The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Trying to kill you, too,” Canada said.

  “I’ll say. But if his original play had worked, and it almost did, I’d have gone back to L.A. and half this problem would have been eliminated. Then if he caught up with the informant he was home free, and then he could let the mayor go. His idea was to lug the mayor back home, put him on his bed, and let him wake up.”

  “But surely the mayor would have known he’d been somewhere for ... what was it, over forty hours?”

  “Yeah. But, no, not exactly—it’s not quite that simple. A lot of people would have told Fowler many unnerving things, but the mayor himself would never have had anything but a large blank. No suspicions, nothing. I really do think Grimson might have come up with a rose in his teeth. He doesn’t care what people think about him, or say about him—as long as they can’t prove it.”

  “Is that what Mayor Fowler said? I mean, that it was all just—blank?”

  “He didn’t say much while I was around. But it was enough. I’d wondered myself if Grimson’s scheme would have worked, and I guessed it was what the mayor said that convinced me it could have.”

  “You did talk to him, then?”

  “A little. After getting him checked at the hospital—still out—the doctor suggested it would be best to let him wake up naturally. He’d been given so much gunk to keep him out, the doc felt it wouldn’t be wise to give him more gunk, like a stimulant drug. And Fowler was starting to come around anyway. Well, they decided to take him home, since there wasn’t really anything wrong with him. They put him on the bed, still dressed in the clothes he’d napped in, and about twenty minutes after that he woke up.”

  “That’s all? He just woke up?”

  “Just about. I was one of the people there, and he looked around with a good deal of bewilderment, which was somewhat multiplied when he saw me. I’d cleaned myself up a little by then. The mayor hadn’t seen me before, but he’d been given a good description. And of me, a description doesn’t have to be too good—Martinique, for example, recognized me immediately at the Sherwood, from Grimson’s description.”

  “That’s because you’re unique.”

  “Aren’t we all? Anyway, he said to me almost exactly what the fake mayor, Mr. G., said to me when he met me at Fowler’s door. The real one sat up on his bed and said, ‘Why, you look like—of course, you must be Sheldon Scott.’”

  “Go on, go on.” She was really enjoying this, or else she wanted to make me feel good. Which I guess she was doing.

  “I told him, ‘That’s who I am, all right, Mr. Mayor. I’m the guy you said wouldn’t be in any personal jeopardy up here in this Sodom and Gomorrah,” and he looked around again and said very quietly, ‘What are you people doing in my bedroom?’ And when he got around to me again he stared at me for a while and shook his head and said, in quite a strong voice, ‘How in hell did you get here so soon?’”

  “Well!” she said.

  “So ... I kind of think it would have worked,” I said.

  “What else? What else can you tell me?”

  I shook my head wearily. Then I let my jaw hang down, reached up and grabbed it, waggled it about. “That’s it. I’m done for.”

  “There really isn’t anything else important?”

  “Nope. Some hoods in jail, a few sprung, Biggie safe in protective custody for a while, then maybe his own volcano in Siberia, they picked up Yoogy Dibler on a houseboat in Sausalito, odds and ends. But nothing important. Really.”

  “Then let me freshen your drink for you, Shell.”

  “Sure, go pour some sugar in it.”

  She walked out again.

  I sighed, leaned back, tired but relaxed. And whatever it was Canada had been fixing, though a mite syrupy perhaps, did put a nice warmness and gentle zip in the midsection and thereabouts. And it was delightful being alone with Canada Southern, even if she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take a subtle hint.

  “Would you like them in here again?” she asked.

  I glanced around. And my breath automatically gushed from my mouth in a long soft whispering sigh. It was the Club Rogue again, but my private club, just Canada and me.

  She held the drinks before her, one in each hand, about waist high. She’d had a gauzy red kerchief tied at her throat earlier, but had taken it off. Now she’d bunched it up and fixed it atop her hair somehow. Like those feathery red things the Cocktail Hostesses had worn that night—only last night, it was—at the Club Rogue.

  Red puff atop gleaming beige-gold hair; And red-and-white shoes on her feet. That was all. And, once again, she took my breath away. She was more desirable, more astonishingly curved, more beautiful each time I saw her.

  “Cat got your tongue, Shell?”

  “No, no. I forgot your question.”

  Merry laughter bubbled past the flamethrower lips again. “I made these less sweet, just for you. Shall we have them in here again? Or in there, at the bar?” She tossed her head back. “Or—what’s the other room?”

  “The bedroom.”

  “Or in the—other room?”

  “Let’s have them in there,” I said, sort of leaving it up to her.

  “All right. I’ll wait for you in there, then.”

  She turned, walked back into the next room, and my eyes seemed to sort of melt as I watched the strong clean glide of leg, gleam of firm thigh, undulant sway and swing of marvelous hips, watched her walk into the next room, through it. Sound of door opening. No sound of it closing.

  I took another deep breath, let it out, went into the next room. The bar was on my left. Upon one of its two stools were the ribbed white turtleneck, white skirt, belt a splash of red atop them.

  That, I said to myself, was—is—a splendid idea. And there was room for my garb on the other bar stool. In hardly a jiffy my shirt and cardigan were on the stool and I’d kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks. As I unbuckled my belt I heard a pingping.

  I looked down at my belt. Never did that before.

  And somehow—I don’t quite know why—right then pictures and thoughts and earlier apprehensions zipped hither and thither in my brain.

  Here I was, barefooted, an instant from flinging off my trousers, and I remembered.

  There’d been Kitty Wilson, a wondrous sight to see, especially with her pants off—but no sooner did my own pants get started, not even clear off but just started, calamitous dangers had begun sneaking up at me. Damn near got me killed right after that.

  Pingping.

  Then, Martinique. If I’d not had to leave, early in the a.m., why, Sam Jelly might have got me, totally ruined me. And, here I was again—Canada Southern magnificently bare in the bedroom, waiting, waiting—and me down to my pants. Pants, and shorts. But, still...

  Pingping.

  Now I knew what the sound was. It was the door pings, or chimes, or bell. I hadn’t heard it before, which explained why I’d not recognized it. But that’s what it was, for sure. Clad as I was, I naturally wasn’t wearing my gun harness. Or my gun. I fumbled around, found the Colt, then strode to the door and opened it a crack, gun held at the ready.

  Then, slowly, I pulled the door wide, as my eyes opened wide like doors. It was a girl, a woman, again. And lovely, again. Maybe it was something about the town, or the season, or rays from stars and planets, but my eyes had in these few days gazed upon more lusciousness and beauty than even those optimistic orbs could have hoped for.

  This one was taller than most, but I still had to look down two or three inches to gaze at her eyes. I’d have looked a lot farther than that, as far as Istanbul, say, or Singapore, Thailand, the Vale of Kashmir, for she seemed to have some of all those exotic places in her shockingly black eyes.

  She was smiling, brilliantly, smiling a most friendly smile, as she asked, “Are you Mr. Scott ... what in the world?”

  Yeah. I was standing there in my pants, holding a gun on her. I jammed the gun into my holster—sure. Finally I put it behind my back, pushed the door half closed, and looked
around it.

  “Yes, I’m Shell Scott.”

  “I really just came here to thank you. I’m so very, very grateful for what you’ve done.”

  She sounded like it, too. “That’s great,” I said. “Swell. Grateful for what?”

  “Why, for what you’ve done. I’m just sure if it hadn’t been for you, Daddy would be dead.”

  “Daddy? I wish you wouldn’t say—I’ve got a funny thing about—I don’t much like the sound of ... Daddy?”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t tell you.” She laughed, a lilting rippling sound that warmed the ears like a hot shower. “I’m Melinda Fowler.”

  “You’re—just hold it a minute, lady. I’ll bet you are. I’ve been running into a lot of people this trip, a lot of people, who aren’t who I think they are and who ... Well, every time, it’s gotten me into a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble. Now, in Mayor Fowler’s desk I saw a picture of his daughter, and she couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, so who are you?”

  “That picture—was I standing next to a swing? Holding some flowers in my hand?”

  “Well ... yeah. Whoever it was—”

  “That’s me. It’s one of Daddy’s favorites. But the picture was taken nine years ago.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Would it be all right if I came in for a little? Just a little.” She smiled. “Daddy’s sleeping again. He doesn’t even know I’ve left the house.”

  “Hmm. He doesn’t, huh? By the way, would you mind referring to your father as your father? Or as Mr. Fowler? Or—Daddy has come to have a sinister sound...”

  I let it trail off. There was, of course, no way I could let this fetching tomato come inside. Certainly not this minute. But I wasn’t callous enough to just throw her away like an old shoe, either.

  “Is there some kind of problem?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah, some. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

  Problem—that was the word Canada had used. And she was on the button. That’s the trouble with being a private detective, all right. Always problems, problems. And those decisions all the time. Got to keep that old gray matter bubbling up there. Sure, there was a way, somehow, to fix it so—”

  “Canada?” she asked.

  “Did I mumble that? Well, uhh, you’ve heard of it, of course? Big place north of here.”

  “She-ell What happened to you-ou?”

  I yanked my head around. But fortunately she wasn’t in sight.

  “Right here,” I yelled. “Hold everything. Be there in a minute, Canada—oop.”

  When I pulled my face back to look around the door again, Melinda was giving me a very slanty look, kind of slanty and steamy. She didn’t look furious, or all put out, though. It seemed very unlikely that she was one of those stuffy babes.

  Very unlikely, indeed. Because she was smiling oddly, lips parted and even white teeth touching, and she leaned toward me, put her head close to the door, and very close to mine.

  “Of course I know where it is,” she said. “I’ve been there.”

  Then she let her eyes kind of heat up. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. Yes, she did, and you’ll just have to take my word for it.

  “I’ll come back another time, Mr. Scott. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Yeah. Sure, you bet. I was going to suggest—”

  “You’ll be in town for a few days, won’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sure, I was just going to say—”

  “Then I’ll give you a ring.”

  “Good idea—”

  “I’ve already got your number.”

  “Guess you do, at that.”

  “‘Bye, Mr. Scott.”

  She turned to walk away.

  I closed the door, then pulled it open.

  “Hey.”

  She turned again, looked back at me.

  “Mr. Scott sounds too formal. Almost like Da—call me Shell?”

  She didn’t reply, or even nod. She just blew me a kiss. It wasn’t a whole Broadway production, just a casual, soft, carefree little pucker and puff of her lips. But it gave me a hunch she could heat those up, too. Then she was gone.

  Handled that pretty well, I thought. I closed, and locked, the door. I noticed, when I turned, I was humming. So, humming, I walked toward the other room.

  Later, much later, Canada asked me sleepily, “What kept you so long out there earlier, Shell?”

  “Oh ... ah, just, uh, thinking about the job,” I said. “And making those—decisions.”

  “That’s nice,” she said. And sort of purred. And just before dawn we said goodnight.

  As I closed my eyes and felt myself sinking into the soft dark I wondered, very briefly, what might be waiting out there, because even though we were both falling asleep the sun was climbing the sky and it was, after all, the start of another day.

  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 © 1972 by Richard S. Prather

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4804-9838-9

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

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