Shoot It Again, Sam

by Michael Avallone

  "Yes?" he barked, "what can I do for you?"

  The voice was low but contained vitamins. He sounded like a rough customer, in spite of his size.

  "Flasher?"

  "Speaking. And you—?"

  "My name is Noon. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes if you have the time."

  He gestured emphatically with the hammer, not smiling. His face looked puffed and strained a little. It was a smooth face with a meaningless nose, soft lips and ruby-colored skin.

  "As you see I'm busy. If you could give me some idea what you wanted to see me about—"

  He hadn't invited me to stay yet and he didn't seem about to but I moved further into the office and took up a position by what should have been the reception desk. It was hard to tell. There was only the desk, the wall and a window facing Sixth Avenue. I could see the top floors of CBS as ingloriously drab as ever. Beyond Flasher's blocking figure was the open threshold of that inner office which I couldn't see into.

  "It's about Dan Davis," I said.

  "So?" The word was a short grunt. No more or less. It didn't tell me anything.

  "Washington sent me down to see you. Something about your film. The one you cancelled. Washington wants you to go ahead with it. I've been sent down to explain why."

  Owen Flasher's face split into a wide, friendly grin.

  "You saying what I think you're saying? Fresh money? Well, for—listen. With Davis dead, we couldn't raise another nickel unless we got a big name and we couldn't afford one. Prize novel or no, the book was a flop with the public. Dan wanted to do it and he was going to do it for a percentage only because he thought the book made a statement about America. But when he died—" Flasher stopped talking and lay the hammer down on the desk and extended his hand. "Sorry I wasn't exactly friendly when you popped in like that. But it's been hell around here for months now and—Noon?"

  "Noon." We shook hands and as I expected he had a stevedore's grip. He waved me into the inner office, walking along beside me and now that he had started opening up, he didn't seem to be able to stop.

  "I always knew Dan had important contacts in Washington but I never expected they might bankroll a project of his. You did say Washington and you did mean D.C., didn't you?"

  "That's what I mean, Flasher."

  "Even with a prize novel we couldn't afford another big name unless he'd go for the deal the way Dan did. Here, take a chair. I'll get all business-like again—"

  The inner office was nearly as forlorn as the outer. Just an almost-cleared empty desk, a couple of chairs, no pictures on the walls. Not even a four drawer file. There was a bigger window facing the crosstown sidestreet. The little man with the horn-rimmed glasses put on his jacket, knotted a tie and suddenly was every inch the executive and producer. Behind the desk, he looked extremely capable, too. On the floor over in one corner of the office was a wooden crate about the size of an orange box. He had barely gotten the top wooden slat up. I couldn't see what was inside the crate.

  I took a chair across from the desk. Owen Flasher beamed at me. The rubiness of his cheeks was accented.

  "You look about ready to clear out," I said.

  "Tomorrow," he admitted. "Too expensive keeping up this office as a base of operations. If we were still doing the picture, it would have been different. But now—"

  "Now I've given you new hope?"

  "Hell, yes. I'm anxious to hear what you have to say."

  "Before I tell you, I have been asked to ask you certain questions. I hope you don't mind. I will tell you that I've been authorized to check you out. A security clearance, you might say. But I can't go into that, Mr. Flasher, until you clear up a few points for us. You understand."

  "Such as?"

  He was staring at me directly through the horn-rims. The lights in the office seemed to bounce off the lens. It was a little disconcerting. I cranked my chair around, shifting my body. But his head went with me. The smell of fresh money and a new backer must have been like a drug to him. I've met the type before. All up and down Broadway and even on the side-streets. He had the buck fever real bad, now.

  I started from the top, determined to horse him along as far as I could. It was no skin off my nose and I had to find any answers he might have stored up in his little brain. After all, he must have seen a lot of Dan Davis, before, during and right up to the end.

  "You have any partners, Mr. Flasher?"

  "No. Don't believe in them—up to a point. Once I get a project and want to do it, I handle it all."

  "What is Wales Productions?"

  "That's me. I picked the Wales because the name had class. It's got a ring to it. Flasher somehow is a good name but it suggests something I'd rather not connote—you know—tinsel, gaudy Barnum image. Maybe a con artist. Bunco stuff. Maybe later when I'm really up in the brackets. But for now, Wales is more my speed. You agree?"

  "I'll buy that. Then you're just an independent operator?"

  "Straight down the line." He made a slicing motion with his right hand across the center of the desk. Then looked a trifle worried about his own straight for wardness. "I hope that doesn't rule me out, Mr. Noon."

  "Not at all. How well did you get to know Dan Davis? I assume you didn't know him before the picture went into production?"

  "That's right. I'd always admired him, of course. More so after we got together for discussions about the book. He was quite a guy, bigger than anything I'd ever read or known about him. Terrible him going like that—he never looked more prime or more in condition. Allowing for a man his age."

  I nodded. "Did he ever talk to you about anything outside of making pictures or that particular picture?"

  Owen Flasher shook his head.

  "Would you believe it? I couldn't even tell you anything about him, personally, except what he looked like. That's what so amazed me about him. With all his years in the business—what was it, forty? —he lived, ate, slept and talked movies. Anywhere and everywhere. No matter what time of day. I never met such a devoted performer."

  "I see."

  "Something wrong, Mr. Noon?"

  "No. It's just that—well, I'll level with you, Mr. Flasher—" I shot the sincere grin across the desk at him, the one that hasn't quite got all your teeth in it but is sweet and warm all the same. "Dan Davis was doing a personal job for the President. No, I'm not joshing you. I just wondered if he left anything with you when he knew he was dying. Or told you anything—"

  Owen Flasher's lower jaw dropped.

  "Come on. You're putting me on."

  "No, I'm not."

  "But you have to be. Doing a job for the President? You mean like a—spy? Cloak and dagger stuff? Davis?"

  I dropped the grin and stared at him, grimly. Because he was laughing to himself. Silently amused in spite of his own disbelief. He sobered up and stopped laughing when he saw my expression.

  "You mean it. You really mean it."

  "Of course I do. Did he say anything or leave anything with you? Anything at all?"

  "So help me," he swallowed but said very firmly, "he never said anything but what it wasn't about the picture. And then again in the scenes we were setting up, he was all wrapped up in that, too. In a mood like that, he didn't care if he was in New York, California or—Morocco."

  "Morocco?" I echoed.

  "Morocco," he repeated. His voice had gone quieter now. "I just don't understand this, Mr. Noon. You barge in here, offering to back my film with talk about Washington interest and all you do is act like Sam Spade—"

  "Sam Spade?" I felt suddenly foolish. I half-rose from the chair. Suddenly, the lights of the room were bouncing off Owen Flasher's glasses in the damnedest way. An angry sound stirred in my brain. My fingers went up to my eyes. The room was funny.

  "Yes, Sam Spade!" the little, powerful man shouted, getting up from behind the desk. "What the hell is this? A gag or a pinch of some kind? What do you really have to do with Dan Davis? You tell me before I toss you out of here. I may look like Pete
r Lorre but I can imitate Bogart if I have to!"

  "Peter Lorre . . . Bogart . . . "

  It wasn't me talking. It was an idiot. An automated robot who had jumped through the hoops once before and could do it again. With the blood rushing into my brain, my eyes rolling around in my head and the office suddenly unbearably hot, it all met me with a rush. A too-late rush. I stared across the desk at Owen Flasher and it hit me with the immediacy of a lightning bolt splitting a tree.

  The size, the face, the voice. A quiet room in Richmond.

  The genius of make-up and characterization. The voices. . . .

  "Dr. Hilton, I presume?"

  The cracked, strained, almost terrified voice was mine.

  The smiling, calm, bespectacled face was his.

  He didn't say anything just yet.

  He didn't have to.

  There was a desk between us.

  And before I could gather up my muscles and nerve ends and skyrocketing rage, somebody behind me placed something cool to the base of my neck and a familiar, feminine voice said flatly: "Stand still or I'll blow your head off, Sam."

  There was no point in turning around.

  Brigid O'Shaughnessy had come back, too.

  It had to be her, another part of the nightmare come avisiting to make the mockery complete. The room lights danced.

  Owen Flasher remained where he was and slowly shook his head, staring at the woman behind me with the gun at my neck. I stood where I was, drained of everything but rage.

  "Like I figured, Gloria," Flasher-Hilton-Lorre said in a low dead voice. "The bastard's got total recall already. You heard him. I tried him out for size and you heard him. Everytime he hears Morocco, Spade and those names, he'll remember. I wondered what happened to him. So now we know. And not a minute too soon. Lock the front door. In case some of his friends are hanging around the building. Though I'll just bet he came down here like the lone wolf he always thinks he is. Damn fool—good thing I heard you come in—"

  The gun left my neck and I heard her high heels clicking away behind me. The heels I hadn't heard coming in.

  The little man before me produced a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket and aimed it at my heart. It was a dark, angry-looking little Beretta and it could kill just as easy as any gun a lot larger. The little man's glasses twinkled like stars as Gloria locked the front door somewhere behind me. My head still felt funny.

  I didn't know what to say.

  I was America's prize chump.

  A one hundred percent fool.

  But I had to fight back with whatever was left of my sanity. And all I could think of was saying that classic, moth-eaten oldie: "What are you going to do with me now?"

  He looked surprised at that as Gloria clicked back into the room and came around me where I could see I wasn't dreaming. She was as long-legged as I remembered, as wantonly dark-haired and the red gash of her mouth against her dead-white skin was ghostly.

  "Do?" the little man said. "You stupid bastard. You've left us no alternative, have you?"

  " . . . is it three strikes, Doc?"

  Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig in

  Pride Of The Yankees. (1942)

  SCHEME

  □ The gun in Gloria's hand, almost dwarfing her slender fingers was a .45. It had to be mine. The one she had made certain I left behind at the Arva Motel when I went to keep my appointment with Charles Too. She took up a position next to the little man behind the desk and he quickly put away the black Beretta and took the big Colt from her. Gloria folded her arms and went over to the window and sat down on the ledge. Her long legs flashed whitely from beneath a black mini. There was a knot of white silk scarf around her throat. That and her red mouth were the only bright things about her. She had the star-crossed look of every femme fatale since the world began.

  I couldn't even remember what it had been like sleeping with her. How could I? That had been Sam Spade, not me.

  I stepped back from the desk. I didn't raise my hands. I was trying to hang onto what was left of my sanity.

  "Where's Goolsby?" I asked. "The party isn't really complete without him."

  The little man raised the .45 until it centered at the point of my chin. His ruby face was smiling but not even the horn-rims could hide the coldness of his eyes. To his left, Gloria just stared at me.

  "He won't be with us, Mr. Noon. He is in Chicago seeing to some other business. Quite a man, our comrade. A master of disguise and characterization. Goolsby is not his name, of course."

  "And what's your name, Mr. Flasher? Hilton? Peanuts—"

  "Nobody knows my name. Nor will they ever. I trust you are not armed, Mr. Noon? I see no bulge under your armpit—"

  "That's my gun and you know it. You mind if I don't lift my hands? I'm still trying to get my wind back. This reunion has—"

  "It isn't necessary. You'd never be quick enough no matter what you could try. And I have no qualms about a gun going off in here. The room is soundproof."

  I had my answer about clicking heels and noises of crates being opened. The crate. What could occupy a man like Flasher that he couldn't leave it to a subordinate? I had a hunch and it wasn't such a long shot anymore. Everything Dan Davis might have said meant something now.

  "Sure," I said. "The crate you were so busy with. What kind of dynamite does it take to blow up a building the size of the UN?"

  Gloria stirred from the window ledge, shooting a look at her little colleague. He controlled the sudden wince of his ruby cheeks and a sharp intake of breath sounded in the soundproof room.

  "Then you know?" he asked in a small voice.

  "I know. Davis sent a message on. Why didn't you stop him?"

  "Kill him," Gloria said suddenly, with flat, mechanical emphasis. "And let's get on with it. We know he's an agent."

  "Shut up," Flasher said. "Let me think."

  The .45 wavered a trifle in his hand. Nothing for me to use, just a slight evidence of the strain he might have been under.

  "How much do you know, Noon? How much do they know?"

  "I'll tell you if you trade."

  "Trade? You're in no position to trade."

  "Sure I am," I said as quietly as I could, still reassembling the jangle and clatter of my own nerves from meeting them both again. "I could do some guessing but I don't want to."

  "Be my guest," he suggested, the .45 steadying. "I insist."

  "Flasher," Gloria said quickly. "Don't give him any time—"

  "We have time, dear," Flasher cut her off, firmly. "He's come alone. I can see that. He didn't know who I was when I came in. I was startled to see him, I'll admit but he didn't know me. Of course, we knew our trained assassin had muffed the job but remember we thought they had him under lock and key. And presto—he walks right in on me thinking I'm a shoestring producer. Can't you see, my dear? This is a heaven-sent opportunity. Noon can tell us where we stand on the whole front. He'll know everything they know because it's obvious to me they must still be guessing or they would have been down here to arrest us weeks ago. No, dear Gloria. Noon may be an answer for us."

  "My brain is pretty fragile, Flasher. Thanks to you and your special treatment—"

  "Just try, Noon. I want to hear what you think. What your government thinks. You are correct, of course, about the crate. It contains enough nitroglyc-erine to level this whole building and most of the block. Tomorrow it will be carefully planted where it will be the most effective at various points in that futile building of glass. Quite a coup for us. Quite a blow for the democracy you all seem to find so sacrosanct. But—you talk now. Please."

  As fuzzed as my mind was, as buffeted my thinking powers, a lot of it had begun to fall in place. Making the only sense I could muster from the puzzle. Knowing that this little man had been Dan Davis' bogus producer was the key to the whole thing.

  "All right, Flasher. How's this?" I edged a bit away from the desk and both of them but the .45 followed me until I stopped. "None of you could have known that Davis wa
s working as an undercover agent for the government. Your idea in the beginning was simply to form a production unit here in New York so that you could run trucks and equipment back and forth, looking like you were making a picture. I don't know how you intend to work this UN thing but it's obvious that you got Davis hooked into the film because he was so nuts about the book. It could have been anybody, though. It happened to be Davis, worse luck for you all. For two reasons—one, he was a special agent. Two—he was about to die on you, something nobody could have foreseen, suspending your production and making a delay in your plans which had to be only in the embryo stages. I assume that now because you're still here and the UN is still standing."

  Flasher poked at the division of his spectacles with his left hand. When he spoke, his voice was moderately surprised.

  "Not bad, you know. Not bad at all. That's rather estimable deduction, considering the facts you have to work with. But go on."

  I took a breath, thinking rapidly now.

  "So you were busy little beavers setting up cameras, using Dan Davis for a respectable cover and somehow he must have tumbled to your plan. He sent a red alert to Washington which was suspicious enough but he didn't mention the movie company, unfortunately, meaning to break it to the contact man Washington might send. But then he had his stroke and everything stopped dead. Tell me—did you ever suspect that he had unearthed your crazy scheme?"

  Gloria was getting restless but Flasher seemed to be enjoying himself. And the discussion. Was it that little quirk that makes all clever people anxious to advertise, to discuss their cleverness with an audience? It's hard to say for sure.

  "No, we didn't. Not until the empty coffin device at the train station. To protect ourselves, we watched over the funeral. When we knew the body had been flown on to California and a dummy was being sent by train—we had to consider the possibilities. We couldn't be sure of anything, of course, but when you were spotted and recognized for who and what you are—" He chuckled slightly. "It will come as a shock to you, Mr. Noon. But your secret relationship with your dear president has been no secret to us for more than two years now. And with the dossier we have on your character, identity and foibles, well, it did seem a heaven-sent opportunity. We temporarily put aside the UN project and concentrated on the making of an assassin. A man who the President of this country would talk to in person sooner or later. It was too good an opportunity to pass by. The fact that it failed in no way lessens our satisfaction. We proved, I think, that it could be done. It is a lesson for all our future plans to emulate."