“And what about that girl?” Spree asked. “The pretty one."
“You're the pretty one."
“Silly boy, you're just trying to turn my head with your flattery."
“That's not all I'm trying—"
“Tell me about her. Daddy said something—she wasn't who everyone thought she was? He never finished it."
“Well, that's part of it, all right. I met her as Kay Denver, later learned she was Kay Dark, working for Exposé. But the Denver was just for me, the Dark just for Whistler and Exposé, and the truth is she's Connie DeFelitta, very expensive call girl—five hundred and up a night—from Chicago. Derabian's part of an organized crime group of financially well-to-do fellows back there—the ones who put up most of the backing, the cash money, to build up Golden Phoenix Mines for the big score, rather the planned big score. He, and they, had enough influence and muscle to plant a ‘Kay Dark’ cover story so convincing that even Steve Whistler checked it out and accepted it. Kay—or Connie—might have had a little something to do with convincing him, too. She's also a very bright and brainy gal, entirely aside from..."
“Umm-hmm,” she said. “So when she picked you up in Pete's—"
“Spree! Picked me up? Picked me up? That's not like you—"
“How do you know?” She slitted her eyes, puckered her lips, tried to look mysterious and sultry. “'Ow vud you kanow?” she asked in a really terrible accent of some kind, like maybe inner-earth. “Mebbe I gorl zpy vrum eezt, name Myrtle."
“Myrtle? Good God—no more—you win. When Kay picked me up in Pete's, she convinced me she had a problem, needed a private investigator—"
“'Ow deed zhe gunvinz—"
“Will you stop it? And never mind ‘ow. The salient point here, the only item worthy of mention, is that when I traced her to Exposé I thought the trail ended there, which is what I—everybody—was supposed to think. Truth is, after being sent out here by Derabian, she reported everything she learned—which, as one on the inside at Exposé, was plenty—to Alda Cimarron."
“So ... when she pic—met you at Pete's, she was really here in Los Angeles digging for Cimarron, not for Mr. Whistler."
“Right on. You've got it. You see, everything that Exposé knew about the Golden Phoenix, Romanelle, me, you—the ad I ran in an attempt to locate you, for example—Cimarron also knew almost immediately. Wheels within wheels, crooks within—"
“I'm glad you did run that ad, Shell."
“One of the most memorable things I ever did. I have to thank your dad for that. You know, for a while I thought maybe he was just—using you. But, nope, he wasn't ... Say, that's right. You're rich now, aren't you?"
“Oh, poof. A million or two."
“Last time I looked, Golden Phoenix was bid at two and an eighth, so your half comes to—over two million bucks. When new management comes in, the shares will go higher. But baby, two million isn't poof."
“Well, that's not nearly as important to me as what happens to Dad, Shell. Will he ... will he have to go to jail?"
“Maybe not. Probably not. He was in on the scam, sure. But he told me the truth, he was about three-fourths blackmailed into it. And there's still his problem back in Chicago, that homicide twenty-odd years ago. But he's got Bentley X. Worthington on his case, plus Kamen, Fisher, Wu, and Hugh. One thing's for sure, he's getting healthier."
That much was true. Certainly Romanelle was no longer much worried about his “lethal cancer,” which according to Dr. Midland could almost surely be eliminated within a few months. Not surprisingly, Romanelle had opted for Dr. Midland's way, and was growing more vigorous—and possibly more abrasive—every day.
“Yeah,” I added to Spree, “I think old Claude is going to be OK on all counts."
“I hope so. I like him. I really do, he's a dear old ... daddy."
She smiled. She smiled a lot, which was good. Still, I was glad she didn't smile all the time. That would have been like always having sunrise without a sunset, forever the sun and never the moon. She was so beautiful, and sometimes I looked at her so intently, so lost in simply seeing her, that I forgot I was there. Her face and form just kind of expanded to fill everything there was, no room during those lost moments for anything else. Just Spree.
She said, “Did you go away somewhere, Shell?"
“No,” I grinned. “Don't intend to. Well, ah, I think we've uncovered—covered most of the bits and pieces of our recent past. So, about our present..."
“Yes?"
“That's what I like to hear. Yes. Yes! It's so much better than no, isn't it? There's a profound lesson for all of us in that simple—"
“What are you getting at, Shell? As if I didn't know."
“That makes it easier. Why don't you?"
“Why don't I what?"
“Take your clothes off again."
“Shell, what is the matter with you?"
“Matter? What do you mean, matter? Something's got to be the matter with me because I'd like for you to remove the concealing garments from that fabulous, fantastic, gland-exploding bod—?"
“No, I don't mean ... You know that ... I mean—Shell, I just put them on."
“Yes. That's true. But well, that was, oh, almost ten minutes ago. And I—I miss it. Them. It all."
“You're serious?"
“Serious. Yeah, boy, am I—"
“Well, all right, then. If you insist."
A few minutes later I was sitting on the floor near a hassock, and Spree was sort of dancing over the yellow-gold carpet, going clear around behind me and then back in front of me, close in front of me, thus giving a lot of exercise to my neck, which fortunately had stopped cricking. She had taken my advice, and there was nothing on Spree except Spree. Lovely, it was.
“I'll never get over you,” I said. “You're just—hah!—ho!—hoo!—"
“Is that a new language, you dummy? Or are you supposed to be in the darkest jungle—"
“No, no, I just haven't figured out how to pronounce it all yet."
She stopped moving, stood in front of me, maybe a foot, foot and a half away, and she placed one hand under each of those astonishing, magnificent, superabundant breasts, and sort of bounced them up and down a little, or rather a lot, the way one might ride a child giddyap on one's knee ... no, not like that at all. Forget it.
I watched, fascinated, the rise and fall, the remarkable, the awesome movement, the jiggling and trembling, hardly hearing Spree's words as she said, “Shell, you've been good for me, you really have—you've made me free! I'm not ashamed of my great big breasts anymore."
“Hoo—"
“I don't mind letting them be seen now. I really don't. Oh! I feel like just showing them to everybody! Everywhere! All over the place!"
“Don't you dare!"
“But you said—"
“Pay no attention to what I said. What do I know? They're mine! Mine!"
She was laughing. In a moment the laughter subsided, but she was still giving me a bright, beaming, wonderful smile. You know, comets and asteroids and all that.
“Oh, Shell. I was just teasing you. You're so much fun when you're crazy."
“Crazy? I'll show you crazy. I'll show you ... you really don't mind?"
She sat on the floor, snuggled against me. “Not with you, I don't. I don't know why, really.” She gave me a sort of mischievous version of that magical smile. “There's certainly nothing very special about you, Shell."
“Oh, I don't know,” I said.
She gave me an oddly surprised look for a moment, until I finished, “Spree, dear, even counting the bad guys, there's something very special about everybody."
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Richard S. Prather
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ISBN 978-1-4804-9850-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 36