The Big Enchilada (A Sam Hunter Mystery Book 1)

by L. A. Morse

  Why do these assholes always make it so difficult? I tried to look beaten and unhappy, and Maycroft’s dignity inflated a little bit more.

  “I guess I’ll just have to push off then.”

  “I guess so, Hunter.”

  “Could I use your phone for a minute?”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d call your wife. She might be interested in what’s going on with Carla. She still controls all the money, doesn’t she?”

  “Now, Hunter—” he started to whine, perspiration beading up on his forehead.

  “I’ll call the SEC later. We both know there’s stuff going on here that they’ll be curious about.”

  That did it. He slumped in his chair, all the color drained from his face. He laughed in what was supposed to be a hearty, jovial way but sounded instead like a death rattle.

  “Come on, Hunter, I was only joking. You know that.”

  “So was I, Maycroft.” I laughed in a way that caused him to cringe.

  “You won’t be making any phone calls, will you?”

  “Come on. Let’s cut the shit, huh? Get on with it.”

  He could have been helpful, like I asked in the first place, and everything would have been simple. But he got to thinking about his $200 pair of shoes, and how big a man he is, and how his dignity is somehow on the line, and so he digs his heels in. I mean, who’s he impressing? Himself, I guess. Maycroft’s a jerk, but I didn’t get much satisfaction from humiliating him. All I wanted was some information, which he was now about to give me.

  He had taken a slim file folder from a drawer and placed it in front of him. As he flipped through the material to refresh his memory, the immersion in the familiar world of corporate dealings served to restore his confidence and composure. Our battle of wills was temporarily forgotten, and he spoke easily, the professional playing on his home field.

  “You wanted to know about Medco Pharmaceutical Supplies, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Ordinarily, I would not have been able to help you. Medco is a privately owned company, which means that their records are private, and I would not have access to them. It is also a small company, and we do not usually concern ourselves with small, private firms. However, I can give you a little information for two reasons. One, I am acquainted with Dr. Edmund Mustard, the former owner—we have played golf together on occasion. Two, because of the proposed take-over by Megaplex that you were asking about.”

  “Why that?”

  “Because Megaplex is so large, so important a corporate entity, that anything they do—or think of doing—is of considerable interest.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it, but I will continue. As you probably know, Medco is a small firm that produces component chemicals for use by the bigger drug companies. At one time, this was, within its modest limits, a profitable enterprise, and Dr. Mustard was able to do very well for himself—he would not have been able to join our country club had it been otherwise. However, with time, many of Medco’s biggest buyers began to produce the materials themselves, and Medco’s business declined, as did that of several other similar firms. Dr. Mustard, who was sole owner of the company, was interested in getting into other fields, and when Megaplex made a fair offer for Medco, he was happy to accept.”

  “Why would Megaplex want a company that was going nowhere fast?”

  “At the time that the take-over was considered, Megaplex was moving into the pharmaceutical field in a big way, and the acquisition of Medco would have served a purpose in conjunction with several other companies they were getting.”

  “Then why did the deal not go through?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I remember meeting Mustard the day after he learned that Megaplex was calling off negotiations. He was most upset. Everything had looked definite, and then Megaplex simply backed out.”

  “Why?”

  “They gave no reason. Or at least Dr. Mustard said they gave no reason.”

  “Who was negotiating for Megaplex?”

  Maycroft looked in the file. “Adrian Sweet. He’s a senior vice-president. A very sound man, if a little conservative. Perhaps he saw something in the books he didn’t like.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “As far as we were concerned, nothing. Once Megaplex lost interest, so did we. However, shortly after the deal fell through, I again saw Dr. Mustard at the club, and he was in excellent spirits. He had just sold his company to one of his employees.”

  “Simon Acker.”

  “That’s right. And Mustard seemed to be overjoyed to be getting out, and also to be getting out with very close to his asking price.”

  “Which was?”

  “I really couldn’t say. Somewhere between half a million and a million, I would imagine. Not very much. The building was not owned, only rented on a long lease, and, as I said, business had been declining. If Mustard got anything around that, he had good reason to be happy.”

  “You may not think that’s a lot of money, but Acker was only the managing director, and he didn’t have that kind of dough. How did he do it?”

  “Hunter,” he said with some exasperation, “I’m not his bank manager.”

  “Okay, okay. Just asking. Got anything at all on Acker?”

  “No, and there’s no reason why I should.”

  “Why do you think Acker would want to buy the company? Wasn’t it a losing proposition?”

  “It seemed to be, but in business, people do strange things everyday. You wouldn’t believe some of the colossal mistakes I’ve seen.”

  “But it wasn’t a mistake,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Medco’s doing great. Acker has a great big house in Bel Air, and the company’s soaring. At least, so I understand.”

  “Really! How surprising. I must make a note to look into that. Mr. Acker may be a man worth watching.”

  “Just what I thought,” I said.

  That seemed to be about all there was. As soon as Maycroft stopped trying to prove something, he turned out to be all right. As far as I was concerned, he was still a fraud, but even frauds have to know their stuff if they want to pull it off. I thanked him and said we’d be in touch, which soured him a bit. I made for the door and he leaped up, nervously saying he’d accompany me downstairs.

  “What’s the matter, Maycroft? Are you afraid I’ll unzip my fly and expose myself to dear Carla. Shit! She’d probably follow me home with her tongue hanging out if I did that.”

  Maycroft cringed slightly and looked a little green. It was an unnecessary comment on my part, but, fuck, I get so tired of his type. Twits like Maycroft think they’re so civilized they can handle anything, but their guts turn to cat puke when they encounter a barbarian like me. Like my father said, I believe in playing my game, not theirs.

  Maycroft nervously ushered me across the reception area. I noticed that he and Carla exchanged meaningful glances. When I reached the outer door, I turned and grinned at her.

  “Don’t worry, honey. I fixed it so the bruises wouldn’t show, though he may not be much good for a few days.”

  Her eyes grew wide with alarm, and I laughed as Maycroft pushed me through the door. We didn’t exchange any conversation while waiting for the elevator to arrive. The doors opened and he followed me in. Too much!

  “I may not be a hot-shit stockbroker,” I said, “but I can find the ground floor in an elevator.”

  Maycroft didn’t answer. His eyes were turned upwards and he was delicately fingering his scalp, making certain his hair piece was in place. I laughed. At least I had found out the reason for the mirror on the ceiling of the car.

  EIGHT

  I drove through town to my office. The temperature felt like it was rising by the minute. All movement was slowed down to about half normal speed, and the heat haze made everything look as though it were seen through a distorting mirror. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but the exceptional heat combined
with the exhaust fumes of a million malfunctioning automobiles, and the result was that pleasant effect of greasy heat. You find the same thing in traffic-clogged Bangkok during hot season, and a few other fortunate locations around the world.

  After a lot of stop-and-start driving I finally made it to my neighborhood. As usual there was no place to park, so I left the car at the back of the local used-car lot. I wasn’t much worried about anyone being tempted to buy the thing—rust-rimmed bullet holes haven’t yet caught on as a popular decoration.

  On the way to the office I went into a submarine-sandwich joint. I had a fresh Italian roll filled with lots of extra-spicy chorizo sausage and covered with a burning-hot chile verde sauce. It was so hot that even my forehead started to sweat a little, and I felt the fiery tingle from my teeth all the way down to my belly. The proprietor, an oily little Turk, watched with amazement as I munched on some pickled serrano chiles as I ate the sandwich. I washed it down with a couple of icy San Miguel beers from the Philippines.

  I tit up a cigarette as I finished the second beer. I was convinced there was something going on with Simon Acker and Medco. I didn’t know what, but there were too many abrupt reversals for it to be completely legit. There was going to be a take-over, and then there wasn’t. The company is going under, and then it seems to be quite successful. The Ackers have no money, but then he comes up with some very heavy dough and buys the company. He shares his problems with his wife, and then he becomes secretive. There was something there, but what? And what any of this had to do with the man-monster and Domingo was still a mystery. I’d had problems like this before, though, and I knew I just had to keep stirring things up, making noise, and getting people nervous, until all of a sudden—zap!—things fell into place.

  I stood up, dropped my cigarette on the floor where it joined the numerous generations of butts already there—the Turk wasn’t very strong on cleanliness, which probably accounted for the potency of the chile verde—and went out into the afternoon.

  By the time I had covered the two short blocks to my office building, my already limp shirt was even more so. I stepped over the wino who was prone in the doorway, either dead or laid low by the heat. The elevator again had a crudely printed sign, Owt of Oder, on it, so I went up the stairs. On the second-floor landing another drunk had passed out in a pool of oddly colored vomit.

  I went into my office to be met with a nice friendly greeting from Maria. At least she didn’t wrinkle her nose at me. In spite of the heat, she was looking pretty cool, or as much so as that hot tamale ever got. She was wearing a skimpy cotton halter that left her middle bare and showed her heavy breasts off to great advantage. Her skirt was just about long enough to cover her ass. Not your standard office attire, but who was complaining? The outline of her nipples showed clearly through the fabric in a way that started my jaws aching, but I decided to pass for the moment. When I got this situation sorted out, we’d have a couple of nice weeks in Mexico. If this was what she wore to the office, I wondered what she’d wear on the beach. A smile, probably.

  I asked if there were any messages, and she said Mr. Argyll had called. At first I didn’t know who that was, and then I realized she meant Stubby. It was probably the first time since World War I that anyone had referred to him as Mister. Stubby Argyll had been a P.I. for about a hundred years. He smelled bad and most of his teeth were gone, but he was smart enough to never cross me, so we got along. He said he’d be in Jack’s around 3:30, and I should stop by if I could.

  I looked at my watch. That left me a couple of hours which I could put to good use. I went through the connecting door to my office. I was surprised to see that everything had been turned right side up and reassembled. The desk was a little the worse for wear but otherwise was about the same as it had been before Godzilla had tried his hand at redecorating.

  Maria had followed me in and stood grinning at my surprise.

  “Are you pleased, Sam?”

  “Yeah, Maria. That’s swell, How’d you manage?”

  “I got the janitor to help. He was very upset at the damage.”

  It figured. Janitors, who are paid in pigeon shit and a small spoon, always act as though it’s their property, and not a tax write-off for some asshole relaxing in the Bahamas. I got five dollars out of my wallet and handed it to her.

  “Get him a bottle of something strong and cheap, and tell him thanks. “

  “That’s not necessary. He was happy to do it—for me.”

  No doubt; the horny old bastard.

  “I bet he made you pick up all the little stuff, though.”

  “That’s right. How did you know?” she said, surprised.

  “Hey, baby, I’m a detective. Remember?”

  It wasn’t hard to figure. Maria was more stimulating than any cheap whiskey, and the sight of her bending over in that tiny skirt would be enough to inspire the dead, or at least the comatose. The janitor was probably still groaning and salivating at the recollection of it.

  “Never mind. Give him the bottle, anyway. I’ve a feeling he could use it about now.”

  Maria shrugged and turned to go. Halfway to the door she bent to pick up a small scrap of paper. The transparent panties she wore left little to the imagination. Yep, the janitor had been well paid for his assistance.

  “Say, Maria,” I said, and she turned around. “You want to go down to Mexico with me for a couple of weeks? We’ll find a quiet beach someplace where I can do some fishing.”

  Her face lit up and she ran across to me, her breasts bobbing gently in the halter. She kissed me quickly on the mouth, let her hand lightly run up my thigh, and then ran from the office, grinning over her shoulder, I guess she wanted to go.

  I checked the addresses of some gyms where pro wrestlers worked out, and I saw I could visit a few of them before it was time to meet Stubby. I told Maria to stay around for another couple of hours and then lock up. She seemed genuinely disappointed that I wouldn’t be back. A nice trait in a secretary.

  I went to the used-car lot and found that some bozo had put a card on my windshield saying “Must Sacrifice—$750.” I kicked my front tire and decided I wouldn’t pay it. I put the card over the official one on a two-year-old Cadillac and drove off.

  I got nothing at the first two gyms I visited. Hardly surprising since the grunters that were hanging around needed cue cards to get their own names right. One of the guys was trying to read a comic book. He took a liking to me when I helped him with several of the tougher words and told me I should try the Regal over on Fifth.

  I still had time, so I drove over there. The sign over the door was so chipped and faded as to be nearly illegible. With effort you could read that it said “Regal Gym—Training Ground of Champions.” At one time that might have been wishful thinking, but now it was only the grossest irony. The closest the Regal had ever come to training a champion was in ‘35 or so when some sixth-ranked contender worked out there before he was kicked out of boxing for throwing too many fights. The guy took so many dives that he should have practiced in a swimming pool. Since then it had all been downhill for the Regal. Now a few has-been wrestlers hung out there, hoping to get on a card in Turlock or some other armpit town, and low level goons worked out there, honing their reflexes so they could intimidate seventy-five-year-old shopkeepers. It was a class operation.

  I went through the door and up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the gym. Halfway up I was met by an almost visible locker-room smell of stale sweat, unwashed underwear, and cheap cigars that had been accumulating for five or six decades. The rivers of raw sewage in a Saigon slum gave off a no less appealing aroma. Lighting up a cigarette and being careful to breathe through my mouth, I pushed ahead.

  The gym itself was small and dominated by an ancient, sagging ring in which a couple of overweight candidates for a retirement village were sweating heavily as they threw one another around with a maximum of noise and grimacing and a minimum of skill and realism. Off to one side a pair of greasy youn
g punks with sloping foreheads and vacant, moronic expressions were trying to flip cards into a hat on the floor about six feet away from them. I thought that was only done in ‘40s gangster movies. That feeling was heightened because they were both dressed in shiny black shirts and skinny white silk ties. No one had told them that this was the age of denim.

  I walked over to them and asked if they knew a monster named Mountain Cyclone, but they didn’t look at me and just continued to toss their cards. I stood in front of the hat and repeated the question.

  “Hey, man, you’re in the way,” the one with no chin said,

  “I asked a question.”

  “Fuck off. We ain’t no information service.”

  They thought that was pretty funny, and started braying and snorting like a pair of mules.

  “I’m looking for this Mountain Cyclone, and I heard he hangs around here,” I said, suppressing the impulse to kick in their stupid faces.

  A look passed between them that told me they knew him. They whispered together a minute, and the one with a squint yelled to the back of the gym.

  “Hey, Cueball, ya better come out here.”

  A door at the back opened and this thing appeared. I could see why he was called Cueball. He was short and damn near as wide as he was tall. He had a huge barrel chest and a belly to match. His waist measurement must have been equal to his height, and his arms were as thick as most people’s legs. There was a tot of fat there, but there was also a lot of muscle. He was an albino, and his skin was that pasty white-pink that you sometimes see—so white that it seemed to blend into his T-shirt and White canvas trousers. He was a giant white ball, and as he rolled over toward me I saw that he was also completely hairless. No hair on his scalp or face, no eyebrows, not even any fuzz on his arms. It wasn’t shaved off; he just didn’t have any hair. He rolled to a stop close to us. His small red eyes flicked at me and then turned to the two punks,

  “What is it?” His voice was high and squeaky and totally out of keeping with his appearance. It sounded like he might be a eunuch.