Everybody Had A Gun (11 page)

"Yeah."

We glared at each other for a while, then I dug into the photographs. Right on top of the "Breed" stack was the pale, flat face and button eyes of the guy I'd sapped before getting out of the Pit.

"This one," I said. "I'm especially interested in him."

"Arthur Botten. Monicker's Flick. He's got a dozen aliases—ex-con from ten years back or so—but he's always stuck to Flick."

"Yeah. Funny the way they do that."

"Not so funny, Shell. Some of them have a hundred or more aliases and change their names so much they've gotta have one permanent handle their pals know them by. This Flick, he drifted out here from New York a couple of months back. Tied up with Breed about six weeks ago. He's Breed's newest boy, and he's a bad one."

"How bad?"

"Armed robbery. Sent up for that. Suspicion of murder twice, but no conviction."

That was enough for Flick. We went through the rest of the stack in half an hour. Sader's two boys were one Pete Derrick and another called Lunger. I settled them in my mind, identified the driver of Breed's car as Ray Clock, then paid most of my attention to the four boys who left the elevator before I hammered Flick's head—those four boys with four guns. They were little "Joe-Joe" Klein, a big ape named Harry Fisher, "Shenandoah" Hamlet, who was the mildest and least bloodthirsty of a bloodthirsty bunch, and finally a big ugly guy named "Lonely" Wagner with a beat-up face that explained why he was lonely.

I stared at the boys till I knew them, thanked Rawlins, and took off. I kind of hated to leave, though. I'd sure felt safe there in the City Hall.

I'd found Kitty Green's address in the phone book, along with the number Ozzie had given me, and four blocks from her house I parked, found a phone booth, and dialed Hollywood 3227.

While I waited for whatever I was going to get, I clucked my tongue at Marty Sader. This must be the "chippying around" his wife had mumbled about. Naughty boy, but remembering old horseface, I could see what had sent him straying.

And knowing what Sader was married to, I expected the grating voice of a blowzy Ma Barker to rattle my ear right after I heard the phone go up at the other end of the line.

Did I get a surprise.

Chapter Nine

YOU KNOW mint in a frosted julep? You know the cool freshness of pine needles under mountain trees? That's what came out of the receiver and whispered up against my ear. A soft, fresh voice that didn't sound like Ma Barker, but did sound like your kid sister or your steady when you still had a lot of illusions.

It surprised me so much that I didn't answer right at first. It said, "Hello. Hello? Who is it?" And I listened to the sweetness in the voice and wondered where I'd got off the track. Shrimpy must have lied to me, or I must have dialed the wrong number.

I asked, "Is this Hollywood 3227?"

"Yes, it is."

I felt foolish already. I said, "I delivered the flowers."

There was silence for a moment, then she said, "Say that again."

I said it again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You must have the wrong number. Who is this, please?"

"I delivered the flowers," I said.

She laughed, a little happy laugh, and said, "Who is this? Goodness, you sound funny."

I hung up and headed for Kitty Green's address.

It was a little place on Colgate Avenue, almost out to the Beverly Hills city limits, one of many houses almost alike. It was small and white and the grass in front was neat, like the house itself. Trees lined the street and a narrow cement walk led from the sidewalk in front up to the steps of the house. There were a few leaves on the sidewalk, but you could tell it had been swept not long before. The place looked pleasant and cheery, like the voice that had come over the phone. I parked, got out of the car, and went up the walk, wondering if the girl could be anything like the voice and the house. I didn't see how she could be. But I was wrong.

I heard her quick footsteps inside right after I rang. Then she looked out at me, framed by the lights inside the house. It was nearly seven-thirty now, long after sunset, and all up and down the street, lights were on in the houses.

She was a little bit of a thing. Five feet, maybe, with dark hair hugging her ears and a surprised look on her young face.

She said, "Well, hello. Who're you?" And it was the same voice.

"Hello, there," I said. "I'm Shell Scott. I wonder if I could come in and talk to you." I thought about it, then handed her my wallet, opened to my state license in the celluloid envelope, and added, "I'm a detective. Private detective. All right?"

She glanced at the wallet, pressed her lips together, and lowered her head a fraction, looking up at me. Then she said, "Don't know why not. Come on in, Mr. Shelscott."

I went in and said, "It's two words."

"What's two words?"

"Shell Scott."

"Oh." She let laughter bubble out of her again. "How silly. Me, I mean. Sit down, Mr. Shell," pause, "Scott."

I sat down in a straight-backed chair and she sank into an overstuffed one three or four feet from it. I said, "Shell's good enough, Miss Green. It is Miss, isn't it?" It was a good bet. She wasn't more than nineteen or twenty, with a schoolgirl face and a slender, almost boyish figure.

She looked surprised. "Yes, it's Miss. But how did you know it was Miss Green?"

"Isn't that right?"

"Yes. Catherine Green—but everyone calls me Kitty." She smiled, "You, too, if you want. After you explain."

I didn't know quite how to begin. She seemed like such a sweet kid. I said, "It has to do with Mr. Sader."

"Marty? What's the matter with Marty?" There seemed to be real concern in her voice. "He's all right, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's all right. So far. But. . ." I was having a hard time, and finally I decided I'd have to be a lot tougher than this if I wanted to stay alive. This little chick could be snowing me under for all I knew. They come in all kinds of packages.

I said abruptly, "You know Sader pretty well, don't you?"

"Yes."

"How well?"

She frowned. "Isn't that my business, Mr. Scott?"

That was the trouble. It was her business, and ordinarily it wouldn't be any of mine. But this had been an extraordinary day. I said bluntly, "I know of your—friendship with Mr. Sader, Miss Green."

She tossed her head, and before I could go on she said, "Mr. Scott, did you come here to deliver an essay on morals, or did you have something else to say?"

"I'm sorry," I said. And then I threw it at her. "But Marty Sader ordered me killed this morning."

I waited for the reaction, if any. It came slowly. It bounced right off her at first and she kept looking at me with the slightly fixed and belligerent expression she'd had just before. But then she got it on the rebound and the stern lines of her face relaxed. She cocked her head and said, "What? What was that? You must be—"

I kept going. "And when I was good and dead, his boys were supposed to phone this number here and say, 'I delivered the flowers.' That meant me—murdered."

Shock spilled over her face, then she pressed her lips tightly against her teeth and her face started getting red. "Why, you dirty, dirty liar!" she said softly. Then her voice rose higher and higher as she started yelling at me. "Why, you were the one who just called me. You did that! You thought I—Oh!" She yelled that I was low and unfit and cheap and out of my mind and a lot of other things, and finally she was on her feet and standing over me.

She hauled one little hand back and launched it at me and I stuck up my arm and her hand bounced off my sleeve. She kept yelling at me and swinging and clawing, and it looked as if she were getting madder and madder every half second. Finally when she couldn't get a good grip on my face, she whirled around, took three steps away from me, and grabbed a foot-high vase that might have cost a dime or a hundred dollars, but was worth about two cents when she got through with it. She swung it around behind her head and hurled it at me, and if I hadn't ducked I'd have been picking vase out of my face for a week. It crashed into the wall behind me, shattered, and rattled to the floor.

I was getting nowhere this way.

I got up, took two steps toward her, and grabbed her small wrists. I held her so she couldn't get away—or get at me—and I said right into her face, "Listen, little tiger, somebody tried to kill me. Somebody took two shots at me and almost spilled my blood. And if it wasn't your Marty Sader, I've got to find out who it was."

I knew damn well it was Sader's doing, but I couldn't talk with a buzz saw. Little five-foot Kitty had a ten-foot temper.

The words got past her anger a little way, and finally she calmed down enough for me to let go of her. She walked over to her chair and sat down rubbing her wrists. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I just knew you were lying. You—you hurt me."

"My apologies, Miss Green. You damn near hurt me." She smiled, then laughed lightly. "Now, what's all this nonsense?"

"It isn't all nonsense, Miss Green."

"Kitty. Let's make up."

"O. K., Kitty. But can I talk to you without your getting mad again? I'm in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to dig my way out."

She nodded. "I won't get mad, Mr. Scott—Shell."

"Good. Don't forget. Now, was Marty here this morning? Before noon?" I figured if Ozzie had given me the straight copy, and I thought he had, I could cross off Kitty as the person supposed to receive the message. Maybe it wasn't entirely logical, but that's the way it was. If so, then Marty had probably figured he'd be here himself.

But she said simply, "No."

"He been here today?"

"Not at all." But she was honest about it. She added, "He comes in and out any time. He might have meant to come out, then changed his mind."

One phrase stuck with me. "He comes in and out any time." I glanced over my shoulder toward the curtained window. This would be one hell of a time for him to pop in.

The whole idea so far made sense, though. It looked as if Marty had called his boys and sent them after me, planning to take the call at Kitty's—a relatively safe place for him to be. But then when he'd found Iris had flown his flimsy coop, he'd been too busy to stick to his original plans. Which had almost wound him up with Breed while Iris and I had been in the Pit.

I said, "Kitty, you believe whatever you want to, but I've got good reason to think Sader bears me no good will. I've talked to Sader's hired muscle, his wife, even Sader himself, and things have happened today that—"

There was no point in going on. She wasn't hearing any of it. She was staring at me as if I'd slapped her when she was expecting a kiss. Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide. I couldn't figure out what had happened.

Then it was easy to figure. She gasped, "His wife! What do you mean? He doesn't have a wife!"

I felt like walking over and putting my arm around her or holding her hand. She wasn't kidding; she meant it. And what the hell was I supposed to say?

"Kitty, honey. Didn't you know he was married?"

"Why, that's silly. I know he isn't." There was a small tremor in her voice, no matter how positive she tried to sound.

I said, "I talked to his wife this morning, Kitty. I saw her. Did Marty tell you he wasn't married?"

"Well, not in so many words. But it—he just couldn't be. We—I don't believe it." Her voice got stronger. "I just don't believe you, Mr. Scott."

"Have you ever phoned him at his home?" I asked.

"N-no. I never phone him at all. He—doesn't want me to." Her voice trailed off and she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

I said quickly, "What do you think you're doing now?"

"I'm going to call him. I'll show you."

"Honey, I wouldn't advise it. You'd better not."

"I don't care what you advise!" Then she was holding the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she said. "Is Mr. Sader there? He isn't? When will he be back?" She listened a moment, nodding her head, then frowned. "Who—who is this speaking, please?"

I watched her face. I knew what was going to happen, but knowing didn't stop it from getting to me, twisting my insides a little. Her mouth got round, then sagged; her whole face seemed to fall apart, slowly. Then her teeth came together with a small click and her chin dimpled up as she pressed her lips tight. She sat quietly for long seconds, the receiver still pressed to her ear, her eyes staring at the table. Then she said, "What? Oh, I'm—Kitty Green. No, I—I won't be calling again." She listened a moment longer and said, "Oh!" suddenly, then slowly, "Yes. Yes, I will." She hung up.

She sat very still for a moment, then without looking at me she said, "I guess you were right about—about that. But I don't believe anything else you said."

"Kitty," I said, "I'm sorry." There wasn't a lot I could say. It was time I left.

I stood up. "I'll be going."

"No. Please don't. Mr. Scott, she—she knew about me. About Marty and me. She wants me to come out and see her. Will you take me?"

The hell. In the first place, I didn't think it was a good idea for Kitty to go out there. In the second place, I didn't think it was a good idea for me to go out there. Marty, wherever he was, didn't like the idea of my living. And the more I thought about the son of a bitch, the less I liked the idea of his living. But added to that was the probability that now even Breed's boys were after me. I hadn't seriously considered that angle yet, but it figured. First of all, there was no doubt that Breed recalled me, with no great fondness, as the guy who crippled Lobo's gun hand about three months back. Then, down in the Pit, I'd sapped another of Breed's boys, Flick, and Flick had thought I was "one of Sader's guns." By now it was nine to five that Breed thought so, too.

I think what rankled as much as anything was the idea that people might think I was on the same side of anything as Marty Sader, but that wasn't really so important. The important thing was that Breed and Sader and all their respective boys seemed to be right at each other's throats over the rackets and the racket gravy: Sader muscling in, and Breed starting to shove back. That part was all right, but the other part wasn't. And that was me, Shell Scott, right in the bloody middle.