The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 3

  So I merely smiled as winningly as I could, shook his outstretched hand, and said, “That’s right, Shell Scott. And you must be Mayor Fowler.”

  “Precisely so. I am the mayor. And I welcome you to Newton, Mr. Scott. I—well, come in, come in.”

  He seemed a little uptight for some reason, a bit on edge. My appearance is a mite unusual, but only rarely does it visibly disturb a new client. Particularly when, as was the case with Mayor Fowler, my description had already been conveyed to him. He stood aside as I walked in, then pulled the door shut and ushered me down two carpeted steps into a large living room with half the front wall given over to windows affording a view of the grounds, trees beyond, and I suppose the lights of Newton at night.

  It was a great room. From my point of view, anyway. The room looked lived in and alive, somewhat cluttered but not by any excess of furniture. There was one massive dark-leather divan with a squat heavy table like a squared-off and polished tree trunk before it, two matching easy chairs covered with the same dark leather and big enough for big men to get comfortable in, a large table, and two comparatively spindly chairs at opposite sides of a small table in the corner to my left. Atop the small table were arrayed a number of gold and silver chess men, positions indicating a game already in progress. A small desk was in the far corner to my right.

  That was all of the furniture. Bookcases occupied most of the far wall. The carpet, covering the floor and the steps I’d just come down, was the rich dark red of burgundy wine. Books, some open and face down, others in irregular stacks, covered the larger table, and there were more books, folders, piles of bond paper, and what looked like legal briefs at several places on the floor below the bookcases.

  As we both sat down on the big divan I told the mayor I liked the room’s combination of warmth and solid comfort. He seemed pleased as I added, “A guy could kick off his shoes and thunder around in here without worrying about cracking the teacups or disarranging doilies. Of course, that may not strike you as a virtue—”

  “Indeed, that is exactly—precisely my feeling. A man should not feel like an avalanche in his own home.” He paused. “You see, I am no longer married, Mr. Scott. My wife and I were divorced more than three years ago, immediately after I was elected to my first two-year term as mayor.” He paused. “I like to think of it, not as losing a wife, but as gaining a city.”

  He paused pointedly, or thus it seemed to me, so I smiled and nodded my head. Seated this close to him, I could see the lines of strain, or weariness, in his face and noted that his eyes were a bit bloodshot.

  “Subsequent to that,” he went on, “I threw out the—the teacups and doilies, in your telling phrase, and personally supervised the complete redecorating of the house.”

  He continued with more small talk, discussed the home’s landscaping, even touched lightly on a few problems facing the mayor of a city growing with almost disturbing speed, then returned to home base, so to speak.

  A couple of minutes went by like that, and I began to wonder. I did think the living room was swell, and it was undoubtedly a splendid entire house, but was there not work to be done, devilry to be undone, criminals to be confounded?

  So before the mayor had quite finished describing the problems he’d had with his swimming-pool pump, I said, “By the way, did you get what you wanted from your informant last night?”

  He became quiet, but didn’t answer immediately, so I said, “The guy showed up, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes. He did, indeed. Not until long after midnight, however. But his information was of little value. Worthless, in fact.”

  He leaned forward on the divan and looked directly at me, his features assuming the more stern and forbidding, and probably more natural, expression he’d worn when meeting me at the door. “I will be completely candid, Mr. Scott. In truth, I have been avoiding this moment—I am exceedingly embarrassed.”

  I’d guessed he was avoiding something and I had become increasingly curious about what might be eating at him, but I kept my mouth shut and let him finish.

  “I have put you to some trouble, and expense, and all to no purpose. Quite simply, my—that is, my associates’ and my—need for your services is a matter of considerably less urgency than I assumed.”

  “Oh?” I blinked at him.

  “I am sorry. I know I told you I was convinced of my alleged informant’s veracity, that I was virtually certain he was worthy of belief. But I was then very tired, mentally befuddled—I never did get the nap I hoped would refresh me.” He rubbed his eyes briefly with the fingers and thumb of a large strong hand, then continued. “In retrospect, it is clear that I gave far too much weight to what my informant said to me last night on the phone—and, in consequence, acted precipitously in requesting your aid before I had actually spoken to the ... the besotted hoodlum.”

  “Besotted? You mean he was drunk?”

  “Precisely so. Staggering drunk. Mr. Scott, when we spoke last night, I perhaps indicated that you could be of much service to me, and my associates, no matter what information might later be forthcoming from the individual I then mentioned to you. In some small degree I may have deceived you—because to a larger degree I deceived myself—by failing to indicate that, without the information, proof in a word, that I expected to be in possession of long before now, there is simply no starting point for a meaningful investigation. Without the viable evidence I anticipated, it would be profitless for you to pursue what has become a wild-goose chase. There is, indeed, no reason for you to remain in Newton at all.”

  I said, “Could we put it like this: I’m fired?”

  He grimaced slightly. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way. But, essentially ... yes.”

  “Well, O.K., I’ll get on my horse—”

  “I am extremely sorry, Mr. Scott. I will naturally reimburse you for your time, the expense of your flight.” He paused, and fished into his coat pocket. “Would three hundred dollars be sufficient?”

  “Sure.”

  He leaned forward and sort of hesitantly slipped me some folded bills, much as a five-foot hubby with a six-foot wife might sneak a sawbuck to the topless waitress. I managed to spread them apart and get a peek, however, and it was three C-notes. Splendid, I thought. It was more than sufficient, and the feel of real hundred-dollar bills was much more satisfying, even more smoothly sensual, than credit cards or a check. Such thoughts naturally turned my mind from negative to positive, and I must have smiled, perhaps dreamily.

  Because Mayor Fowler said in a rather puzzled tone, “You seem quite ... pleased, Mr. Scott. I confess, I feared your reaction might be less gracious.”

  “What? Oh, I was thinking about a tomato named Anjarene—skip it. My mind was wandering. But you’re the client, after all, Mr. Mayor. You say stay, I stay, you say go, I go. However, I would like to know why in hell—”

  “If I may anticipate your probable question,” the mayor interrupted me, “which you are probably not ungentlemanly enough to voice, I deeply regret my failure to inform you before now that your presence here would not be required.”

  That was exactly what I’d started to ask him.

  “As I have indicated, Mr. Dibler did not arrive until long past the hour when I expected him. By the time he left it was well after three this morning. I was very tired—and upset, angry at the outcome of our meeting, I confess—and simply went straight to bed. I had ... almost ... fallen asleep, when I realized I had not informed you of the fiasco. I did call you then, around four this morning, but there was no answer.”

  He couldn’t have sneaked more meaning into that “...almost...” if I had deliberately bellowed “SURPRISE!” into his ear as he’d been dropping peacefully into dreamland.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I’d left my apartment by then, since the only flight that would get me here at a reasonably early hour, before all the corruption and malfeasance got away, required my early departure from Los Angeles and a flight-change in San Francisco. So I had to tran
sfer to a cute little plane, which took off ... an hour and a half ... later.”

  The mayor cocked his head on one side. His heavy eyebrows pulled down and in, slowly moving closer to each other like a pair of belligerent caterpillars. He didn’t look entirely pleased. There was perhaps more to this man, I decided, than was apparent from a quick glance. I kind of got the impression, if he ever felt bugged enough, he might bite through a two-inch steel spike.

  I stood up. “Well, I’ll see you around—”

  “I—please, sit down, Mr. Scott. I don’t mean to be ungracious ... brusque. You must have had as little sleep as I. Would you care for a drink? It’s a bit early in the day for me.”

  “It’s also too early for me,” I said. But I perched on the edge of the divan, adding, “Too early for me to start, anyhow.”

  “And I’m sure you must have some questions, Mr. Scott.”

  “Well, I’ll admit I’m curious to know if, when the guy finally showed up this morning, he still claimed to have seen Hugh Grimson knock down Ramirez. You know, blam and blam—”

  Mayor Fowler smiled a bit stiffly. “And one in the conk,” he said, nodding his own conk. “Yes, he repeated his allegations, and in almost precisely the same words. As though he had rehearsed it. Which I assume he did.”

  “So what was his game?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What was he after?”

  “Money. He labored under the misapprehension that, for his alleged ‘proof’ that Mr. Grimson shot Ramirez—to which, by the way, he said he would be willing to testify in court if assured police protection—I, or the city, would pay him ten thousand dollars. At least that was the figure he first mentioned.”

  “Did he have anything to sell?”

  “Nothing that was not available to everyone from accounts in the newspapers. A fact which soon became unmistakably evident. You see, when I spoke to the man on the phone I had no idea who he was. I assumed he was disguising his voice, but when he arrived here I realized he was simply drunk. Also, I then recognized him, and naturally expected the worst.”

  “Why naturally?”

  “He is a small-time hoodlum, a petty thief, but he never—so far as I am aware, at least—was associated in any way with Mr. Grimson. More important, on two previous occasions he offered his ‘eyewitness’ testimony to the police on the condition that he be paid for his cooperation. On both occasions his offer was declined, since his information was obviously fraudulent.” The mayor shrugged. “He is well-known to our local law-enforcement agencies.”

  “He actually had the nerve to ask for ten big ones?”

  “Nerve, or the temporary dementia found in bottles. Also, as I said, the ten thousand was his initial figure. As we conversed, and drank my best Scotch, he lowered his demand to a request for five thousand, two thousand, and, finally, ‘Well, yrhonor, what’ll you gimme?’”

  It was a surprisingly different voice that suddenly popped out of the mayor, and I could almost believe I was listening to a whining hoodlum ready to settle for fifty bucks. The mayor was an excellent mimic—I guessed. I had to guess, not having ever spoken to the boozy Dibler. At least, not yet.

  I said, “Maybe I should talk to this Dibler myself. I feel I ought to do something for my three hundred besides fly back and forth—”

  The mayor blinked at me, raising his heavy brows. “How did you know the man’s name?”

  “You mentioned it. I think.”

  “I did? I was unaware that I had. Well ... it’s not important, but, yes, his name is Eugene Dibler. Yoogy to those who know him, including the police.” He paused. “There is really no point in your speaking to the man, Mr. Scott. You may take my word for it. I, of course, have no objections; it is merely that I dislike to see you waste further time and effort. I have already put you to so much unnecessary trouble—”

  “No trouble. I probably can’t get a return flight to L.A. for a few hours, anyhow. After all, if it’s a waste of my time, this Yoogy Dibler’s really the guy responsible for it. Seems to me I should at least use up a little of his time in return.”

  The mayor smiled without lots of enthusiasm. But after a few more seconds, and some fumbling in various pockets, he produced a slip of paper and said, “Mr. Dibler left his ‘calling card.’ In case I changed my mind, he said, with wonderful optimism.”

  I took the slip of paper, on which was scrawled in pencil, “1412 Oleta St.” “No phone?” I asked.

  “Who would phone him?”

  “Incidentally, since the guy at the center of all the trouble in Newton is, presumably, this Hugh Grimson, would you want me to pay him a quick call, size him up as long as I’m here?”

  “No.” The mayor shook his head. “Not only would that be very difficult, but should Mr. Grimson find your manner, ah, abrasive—that is, should he feel you were in any way a threat or even a severe annoyance to him, which possibility I feel is not entirely remote—he could cause you no end of difficulty. I suggest that you forget about Mr. Grimson entirely, Mr. Scott. He is, no matter what some of our citizens may believe, an extremely dangerous man.”

  “I don’t think he’d scare me to death, Mayor. But why would it be difficult?”

  “Mr. Grimson is a difficult man to find, if he does not desire to be found.”

  “I imagine I could find him. First, he’s not aware that I’ve got any interest in him, and besides that he doesn’t know me from Adam. More to the point, tagging guys who prefer to remain untagged is part of my job. At which, if I say so myself, I’m pretty good.”

  The mayor appeared to be struggling to suppress some amusement. Either that, or he was having an attack of colic. But then all traces of amusement, if that’s what it had been, disappeared entirely and were replaced by the stern and unmistakably forbidding expression I’d already noted a time or two.

  “Let me make myself clear, Mr. Scott. Under the circumstances, and in view of the delicate and, yes, perilous nature of investigations even now being pursued—to which, you will recall, I referred in our initial discussion last night—I prefer that you do absolutely nothing about Mr. Grimson, indeed, that you forget I even mentioned his name. In fact, sir, I insist.” He paused, sort of glowering from the bloodshot eyes. “Is that quite clear?”

  “Quite,” I said. And I stood up again.

  This time Mayor Fowler did not request that I sit down. Instead, he escorted me to the door.

  We shook hands, he expressed once more his deep regret that I had been inconvenienced, then he closed the front door as I climbed into the Cadillac, started it, and swung in a tight circle to head back the way I’d come.

  Rolling down the narrow drive toward Mulberry, I pushed a thought or two around in my mind. The “uptightness” or tension I’d initially noted in Mayor Fowler had never entirely left him during our conversation. There hadn’t been any discussion about it—and, conceivably, he was like that all the time—but something was unquestionably eating at him. Maybe it was merely lack of sleep, or a mild case of the twitches that afflict most politicians facing an imminent campaign for reelection.

  More curious was the matter of Mr. Grimson and Mr. Dibler.

  Though Mayor Fowler had made it quite clear he did not want me mucking around Hugh Grimson, even that I was to forget his name if possible, he had been less insistent that I forget about Eugene Dibler. In fact, I’d gotten the peculiar impression that he wanted me to call on Yoogy.

  Or maybe I just wanted to give Yoogy a once-over myself. Either way, I could check the guy out in half an hour, and if he engendered no more confidence in me than he had in Mayor Fowler, I would be headed back to Los Angeles. And the Spartan Apartment Hotel. And Anjarene Rubela.

  So I swung left into Mulberry Drive and headed toward Newton, thinking more of Anjarene than of Yoogy.

  And the more I thought of Anjarene, the more I began hoping Yoogy wouldn’t be home....

  5

  Yoogy was home.

  Oleta was one of the first streets inside
the city limits, and I took a right at the start of the 1500 block, noting immediately that, if there were any tracks in Newton, Oleta Street had to be on the wrong side of them.

  Maybe Newton itself was less than a decade old, but most of the houses here looked as if they’d been among the first built, possibly for practice. A couple of them were obviously empty, their windows broken and only scrubby clumps of yellowed grass remaining of what might once have been lawns.

  The corner house on my right, just past the first intersection, was 1412. I followed a cement walk to the front door and, not finding a bell, knocked.

  “Yo!” a voice yelled from somewhere inside. “Yo, that you, Barney?”

  Before I could tell him it wasn’t Barney, the door swung open, clunking against something inside on the floor—I could hear it bumping over the carpet—and a short, thin, pinched-faced little man who actually looked like a Yoogy stared up at me with his mouth open.

  He was wearing black pants, a pair of gray socks, and a white undershirt with a hole in it. “What happened to Barney?” he asked.

  “Beats me,” I said.

  His face had been a couple of feet distant when he spoke, and it wasn’t distant enough. Not only could I smell booze, but the fumes almost made my eyes water.

  “Are you Mr. Eugene Dibler?”

  “Ain’t we formal this morning? Yeah. I’m him.”

  He let his chin dangle some more and just looked at me, so I said, “O.K. if I come inside for a minute, Mr. Dibler?”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve just been talking to Mayor Fowler—”

  He winced. He actually seemed to sort of scrunch together and shrink, only a little, but visibly, and he squinched his eyes together, then opened them about half as wide as they’d been before, which had not been very wide to begin with.

  I really got the feeling I had learned all I’d come here to learn, but I went on. “He told me of your conversation with him last night, or early this morning, and while I understand he didn’t think your information was worth paying for, I figure even Mayor Fowler’s judgment is perhaps not infallible.”