Slab Happy (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I went into the next room and stood over him. Minutes later he stirred and a soft sound pressed through his lips. I walked back into the next room, leaving the door open a foot so Nick couldn't miss the light streaming through into his darkened “bedroom,” and started slamming the desk doors open and closed as if searching for something.

  My only worry at this point was that Nick might decide to look around his bedroom first, before charging in here. But I had a hunch that his last memory—of my gleeful face in the beam of my own flash just before the lights had gone out for him—would be the first thing in his mind when he came to, and thus he would charge in here right off the bat.

  And that's just about the way it happened.

  While pretending to be much occupied with the desk, I heard the faint creak of bed springs, the soft sound as Nick stepped to the door and looked in at me. I could see him from the corner of my eye as he pulled the door slowly wider, getting ready to send his huge bulk through it. I tensed my muscles, pulled a drawer open and then slammed it shut, turned my back partly to Nick as I reached for another drawer.

  For just a moment I ran over some details in my mind, trying to find any flaw. But I found nothing wrong, not yet anyway. Nick's last memory would have been of going to bed at the Desert Trails and then waking suddenly to see me—and be sapped by me. He was now awake. But there was no way in the world that he could know it had been more than, say, a few minutes since he'd been sapped.

  His head would be hurting, but after a sapping it would naturally hurt. For all Nick knew, his thick hair and skull had kept him from being out very long and consequently he would assume he was going to catch me by surprise as I went through his desk.

  And that's just what he did. He eased the door wide, took two long strides as silently as he could toward me, and then jumped at me. I let him get almost to me before I swung around with a startled shout.

  It just about ended right then. His big beef of a fist was roaring through the air at me, and I almost swung around squarely into it. That would have been all, the end. That would have meant Nick, in about ten seconds after I became unconscious, would have learned of the trick played on him. And, if that happened, there would be absolutely nothing to prevent Nick from walking right out of here and going—a bit bewildered maybe, but free and vengeful—back to the Desert Trails.

  But the blow didn't land squarely. That rock-hard fist caught me a glancing blow on the side of the jaw and bounced me away from him. The room went a little out of focus—but that was all right. It was fine, in fact, because I had to make this part look good too. I couldn't afford one single thing from now on that might make Nick suspicious. Nick had to beat me, to lick me, in a fair or foul fight. And he had a good start. Maybe that blow almost made us even, because Nick couldn't be feeling too chipper after being sapped twice on the head.

  He came at me like a bull who ate matadors, head lowered, arms out like horns and reaching for me. I let him come, stepped in between the reaching arms and slammed my right into his gut and poked my left against his jaw. About all I did was ruin the knuckles of both hands. The jarring movement tore at both bandaged spots, on my side and arm.

  He roared with rage, not pain, and swung a paw at me. It hit me and caved in my chest. At least it felt as if it had caved in. I sailed backward and landed on my fanny, flopped flat on my back—then rolled to the side just in time as Nick leaped at me and tried to stomp me. He actually went up into the air and came down toward my face with his heels driving, as lumberjacks used to do occasionally, when they wanted to rip a man's face off with the spiked soles of their boots.

  And that got to me, that really bored into my brain and lit a hot fire there. All the fun went out of this, all the kicks. I just couldn't find a kind thought or feeling anywhere in me for Nick Colossus. I rolled over and got to my feet and waited for Nick, and this time I was going to mess him up a bit if I got the chance. For a little while there I forgot exactly where we were, and it was just Nick Colossus and me facing each other with a lot of hot blood between us.

  He came at me more slowly this time, eyes flicking around. He saw the .45 and the sap on his desk, then his eyes came back to me again, those blue eyes as hard and bright as stainless steel, eyes with murder in them now. And he grinned a little this time. Grinned and stepped toward me. He feinted with his left and then started his right at me, but I was expecting it, moved just enough to let the launched fist plummet past my chin, and then I stepped in close to him with my own right fist driving.

  It caught him squarely on the mouth and his head snapped back. He threw one arm out and staggered, caught his balance. His lips were mashed, bleeding. He put his arms out and rushed me again. He was big, but he was slow. I got out of his way without trouble and as he went by close on my right I thought for a moment of Coral, of his hired hands slugging me, of his hard laughter—and I caught his cheek with a jolting left hand.

  He went down, sprawling on hands and knees. Partly it was from being knocked off balance; he wasn't out or even close to it. And those two taps on the head earlier had taken a lot out of big Nick Colossus. But even so, that moment was a good moment for me, because even banged up and half-mutilated as I was I knew I had him, knew I could take him then. Even at his best, I could take him. And that made it easy for me to lose to him.

  When he came at me this time, I purposely moved slowly, too slowly. He swung his left hard and I managed to turn, catching the blow on my shoulder, but then the next fist landed high on my head and I went down. I also went about halfway out, something roaring in my head and the light dimming and slowly surging up again, as if regulated by a rheostat.

  But I had enough control to fall toward the desk and grab for its edge, straining a hand forward as if trying to reach the gun there. And that was another ticklish moment. If Nick had decided to slam me a couple more times, I would have had to get up off the floor—or try to—and go around some more with him. But the suggestion inherent in my reaching for the gun was enough; it did the trick.

  Nick reacted in the normal, logical fashion. Before my fingers could touch the .45 he stepped forward and grabbed it. Then he slapped the slide back with one fast motion of his left hand and aimed the gun at me.

  “Nick—wait!” I shouted it, as I jumped to my feet, and there was a kind of panic in my voice that must have gotten to Nick. But the reason it was there was because I knew the gun was empty, and if Nick pulled the trigger he would know it too—when I just sat there shouting instead of getting filled with heavy slugs. That would blow the whole thing up in my face, too, and I yelled again, “Hold it, Nick. Don't —"

  Ah, he liked that. He liked it a lot. Shell Scott was panicked, was crawling, pleading. Nick was big again; maybe he could even convince himself soon that I hadn't knocked him down, hadn't been ready to ruin him. He stepped away from me, holding the gun casually now. Big Nick, at ease once more, in control.

  And that, of course, was perfect. That was exactly the way I wanted Nick Colossus. On top, in control, the situation well in hand, safe and secure in his familiar suite atop the Desert Trails hideaway.

  He said softly, “Scott, you crazy slob. You jerk. What in hell made you think you could come in here and get away with this?” He paused. “How'd you get in, anyway?”

  “I came in through the window at the end of the hallway, sapped Whitey and picked the locks.”

  He nodded slowly. “I got to hand it to you, Scott. But what did you expect to get? You can't bug this place, clear out in the desert and set up like we are.”

  “I haven't tried to bug the joint.”

  “Even if you tried, you couldn't get out. You're dead this time, Scott. This time you go all the way.” He glanced at the desk I'd been going through when he'd come out of the next room. “There's nothing in the desk,” he said. And he spoke more truth than he knew. There was absolutely nothing in the desk. He went on, “What in hell possessed you to come here again?”

  “I had a wild idea that I might ge
t enough on you to send you to Q.”

  Nick got a boot out of that. His hard face cracked in a grin; it was a little like a block of granite splitting open and chuckling. “You always were good for a laugh, Scott,” he said.

  “I thought maybe I could even get you to tell me the few things I don't know. Why not, Nick? You've got a sense of humor. And you must admit I've worked hard for the answers.”

  He slapped his thigh—but not with the gun hand. “Why not?” he said. “I don't really hate you, pal—it's O.K. with me if you die happy.” He chuckled some more, through bloody lips. “You sure made a mistake coming back here again, Scott. I really figured you for more sense.”

  “You had me in the kind of spot where almost anything I might get on you would help. I wasn't going to live long anyway.”

  “That's true enough. I suppose you mean the spot I fixed for you with Lou's boys.”

  “That's part of it.” There were other things I was more anxious to know about, but I had to ease Nick along and let him think he was guiding the conversation. So I followed his lead and said, “I talked to Suez, so I know how you set that party up. But why did you kill Lou Rio at all, Nick?”

  He said casually, “The area never was big enough for both of us, so Lou had to go. The only question was when. I'd have killed that bum a long time ago, Scott, only everybody knew we hated each other's guts and I'd have stood out unless it was handled just right.”

  “An alibi, you mean.”

  “I could fix an alibi for the law easy enough, but the main thing was to keep Lou's boys from knowing I burned their boss down. That's a tougher court.” He grinned, those great white teeth flashing at me. “After the way Lou and Gangrene worked you over, chump, it was a perfect time for it—you had all the motive I needed.” He paused. “Besides, I persuaded Valentine to tell me that when Lou and Gangrene worked you over you'd just told Lou somebody was putting the bite on Magna for a million.”

  “Yeah. I told him, and he seemed surprised. No wonder. He was surprised.”

  Nick chuckled again. “Uh-huh. But besides being surprised, he could have found out fast who was behind it, and that would have caused me a lot more trouble than Feldspen—or you. I didn't even know Lou had money in the studio until last Monday. No, Lou's time was up; it was the perfect time for him to go.”

  “Jabber didn't blast Lou then? You did it yourself, Nick?”

  “The pleasure was mine. Jabber just met him at the back door with a heater and showed him inside.” He grinned again. “Lou nearly died of fright before I shot him. He knew what was coming, and he begged me not to do it. Last thing he said was ‘Oh, God, save me’ and then I let him have three pills. Three of your pills.”

  “The medicine cured him of living, Nick.” I didn't move. I just continued to stand still facing him, but Nick seemed to be quite at ease now, completely unsuspecting, so I asked the question uppermost in my mind. “Another reason I took a chance on coming here was because of Coral James.”

  “What about her?”

  “Somebody snatched her from the motel she was in. At least that's the way it looks. Right, Nick?”

  “The boys got her, huh?”

  “What boys?”

  “Flint and Shortcake,” he said conversationally. “I sent them to the Oasis for her—and you, pal, especially for you—as soon as we found out where you two had holed up.”

  “That still puzzles me, Nick. How did you find us?”

  “Easy. I had a man planted in the Continental Hotel. He saw you leave in a hurry for Partridge Street after I had that dame call you.” I remembered Viper had told me about that man with field glasses in the Continental Hotel down the street from the Spartan. Nick went on, “He also saw you come back to the Spartan after you shot up Jabber.” Nick shook his head. “I still don't know how you managed to get away from Jabber and Lou's boys. I put in a call to Gangrene right after I banged Lou and said you'd killed him. They must've been there in three or four minutes after I left.”

  “They were, but I outran their bullets.”

  Nick laughed, and it sounded like nuts and bolts rattling around in a washtub. “Scott, I hate to kill you. I never saw a guy about to die so calm.”

  I kept him talking. “So you had a man in the Continental Hotel and he saw me come back. So what?”

  “Figure it out, pal. A minute later you took off with the dame, with Coral, and lit out. I didn't know where to, but it was a fairly sure thing you'd check into a hotel or motel. I knew the approximate time you'd be registering. So I just had the boys start phoning to check hotel and motel registrations—motel managers nearly always copy down license numbers; and a friend supplied me with the plate number on your Cad. It was just a matter of time and a little trouble.” He looked at his watch. “Flint was supposed to phone me at eight.” As he looked at his watch, a puzzled expression grew on his face. “What in hell time is it?”

  There must have been a new expression on my face, too. A sick expression. Not only about Coral; that was bad enough. But also because I had forgotten to set Nick's watch back. Mistake number one. I looked at my own watch—it was nearly nine-thirty p.m. Nick would know something was screwy, know that I couldn't have been rummaging around in his office for an hour or more without being spotted by his men.

  So I pretended to wind my watch, but instead pulled out the stem and changed the time by several hours in case Nick looked at it. “This thing's haywire,” I said.

  That puzzled look stayed on Nick's face. I said quickly, “What will Flint and Shortcake do to her?”

  He shrugged. “I just told them to pick you both up, but if you weren't there to bring her here. I want to ask her some questions, find out what she knows about Valentine, among other things. As close to you as she obviously is, Scott, she must know it all. So I'll probably have to kill her.” Nick grinned through his puffed red lips. “Maybe the two of you can share the same hole in the ground. How would you like to share a grave with Coral James, pal?”

  Then his grin went away. He looked at the beige phone on his desk. But the phone he thought he was looking at was a hundred miles away. “They should have called me by now,” he said, then shook his head in exasperation. “What time have you got?”

  I looked at my watch. “This one's way off. I've got four-thirty last Saturday. Tell me, Nick, how about Valentine? Did you do that yourself too or just have it done?”

  “Hold it up, pal.” I thought for a moment I'd said something wrong, but Nick was just changing the setup a little. He said, “You always carry a rod, so out with it. I don't have to tell you...” He let it trail off, but he didn't have to tell me not to get fancy. With great care I took out the .38. “On the floor easy, and kick it,” he said casually.

  Nick was enjoying this. And only now did I realize what a good thing it was that I'd decided Nick and I should have a small battle before he took charge of the situation. Because it was my slugging him around a time or two, and knocking him sprawling, which made him now enjoy lording it over me for a while. He picked up my gun—flipped the cylinder out and checked the loads, then shoved the .45 into his waistband, and held the .38 on me.

  My jaw sagged. Mistake number two. I hadn't planned this at all. Nick was supposed to stand there holding an empty .45 on me, not my gun with live cartridges in it. Not this one—this one could kill me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I said unhappily, “That's the second time you've had my gun, Nick.”

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “In fact, pal, it was having your gun that gave me the whole idea for the Rio job. Back up about two steps.” I stepped back and he walked around behind his desk to the leather chair there. He sat down and looked at me, then looked all around the room as if everything had gone just a little out of focus.

  He knew then that something was wrong. Something—but he didn't know what it could be. And I didn't want him thinking about it. I said, “You started to tell me about Valentine.”

  “Not much to it. I had Jabber and
Shortcake pick him up and sap him, then give him the toss, and beat it. The witnesses were all set; they're in Mexico now, living it up at the Del Prado on my money.” He reached out and picked up the phone.

  I got a weak feeling at the back of my legs behind the knees, and unconsciously I held my breath for a moment, then said, “Why kill him at all when he was your source for the blackmail info?”

  “Val had served his purpose, Scott.” Nick put the dead phone to his ear and went on. “Besides, even before he took the pills here at the ranch, he'd been getting more and more upset about the jobs he'd done for me. He wasn't any more good to me, and I was afraid he might crack up. Well, he sure did. Cracked wide open.” Nick was frowning, listening to the phone against his ear and frowning.

  I was sweating again. It seemed as if I must have sweat forty gallons tonight. Nick went on. “The minute I saw the suicide note he wrote here, I knew how I was going to kill him. But I had to wait a few days after the doc pulled him out of it. So it would look like he'd tried it again and made the grade the second time. Maybe the smartest thing I did was using that old suicide note to cover up the kill there at the Madison.”

  “Then you didn't kill him because I'd come into the picture.”

  Nick shook his head. “No, but your being in it helped me decide the time had come. His time. Besides, I'd already made the big pitch to his boss, so Val was just in the way.”

  Nick frowned at the phone in his hand, then reached over and banged the cradle up and down a few times, put the phone to his ear once more.

  “You mean the million dollar bite,” I said.

  “Yeah. I'll still get it from Feldspen's moneybags; might take a little longer, thanks to you, Scott. But there'll still be a payoff.” He banged the phone receiver with his hand again and swore, then glared at me. “You didn't cut the line here, did you, pal?”