The Kubla Khan Caper (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I swiveled my head around and said, “Excuse me, I’m sssss—”

  God in Heaven, I thought. I must be dead. Here’s one of the angels.

  I had seen deep purple and swirls of lavender in the lobby of the Kubla Khan. Now I was seeing it again. But different, incredibly different. It was the deep purple of mountain shadows and the lavender of desert blooms, the hush of autumn evenings with the warmth of summer moonlight, and it was all in a woman’s eyes. Enormous, melting eyes, black-fringed, clear and bright. And startled now.

  She blinked slowly. Then she smiled and said, “I tried to get out of your way. But . . . there’s a lot of you to get out of the way of.”

  “A man could damn near die in your eyes,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Ah, I’m sorry—that’s not what I meant to say. It’s probably because I was thinking about death a moment ago . . . . Doesn’t sound much fun, does it?”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “I mean, I was visualizing the lobby filled with lively corpses . . . . That’s not it, either. If you’ll let me keep trying, I’ll come up with something more sensible in a minute.”

  Suddenly she laughed. “I hope so.”

  “Let’s change the subject. You must be here to win the beauty contest. Well, my name is Shell Scott and I’m a judge. A judge, get it? I’ve got power! Pow—”

  “I’m a judge myself.”

  “Pow—you’re a judge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that fixes that. Maybe there’s some other way I can, ah, help you.”

  “Shell Scott . . . Of course. I know you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re from Los Angeles, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. L.A—Hollywood.”

  “So am I. From Hollywood, I mean.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Misty.” It sounded right for her. When she said it her voice was dark and rustled like lace. “Misty Lombard.”

  Misty Lombard. I knew the name. Who—hey, boy, I thought. It was only a name known to perhaps half the earth’s population. Misty Lombard, one of Hollywood’s most famous and brilliantly shining lights. Star of films, guest-shotter on television, magazine-cover marvel. I’d heard that the natives even had one of her brassieres nailed to a tree trunk in Benzabiland; they did wild dances around it every full moon.

  I simply hadn’t recognized her. Part of the reason undoubtedly was the suddenness, and bumpiness, of our meeting. But much of it had to be that not film, not a magazine cover, and certainly not a TV tube, could begin to capture the radiance and warmth and soft sweetness of the gal. And nothing could ever tell you about those magical eyes unless you stood a foot away and died in them a little.

  She wasn’t in costume. She was wearing some kind of simple white-knit suit, but not even a suit could hide the famous curves, the swelling breasts and celebrated hips and ridiculously small waistline. Her hair was thick and dark, the color of roasted chestnuts, and her lips looked sweet, and tender, and moist, and as if they could have roasted the chestnuts.

  “Just my luck,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was going to spirit you away from here and lock you in a cave. Or a tower or something—like Rapunzel, say. And visit you every evening, carrying a hairy ladder. But Misty Lombard—it wouldn’t work. Ten thousand guys would kill me.”

  “You would probably—” She stopped, rolled her eyes, pursed her lips, as if thinking. It fascinated me. “—take me to your cave,” she finished.

  “Think some more.”

  “Do what?”

  “Never mind. I’m going to go out and find a cave. How about dinner? We’ll start with Martinis in bronto-saurus skulls with wild olives on saber-tooth toothpicks and—”

  “I don’t like any of those things.”

  “I was afraid of that. Then how about a plain Seraglio Martini?”

  “I’m sorry. I’d like to, really I would. But I have to get ready for the party.”

  “Party? Oh, yeah.” It was coming back to me. “Maybe later we—”

  “Let’s wait and see. I’m going to the party with Mr. Leaf. He may get tied up during the evening. I don’t know. He often does.”

  “Simon Leaf?”

  She nodded. So she was going to be with the producer. Fooey to him. But that was right; Misty had starred in a couple of his pictures. A couple of his good pictures. Probably the date was just a business arrangement.

  “I do have to run,” she said.

  “All right. But don’t be surprised if you see me several times. Like, well, every time you look around.”

  “ ‘Bye, Mr. Scott. It was nice”—she smiled brilliantly—”running into you.”

  “Just in case,” I said, “save me a dance.” I grinned at her and added, “In the moonlight.”

  She had started to walk away, but she stopped and turned partway around. Then, surprisingly, she pursed those soft, red, roasty lips and kissed the space between us, her eyes on mine. I felt it like six Alka-Seltzers in my stomach. Then Misty Lombard turned and walked away, and I watched her until she was out of sight.

  Then I went into the Seraglio. For a drink.

  6

  If my eyes hadn’t been in a state of shock from looking at Misty, my first sight of the Seraglio might have sent them into it. The place was beautiful.

  I had to part a colorful curtain of hanging glass beads to step inside, and then I stood for a few seconds letting my vision adjust to the dimness. There was some illumination from several big pierced-metal lamps, probably from India or Persia, but the rest came from small lamps on low tables. At first I thought they were candles, but closer inspection showed them to be small oil-burning lamps like some I’d once seen from Bombay.

  On my right was a long bar and across the wide room, behind thin and almost transparent draperies, were several softly lighted booths in which I could see the veiled figures of men and women drinking and talking; in the rest of the room were low, massive tables with squat chairs around them. The place was more than half filled, most of the customers in costume, and I could hear the subdued rumble of conversation. In my nostrils was a faint blend of liquor, perfume and powder, the scent of lotions and spices. In the air, too, was quiet music, probably piped in, something with lots of little bells and the sound of tiny cymbals and what might have been flutes.

  The Seraglio was not merely beautiful, it was warm, exciting, stimulating—well, let’s say it right out: It was sexy ‘as hell. I liked it a lot.

  I walked to the long bar and slid onto the first empty stool I came to.

  I thought the bartender was going to dance up to me doing pirouettes, he was so fluttery and peaches-and-creamy, but he merely tripped over and said, “Yay-yus?” I guessed he was from the South. South Mars, judging by his garish costume.

  “Bourbon and water.”

  “You just bet you.”

  “Oh, come on, you-all,” I said. He was laying it on thicker than they made it.

  “But wouldn’t you-all rather have one of our speyshuls?” he asked me so cutely it was hard to resist him.

  “What in the hell is a speyshul?”

  “One of our speyshul drinks.” He flitted away and danced back with a small, brightly colored folder.

  It was a drink menu listing maybe fifty concoctions ranging from a Kismet to the Istanbul to the Hooghly River. That last one ought to be a wow, I thought.

  “Well . . . “ I said. “Oh, hell. Bring me anything. Just so I can lift it.”

  “I’d like to suggest a Cobra’s Kiss,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is that what y’all want?”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It’s made from a secret Indian formula.”

  “OK.” I shrugged. “What the hell. When in India, do as the Hindu. Now, what’s really in a Cobra’s Kiss?”

  “Lots and lots of booze.”He gave me a grin and began swiftly mixing the
drink—using about nine bottles.

  I started eyeing the drink menu, feeling a suspicion.

  Whatever he was doing would probably cost me about a pound. There it was. Cobra’s Kiss. It was four dollars and ninety-five cents, and I thought: The goddamn thing had better have lots and lots of booze in it.

  The bartender twirled a big, tall, wide, heavy glass, with an orchard growing out of the top of it, down the bar.

  “Theyah you-all is,” he said.

  “Sho ‘nuff. Do I have to put nickels in you to turn you off?” He waved his head around as if shooing flies with it, and danced away. Boy, I thought, I’m glad he’s not a judge.

  Not that it made an enormous amount of difference these days, I thought philosophically. At least not as far as beauty contests were concerned. Of course, it looked as if this one at the Khan was going to be different. And how. But I was philosophically thinking about the rest of them, while guzzling my Cobra’s Kiss—which seemed to have a lot of hollow fangs in it.

  I’ll tell you, I was really looking forward to the beauty contest here. And even to the “talent” segment, believe it or not. You want to know why? You don’t, huh? Well, I’ll tell you anyway.

  It has just about gotten to the point, friends, where one of these days the emcee of a big beauty contest—one of those guys who smiles and smiles and smiles and waves and sings in a pret-ty voice—is going to win the thing.

  Beauty is less and less the prime criterion, or even an essential requirement for participation in a beauty contest. If a gal has two legs and a couple arms and one of everything else, she’s in—if she’s got talent. Can she sing? Can she dance? Can she recite “The Star-Spangled Banner” from memory? If she can, she gets ten points. It takes eleven to win.

  Sure, they parade in evening gowns, and in swimsuits, and display their charming charms for the judges, but then what? Why, then each lovely has to play a kazoo, or pluck tunes from her nose, or perform some equally exciting feat of culture, or genius, or acrobatics, before she can be adjudged the fairest of the fair. Why? Because somebody’s nuts, that’s why.

  I remember one babe who came in third in the Miss Safety Tire Contest, who was about five-eleven and weighed maybe ninety-seven pounds with her wig on, and looked like the producer’s brother, but who cinched third place by plucking her nose like a harp. She played “Aloha Oi” on it, and to be perfectly fair, it was kind of nice. Pling-pling-plinnnggg-pling! You know how it goes. She’d practiced a lot, you could tell.

  But I couldn’t help wondering what the reaction of a red-blooded man—her husband, of course—would be if he leaped into the connubial sack with her and said, “Ba-hayby, this is it!” and she said, “Plinnnggg!” Or even, “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming” and whatever the rest of it is. And why not? Wasn’t that what she won with?

  Well, that’s what has happened to beauty contests in the U.S. of A. today.

  Still, I was looking forward to the talent segment of the Kubla Khan’s contest. Even to that part. Because this time there was a sensible reason for it. Since the winner was to be guaranteed a leading role in Simon Leaf’s upcoming TV series and some of the runners-up would probably get minor roles which could be boosts up the showbiz ladder, the talent segment was to be either a reading or some kind of dramatic performance which would allow viewing producers and directors and such to determine if a contestant possessed at least embryo acting ability, which could be nourished, and which might grow. Even so, the prime focus would still be on beauty, bazooms, behinds, and sex appeal, rather than a gal’s unique ability to twirl sixteen times on one toe, barefooted.

  So my thoughts went. And in the middle of them I became aware that I’d slid onto a stool next to yet another exceptionally good-looking gal. It was too much. They were all over tile place. It was like tossing a drunk into a vat of Vat 69; a guy couldn’t get away from the intoxication even if he wanted to. This one, though older than the lovelies who would be parading and emoting tomorrow, could hold her own with most of them.

  I guessed she was about my age, thirty, with a lot of black hair pulled tightly away from her forehead, and tied with a ribbon at the back of her neck. Her skin was dark, almost olive, and she appeared to have a marvelous profile clear down to her kneecaps. Unusually long lashes fringed her eyes, the nose was straight, cheekbones high and prominent, the mouth sensual and almost cruel.

  Also high, prominent and sensual, but exuding an aura of kindness and true compassion rather than cruelty, were her very interesting breasts. I use the word “interesting” rather than something like “restless,” or “apparently gas-filled, and rising” because they were so damned interesting, and part of the reason was that you could tell what they were. In these days of beauty contests with emphasis on kazoos, that’s important; a guy just can’t take anything for granted.

  Only a few days ago I’d read an advertisement in a new ladies’ fashion magazine. Modern Eve, which proudly proclaimed, “ . . . and, girls, for the 32 bust the Magicbra is available in sizes 32A–D, 34 A–D, 36 A–D, and 38 A–C (the Magicbra in size 38 D is not made for the 32 bust),” and I had thought glumly, “Not yet, it isn’t.” There’s a magazine called Modern Adam, too, but I’m afraid to read it.

  Fortunately, there will always be gals more reminiscent of the old Eve, such as the one on my right.

  She was wearing some kind of gypsy outfit, a very loose and low-cut blouse, gold-mesh belt and a colorful skirt. Big brass—or maybe even gold—loops dangled from her ears. A row of bracelets was on her left wrist, and a huge glittery ring, so big I figured it had to be a rhinestone, was on the third finger of her left hand.

  She took the last sip of what looked like a champagne cocktail, pushed her empty glass across the bar and waited. Then she got out a cigarette, and quick as a flash I had my lighter out, burning, and all ready for her, like a real jerk. That, at least, was my afterthought.

  She turned her head and looked at me from chilly, slanted eyes, ignored my flame, pushed the button on a small gold lighter with more rhinestones on it, and lit her cigarette.

  “Hi,” I said. But I put my lighter away. I know when not to overdo a thing. I think.

  She let smoke drift out her nose while gazing at me with the warmth of a wounded antelope greeting a pack of hyenas. Finally she said coldly, “What?”

  “Just . . . hi. Like in, well, like in, ‘Hi, there!’ Or in ‘Hi-diddle-diddle . . . ‘ Strike that. Well, ah, here in Southern California, friendly Southern California, it means Hello.” I paused. “At least it used to.” I quit.

  Well, maybe she was practically deaf and dumb, but she was a good-looking babe, anyhow. That face was striking, exotic, almost unique. With those slanting eyes and high, prominent cheekbones, the dark skin, and black hair pulled smooth over the top of her head, she looked Eurasian, even Asian. Even . . . Then I got it. She looked almost Mongol. The outfit wasn’t a gypsy outfit, but presumably the kind of thing Kubla Khan’s tomatoes might have worn.

  Sure, that was it. She really looked at home here, as if this joint might well have been built just for her, her Xanadu—as Shah Jahan had created the Taj for his lost and lovely Mumtaz Mahal. It was easy to imagine her as one of Kubla’s ninety-nine wives. It was also easy to imagine her grabbing Kubla’s big sword and chopping off ninety-eight heads.

  She was looking me up and down, wrinkling her nose. Not much. Just enough so I could see it wrinkle.

  For the first time I remembered that, after Charging around in the desert and stirring up dust and such and changing a tire, I had come straight to the bar without “freshening up” in my room. Consequently I suppose I did look a little wilted. Still, die didn’t have to wrinkle her sharp old nose like that. Why, I use a deodorant advertised on TV as “Stronger than Sweat.”

  “What are you?” she asked when she condescended to speak. “A truck driver? Or are you, perhaps—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I�
�ve heard them all, ma’am. Truck driver, garbage man, hot-dog salesman. We all have our little cross to bear. What are you, the Queen of the May?”

  Usually I just let people tear me up without springing cleverly back at them with devastating remarks. Usually that’s because I can’t think of any. Like this very instant. But in part it is simply because that route is all downhill, a losing game. Why should I do that? I lose enough games as it is.

  Fooey to her, I thought. Her and her jazzy blouse. Probably she wakes up mooing every morning. Hell, I only wanted to light her cigarette. Well, maybe that’s not quite the whole truth, I told myself. But how could she know? And what if she did know? So why was she dressed like a bridesmaid at a nudist wedding?

  I was sitting there as though completely unconcerned, kind of chewing my teeth, when a great big tall handsome guy came in and glided toward us as if walking on water. Golden blond waves on his skull, head held high, profile cleaving the air like the bow of a Viking’s twenty-oared war barge, broad shoulders and narrow waist, looking like a man who had never perspired in his whole life.

  He walked straight up to the bosomy Mongol and leaned down, twitching his ruby lips fetchingly, and I thought in some alarm: You’d better not, old buddy; you don’t know her like I do. But he merely pecked her on the cheek.

  “Hello, darling,” she said.

  Apparently he knew her better than I did.

  “ ‘Lo, sweet,” he said.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I couldn’t find my shorts.”

  Apparently he knew her lots better than I did.

  “Oh, Jerry,” she said, “they’re right where they always are.”

  “Yeah, that’s where I found ‘em.”

  Believe me, it was a sickening conversation. And it got more so. A couple seated next to the gal got up and left, and the guy perched on one of the vacated stools. Then he dropped his voice, but not so far down I couldn’t hear him, and said, “I saw you jawing with this big creep next to you. He giving you any trouble, Neyra?”