The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  He walked toward me.

  “Well, how about that?” he said, grinning. “How about that? Lucky Scott has run out of luck."

  I guessed he was right. Well, I'd put my share—more than my share—of hoods, and punks like Domano, out of circulation. Either in the slammer or in the graveyard. He couldn't change that. He could only kill me once.

  There wasn't a chance I could get away. There wasn't any point in running. Domano stood only a couple of yards from me now, and the three other slobs still on their feet were ranged alongside him, guns pointing at me. The gray-haired man—I realized now he was the one I'd seen at the table in the Jazz Pad the night this started—was on his haunches, bent over and grunting, arms across his stomach.

  But four with guns was enough. And at this distance they couldn't miss. So I didn't try to run any more. If I got it, I wasn't going to get it in the back.

  “Don't you want to beg a little, Scott?” Domano asked me. In his voice was the sugar-sweet tone I'd heard before.

  “You can shove that up your ear,” I said. Or words roughly to that effect

  He flushed, and his gun jerked a little. But he didn't fire. I guess he was enjoying this moment too much. Well, I wasn't going to make him any happier if I could help it. I didn't like seeing him happy.

  He raised the gun a little, held it on my face. I couldn't quite look at it. There's something about the bore of a .45 automatic, and the thought of a fat slug in your eye, that makes the back of your knees a little weak whether you like it or not. I tried to look at the gun, but I couldn't do it.

  “I can make you get down on your knees, you bastard,” he said—and this time his voice sounded more like the real Nickie Domano. “All I got to do is shoot your legs out from under you."

  He might just do it, too. I wondered if there was one chance in hell I could jump him and get his gun, and last just long enough to kill him. Probably not. But I was going to try it. The Colt was still in my hand, too. Unloaded—but I could throw it.

  Beyond the group of men there was some kind of movement. I couldn't see who was coming but I could hear the soft sounds. Probably more of his hoods coming up for the fun, I thought.

  Domano said, “Hell, they tell me you're a big man with the words. Aren't you going to jawbone your way out of this, Scott? Don't you even have a last speech? Like, I only regret I got only one life to give—"

  “Yeah,” I said. “I've got a speech."

  Because I'd just gotten a clear look at what had been making those sounds, at what was strolling up, just about to sniff at the pants of Domano and his boys.

  “Well, give, man, give,” Domano said. “This ought to be good."

  “Pretty good,” I said. “There's a big lion right behind you."

  He started to scowl, then his pimpy face creased in a grin. He chuckled softly. “How about that, boys? The oldest gag in the world and it's the best Scott can do.” He laughed a little louder. “Well, at least you didn't say it was a guy with a machine gun or a bazooka. I got to give you that."

  “Man, I'm not kidding. There's—you won't believe this.” They probably wouldn't. Homer Eben hadn't told them what he was doing here in the hills; he'd put his sign up only a little while ago; and these guys sure as fate wouldn't have been looking for signs while trying to shoot me.

  I said, “Nickie, I swear you'd better get moving. You're going to get your butt bitten. You're going to get eaten entirely maybe. There's a lion and—no, there's two lions! And a bear—"

  Well, they simply broke up. All of them. Nickie started the laughter, and the other men standing joined in, one of them bending over and whooping.

  “Dammit, it's the truth!” I yelled. “Two lions and a bear and—yeah—a sick zebra named Ethel."

  I might possibly have been able to get away from them then.

  There were whoops and hollers, and their strangled guffaws and screeches rang out over the hills. Nickie slapped his thigh—with his left hand, not his gun hand—and said, “Oh, ah, that's good. Scott—waah! Scott, I could almost like you, if I wasn't going to kill you."

  Then he straightened up, dabbed at his eyes with his left hand, shoved the gun forward, and, I am absolutely certain, started to squeeze the trigger. But then:

  RRROOOAARRR!

  Actually, it wasn't really a RRROOOAARRR! It was more a kind of coughing-grunting horribleness damn near impossible to believe. It was like crackling thunder and the Jolly Green Giant munching large celery and hail on a plastic tent, among other things. And loud? I'll swear to my dying day it blasted leaves from nearby trees. All things considered, it was likely the sound was brand new to all these ears here.

  The effect upon Nickie Domano was very striking.

  He simply threw his gun away.

  No kidding, he tossed it about fourteen yards out over the landscape, an act I felt pretty sure was not by design but pure reflex. Both his arms flew out sideways, swish, and at the same instant he managed to get his mouth open wider than I thought the laws of anatomy allowed. The gun flipped from his startled fingers and hit a tree, way over there. And Nickie stood, unmoving, like a stone cross—that is, with nothing moving except his eyes, which were trying to turn around and look past his ears at the erupting volcano, or herd of angry buffalo, or whatever cataclysm had thundered up behind him.

  Maybe Domano was rigid, but the other hoods were moving. One hood turned and screamed with the hoarse agony of a man getting his most priceless possessions pulled off. Another snapped a peek over his shoulder and cried. “Great balls of fire, it's—” and didn't finish. No, he was running instantly, looking back at the two lions, the bear, and the sick zebra named Ethel—I'd told them—and by now a little black and white skunk; and, since he was not looking where he was going, and there were lots of trees about, he ran speedily into a tree and, it seemed apparent, knocked himself silly.

  There was probably lots more, but to tell the truth I watched almost none of it. I was on my way. When you get a gift from Heaven like that, you just say a little prayer of thanks and you don't get greedy; you don't ask for the heavens to open up and for lightning to strike the enemy; no, you give thanks for what you've got, and you go. I went.

  The land slanted upward, and I went way up the hill and hid behind a rock. But I suppose I could have climbed a tree or just run around in circles and it would have worked out the same way. Because from behind my rock I could see activity below. Hoods were streaking away over the landscape.

  One, two ... three. And four.

  They streaked to the banged-up Imperial, got it going, and rattled down the road. Toward that house at the end of the dirt road, I presumed.

  But only four had left, and five had arrived. Which meant they'd left behind the gray-haired cat I'd shot in the gut. I trotted back down to the trees where I'd last seen him, on the ground, grunting.

  Whew! The stink! Maybe that was another reason those four mugs had been in such a hurry. At least one skunk—though to me it smelled more like a couple dozen—had let go with everything he had. The way it stank I didn't blame him for letting it go.

  There was a lot of stink among the trees, but that was all. No wounded thug. Even the animals had left. I didn't waste time looking for the gray-haired man, not only because of the overpowering odor, but because those guys who'd fled so precipitously might soon recover and come zooming back.

  I ran down the hill to my Cad, looked at the flat tire, then got the trunk open, pulled out the spare and tools, and jacked up the car. With the tire changed I started the Cad, turned around in the street, and headed toward town. But as I passed the sign, Eben's Animal Farm, Homer himself was walking from his house toward the gate.

  I stopped, slid over on the seat, and rolled the right-hand window down.

  His animals had saved me; I could at least tell him where I'd seen them last.

  He walked up to the car. “This don't seem like the place for an animal farm,” he said.

  “Don't get discouraged.” I told him w
here I'd seen his lions and such.

  He nodded. “They won't go far. They're tame, stay together, close to home."

  “Tame, huh? Keep it under your hat, will you?"

  We traded a few more words, then I started to slide back over the seat, but stopped. I sniffed. Then I got out of the car and sniffed. It was faint, but it was skunk smell. Even with about one molecule to the billion you can recognize that smell. But the interesting thing was not the smell alone, but the wind.

  The wind was not blowing this way from those trees where the skunk, or skunks, had sprayed. It was blowing in nearly the opposite direction. Either one of Homer's little black and white pets was home already, or it was the gray-haired citizen with my slug in his middle. I had the clue in my nostrils, and to solve this case all I had to do was follow my nose.

  But if I was going to hang around here there was something else to do first. I kept thinking that maybe Nickie Domano and his boys were gone now, but it might not be long till they came back. So I tried my mobile phone again. I kicked hell out of it, but apparently I'd lost my touch. Still nothing.

  Eben was walking toward his house. I called to him, “How about using your phone?"

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Don't have one yet. They'll put it in next week.” He continued on into the house.

  Great. Next week wasn't quite soon enough.

  I didn't much like staying here, and my spine pulled a little tighter, but I got out of the car again and started hunting for the gray-haired citizen. And found him. It was easy; I tracked him down by smell.

  The old house had a porch on it, and the wounded man had made it to the house, and crawled under the porch. I pulled him out. He was groaning, hands pressed to his middle, blood seeping between his fingers. He didn't look good. And, of course, he smelled terrible.

  I checked his pockets. No more guns. A wallet with a few bills and some identification. Name, Arthur Silk, forty-nine years old, five feet, seven inches tall, a hundred and thirty pounds. While he lay on his back I also checked the wound. It didn't look fatal. He'd lost some blood and was in shock, but the bleeding had nearly stopped. He'd make it.

  I did not, however, tell him so.

  He groaned, rolled his eyes. “I'm killed,” he said. “I'm dyin'."

  Squatted on my haunches, I looked at him and shook my head. “Well,” I said gravely, “we've all got to go sometime."

  “Get ... me a doctor."

  “Well, that's up to you. First, you answer some questions, you sing like a bird, and—"

  He started to swear at me. He wasn't about to spill, not to me.

  “O.K.,” I said, “Crawl back under the porch.” I got up and started walking toward my car.

  He let me take three steps. “All right."

  I went back and squatted by him. “Like a bird, remember,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Only get me a doctor. What the hell kind of bas—” He groaned. “Oh-h, I'm goin', I'm gone. I see a big bright light—"

  “That's the sun, you idiot. Now listen close and don't waste time answering. I don't want to be here when Domano and your pals come back."

  “They won't come back.” He stopped, ran his tongue over his lips. Apparently he still had some reservations about talking freely.

  I stood up.

  “They won't be back,” he repeated quickly. “What time is it?"

  I blinked. It was an odd question. But I checked my watch and said, “Quarter after two."

  “Nah, they won't come back. All the guys is going to be around the TV from two-thirty on.” He groaned again. “I'm supposed to be there, damn it. That's why we was heading for the house."

  “The whole gang's at that house half a mile or so from here? Up the dirt road?"

  “Yeah, that's it."

  “How many are there?"

  “Sixteen—no, not now. Fourteen now, since Jay and I ain't gonna be there. Get me a doc—"

  “What's so important about two-thirty?"

  He hesitated. But then a ripple of pain coursed through him, and he said, “Hell, that's when Geezer goes off."

  I assumed he meant that was when Geezer's pals would gather to give him a proper sendoff, say good-bye with bushels of flowers and such. The thought of flowers reminded me of that delivery boy at the Spartan and his lethal gladioli, and something wiggled in my mind. Wiggled only briefly, and then stopped wiggling. But an uneasy feeling stayed with me.

  “Which one of Nickie's boys plugged Geezer?” I said.

  “Jay done it. Hell, Alexander was lookin’ right at him when he let go the first slug. He knows it was Jay."

  That checked with what Zazu had told me. But she'd also told me she was sure the killer had been after her father and Geezer had been killed by mistake. I hadn't been so sure then, and still wasn't. Jay had pumped four into Geezer but had missed Alexander entirely. To me that meant he might have been after Geezer in the first place. But I was wrong.

  I said, “How come Werme hit Geezer when the big boy was right next to him?"

  “Alexander just moved too fast, that's all. Seen it coming and dived down, got behind a car. Geezer couldn't move his fat gut around that fast, so Jay settled for him. Figured if he couldn't get both of them he'd settle for fatso.” Silk closed his eyes for a moment, then went on. “Turns out it worked better this way, on account of that big gut of Geezer's. Alexander don't have no gut at all, to speak of."

  “Alexander knows it was Jay Werme who plugged Geezer and tried to get him. Is that why Domano's been keeping himself and his boys scarce?"

  I almost missed his answer, because I was thinking of what he'd last said. I think I started getting it then.

  “Nah, they're just holed up waiting to see how it goes today,” Silk said. “No sense taking any chances if there's no need to. They just been waiting till—well, about now, I guess.” He stopped, swore softly. “Get me a doc. You going to let me die on you?"

  He was going on, pleading, but that uneasiness of a few moments before was filling my body now, and I reached slowly for him, bunched his shirt and coat in my left hand, and lifted him toward me.

  “Shut up. Spell it out—and fast. And what the hell do you mean about Geezer's big gut?"

  His eyes rolled up toward mine. “Nickie's got him stuffed with more dynamite than a Thanksgiving turkey's got dressing. He's gonna go off like a volcano."

  “Dynamite? In Geezer? How..."

  Silk was still hanging from my fist, his face close to mine. My fist holding him tightened, and he shrank back a little. Then he said rapidly, “It was a breeze to fix up. Nickie sent Irish and a couple other boys into the joint where Geezer's laid out, that Eternal Peace joint. They did it early this morning, after midnight. Had the dynamite already wired, clock set, everything ready. Just sliced him open and put in the bomb, then sewed him up. Not very neat, but his clothes cover everything up anyways."

  Benny Kahn had mentioned seeing a Pete Peters, called Irish Pete, with Domano in a car this morning. A demolition expert—undoubtedly the Irish this gray-haired creep had just told me about.

  “Dynamite?” I said. “And a clock? You mean a time bomb?"

  “Yeah, he's a bomb, all right. They just scooped him out and stuffed dynamite in him like guts. There's enough in him to blow that whole funeral joint and half the block into the next block."

  “But, my God,” I said. “The people..."

  “That's the idea. Nickie decided on it last night, after Jay got killed. This way he only has to plug one guy. Fat Geezer. Then when Geezer goes off he takes the whole Alexander gang with him. No risk like if you knock off eight or ten guys individual."

  I had unconsciously relaxed my grip on his coat, and he fell back to the ground. I stood up. “But it's not just Alexander and his men,” I said, more to myself than him. “There's the minister, wives, kids..."

  “Well, like Nickie says, you can't have an omelet and the eggs both at the same—"

  "When?"

  “Huh?"

 
“When is the bomb set to go off?"

  “Oh, Geezer's supposed to blow up...” He grunted, and his eyes squeezed shut. He turned his head to the side. “About now, I guess."

  “You bastard, tell me when!"

  “He's set ... to go off at two-thirty. When they'll all be there in the chapel."

  I looked at my watch. My fingers were shaking. It was eighteen minutes after two p.m. Twelve minutes until two-thirty—and the Eternal Peace was sixteen miles from here. I stood there, with a feeling almost like panic slowing my thoughts. A phone—but Homer Eben didn't have one; and my radio-phone wasn't working. But I couldn't get there myself, not in time. There had to be some way to get word ...

  My heart kicked suddenly, as if a small bomb had gone off in my own chest. I was thinking of the others besides Alexander's hoodlums who would be in or near the Eternal Peace at two-thirty, were probably there now. Not only a lot of innocent people, including wives and kids, maybe friends of Geezer's who had nothing to do with the rackets. Police officers, too. Maybe not inside, near the body, but at least nearby.

  And—Captain Samson. Sam.

  “Hey! You ain't gonna leave me—"

  The hell I wasn't I'd left him.

  I was in the Cad, starting it, gunning the car down Cypress Road.

  12

  It was hard to breathe. My throat seemed squeezed almost shut. Sixteen miles to go. And twelve minutes left—less than that now. And even if I got there ...

  I didn't let myself think about it.

  I squeezed the steering wheel tight in my fists and jammed my foot down on the accelerator, jammed it all the way down and left it there.

  I had to slow and turn right toward Oleander Drive and again when I turned left there, but after that I didn't ease my foot off the gas pedal. I was going well over eighty miles an hour when I went by Alexander's estate but after that I didn't look at the speedometer. Or at my watch. For one thing, I had to keep my eyes on the road; but also I didn't want to know either my speed or the time. It didn't make any difference how fast I was going or how much time there was left. I just had to keep going now.