But then she sucked her breath in between her teeth with a sharp hissing sound and flipped back into character. She said violently, "You're the new one. You're the new one. You're the new slut he's got."

  Kitty gasped and Mrs. Sader stuck her head forward and glared at her.

  I said, "Look, lady, lay off the—"

  Mrs. Sader busted in; she'd seen the pain on Kitty's face and she liked seeing it. She whinnied, "Slut, slut, slut, slut! You aren't even married. I'm married to him. You're cheap, you're. . ."

  Her voice trailed off and she pulled her head around and looked at me. I guess she looked at me. It was more as if she looked straight through my eyes at something unpleasant on the back of my head.

  Kitty spoke quietly. "Why did you ask me to come?"

  Mrs. Sader kept her eyes pointed at me. "You go away," she said. "I didn't ask you."

  Kitty spoke more loudly this time. "I want Mr. Scott to stay. I asked him to stay."

  Mrs. Sader whirled on her, spewing whisky fumes in a nauseous half circle. Not that whisky fumes are nauseous; it was what came along with it. She cried, "This is my house. My house! He has no business here. You don't have any. You don't belong here."

  "But, Mrs. Sader," Kitty began in a tight voice. Maybe her temper was beginning to perk again, and I didn't want that to get started. Not with me in between these two.

  "Maybe we'd better forget this," I said. "I'll take you home, Kitty."

  But Mrs. Sader wasn't through. Perhaps she'd planned to be fairly reserved and pleasant—as pleasant as she could be—but it wasn't working out that way. It was getting out of hand and making me uncomfortable. It must have been doing worse than that to Kitty.

  Mrs. Sader leaned close to Kitty and grabbed her by the arm. Looking into her face she said, "You think you're clever, don't you? Think you've been smart. You haven't been. You've just been shameful. He's my husband. He'll get through with you. You're not the first one he's had—and there'll be more, a hundred more."

  I'd been looking at Mrs. Sader. Her eyes were staring and her mouth was working, lips wet with saliva. But now I glanced at Kitty and saw her wince at Mrs. Sader's last words.


  Mrs. Sader saw it too. She almost grinned and shrieked, "I've counted them one after another for ten years. He'll soon be through with you. But he keeps me. He keeps me! Me! I'm the only one he loves."

  She stopped talking, with her head thrust forward on her skinny neck, looking at Kitty and gasping, almost sobbing. Her chest rose and fell spasmodically as animal sounds pressed out of her throat and mouth.

  Kitty stared at her, shrinking from her, then shook her arm free and turned. Her face was twisted and pinched as she spun around and walked rapidly to the car. I followed behind her as she opened the door on my side and slid under the wheel and up against the farther door. I got in, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway.

  Kitty didn't say a word. As we drove back toward her house I glanced at her from time to time. She never once looked at me; her face was turned away from me, pointed out the open window of the car, and once in a while her shoulders would shake a little, then relax.

  It was a lot longer drive back than it had been coming out, and it was still the same kind of night. Neither of us said a word. I parked in front of her house and climbed out of the Cad. By the time I reached the door on her side of the car she was out of the car and running up the walk, heels clicking on the cement.

  I followed her up to the porch and opened my mouth to speak, but she ran inside and slammed the door in my face.

  I turned around and went back to the car and sat there for a while, smoking a cigarette. Then I drove away thinking, Marty, I'd like to cut out your stinking heart!

  Chapter Eleven

  I ROLLED the wind wings out and drove a fast mile, hating Marty Sader every foot of the way, then cooled off a little. It was already after nine o'clock and I decided it was past time I got some food up to Iris and Mia, my two babes in the woods.

  I turned off Fairfax Avenue onto Santa Monica Boulevard, the lights of a car behind me bouncing off the rearview mirror and into my eyes momentarily. I felt in my pocket, made sure I had the list Mia had given me, and headed for Kelcey's Market on Kingsley near Santa Monica. I bet Mia could whip up a nice batch of spaghetti; it was too bad I wouldn't have time to stay and help the girls put it away.