For Reynard and Louise Anderson
and for Dru, too.
1
I WAS LOOKING at the lovely blonde in the one-and-one-half-piece swimsuit, thinking that if she got any curvier she’d be banned, and then, just as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, she got up and started walking toward me. Possibly to slap me.
I’d been soaking up hot afternoon sun alongside the amoeba-shaped pool at the Hotel de las Américas in Acapulco, wearing a pair of violet trunks decorated with big red passionflowers, which were fine for starting conversations that might lead to almost anything, and sipping a coco fizz from half a huge coconut while I wished I’d ordered a plain bourbon and water and feeling somewhat silly, what with passionflowers and coco fizzes.
It was one of Acapulco’s beautiful days; sun splashed from the bright yellow hibiscus and red bougainvillea around the pool and filtered down through the limbs of the royal poinciana trees. It was hot, with only a little breeze, and I could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down my bare chest. A few people were in the pool, more around the sides and in the shaded open-air bar a few feet beyond the pool’s shallow end. There was a lot of garish, exotic color and a constant buzz of conversation laced with sudden laughter. It was peaceful and beautiful, but over it all the shabby dark vultures, which are as much a trademark of Acapulco as the plush hotels along Las Playas, dipped and soared with an ugly grace.
My Los Angeles office with “Sheldon Scott, Investigations” lettered on the window seemed as far away from Mexico as Mars, but the blonde might have stepped right off Wilshire Boulevard or out of Earl Carroll’s. And she was still stepping.
She came toward me with a walk that wouldn’t have been allowed back home on Hollywood Boulevard. And even if it had been allowed, I doubt that anybody else could have duplicated it. She went this way, and then she went that way, and most important of all, she kept coming my way. All she did was put one foot forward, then the other foot forward, but at the same time there were about a dozen other lovely little movements that it was difficult to watch at the same time, and all of it barely concealed by the wisp of bandanna floating on her breasts and the equally wispy piece of printed fog that did its inadequate chore around her hips, if that could be called a chore. She had long blonde hair that brushed her shoulders and a nice smooth tan that you wanted to touch, and she stopped right in front of me.
She smiled. “Hello, there.” In a way her voice seemed tanned, too; warm and smoky.
She looked so good from the angle I had on her that I hated to stand up and change it. But I did. “Hello. Care to share my sidewalk?”
“Thank you.” She sat down gracefully, curling her smooth legs under her, and beamed at me when I sat down beside her.
I didn’t get it. I’m a shade less than six-two and weigh 206 full of tacos, but there were a number of better-looking guys around the pool. My nearly white, inch-long hair sticks up in the air like a white cowlick, and the white eyebrows like toppled L’s that slant up over my gray eyes and fall down at the outer ends don’t add up to Cesar Romero. The slightly bent nose doesn’t enhance my beauty, either. It couldn’t have been simply that she liked them big. There were more big, beefy guys around the pool this afternoon than I’d ever seen at one pool in my life before. I’d been wondering—and worrying—about those hard-looking characters before I noticed the blonde; it was peculiar. Usually around the pool at any luxury hotel like this one you see so many fat old pappys and shriveled dowagers that the place looks like a museum, or nauseum, with pool. But these big boys were built like weight lifters.
The lady was still looking at me, so I said, “Down for the fishing? Or just a vacation?”
“Vacation mostly. Wish that were the only reason.” She paused. “And you?”
“Just … loafing.” I wasn’t loafing. I was on probably my most important case in more than six years of private detective work. I wasn’t about to mention the case, and I hoped this lovely’s question was idle conversation. “Nice place to loaf,” I said. “You staying here at Las Américas?”
“No, but my husband’s business keeps him here most of the time, so I use the pool. Rest up and get a tan, get back in shape.”
Get back in shape. That was a kick. If her shape got any better it wouldn’t do her any good; nobody would believe it. It was the other remark that jarred me, though. That “husband” bit. But I should have guessed. With her chassis she should have had about eight of them; one for each day of the week, and—you know about Sunday.
“Your husband, huh?” I said brilliantly. “You’ve got a husband, huh?”
“Not for long if I can help it. That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Scott.”
I blinked. I’d never seen this gal before, yet she knew my name; also she wanted to see me about her husband. Usually it’s the other way around.
“Lady,” I said, “how did you know my name? And I’m pretty sure I don’t know your husband. It’s a good guess that I don’t care to know your husband.”
She laughed merrily, waving her eyelashes at me like fans. “You’re just like they said you were,” she gurgled. “Only you’re meaner-looking.” Her voice dropped lower. “Now, Mr. Scott. Did you actually think I came over here just because I like your muscles?”
“I, uh …”
She smiled. “I do like your muscles—the ones I can see.” She laughed. “But that wasn’t the only reason. It wasn’t even the main reason. I want to hire you.”
“Hire me? For what? And how come you know so much about me?”
“I don’t, really. My husband and I were in the bar last night when you came in. He told me who you were, and then I remembered seeing your picture in the papers. I’m from Beverly Hills.” She shrugged and her face got serious. I noticed her eyes were green, wide-set under arched, tawny eyebrows. She said, “You’re about the only man around here that I know isn’t some kind of hoodlum.”
That puzzled me a little, but I looked around the pool again and her meaning got clearer. I’d thought quite a bit about those beefy boys ever since yesterday afternoon, when I’d checked into the hotel and recognized a couple of big-time racketeers out front. And there’d been several other faces that looked familiar, but hadn’t rung any bells. Across the pool from me was a white-skinned guy in brown trunks, with a bald head and a face like a carved mushroom. All of a sudden, looking at him, I remembered who he was: Mushy Ostrowski, head of gambling and protection in the San Francisco area. I started feeling a little nervous.
“OK,” I said. “So I’m not a hoodlum. It’s pretty obvious you know I’m a private detective. Why do you want a detective?”
She grinned. “Maybe I like your muscles.” Then the cheerful look went away and she said, “Seriously, I do need some help. I want to leave my husband.”
“You don’t need a detective for that. Pack up and go.” I grinned at her. “Go to Los Angeles.”
“I’m afraid if I leave, he’ll … kill me.”
I almost wanted to watch her walk again. Away from me. I said, “Lady—and what do I call you besides Lady?”
“Gloria.”
“I’m enjoying a vacation, Gloria. And I can’t take on a client just because she doesn’t like her hubby.”
“It’s not that; it’s a lot more than that. I’m afraid all the time—not just of him, but of his friends, too.”
“What’d you do? Use an ax on somebody?”
“I haven’t done anything. Except maybe listen to people who talk too much. Including my husband. All I want you to do is keep an eye on me till I can get away. Be sort of a bodyguard.”
I grinned at her. “Honey, there’s nothing I’d rather keep an eye on, and no body I’d rather guard. But I can’t take on a job now.”
She frowned, then looked up at a guy in green trunks who’d strolled alongside us. “Hello, George.”
I craned my neck around and looked at George. I hadn’t seen him before, but I noticed he went up quite a distance. He was a hell of a good-looking guy, except that he looked nearly as intelligent as Goofy.
“Oh, George, this is Shell Scott,” Gloria said.
I got to my feet and stuck my hand out. “Hi, George.”
He looked at my hand, but kept his own paws down at his sides. There are few things that make a man feel sillier, and I could feel a little burn starting inside me.
“Shell Scott,” he said. “Ain’t you that lousy April-fool copper from L.A?”
“I’m Shell Scott,” I said. “Just like the lady told you. Want me to tell you again?”
His face looked sullen for a moment, then he grew a big grin on it. He was nearly my size and about thirty, my age, with sandy-colored wavy hair, a perfectly straight nose, a big square chin. He was smiling at me. He had good teeth, too, so far.
Still smiling, he said, “A man after my own heart. Shake.”
He stuck out his hand and I grabbed it in that peculiar convention men observe, and grinned back at him. So we’d let bygones be bygones. Maybe he had an ulcer.
One thing was sure. He had a damn strong grip. He was making up for missing my hand the first time. He kept grinning at me.
“Shell Scott?” he asked me pleasantly. “That what you said?” His grin got wider.
I relaxed my grip, but he just turned on more pressure. I felt pain grinding into the bones of my hand and tightened my grip again.
“Look,” I said tightly. “Isn’t this a little silly? Now let the hell go.”
Then he really poured it on. He wasn’t any stronger than I was, but he’d got my knuckles pinched together when I relaxed my grip, and very soon he was going to break something. It was obvious that was what he had in mind.
So I waited a couple of seconds longer, then said, “OK,” and swung my hand up high and to my left, pulling his arm up with it. I stepped forward, ducked under his arm, then sidestepped behind him and grabbed his left shoulder with my left hand. His right arm was twisted behind him, and if he wanted to play break-bones, we’d play. If I hadn’t been so hot I might not have done it, but he’d let himself in for it, so I jerked his hand up behind his back and a big “Aaargh!” ripped out of his lips just as I let go of him, put my bare foot on his fanny, and shoved him toward the pool. He took three stumbling steps, the first two on cement and the third on water, then he went splashing down out of sight. That was fine; I hoped he stayed down there.
In a couple of seconds, though, his head bobbed up again and he started paddling back toward me, using only one hand. He’d continue using only one for a while because the other one would be sore for a while. So would he, from the looks of things.
He got to the edge of the pool and started swearing at me, clinging to the pool’s edge with one hand. I knelt near him and said softly, “Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll jump in there and drown you. Now beat it—and keep out of my way. I don’t like the games you play.”
He stopped sputtering, but tried to haul himself over the edge at me. He couldn’t make it with one hand, and finally he edged along to the cement steps at the shallow end of the pool and climbed out. On the cement again, he stood for a moment facing me and started to raise his right hand, then winced. Still staring at me with hate in his eyes, he lifted his left hand and started pawing at his left shoulder.
I thought, What on earth is the moron trying to do? Pull off his chest and throw it at me? And then, all of a cold, clammy sudden, I figured it out. The Las Américas management doesn’t approve of people who wear guns to their pool, but George had apparently forgotten that in his anger. He stopped pawing finally, then wheeled around and walked to the far edge of the pool and turned to his right.
I looked around. I’d forgotten the mess of people out here taking the sun, but not too many had noticed what was going on. It hadn’t been noisy, and it had been fast. But there were some looks coming my way I didn’t like. One look was from Mushy Ostrowski. He lamped me good, then got up and walked toward George, standing now at the far corner of the pool diagonally across from me. I got a little shock when I saw George again.
He wasn’t alone any more. Two of the big beefy characters I’d been
wondering about earlier were talking to him now, and right after Mushy joined the crowd two more Gargantuas got there. Pretty soon it looked like half the L.A. Rams grouped in the corner, taking turns looking at me. I didn’t like a bit of this. Perhaps I’d been a wee bit hasty.
I sat down by Gloria again, but kept taking peeks at the football huddle in the corner. I said, “The nasty man seems to have some nasty friends, Gloria. Who is the slob?”
She stopped nibbling on her lower lip. “George?” she asked me wide-eyed. “Why, that slob is my husband.”
2
I STARED AT HER for a moment, not feeling good at all. “Lady—Gloria. What’s the rest of your name?”
“Madison. Gloria Madison.”
Madison … George. No, it couldn’t be. “Gloria,” I said, “your husband couldn’t possibly be little Georgie Madison? The George Madison?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Well, ha, ha,” I said. “Old Sudden Death Madison.” I looked at the giants grouped around Georgie. “Gloria,” I said, “I can’t be your bodyguard until I get a bodyguard.”
I knew who George Madison was, all right. From what I’d heard about him, his boyhood idol was Dracula. He’d killed several men. Nobody knew how many except George, and he probably couldn’t count that high. He’d been triggerman for a couple of the top men of the U.S. crime syndicate, and was noted for his efficiency and stupidity. He was possibly the only man alive who walked, talked, and pulled a trigger without a brain.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think I need a glass of water. Or bourbon. Or poison.” I started to get up. I know when I’m outnumbered. Just George outnumbered me.
Gloria put a hand on my arm. It was the first time she’d touched me, and even in the state I was in it sent an electric tingle running up my arm and down into my spine, and elsewhere. I looked at her face and it was twisted, pleading.
“Mr. Scott,” she said tightly. “Please. Somebody’s got to help me. You’re the only man around here who might be able to. I was serious all the time; I just didn’t quite know how to ask you. And … you can see now why I’m frightened, Mr. Scott.”
I hesitated. “Yeah. I can see that with no trouble. And, honey, you might as well call me Shell while I last.”
“Will you help me? I’d be so grateful.”
This was one lovely who looked as if she could be grateful to excess. And some excesses I’m excessively fond of. But I honestly didn’t know what to tell her.
Right now I already had as a client one of the most important men in the entire United States. If I mentioned his name, you’d know him, so from here on in he’s just plain Joe. That was one of the conditions imposed when he hired me: that I forget his name. Even in our first conversation, I called him Joe. That’s how important the case was, and he was. Joe is one of the top labor leaders in the States. I can’t even tell you what union he heads; that would be the same as shouting his name.
I couldn’t tell Gloria I was on a case, because Joe had set it up so that it would look as if I’d come to Mexico on a different case entirely, a jewel theft now allegedly wrapped up, and I was supposed to be on vacation, in case anybody was curious. And then I got the inkling of an idea. Just before I’d come to Acapulco yesterday I’d found one of the people I was after. I’d found him dead, a bullet in his brain, but he’d been headed for Acapulco. Then I hadn’t known why, but now, with all the hoods who seemed to be in town, I was getting that inkling. I mulled it over a bit, then turned to face Gloria.
I hadn’t been sure exactly what I’d say to her, but when I saw the pose she’d taken I finished making up my mind. Her legs were under her, and she was sitting on her heels, leaning forward a bit and looking earnestly into my face. The little wisp of cloth over her full breasts had slipped more than it was supposed to, and the bright sun was golden on the tanned skin, dazzling against the strip of white that was usually hidden from the sun.
Looking at that, I said, “OK, Gloria. I’ll do what I can.”
She sighed. She sighed so heavily that I became actually eager to help her. “Oh, Shell,” she said, “I …” She let the words trail off.
“But understand this,” I said. “I won’t be able to spend much time hanging around you, much as I’d like that. I’m—I’ve got something else on the fire. And I probably can’t do you any good anyway. Hell, I don’t even know what you want me to do.”
“I’m not sure myself, Shell. I just want somebody on my side, somebody who isn’t George’s kind of man. I feel surrounded, you know what I mean. And I just want to get away from here alive; after that I’ll take my chances. And I’ll pay you—”
I interrupted. “I’ll expect to be paid, but not in money.”
She started to smile a wicked smile and almost said something to that, but I stopped her. “And don’t get me wrong. I want you to start out by shoving me into the pool.”
She frowned, puzzled. I went on, thinking about that inkling of an idea I’d had a moment ago, “And I’ll want to know a lot more about your trouble, and about George and his friends over there.” I jerked my thumb at the hideous group across the pool.
There were, actually, about eight or nine men there, including Sudden Death Madison, and as I looked at them I saw a back I recognized. Just a back, but that’s the kind of back it was. The guy turned around and looked at me, but I had known who he was before he turned. He was from Hollywood, my usual stamping grounds, and he occupied about the same position in the racket hierarchy there that Mushy Ostrowski did up in Frisco. His name was Garvey Mace, and I’d run head-on into him several times during one interesting Hollywood caper concerning naked ladies and pictures of naked ladies, and he had knocked me on my fanny with little trouble. He would knock anybody on his fanny with little trouble.
Mace grinned and waved at me. I waved back feebly. The Hollywood caper had wound up OK, and Mace had been so pleased with his end of it that he let me live. More than that, we’d since become about as chummy as two guys on opposite sides of the racket can get. I didn’t like the way he made his money, but I liked Mace. However, he made one more big-time hood in Acapulco, and that I didn’t like. With all these hooligans around here, there was bound to be trouble brewing for some poor sucker—and I couldn’t leave.
Mace waved again and started walking around the pool toward me. I said to Gloria, “I’ll finish what I started to say later.”
She looked puzzled. “What’s this about pushing you into the pool?”
I didn’t answer her; I was looking at Mace. He was exactly six feet tall, but for some reason he looked as big as any two of the other guys. His shoulders were fantastic, and the only reason he didn’t have more muscles was that there wasn’t room for any more. He came around the corner of the pool and walked toward me, clump, clump, clump, like an outsized steel monster, and it seemed surprising that his feet didn’t leave jagged holes behind him in the concrete.
He stopped in front of me and his lips split in a big grin, moving a thick brown mustache riding his upper lip like two wire brushes. “I’ll be damned,” he rumbled in his deep bass. “Shell, the Boy Scott. How the hell are you?”
He stuck out his big paw and I grabbed it, grinned, and said, “Hi, you crook. Please don’t play Georgie’s game; I need the arm.”
He let out a laugh that sounded like beer barrels rolling down an alley. “That was beautiful. I saw it all from the beginning. I should have told Georgie you’re an ex-Marine.” He glanced at Gloria. “Hi, doll.”
She said hello, and I told Mace, “Maybe I’m an ex-detective pretty quick. I didn’t know who the guy was. Thought he was just another clown.”
Mace laughed. “Ex-detective. Clown.” He rolled some more beer barrels. He actually thought it was hilarious that Georgie might shoot me. “What you doing down here, Scott?”
“Just a vacation—up till now. Taking life easy.”
“That’s what Georgie does, Scott: takes life easy.” He roared so loud at his crack that every head around the pool turned toward us. That was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. That was, of course, only his opinion. He said, “You know how he makes his living, don’t you, Scott?”
“Yeah. Out of dying. Other people’s dying. How about you, Mace? I mean, what you doing down here? And all those other characters?”
He stopped laughing. “Take a tip, Scott. Don’t even ask. Everybody’s on vacation. It’s not healthy to ask.”
“Yeah, I see.” I let it ride, but I was getting very damned curious. We shot the breeze a little longer, then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I gotta get back, Scott,” he said. “Because I like you, I’ll do what I can.” He shrugged again. “But I’m only a little wheel.” He turned and clumped off.
Little wheel, huh? As far as I was concerned, he was a big one. I sat down again by Gloria and said, “Honey, I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be no help to you at all, and you might as well know it. But I’m on your side. From here that looks like two against the world.”
I thought about how to phrase the next part. The way things were shaping up, it seemed likely that I could use a gal with Gloria’s apparent connections. I said, “How come you’ve got trouble, and how’d you wind up with Madison in the first place?”
She leaned back with her elbows behind her, raising merry hell with the little strip of bandanna, and started talking. She’d been working as a waitress in Beverly Hills when George spotted her and started rushing her a little over two months back, and she’d swallowed his story that he was in the olive-oil importing business. Right away he’d asked her to marry him, promising her a honeymoon in Acapulco in April and May, when he had to come here on an olive-oil deal, he’d said. She was now on that honeymoon, not liking it a bit. When she learned how George actually got his money, and that it had nothing to do with olives, that tied it. She’d been sick of him even before that, she said. And, drunk, he’d bragged and talked enough—after she found out the truth about him—so that he couldn’t afford to let her walk out on him and maybe spill what she knew to the wrong people.
She kept talking, giving me incidental stuff about George and her that wasn’t especially important, and I thought back a little bit, wondering what, if anything, this might have to do with the case I was on. The guy I’d originally been after—the one I’d found two nights back with a bullet hole in his head—was, or rather had been, almost a living legend at the age of forty. He was one of the greatest con men who ever lived, and he’d pulled off some of the most spectacular and breathtaking capers of the century. His name was Wallace Parkinson, called Gunner, and being a criminal, he might have been meeting some criminal chums down here. Hardly the kind of torpedoes I’d seen so far, though, because Gunner was a true genius in his own line, and if he hadn’t started on the fast buck, he’d undoubtedly have been a success in whatever else he tried. Gunner was the boy who took a Texas oil man for $350,000 on the wire, then took him for another $200,000 two months later on the rag. He was the guy audacious enough to blackmail my client. He was, to the confidence game, what Billy the Kid was to outlaws and Jack the Ripper to mass killers. I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry that he’d been murdered.
I heard Gloria saying, “So I’m stuck,” and I brought my mind back to George Madison, shuddering. She went on, “It was just one of those things. He’s an awfully good-looking guy, and I didn’t really know him when we got married. We went everywhere, night clubs, parties. He was always loaded with money, and we did a lot of drinking. Maybe if we hadn’t it would have been different. God, he’s so stupid when he’s sober.”
“He’s brilliant when he’s drunk?”
She smiled. “No, but I drank when he drank, and didn’t notice so easily. Two more months of his conversation and I’ll be a lush. He says, ‘Yeah,’ and his repartee is over.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“And that’s about it. He turns my stomach, now, but he made me come down here with him. Says if I try to leave he’ll kill me. But I’m going to try. So here I am, Shell. Not a very pretty story.”
“Not very much we can do, either. I can’t shoot the guy for you.” I thought a minute. It could very well be that Gloria’s problem was exactly what she said it was, and I was the handiest and most logical choice for her to work on. But I was getting into something big here, and there was a chance she was giving me a line, trying to find out why I was in Acapulco. She had some very shady friends—but maybe that was all to the good.
I said, “What’s George doing down here, Gloria? And Mace, and all those other heavies?”
She nibbled on her red lower lip for a moment. “I’m not sure, really. It’s something about some union thing or other, I think, but I don’t know for sure. Why?”
“Just curious.” Union thing. I had a hell of a time keeping my face blank. “Incidentally, where you staying?”
“El Encantado. It’s on the Calle de Tambuco, not far from here. I’m in Cottage Twenty-seven.”
“I know where it is. OK. How about this, honey? You make me look silly, then trot back to your loving husband. Play up to him. Tell him you told me who he is and I almost fainted. You’ll be telling the truth. Then keep your ears open; find out what’s in store for me. I can’t help you or anybody else if I stop breathing. And I’ll try to see you later today.”
She frowned a little, biting the inside of her lip, and said, “George might think it’s funny if I suddenly get lovey.”
I grinned at her. “With your equipment you could make him believe anything. You could make him jump into La Quebrada Gorge.”
She smiled prettily at me, fanning her lashes over the green eyes. “Well, why do I want to make you look silly?”
“It usually takes a little of the edge off a man’s anger if the guy he’s mad at is made to look silly. Any edge I can get, I want. You just slap me a time or two, then shove me into the pool. Make it look good, and George might get a little happier.”
“Sounds like fun. But what’ll I tell George? Why did I do it?”
I shrugged. “Tell him I pinched your—No, don’t tell him that. Tell him anything. Tell him I said something nasty about him and you didn’t like it. You stuck up for him. Anything. It can’t make him any madder at me than he is right now. And I’d much rather have you toss me into the drink than have George and his friends do it.”
“All right. You asked for it.”
I stood up, my back to the pool, and she stepped over in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the beef trust milling around. “Go ahead,” I said to Gloria. “Clobber me.”
She hesitated. “It seems funny when I’m not mad at you.” A trace of a smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “Say something to make me want to slap you.”
I grinned at her. “O.K. And you asked for this.” I told her something, but she didn’t seem to get madder. The corners of her mouth twitched violently, then she raised an eyebrow, drew back her right hand, and let me have it. Then, making it look good, I guess, she brought her hand whipping back across the other side of my face and slammed both hands against my chest.
The crack of her palm across my cheek was still echoing, especially inside my head, as I flew backward and splashed into the water. When I came up the hoods were still laughing. I climbed out, flashed a look at the boys, and spotted Gloria standing by Georgie, her arm around his waist. Then I stalked away from the pool, scooped up my robe, and got out of there.
I glanced back over my shoulder as I headed for my rooms. Nobody was following me. The vultures wheeled lazily, patiently, overhead.
3
THE HOTEL DE LAS AMERICAS is one of the most beautiful hotels in Acapulco, Mexico. It spreads all over the point of the Cerro de los Cañiones, or Mountain of the Canyons, that juts out into the blue waters of Acapulco Bay, and besides the rooms and suites in the main building of the hotel itself, there are dozens of little cottages and bungalows scattered over the grounds, bungalows with names like Pago Pago, Singapore, María Bonita, and Casa Redonda. Shaded walks wind around the hotel and by the bungalows, and vines and flowers and trees weave a variegated pattern of red and green and yellow and orange almost everywhere you look.