At three o'clock I got a nibble and, though I didn't know it then, I landed a whale. The call was from an alcoholic hoodlum with the unlikely name of Joseph Raspberry, and he wanted me to meet him in the back booth of Manny's bar on Sixth. He also wanted me to bring him a sawbuck. I told him to order a shot on me, that I'd be there in ten minutes.
On my way over I wondered if he had anything. Joseph Raspberry was a two-time loser who, when sober, was a good thief. I'd picked him up a year ago and found him carrying a gun, which isn't encouraged by parole boards—and he was on parole at the time. I gave him a break, which was illegal from the strictest point of view, but which if enforced strictly would put all the cops and private detectives in the clink. Since then Joe had stayed out of stir and passed along a dozen tips to me, about half of which paid off, and one of which helped me break a murder case. The other tips were fakes, pure and simple, and he dreamed them up because he wanted money for his sweetheart, Old Crow-and-Coca Cola. I always gave him ten or so, because there was always another time, another tip. Then, too, when he wasn't hitting the pot he was a likable character. I didn't know much about him, and even the odd name might have been a fake or a monicker. Anyway, I usually got a charge out of him; I liked the guy for no good reason.
But this looked like one of the days when Joe needed money for his sweetheart. He was huddled in the gloom of a booth at the rear of Manny's, his thin face pinched, hands shaking, lips twitching once in a while. I sat down opposite him and he said, “Scott, Manny wouldn't gimme a drink. An’ I ain't got a bean."
“You had any breakfast, Joe?"
“Sure. Alka Seltzer and alcohol. Tell him it's okay, huh?"
I waved at Manny and he waddled over, wiping his hands on a reasonably white apron. “A beer for me, Manny,” I said. “And a couple shots for Joe."
I always felt funny about buying a drink for Joe—or any of the others like him. But if he didn't get it from me he'd get it from somebody else, somehow. He was sick, but it wasn't my job to try healing all the sick people. When the shots arrived Joe started to lift one of them but his hand was shaking so much he knew he'd spill it. He put his fingers around the jigger, pressing his hand against the table, then bent forward and got his lips on the rim of the glass and sucked. He lifted the jigger then and tossed the whisky down. He didn't spill a drop.
I sipped my beer and waited. Finally he shuddered, pulled the other shot over in front of him and, looking at it, said, “I got something for you."
I put a ten-dollar bill in front of him. He licked his lips and said, “Gimme a pencil.” I found a pencil stub in my pocket and gave it to him. He started drawing on a napkin. It took him three minutes, but he didn't touch the other shot till he'd finished. Then he lifted the glass, his hand not shaking so much this time, and tossed the drink off.
He pointed at the napkin. “Lupo seen me and says you been askin’ for somethin’ like that. If it's right, it's worth more'n a saw, ain't it?"
The drawing was crude: a bracelet with a lot of diamonds, and curving off from it a snake's head with the tongue licking out and two over-sized eyes in its head. It could have been something to get excited about, because crude as it was it looked like the bracelet Diane had been wearing in the nightclub photo. I had the picture in my pocket, but I didn't take it out yet. Joe just might have made his drawing from the description I'd sent around.
I said, “Could be,” took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and wrapped it around my finger. He reached for it, but I said, “The story first, Joe. The ice looks right, maybe, but give me what you've got. And don't make any of it up, even if you haven't got much."
“Sure. I'll level with you, Scott.” He hesitated. “I give you some bum ones, but this one's the McCoy. I seen it. Yesterday it was. It was on Wilcox, that's all I know for sure. I was ... wasn't feelin’ good."
That meant he'd been drunk. He licked his lips and looked at the empty shot glasses. I waved at Manny. And a minute later, over the filled glasses, with Joe's sharp whisky breath in my nostrils, I got fragments of a story from him, the rest of it still lost somewhere in his drunkard's brain. There wasn't any sound in the quiet of Manny's except Joe's voice, and as he talked I could almost see what had happened through Joe's eyes, everything out of shape, part of a different world with darker shadows and brighter sun, a strange and unreal and exaggerated world that Joe often lived in.
I could see him on the street, his throat aching for a drink, his body hungry for it. He stumbled in off the street into a bar and there was this guy. “He was a tall guy,” Joe said. “Jesus, he was clear up to the ceiling, ten feet tall he was and he was stooped over by this booth thing, a kind of funny little booth thing there that had a doll in it. He give her the hoop and she put it on. I was right inside the door a little, next to the dumb thing she was in, and I seen it good. The eyes was red like the snake was alive on it, just like it was alive there.” He talked in a monotone, slowly twirling the shot glass. “She took it and put it on and the big guy took it off of her, squeezin’ her a little, and stuck it in her purse there. I was right up alongside them then; I thought she was at a bar but it wasn't no bar, and then the big guy seen me. He gimme a shove, for nothin', just shoved me back up on the wall and the whole place was goin’ around. I tried to tell him I just wanted a drink and he picked me up and pushed me out. Like to ripped my head off."
“This guy, Joe. How big you say he was?"
“He was ten feet tall. Don't laugh; I'm not lyin'. He was at least twice as big as me, ten feet tall, clear up to the ceiling he was."
If it hadn't been for the crude drawing Joe had made I might have left then; if there were any truth in the story it seemed so distorted that it wouldn't help me. But I asked him, “What about the girl? What did she look like?"
“I dunno. But I seen her leave and I followed her."
“Why?"
He blinked at me and didn't answer for almost a minute. “I seen where she lived,” he said finally.
That was enough, and it made sense to me. Joe was a good thief between cures, but when he needed a shot he'd steal anything from a baby carriage to a diamond bracelet. He went on, “I don't remember what she looked like, but she had a walk like nothing I ever seen. It was a circus, Scott."
“Where'd she go?"
“Right acrost from Polly's. Right on the corner. You know it?"
Polly's was a beer joint where you could place a bet in the back room. I knew the spot. “You're sure, Joe? You got this straight?"
“Yeah,” he said. “It don't seem real, does it?” He licked his lips again. “But it's straight, Scott. I give it to you straight."
I took out the nightclub photo and showed it to him. “On the doll's wrist. That look near enough?"
He bent over the print, then looked up at me, a pleased expression on his face. “That's it. I swear that's it. But that ain't the doll. I'm pretty sure it ain't."
I gave him the twenty. “Got anything else to tell me, Joe?"
He shook his head and spread the money out before him on the table.
“Joe,” I said, “give a listen. Why don't you spend some of that for a big steak? Get yourself—"
He interrupted angrily. “Lemme be. I give you what you was after, didn't I? Now leave me be."
“Sure. See you. And the hell with you.” I was sorry as soon as I said it, but Joe was a nice enough guy when he was sober. He'd made me laugh plenty of times, and there are too few things to laugh at. I didn't like seeing him slopped up most of the time, so I barked at him.
He laid a hand on my arm, shaking his head. “Don't get a heat on, Scott. Just lemme be."
“Sure, Joe. Cheers.” I left. The sun was almost blinding after the gloom in Manny's and I stood outside for a moment wondering if Joe had told me anything at all. The story was just crazy enough, though, that it was probably true—as true as Joe could get it. I got in the Cad and drove toward Hollywood and Polly's. A diamond bracelet with a snake's head and rubies for eyes, a g
uy ten feet tall, and a gal with a walk like a circus. I knew, from Joe's description, where to look for the gal: the left half of a duplex. It was worth a check.
4
She was a tall, willowy tomato with dark hair and the unashamed curves of a modern Venus in white sweater, black skirt and spike-heeled pumps, and she came out of the duplex on Wilcox Street like a gal in a hurry. I hadn't got a good look at her since I'd staked out near the duplex on the corner, but in the hour I'd waited for her to show I'd deduced a few interesting things about her from the frilly black underthings hanging on a line behind her place. But not even the transparent and abbreviated step-ins hanging there, nor Joe's fuzzy words, had prepared me for her walk. Walk?
That wasn't a walk; it was a parade. Wilcox Street should have been curved into a horseshoe lined with bald-headed pappies chipping their choppers and falling down in dead faints while a band played “Put The Blame On Mame, Boy!” And there should have been a drum. I fell in about fifteen yards behind her and followed, let's face it, grimly intent on my job and wondering how she made any forward progress at all.
After two blocks she still hadn't looked back. I was carrying a brown tweed coat over one arm and a hat in my hand, and there were dark glasses in my shirt pocket. In case she got a look at me I could put the stuff on and look a bit different except that I'd still be six-two. But my preparations for a cagey tail seemed wasted, because she apparently didn't expect anyone to be following her. Maybe there was no reason she should have. She certainly wasn't sneaking up the street.
She kept going like that for another block and I followed her happily. Just across the next street was a small cocktail lounge with a sign over the door: Zephyr Room. She went inside. I followed her in, stopped inside the door and looked around as my eyes got accustomed to the dimness. She'd disappeared somewhere, but there were booths on the left, four or five people in them, and a bar extending from the back halfway along the right wall. This side of the bar, at its end, was a small U-shaped table with a stool behind it. I felt a little tingle of exhilaration, that must be the “kind of funny little booth thing” that Joe had mentioned. He'd been in here, all right.
I went to the bar and climbed onto a stool next to a cowboy leaning against the bar. At least he thought he was a cowboy; he was wearing high-heeled boots and tight blue jeans, a white-trimmed black shirt, and a black neckerchief looped around his neck and tucked through a small silver cow's skull at his throat. He was real quaint.
I ordered a bourbon and water and while the bartender mixed it I reached into my inside coat pocket and took out the neatly typed list of stolen items I'd got from Osborne's jeweler. I made a few random check-marks on it with a pencil, not being careful about hiding the list from possibly prying eyes, and when the bartender brought my drink I turned the paper face down on the bar and asked him, “Did a sharp brunette just wobble in here?"
“Wobble?” He looked puzzled, then he grinned. “You must mean Lois. Yeah, she'll be out in a minute.” He jerked his head toward the U-shaped table. “Dice girl."
“Thanks.” I started to pull at my highball when the cowboy flipped me on the shoulder with his fingers.
“What makes you so curious?” he said. His voice was soft and gritty, like sand running through an hour-glass. I didn't say anything and he said, “Well?” and flipped me again with his fingers.
I wasn't even looking at the guy, minding my drink and my business, but just that fast I was mad enough to hit him with the bar. Maybe I'm touchy, maybe I'm even a little neurotic about it, but this guy had done the wrong things—a couple of them. In the first place, I don't mind strangers blabbing at me or asking questions—if they ask them nice; he wasn't asking nice. And in the second place I don't like guys flipping me or grabbing me or even laying their paws on me.
I swallowed at my drink, then wheeled on my stool and looked at the foolish character just as he said, “I asked you a question, pally."
I took a good look at him this time. He was about an inch under six feet and broad, big-chested, and with more hair sticking up from his shirt than I've got on my head. His face was square, and his eyes were narrowed, lips pressed together as he looked at me.
I said, “I heard you. Don't ask me questions, don't call me pally, and keep your hands off me.” I turned back to the bar and got the highball glass just to my lips when he latched onto my arm and pulled me around.
He started to say something, but I slammed my glass down on the bar and climbed off my stool as liquor squirted up and spread over the mahogany. I grabbed the guy by his scarf and said, “Listen, pardner, the next time you lay a hand on me you better take off those high heels and get your feet planted square on the floor, because I'll knock you clear into the men's room."
His mouth dropped open and for a moment he sputtered in surprise, then his chin snapped up and his face got white. He wrapped a hand around my wrist and drew back his right fist so he could slug me, and I almost felt sorry for what was going to happen to the cowboy. Even if he couldn't know I was an ex-Marine crammed full of more judo and unarmed defense than I knew what to do with, he should never have tried hauling off while I still had hold of his pretty scarf and he was wide open from all directions.
But he was stupid, and he actually launched his right fist at me. I gave just a little tug on the scarf and he staggered maybe two inches and the fist missed me by four inches, and he was so far off balance I had all the time in the world to grab his left arm above the elbow, then break his weakened hold on my wrist and force his wrist and arm behind him with my right hand. While he was still bending over and turning I locked his arm behind him, got some leverage from my hand on his shoulder, and he started to make noises. I was still trying to decide if I should break the arm for him, when the bartender swung a two-foot club against the bar top and yelled, “None of that! Shove it, boys, break it up."
He was pretty fast, because we'd been mixing it up for only a couple seconds—and I think he saved the cowboy's arm. I cooled off a little, nodded at the bartender, and pushed the cowboy ahead of me while I walked him four stools away. Then I let go of him.
“Maybe you better sit here, cowboy. You must have thought I was kidding. I wasn't.” I went back and got his drink and sat it in front of him. He didn't do anything more dangerous than glare at me, so I went back to my drink.
The bartender was squinting at me. I said, “Sorry,” then finished the bourbon and ordered another. He made it silently and I noticed there hadn't been a peep out of any of the other half-dozen or so customers. Two of them left, but others ordered more drinks. A little conversation started up again.
I asked the bartender, “Where is the men's room, anyway?” He pointed toward a door in the rear wall and I got up, leaving the list on the bar, and went back to the john. I went in, slammed the door, then cracked it and peeked through. The cowboy rubbed his arm, glanced at the paper on the bar then looked back toward the rest room. He was curious about me. Five more seconds and he got up, walked to my stool and said something to the bartender, then turned the paper over and studied it for half a minute before he slammed it back down on the bar and walked toward me and then out of my sight.
I went back to my stool. The bartender had mopped up my spilled drink and I said, “Freshen that up, will you? You got a phone booth in here?"
He nodded and pointed toward the back of the bar and around to the right. That was where my cowboy had gone. I tucked the list back into my pocket, had a swallow of my drink. In another minute the cowboy came back. He walked up beside me and smiled stiffly.
“Say,” he said. “I wanna apologize. About gettin’ hot."
I grinned at him. “Sure. Maybe we're both a little touchy."
He looked damned uncomfortable, but he stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings?"
“Okay by me.” I shook his hand.
He lowered his voice a little and said, “I didn't mean to sound nosy, but the thing is, a good friend of mine is real innerested in Lois, see? So natur
ally I'm curious. You, uh, know Lois?"
I shook my head.
“You just think she's cute, huh?"
“That's right. I just think she's cute."
“Yeah,” he said. “Uh, I'd feel bad if you didn't lemme buy you a drink. No hard feelings, you know; lemme buy you a drink."
I hesitated and he said to the bartender, “Hey, Frank, give my friend anything he wants, see? Gimme the same."
Right then I caught movement at the corner of my eye and turned to see Lois walking toward us from the rear of the club. Evidently there was a room back there where she'd changed because she now had on an ankle-length green gown. She walked past us and said to the bartender, “A cool one like this, Frank.” She nodded at the cowboy, and then her eyes brushed briefly over mine. I grinned at her as she went by, and after a couple more steps she looked back over her shoulder, and she must have seen where I was looking, then she was at the dice table and reached up to turn on a bright light above it. I'd had a good gander at her as she walked past us, and the view was even better with her under that bright light.
The green dress came clear up to her throat then swept down over her body, clinging to her skin like a thin rubber dress a size too small. I'd have given eight to five that she wasn't wearing a thing under that dress, not a thing, not even frilly things. The dress was like green skin and I decided I could even get used to green skin if it were on Lois.
The bartender mixed up a drink, also green, and sat it on the end of the bar, then gave the cowboy and me our highballs. I picked mine up, got the green thing from the end of the bar, and walked to the dice table. I handed her the drink. “This must be yours.” She smiled. “Uh-huh. To match my dress. Pink Ladies for a red dress, creme de cacao for brown. This is creme de menthe."
Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 13