The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries)
Page 8
Can’t hurt. Well, I was just sort of fooling around, working up to —
I never believed I’d win here in California, I really didn’t think I had a chance. But when I did win, it gave me more — more — well, you know.
Yeah. And you had quite a bunch to begin with.
So I’m just dying for the finals to start, and that’s only a week from tomorrow! I’m going to walk out there, naked and proud, all charged up and sizzly with — with —
Yeah.
— you know, thinking positive.
Yeah . . . or, rather, no, Aralia.
And day after tomorrow, this Sunday, I’ll be the only woman guest at the Doubless barbecue! Isn’t that something, Shell, the only woman invited to be there — with four hundred men?
Wait a minute.
I knew all about that barbecue. In fact, I was one of those four hundred invited guests Aralia had mentioned.
The two partners in the Doubless movie production company, who were also co-owners of the Doubless Ranch, were putting on the bash not only because they were both deeply involved in the Miss Naked USA contest, which they wished to promote, but in making horrible but profitable movies, which they wished to promote, and very likely were into other enterprises which they wished to promote, because if nothing else, they were high-powered promoters.
Because of string-pulling by another, much more successful and well-known movie producer — Harry Feldspen, president of Magna Studios and a long-time friend and sometime client of mine — I had received my engraved by-invitation-only card a couple of weeks ago. But I hadn’t thought a great deal about it since then, and I had not been aware that Miss Naked California was scheduled to appear at the bash.
Aralia,I said, you’re not going to the barbecue Sunday.
But I am, Shell. Isn’t it marvelous? It was suggested to me the very day I won here in California, and I got a phone call just this afternoon — I mentioned it, about hearing from people financing a contest — to confirm it. So it’s all arranged, and, really, it’s an absolutely wonderful break for me — some of the important men who’ll be judges for the finals are going to be at the Doubless ranch Sunday. And my being there — the only one of the fifty state winners even invited — won’t hurt a bit!
Aralia was still standing, and she threw her arms out rapturously, then wrapped them around her shoulders and hugged herself, giving the impression of a girl smiling all over. And you know what, Shell?she went on. Because of the title I won, you know, they told me to be sure and appear wearing the outfit I wore when I won it, isn’t that cute?
Cute?
She threw her arms wide again and cried, So this Sunday I’m going to walk out there, naked and proud, sizzly-positive —
No, you’re not. Not there, you’re not.
— and all. And then at the finals I’m going to give it everything I’ve got, and even if I come in fiftieth I’ll know I put my best foot . . . What?
What what?
What do you mean, I’m not?
Well, dear, you sure used the right word earlier. Dying, I think it was. In fact, I know it was. You seem not sufficiently aware that there are two kinds of bad men. There are the bad men who want to do something bad to you; those are the good men. Then there are the bad men who want to kill you, and those are the guys you’ve got to stay away from. So you mustn’t even think of parading around in the altogether — at least not publicly, ha-ha — this Sunday, or maybe even at the finals Saturday, and perhaps not for several Saturdays and Sundays yet to come, so long as there’s even a small chance you might thus get yourself permanently chilled, a thought too depressing even to contemplate. Now, about those nice bad men, like me —
But of course I’m going to compete in the finals. And appear at the Doubless barbecue, too!
No, no, you mustn’t —
Don’t tell me no, I mustn’t. I am de-ter-mined! I must, and I will! I’ve made up my mind, and I just know everything will be all right. I can and I will —
What books have you been reading?
How did you know I read a book?
Easy. Look, I already shot one guy today, who couldn’t, so far as I’m aware, have had any reason for instantly wanting to blast me except that I’ve been trying to find out why Buddy Brett came here — or was sent here — to knock you off. It happens that this thug I plugged was intimately associated with Brett. Also with the creep I braced downstairs on North Rossmore. And probably with others equally inimical to the longevity of people they become annoyed with.
But nobody would try to do anything to me at the finals, or even at the barbecue Sunday. Not with all those people around . . . and all?
At the end it was a question.
Maybe. Maybe not,I said. But you don’t know. And it would be a severe disappointment if you were wrong, wouldn’t it?
Aralia started protesting some more, but weakly, and I showed her the copy of Frolic magazine I’d picked up in Collett’s apartment. She’d already seen it, and her own photo, of course, but when I explained the circumstances under which I’d found the magazine and asked her if she had any idea why one of the lobs I’d been checking on would have circled her name, she merely shook her head, looking puzzled.
Then she said, What’s that number? Is it a phone number?
Yeah. Belongs to an attorney.I looked from the magazine to her eyes, which were on mine, and said, Name of Vincent Ragan, by the way. Ring any bells?
She shook her head again. I don’t understand any of this.
That’s the key point, dear. Neither do I — yet. And until we know a lot more about what’s going on, and there seems to be plenty, you’d better give up any idea of strolling hither and yon, incandescently nude and stupendously gorgeous, prior to the barbecue at the Doubless Ranch this Sunday.
I suppose . . . Golly, that’s almost like a poem.
Huh? Barbecue at the Double —
The way you said that — about me, I mean. Stupendously nude and incandescently gorgeous . . .She smiled blissfully.
Actually, it was the other way around — skip it. Works both ways. But poetry? It didn’t even rhyme, though they do say some of the best poetry —
Do you really think I’m gorgeous, Shell?
Well, hell, yes. Did I give you the impression I thought you were a scrawny old hag?
No. But you never said you thought I was pretty, either. Or anything. Oh, never mind.
She was silent for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and said softly, What did you mean, Shell, when you said I mustn’t parade around, like without anything on,
You’ve got a good ear. That’s exactly what I said. Well, it was a little joke thing, sort of. Fun thing. Implying that nobody would shoot you or wreak terrible havoc upon you if you thus paraded privately. See? For example, if you practiced your, ah, parading here — in my handy apartment, that is, where we’re at — well, you can bet your boots I wouldn’t —
Do you want me to?She was smiling sweetly. You know when I entered my first Miss Naked — way back last January — I was really nervous, embarrassed. But I got over that right away, almost. And then I started to enjoy it. I mean, I really did enjoy it.
That’s nice.
I guess I just like being naked, if you want the truth. And walking around, and feeling all those eyes in that big audience on me. It’s exciting, it’s fun!She took another deep — even deeper — breath. What do you think of that, Shell?
I think it might be almost as much fun here, even without the big audience.
She moved her tongue around inside one cheek, lids slightly lowered over the long-lashed blue eyes. It might . . .she said. Then, smiling, she added, . . . even be more.
Her left hand moved to the top of that thin white blouse, and with a little flick of her fingers the first pearly button was undone. Her hand moved down, flick, and the second little button was out of its little hole. That was two of them undone. I was getting, you might say, a bit undone m
yself; there were only four of those little pearly buttons. Then, flick-flick.
Boy, isn’t that something,I said.
Are you just going to sit there, staring at my buttons?Aralia asked me gently.
I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.
I’m not going to have to do this all by myself, am I?
How could you?
I mean, shouldn’t you be taking some things off, Shell?
Good thinking. Yeah. Sure, I’ll start with my gun, how about that? Then my holster. Then —
Oh! Your gun!
Huh?I had it in my hand already, but I wasn’t doing anything with it. Just putting it on the table, dear,I said. I wasn’t going to plug you with the thing.
It’s just that seeing it reminded me of something.
Of what?
I’m not sure I should mention it.
Go ahead. It’ll bug me now if you don’t.
Well, guns, and holsters, they made me think of the police, and I suddenly remembered that policeman calling here so many times. I meant to tell you about it when you came back, but I forgot.
Policeman? Calling here?
Aralia had pulled the blouse apart with both hands, was sliding it back over her smooth shoulders, and down. As she arched her back those magnificent bare breasts seemed to swell, to grow, to thrust themselves buoyantly forward as if they possessed a vibrant and vigorous life of their own, which I wasn’t entirely certain they did not.
Yes, after Jimmy let me inside, the phone rang and rang. I didn’t want to answer it at first, here in your apartment, but it rang so many times I finally couldn’t stand it. The policeman — he said he was a captain, I think —
She stopped, and looked closely at me. Did you say something?
No.
I thought you made a crazy noise.
I did.
Are you in pain?
Yes.
Can I help?
Not this pain, you can’t. Go on. Tell me everything.
Well, this captain, I don’t know who he was —
That’s all right. I know who he was. Did he sound like the Wolf Man?
No, silly . . . Except — it’s funny you should say that.
No, it isn’t.
When I first answered the phone, and said hello and all, at first there wasn’t anything except, oh, like heavy breathing at the other end, and a kind of funny chomping or chewing sound like . . .
Like the Wolf Man? Chewing on a cigar, maybe? Or a human thigh bone? Well, I’ve got to go. It’s sad, God knows, but I’ve really got to —
Then when he found out who I was, and that you weren’t here, he said when the scourge of evildoers came back to bed — I don’t know why he said that —
It’s O.K. Don’t worry about it.
— to tell him to get in touch with the man. Without fail, he said. He didn’t even say a name, in touch with who.
It’s O.K. I know who. You’d better put your blouse back on.
He really did say
That’s me.
But of evildoers, he said.
That’s me, too. Don’t take your shorts off, dear. Just be a waste. Oh-h, what a waste. I don’t think you really heard me before, but . . .I sighed, stood up. I have to go.
Go?
You got it.
Like that?
I’ll wait a minute or two. But it is now clear to me that my good friend, Captain Samson, has not yet departed from the Police Building. And that he will not under any conceivable circumstances depart before I present myself there, and afford him the opportunity to . . . ah, reason with me.
What about?
You will recall my telling you of this Homicide captain who feels my investigative procedures leave a little something to be desired?
He’s the one who’s mad at you for kicking the wrong door down and then —
Yes. We need not go over it all again. Well, I deduce that he has by now learned that this afternoon I lay in wait and assassinated a Good Humor man. Consequently, he will wish to hear my side of the story before he boils me in cooking fat —
Shell, don’t talk like that! It’s negative.
Who said anything different? Dammit, I told you not to take your pants off. What for? I’ve got to go. Would I kid you at a time like this? Aralia, Aralia, will you please . . .
She stood up, facing me, gently rubbing her fanny, and smiling an inscrutable smile.
Why are you doing this to me?I asked.
I believe,she said, in finishing what I start.
It was tough, believe me, to leave Aralia there in my apartment, gently caressing her own bare derriere and smiling, saying things like, So, go,and Who’s stopping you?and Maybe you’d like to borrow my book.
But I knew that if I did not soon, very soon, placate Captain Samson in at least a small degree, there was every likelihood that I would not again see Aralia, or anyone else, for a large number of days. And nights. It was, I think, the thought of all those nights that gave me strength to leave.
I did try to make Aralia understand that I was, so to speak, taking the long view, as does the boy who saves his pennies till he has a whole dollar, or the man who — like the good captain himself — forsakes his annual two-week vacation for three years in a row so he can eventually take one two-week vacation all at once.
Of the boy, Aralia said sweetly, But what if he loses the whole dollar all at once, Shell?And about the man no comment was necessary, since I’d blown that one myself.
At least, she had not stalked out and down the hall to her own apartment, partly, I suppose, because she really did feel ill at ease there now, and partly because I vowed that if I lived — I kind of exaggerated the terrible dangers — I would return with champagne, and little edible goodies, and a big surprise.
I think she listened to my argument. I couldn’t be certain, since during it she strolled about the living room, humming — I couldn’t place the melody, but I was pretty sure the lyric began, There she is . . .— and when I went out the door she wasn’t even facing me, but was bending over to place a stack of records on the stereo’s spindle.
It wasn’t easy, leaving her like that.
In fact, as I walked out the Spartan’s front entrance and down the steps into the balmy night, I saw vividly before me, not shadowy North Rossmore and my Cadillac parked across the street, but a good part of what had won for Aralia the title Miss Naked California.
So that’s what I walked happily toward and, simultaneously, sadly from. With a small smile on my lips and a small bittersweet sound in my ears. That sound, in its odd way, though not really unpleasant of itself, seemed — like Gunnar Lindstrom’s vibrations of earlier in the day — to possess faint or possibly even unheard unpleasantnesses within it, an almost menacing tickle at the ear.
It wasn’t my imagination. The sound was really there, not merely a product of the abstracted mind. There and getting louder. Something on my right. Close now.
I was in the street, maybe ten feet from my Cad. I pulled my head around, squinted up Rossmore. Nothing much, after all. Just a car approaching. Not speeding, not racing at me, just perking along at about twenty miles an hour.
With its lights off.
I didn’t even think about what I was doing. When my right foot hit the asphalt I took one fast step and jumped straight ahead at my Cad, slammed against its side, started dropping to the street.
I never did see the gun. If I’d moved half a second later I never would have seen it. It wasn’t a handgun or even a rifle. That booming blast was from the muzzle of a heavy-gauge shotgun.
Fat chunks of shot ripped the air inches behind my back. As I fell to the street clawing for the .38 under my coat, the car, a dark sedan, was only feet away. I could see the blur of a man at the near window, another blur like part of him that moved and gleamed, swinging back and down toward me.
I landed on the asphalt with a solid ja
r, gun in my hand but face down with my right arm beneath me. I rolled, fast, but I didn’t even try to aim the Colt and fire, just kept rolling, over all the way and face down once more, then scratching and grabbing and kicking to get farther under the Cad.
The sonofabitch fired again before I’d made it all the way under, but he missed, shot high. He’d expected to get me with that first booming blast — understandably. You don’t have to aim at the bull’s-eye when you’re spraying more than a dozen lethal slugs at once. That second, and last, shot was high but not by much.
I heard the ugly ripping sound of metal pellets crashing through the Cad’s door above me, imagined I felt the car rock, scratched some more, and squirmed over next to the curb. The engine of the other car was suddenly louder, whining as the driver hit the gas, picked up speed.
I couldn’t get out from under the Cad’s right side with the curb filling much of the space there, so I shoved myself forward, got my right arm thrust out in front of me, .38 firm in my fist. I could see only part of that dark sedan, only its spinning tires and glitter of back bumper. Another six inches forward and I could see most of the car’s rear end — in line with my gun.
I squeezed off two shots as twin red taillights flared bright red, winked dim and bright again. I pressed my body flatter against the asphalt, pulled my other arm up, and got my left hand beneath my right, steadying the gun. Squeal of sliding rubber came back to me, punctuated by three more sharp cracks from my Colt as I squeezed the trigger, pulling the revolver’s short barrel right, trying to keep it aimed at the turning car.
Then the sedan was gone.
Twice more I heard that screech of rubber skidding on asphalt, each time fainter, more distant. After that, just the normal soft hum of traffic on Beverly Boulevard, sounds of the city. And, after a minute or so, some kind of nightbird singing.
Yeah, a minute or so.
I just lay there for a while, the side of my face resting against the street. I could feel muscles in my right forearm quivering, as if an electric current were running through them. Then that stopped, the tightness between my shoulder blades eased a little, my pulse slowed down reasonably close to normal.