The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Someone turn that damn thing off,” I said. “Who wants to look at television at a time like this?"

  On the screen was a shot of lean, self-possessed police officers clapping handcuffs on four dangerous criminals. They looked brave, you can bet.

  That wasn't the only thing bugging me, either.

  Ever since we'd come in this time—the first time I hadn't even noticed him, understandably—I'd been bugged by Nickie Domano. First of all, he hadn't been killed. Secondly, and almost worse, be wasn't even wounded. I had the depressing thought that if the good die young, he might live to be two hundred years old. And I didn't want him to. I wanted at least to hit him.

  But in this whole damned case I hadn't so much as laid a knuckle on him. It didn't seem fair.

  He was in a sharp beige-brown glittery suit, and was wearing one of those damned shirts with a high white collar and sparkly tie. It wouldn't have surprised me if he had glittery pajamas with the collars practically up to his ears. He looked as if he'd been out having tea and crumpets, or looking at yachts, or checking his whorehouses. I really did want to hit him, but I didn't have any excuse. The fight was over. But I sure wished I had an excuse.

  The police were herding the hoods out in ones and twos. I was standing near the door. A pair of uniformed officers pushed Domano toward the door. He wasn't handcuffed, but each of the men had one of his arms.

  And, at least, Nickie didn't look happy. His face was contorted with anger and frustration; he was practically frothing at the mouth. That helped a little. Not much.

  As the threesome went past me, Domano swiveled his head toward me and tried to yell something, but the officers yanked his arms up behind him and cut the words off.

  “It's O.K.,” I said to the uniformed men. “Let him go. Hell, we've got free speech, haven't we?"

  They shrugged, releasing him.

  He took one step toward me, face flushed, lips curling. “You bastard!” he said. “You dirrty rat—"

  With a song in my heart, I hauled off and smacked him; he'd given me my excuse. Wow, the smack was loud. Rawlins, on my left, whirled toward me and the now unconscious, and toppling, Nickie Domano.

  “What happened?” he said. “Why'd you hit him?"

  “Hell,” I said, “he stole my line."

  Clunk, he'd landed, way over in the corner. That had been one of the best, the most prodigious mashers I'd ever launched. But it hadn't killed him. Hadn't done him any good, either—or maybe it had. At least he didn't look pimp-pretty any more.

  Bill Rawlins was still standing next to me when Samson charged over. “Well, what the hell now?” he growled. “Are you never satisfied?"

  “Take it easy, Sam. Relax. It's over, isn't it? What's to worry—"

  “What's to worry? Why, nothing. You have merely devised havoc, hell, chaos—"

  “Sam, just a minute. A couple of days ago it looked like bloody gang war in L.A. Between the Domino gang and the Alexander gang. Well, they're all in jail or else headed there now, aren't they? Could you ask for a happier ending? Aren't they all out of circulation? Sam, you should be happy..."

  He'd gone white.

  “Sam? Sam, say something. Look at me. Sam?"

  Finally, staring right through me, he said, “I never stopped ... to think about it that way.” His eyes were glassy. “This is awful. You're right.” His hands made that little flopping movement “Boy, am I happy."

  20

  It was hours later, nearly midnight, and I was home again, in my rooms at the Spartan Apartment Hotel.

  Alone.

  Having a drink. And sitting kind of still.

  I had lost merely the skin over one kneecap, a sliver of my left thumb, possibly an ounce of healthy white hair, four of my two hundred and six pounds, and at least a pint and a half of fantastically rich blood, which had sprung from seven gashes only one of which was enormous. Plus, of course, both adrenal glands.

  But now I was plugged, patched, and bandaged. And alone.

  Usually at the end of a case I can think of nothing more rejuvenating than relaxing in the company of a lovely, say a tomato of languorous eyes and smoky glances, of femininity unbounded, of sweet lips and fluid curves and warm heart. But not tonight. Tonight I needed too much rejuvenating.

  So I'd just been sitting, swallowing a little bourbon, and thinking of the two days just past. Of Zazu, and the way it had started. Zah-zoo-zah, Zazu! Young Miss Alexander—but not so young as all that. And Lilli ... She'd make out. She hadn't killed anybody—unless that great fever-filled voice had knocked over a few old, weak ones. And Sivana. Yeah, hooee, wow! Especially Sivana, and her little red button.

  But those were the live ones. There had been a lot of activity in the family of corpses, too.

  Stiffs being buried, dug up, moved, carried, exploded. Corpses virtually peripatetic, strolling around, gadding about. Me, for example.

  That was my trouble: I was practically a peripatetic corpse myself. The living dead. Something new. I didn't like it, either. But we've got to face the facts. Oh, I could move under my own steam, but there wasn't much steam in the old boiler. Not, at least, enough steam for Sivana.

  I mean, you've got to be at your best with a gal like Sivana. There are other belly buttons, true; but how many are there that can throw a ruby sixteen feet and hit a man's shoe? Somehow, no matter where my thoughts strayed, they kept coming back to that gorgeous, wiggly, Irish-Egyptian tomato.

  I was almost tempted to call her tonight, even if I died getting to the phone—it was clear at the far end of the divan. But, no, not after racing through the hills, and carrying Geezer, and the charge at those dirrty rats on Domino Hill. Tonight I was going to be sensible. Practical. I'd rest, relax, heal a little, get some steam in the old boiler.

  I know when not to overdo a thing, I do.

  The phone rang.

  Should I answer it? I thought. Why not? What can I lose? Maybe another pint of blood, getting to the phone. But, hell, I've got lots of blood. Criiick, I got up. Made it to the phone, grabbed it.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Helloo-o, Shell?"

  It was a feminine voice. A very feminine, sizzling, lilting voice that attacked my ear like little nibbles.

  “Lilli?” I said.

  “Yes. Is that you. Shell?"

  “Yeah. At least, I think so. Yeah, more of me than I thought there was, come to think—"

  “Shell, I had to call you. Everybody's talking about you, it's on television and radio and everywhere."

  “What ... are they saying?"

  “About what you did today—and tonight. At the Eternal Peace, and then with Nickie and all. And I just saw you on television. The eleven-thirty news—"

  “Oh, oh. You weren't watching Channel 14, and the—the helicopter shots, I hope. They didn't rerun that film—"

  “That's what it was! And, Shell, you looked—you looked so brave!"

  “Huh?” I shook my head around a little. “Say that again."

  “You looked so brave!"

  “Can you possibly be saying I didn't look like a ... nut?"

  “It was wonderful. It gave me goose bumps all over."

  “Surely not all—"

  “You with your gun, and snarling and everything."

  “Yeah.” I remembered snarling, all right. I remembered looking like a nut, too, no matter what Lilli said.

  Ah ... I was starting to get it. I must have looked like a hood. Yeah, there had been something definitely criminal about my appearance, and actions, and everything, I recalled. Lilli must have been thinking maybe there was a chance I'd turned crooked.

  “Shell,” she said, “I hope you won't hold Cyril against me."

  “I wouldn't think of holding Cyril against you. In fact the only thing I'd consider—"

  “It didn't mean anything, you know."

  “What does that mean?"

  “It wasn't anything ... you know."

  “No—"

  “I'm really kind of g
lad. You know."

  “What's all this ‘you know'?"

  “Don't you know?"

  “Lilli—"

  “You should see the Jazz Pad, Shell. It's half empty.” Ah ... I was getting a little more. Not only was there hope, perhaps, that I could be un-rehabilitated, but Cyril was in the clink. More, practically all of her potential boy friends were also in the clink. Well, hell, I wouldn't mind being un-rehabilitated for a couple of hours or so. Not tonight, of course. But maybe soon ...

  “Do you think you might get down to the club tonight, Shell?"

  “Well ... not tonight. Pretty quick, though. Yeah, pretty quick.” I thought a moment. “Incidentally, Lilli, how are your relations with the police? Considering the pickle Cyril's in—"

  “Oh, I'm on a kind of probation. I have to be good."

  “You do, huh? Gee—"

  “I'm not supposed to associate with ... you know."

  “Yeah. Finally."

  “I had to go down and talk to the fuzz tonight. I just got back to the club. They were nice, though. Actually, I didn't do anything. It was Cyril did it. I was just scared, I felt so helpless..."

  “I can see that."

  “But they're not going to put me in jail or anything. I guess the fuzz aren't so bad."

  “Fuzz...” I closed my eyes. “What were you wearing when you talked to the fuzz, Lilli?"

  “The same thing I'm wearing now—I wouldn't have had time to change."

  “Naturally not. Describe it for me, will you, Lilli?"

  She described it. Must have been really something. Yeah, cut way down in front.

  Then she said, “I've got to run, Shell. Time for my numbers. Do come down when you can. I know you must be awfully tired tonight."

  “Well, kind of. But I'm beginning to feel ... peachy."

  “'Bye, Shell."

  “'Bye, Lilli."

  I discovered, as I hung up the phone, that I was smiling. Hurt a little, but I was smiling.

  I'd finished my bourbon and started to mix another, but then I remembered that jug of Martinis I'd prepared Sunday night. That's what I wanted. Nothing like Martinis—once you start smiling, anyhow.

  They were damn near frozen. I'd stuck them into the freezer for “a few minutes,” Sunday night. Naturally I hadn't even opened the freezer since then. But I got down one of my double-Martini glasses, the ones usually reserved for nights of Total Madness. And the phone rang, just as I sipped my first frigid sip of two-day-old Madness.

  I got to the phone with reasonable alacrity this time. It helps to move around a bit, instead of just sitting in one place, stiffening, and getting creaky in the joints.

  “Hello, there,” I said.

  “Shell? This is Zazu."

  “No kidding. Well, how about that?"

  She, too, was well up on all the news, including telecasts, and told me so. Then she said, “Shell ... I forgive you."

  “You what?" I shifted my half-frozen tongue to the other side of my mouth, thinking. “You forgive me, huh? That's nice. I guess. For what?"

  “For what you did to Daddy ... You sound funny. Is your mouth hurt?"

  “No, it escaped relatively undamaged. It's just, well, I hurt my tongue on a Martini."

  She didn't say anything. After a silence she went on as if I hadn't spoken. “He's in jail, but it had to happen sooner or later. Mama and I knew that."

  “Mama, too, huh?"

  “Yes. And, after all, you did save his life. The bomb ... the dynamite thing.” She paused. “Shell?"

  “Yeah?"

  “Do you forgive me?"

  “Well...” I had to think about that for a bit. I really did. She'd given me one of the most horrible moments of my life. But, on the other hand..."Why the hell not?” I said. “Sure, all is forgiven. Hey, you really are twenty-two, aren't you?"

  “Yes,” softly. And still softly, “I guess I was terrible, Shell."

  “Well..."

  “But, after all, he's my daddy. And I had to fight for him, didn't I?"

  “I suppose so. I'll tell you this, Zazu. If I'm ever in a real jam, and need somebody to fight for me, I hope to hell you're on my side."

  “I am on your side, Shell. In a way."

  “Yeah? What ... way?"

  “Oh ... you know."

  There was that damned you-know again.

  But we talked a few more seconds, and when we hung up I had a pretty good hunch I did know.

  I skipped into the kitchenette, and back with my Martini. Then, seated on the divan again, I had another cautious sip. It was still too cold, of course. But something else was missing. Something ... ah. I'd forgotten the pimientoed olive.

  Just as the thought flitted through my mind, my eyes fell on the low, scarred table in front of the divan. On the table, still, was that square of black velvet. And centered on the velvet was—yeah. My marvelously veined agate.

  There was no help for it. No matter where my thoughts strayed they kept returning to—you know.

  So I picked up the agate, dropped it into my Martini. Ah, this was more like it. Warmed it up a lot. It even tasted better, and if I kept my eyes wide while sipping I could see the aggie rolling around down there. It was beautiful.

  I finished my beautiful Martini. I set the glass down on the table and stared at it, thinking beautiful thoughts.

  And the phone rang again.

  I sprang to my feet. I reached the phone in one gazelle-like bound. I'll tell you, I felt good.

  “Hello!” I said eagerly. “Sivana?"

  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 © 1993 by Richard Scott Prather

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4804-9868-6

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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