The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Yes, now murder,” Mayor Fowler said. “Eight days ago a man named Ramirez, an undercover investigator for the district attorney’s office, was killed. Shot three times, murdered. He had been investigating the activities of a man named Hugh Grimson and his suspected connection with a local establishment, Silvano Enterprises, known locally as Silvano’s Garage, where individuals of highly unsavory reputation are employed and many others congregate, including paroled felons named—”

  “Mr. Mayor, I wonder, could you slow it down a bit? You’ve thrown quite a bunch of names at me already, Ramirez, Grimson, somebody’s garage, and—”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Scott. A man—of whom I hope soon to inform you—is coming to my home at midnight, and it is important that I be alert and perceptive when I meet him. I am now so weary I am mentally befuddled, and I intend to nap for an hour or so before he arrives. In the little time I have for explanation, I expect merely to give you a general understanding of the problem here, and its dimensions. After your arrival in Newton I shall explain in more detail. If I may simply continue, even if a bit helter-skelter?”

  I said, “O.K., helter-skelter then, and I’ll try to keep track.”

  “The only name you need concern yourself with at this point, Mr. Scott, is that of Hugh Grimson. He is the man you will be investigating. You will be studying in minute detail Mr. Grimson’s background, his associates, his current activities.”

  “But ... isn’t he the guy Ramirez, I mean the late Ramir—”

  The mayor had not paused for breath. “Some of us,” he continued, “have for many months suspected Mr. Grimson of involvement in a variety of criminal activities and enterprises, suspected that he is one of the sources, indeed perhaps the very fount, of the growing corruption in our city. But there has not heretofore been any viable evidence to that effect, nothing that would enable us to take meaningful action against him.”

  I hated to interrupt, but I asked, “Is this guy Grimson a real hood? I mean, like, does he go around killing lots of people and—”

  “I cannot say with certainty at this moment, though later tonight I may be in possession of evidence that he has personally murdered at least one individual. I intend to inform you of this possibility if you will allow me to continue. Mr. Grim—”

  “Hell, I only—”

  “—son has resided in Newton for not more than four years, but during that time he has been unusually active in the political and commercial life of our city. He is also a man of very substantial means, and in consequence must now be numbered among the most prominent of our citizens, a man with powerful friends and considerable influence. He dines with state senators, our congressmen, even police officials, while at the same time consorting with decidedly unsavory individuals, some of whom are known to have criminal records. Despite this, it has been suggested that he enter the political arena, even run for office in the forthcoming elections—”

  “Ah.”

  “—and there have been fatuous comments in the less reliable of our two newspapers to the effect that the day might come when Hugh Grimson could, incredibly, become the governor of California!”

  “I’ve got to ask this one, Mr. Mayor. Fire me if you want to. The political office, at which it has been suggested Mr. Grimson take a run, might that be a local office? Perhaps even the office of Newton’s mayor, which is incumbented by ... well, which is the one wherein you are at? Let me try that again—”

  “Your assumption is correct. What I am attempting to impress upon you, Mr. Scott, is: this man is dangerous!”

  “Just one more quickie, sir. When would Mr. Grimson’s—and your—campaign commence?”

  “I have personally begun my campaign for reelection, Mr. Scott. I do not, however, expect that Mr. Grimson will be campaigning at all. I do expect that he will be in prison, where I am certain he belongs.”

  Mayor Fowler paused. I didn’t say anything.

  “Indeed,” he went on, “if I have not been totally misinformed about your peculiar talents and abilities—”

  “What do you mean, peculiar?”

  “—I have every confidence that you, personally, may be largely responsible for assuring that justice is meted out to Hugh Grimson in full measure.”

  I made no further comment, even though the mayor paused once again. After a long moment he continued, “Well, then. I now come to the most recent, and most hopeful, development since I and my associates determined that, for the good of our city, Mr. Grimson must be exposed—if, of course, there is anything significant to expose, if he is involved in criminal activities. I—we—wish to be fair.”

  “Sure we do.”

  “Unfortunately, as I have already stated, to date our most strenuous efforts have availed us little in this regard. However, earlier this evening I was phoned by an alleged informant. Not only has this individual for some time been associated with Mr. Grimson, including personally participating in various illegal enterprises all of which were overseen by Grimson, but he alleges that it was Hugh Grimson himself who personally and with purposeful deliberation murdered Joe Ramirez.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose he expressed it in quite that way?”

  “If memory serves me well, his precise words were, ‘I seen Mr. G. blast him myself. Two in the gut—blam-blam—and then one blam in the conk for security.’”

  “Did this informant say who he was? Did he refer to the killer only as Mr. G.? And are you sure this guy said he saw the killing?”

  “My caller did not give me his name. His voice was muffled, disguised I assume. He referred to the killer not only as Mr. G. but as Hugh, and as Grimson. His claim is that he did personally witness the commission of the crime. That was an accident, but he did indeed see the murder, which is of the utmost importance since if he was not a participant he is therefore an eyewitness who was not also an accessory to the crime.”

  “Yeah, all well and good, if this guy’s who he claims to be, if he really saw the shooting, if he was not an accomplice, and if Mr. G. actually knocked off Ramirez in the first place. By the way, about Ram—”

  “I am convinced of the man’s integrity—or, at least in this specific instance, his veracity. He is obviously privy to much that goes on in Mr. Grimson’s organization. Organization was his own word. Moreover, as I indicated earlier, we have arranged to meet, here in my home, face to face. I consider myself an extremely shrewd judge of men and their motives, if I do say so myself, Mr. Scott. And by midnight or soon thereafter—assuming I get a minimum of rest—I should be certain, one way or another, if this man is completely worthy of belief. Which I am already virtually certain he is.”

  “I realize you’re a little pressed for time, Mr. Mayor, but there is one thing. Not really important, but I’m curious to know how you happened to call. Why me?”

  “I have mentioned my associates. There are five of us, all deeply concerned about the corruption in our city. One of them mentioned your name to me quite recently. He spoke very highly of you, although I do recall he laughed.... Ah, it is his feeling, and mine—of our entire little group, in fact—that it might well be advantageous to enlist the aid of an outside investigator. My associate argued with some logic that, since our orthodox and conventional methods have to date met with little success, what we need is an oddball....”

  The mayor stopped, started over. “We need someone with a fresh approach, an outsider—an individual not involved emotionally or in any other way with Newton’s problems, and not known to the local riffraff—one who has at times employed unusual but often peculiarly effective methods....”

  Mayor Fowler paused once more. “In the interest of brevity, may I simply repeat the words of my associate, even though they may perhaps be mildly offensive to you?”

  “Of course. I do not take offense easily, Mr. Mayor.”

  “He said—and if memory serves me well I am simply quoting him verbatim—’Hire the nut if you possibly can. That white-haired ape may burn down the fire station and terrorize half
the secretaries in city hall, but he’ll get the job done. He’s good, he’s tough, he’s got guts, but mainly he’s the luckiest bastard south of the north pole.’ Mr. Scott, please do not assume that I personally—”

  “So,” I said stiffly, “he said that, did he? O.K., Fowler. Who is this bigmouth—”

  “The, ah, recommendation was given me by Mr. Henry Wainwright, who is our district attorney’s chief investigator—”

  “Hank?” I pulled my jaw back in, even smiled a little. “Hell, Hank Wainwright worked in the Intelligence Division here maybe three, four years ago.”

  “Yes. He has been with the office of the district attorney for about three years now.”

  “I’ll be damned. Tell Hank that after I get up there, he’d better not drink anything that smells funny. Once he put a whole ounce of—”

  “I am pressed for time, Mr. Scott. Besides, you may personally inform Mr. Wainwright that you are going to poison him, or whatever it is you intend, tomorrow. I am to join three of my associates at the Sherwood for luncheon, and you will meet them at that time. If that is all, then....”

  “Yeah. I get it. I’ll check with the airport and call you back in a few minutes. O.K.?”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  “There is one other item, Mayor Fowler. Just a little bitty thing. The guy who got two in the gut, and one in the conk for security, he was digging into the doings of Hugh Grimson, right? And you suspected, and now know for sure if your informant spilled the real beans, that he was murdered by the said Hugh Grimson, right? And what you want me to do is come up there and start digging into the doings of Hugh Grimson. Right?”

  “Precisely so.”

  “Swell. Knowing what to expect in advance gives me a feeling of more ... security. Well, I’ll call—”

  “Mr. Scott, it occurs to me that you may feel your efforts here may expose you to some extraordinary danger. Please dispossess yourself of that thought. The areas of your investigation will very likely not require you to interview, or contact in any way, Mr. Grimson personally. Neither he nor his associates, who I must in all honesty say are a most offensive lot, need even know you have been employed.” He paused. “We of course have other investigators working on this matter. And if the testimony of my informant—who may at almost any moment now be hammering upon my door—proves to be both valid and valuable, there will be required only supporting evidence, corroboration of his claims, routine investigation. You see?”

  He paused again. “So I believe I can assure you, Mr. Scott, that your work for us here in Newton will not place you in any jeopardy.”

  I told him that was swell, and hung up.

  Mayor Fowler made the whole thing sound like a piece of angel food cake.

  At that moment, of course, I did not know if his appraisal of the situation was accurate or if he was off his rocker entirely. I did not know that soon—very soon—I would be reminding this pompous and pooped politician of what he had just told me.

  I did not, could not, know that I would be standing before him—not exactly standing, more like bent over, taking a bit of the strain off my spracked bones and sprained ligaments, with fresh black-and-blue marks on my bruises and crankcase oil all over me and my tongue hanging out maybe half a foot—saying to Everson Fowler:

  “Mr. Mayor, I don’t think you’ve got the faintest goddamn idea what jeopardy means!”

  4

  When the Coastal Airlines jet banked for a turn that would line it up with Newton’s now-inadequate airport, I snubbed out my cigarette in the armrest ashtray and looked down at the sprawling city.

  There was a lot of sprawl for an almost-brand-new city, a lusty and still-growing community. Less than ten years ago Newton had been born as one of the offspring of a large conglomerate that had earlier constructed on bare desert land in Arizona the hugely profitable—to the conglomerate’s stockholders—city of Golden Sands. Building on success, and profiting from a few mistakes, Newton had been intelligently designed to be, initially, a city of a hundred thousand—but with room to grow.

  And grow it had. Newton’s population today, as the mayor had last night informed me with some pride, as though he had fathered a great many of the citizens himself, totaled nearly half a million.

  With Newton’s booming growth had come multimillion-dollar expenditures for city streets, freeways and overpasses and interchanges, schools, homes, entire business and residential districts, official vehicles, police cars and buses and fire engines, and a thousand other things that cost more than a buck.

  Also not to be ignored, not by a long shot, were U.S. government contracts and revenue sharing and grants that had grown suddenly—especially in the last two or three years—from a cute little monkey of governmental benevolence into a King Kong of Federal Funds for this-that-and-the-other, you name it and you can have it.

  The “Federal Funds” alone—this being a Washington, D.C., euphemism for the billions of dollars extracted from taxpaying people—were sufficient to construct several Disneylands with enough financial fallout to make a hundred legitimate, and illegitimate, millionaires. So, inevitably, with the boom had come the sticky-fingered citizens, the grafters and leeches, the operators and freeloaders along for the sweet ride. And crooks. Real, professional, hard-working, dedicated-to-the-job crooks. Or, in the mayor’s words, “corruption and malfeasance.”

  Newton didn’t look corrupt from the air. But what does? We landed smoothly, vibrated during the roar of reversed jet engines, then taxied to a stop.

  Except for the clothes I was wearing—one of my more conservative “business suits,” beautifully tailored from smooth pearly-gray cloth that had in it rippling hints of colorful iridescences like dyed lightning—I’d brought along only one other suit, and a slacks-and-cardigan sports outfit. They were in my single piece of luggage, along with a full box of Super Vel cartridges for the short-barreled Colt .38 Special in the clamshell holster under my pearly-gray coat.

  So, because I travel light, with only hand luggage and handgun, and had carried my one small suitcase aboard—and was moving in defiance of the stewardess’s admonition before the plane came to a complete stop—I was arranging to rent a car while other passengers were still coming down the ladder.

  I’m used to driving my own convertible Cadillac in L.A., so I rented a year-old gunmetal-gray Cad convertible, signed the rental contract, and was on my way to meet Mayor Fowler. It was 8:15 a.m., exactly nine and a half hours since I’d called Fowler back to let him know I’d be taking a Coastal flight out of L.A. International, arriving in Newton at 8:05 a.m. I had told him I would rent a car at the airport and he’d given me directions to his home.

  It was an uneventful ten-minute drive, except for one small, and probably unimportant, item. After leaving the airport, I turned right into Mulberry Drive, which went past the mayor’s house and continued on a couple of miles farther into Newton. As I spotted the private road I’d been looking for—a strip of asphalt ahead and on my left that led through acres of thickly massed walnut trees to the mayor’s home—a purple sports car crammed with teenagers swung around me, rocking on its springs, and zoomed away at not less than eighty miles an hour.

  I got an odd, tight feeling at the top of my spine. Not because of the sports car, which had peace symbols and cute signs painted on it, but because when it pulled out from behind me I glanced at the rearview mirror and spotted a dark sedan a block or so back. For a second or so I couldn’t figure why sight of that buggy would trigger the mild tension. Then I got it.

  Over the years it has become habitual for me to check people around me on the street, or cars behind me when I’m driving. It’s largely an unconscious process, but because it is automatic the faint alarm bells also go off automatically if I spot the same car or person two or three times in a row.

  And I now recalled that when I’d stopped after leaving the airport, preparing to turn right into Mulberry, I had seen the same car behind me then. I couldn’t very well have missed
it, because it was the only car on the half-mile stretch of road between the terminal and me—perhaps because I’d moved so speedily from plane to rented Cad—but I had also noticed its odd bluish-black color, and the fact that it was creeping along at something like ten or fifteen miles an hour.

  I’d put it out of my mind—until now. But as I swung left at the private road and into the shadow of tree limbs arching overhead, a glance at the rearview mirror gave me a glimpse of the car as it zipped past, moving on toward Newton.

  So, nothing. Some guy on his way to town from the airport. Or maybe even an old married couple, over thirty, clucking about purple sports cars and “What’s this younger generation coming to?”

  The private road swung left and ended at an oval of asphalt surrounded by green lawn. Two or three acres here had been cleared of trees and tangled undergrowth and the land sloped downward from my right to left, so when I looked back toward where I’d come from, the treetops fifty yards or so away were about level with my eyes.

  The mayor’s house was on my right, above me, reached by a dozen cement steps ending at a graveled path leading to the front door. It was a big house, one story but wide, painted an off-white with accents of charcoal gray. I trotted up the steps and started along the path, gravel crunching under my shoes, beginning to feel the bite of forty-degree air on my ears.

  Before I reached the front door it swung open and a tall rangy man with a lot of dark hair streaked with gray, and “virile” gray-flecked sideburns reaching nearly down to his neck, stepped outside. He paused, head slightly lowered, examining me from dark heavy-browed eyes, his expression dubious.

  “You must be....” Then he smiled—and the stern, even forbidding features suddenly became almost winsome. “Of course. Who else could you be? Good morning, Mr. Scott.”

  His reaction was not unusual, one more evidence of the little crosses I bear above my neck. Most months of any year I am deeply tanned, face the approximate shade of a Tahitian lifeguard, and I have been told at least once that my hair resembles a horsebrush with thin ivory bristles and my eyebrows look like crushed cotton from the tops of vitamin-pill bottles.