Strip for Murder (10 page)

The Castle itself was remarkably realistic, complete with towers, crenellated battlements, everything except a jousting tournament. A stone wall several feet high surrounded it, and this side of the wall was a ten-foot-wide ditch filled with muddy water. A moat, yet. There was what seemed to be a drawbridge lowered over the moat, though whether it actually worked or not was a moat question. The final fillip was a character in armor mounted on a white horse that stood under the arched stone entrance at the far end of the drawbridge. The guy held a long staff in his right hand, a colorful cloth dangling from its tip. A final anachronism was the neon sign under the stone arch: “Be Medieval in the Modern Manner.”

I parked in the lot next to a low-slung gray Bugatti, got out, and walked toward the drawbridge. As I approached the entrance, the guy in armor kicked his horse in the flanks and started clop-clopping across the wooden drawbridge. What some guys will do for a buck, I was thinking.

Apparently the knight's function was to welcome arriving guests and give them a big thrill. This time, though, something seemed to change the script. The knight swiveled his head toward me, looked straight ahead again, then did a creaking double take and wheeled his nag around to go clattering back over the bridge.

I stopped and looked after him. Whether the guy was somebody I knew or not would be hard to say, because he was well hidden behind his armor, but he could have seen me easily through the slits in his visor, and he'd acted as though he'd recognized me. If he did know me, apparently he didn't want to know me any better.

I walked across the drawbridge. Beyond the wall there was an open space to cross before reaching the actual entrance to the castle, and several tables were scattered around in it, most of them under a huge, heavily branched oak tree. Only half a dozen customers were at the tables, having dinner. The castle towered in the air before me, a pair of big wooden doors straight ahead. Another armored knight, this one without a horse, opened the doors, and I went inside.

Sound bubbled out and washed over me as I went into a big room where about thirty people were sitting and standing, most of them with highballs. A few were eating, and I saw several silver ice buckets keeping bottles of champagne cold. I had a hunch it would cost ten bucks just to get a beer in Castle Norman, and the clientele bore out that assumption. Mainly the guests looked like sugar daddies with their sugars.

A few suits of armor were scattered around the big room. Against the right wall was a bar of highly polished dark wood, and I meandered over to it. I meant to order a drink while sizing the place up, but I didn't have time. I was still trying to catch the bartender's eye when a husky guy in a tuxedo came out through a set of red draperies in the rear wall and walked up to me. I swung around on the stool to face him.

“You're Shell Scott?”

“That's right.”

“You're gonna have to leave.”

“I just got here, friend. And I'd like to see—”

“Don't gimme no guff. On your way, Scott.”

A tough guy. An optimist. I opened my mouth to tell him in one pithy phrase what he could do, but then snapped my jaws shut, counted to ten by fives, and started over. “Simmer down. I came here to see the boss, Ed Norman. How about telling him he's got a visitor?”

He sighed, wrapped a hand around my elbow, and tugged gently. I guess that was supposed to settle everything, but all it did was play hell with several of my glands. I could feel my face getting hot. “Mister,” I said quietly, “back up a couple of yards and I'll tell you something.”

Husky frowned and said, “Huh?” But he kept looking at me and finally he dropped his hand to his side.

I went on: “I came here to see Norman, and I mean to talk with him, unless he comes out here himself and tells me to blow. You can tell me all night, friend, but the only way you'll take me outside is carrying me piggy-back. And before you carry me, I'll have to be unconscious. So how about telling the boss he's got a visitor?”

Husky grinned at me. “I might carry you out, at that.” He glanced around at the crowd and shrugged. “Have it your way.”

He spun on his heel, went to the red drapes and through them. I let out some breath and looked at the bartender, who seemed to be purposely ignoring me. It was as if the Castle Norman employees had been told in advance that the big egg with white hair was contagious.

I never did get the damn drink. In a couple of minutes Husky was back. “OK, tough man. Let's go see the boss.”

I slid off the stool as he turned and headed back toward the drapes. There was a big door beyond the drapes, and though it was painted to look like wood, when he rapped on it there was the ring of metal. The door opened, and we walked through.

There was noise here, too, but more subdued, mixed with the unmistakable whir of that little ivory ball in its slot on the roulette wheel, the clank of one-armed bandits. Here were the tables Three Eyes had told me about.

On my left were two roulette wheels separated by a dice table; on the other side of the room were two tables for craps and one for roulette. Slot machines lined three walls, and there were also half a dozen twenty-one tables.

Following Husky past one of the dice tables, I saw a blonde head that looked familiar. The nice slim body was in an orange jersey gown this time, but even from the rear it was Vera Poupelle. I got a look at her profile as she swallowed at something in a cocktail glass.

My guide kept trudging ahead as I stopped by Vera. “Hello,” I said. “Making millions?”

She turned and let blue eyes roam over my face. “Not making anybody.” She smiled. “Mr. Scott,” she said. “How nice. And you?”

I grinned at her. “I haven't even started playing.”

Her smile faded and I noticed her eyes were a little glassy. “That's right,” she said. “I don't like you, I remember.”

“Sure you do.”

“No. If Andon doesn't like you, then I don't like you.”

“Now, why wouldn't Andon like me?”

“Ask him.” She pointed with her cocktail glass.

Poopy hadn't even noticed me, he was so intent on the game. Stacks of blue and red chips were lined up in front of him.

“That's enough,” a voice said on my right. It was Husky, my guide. “Come on,” he said.

“Just as soon as I say hello to my friends.”

“You must not of heard me, Mac.” He wrapped his fingers around my arm. “Come on.”

“Relax, friend. Relax the fingers.”

He must not have heard me, either. He yanked and said, “Mr. Norman doesn't like to wait for guys.”

I grabbed his fingers and squeezed them a little. The wrong way. He started looking vicious.

I excused myself from Vera and walked around the table. Husky rubbed his fingers a second, then came after me.

I stopped by Poupelle. “Hi.” He turned toward me, preoccupied with the play, and I didn't give him a chance to get set. As soon as his eyes fell on me I said quietly, “What ever happened to Brad Bender, Poupelle?”

He gasped and his face was suddenly drained of color. His jaw sagged, and for a moment I thought maybe he was going to faint, but then he recovered slightly, clicked his teeth together, and turned away from me. He fumbled with the chips in front of him, but his hands were shaking and he was toppling stacks all over the “Don't pass” line.

I'd got more with that crack than I'd bargained for. I'd damn near scared his pants off him. And then there were those fingers on me again. Husky yanked me hard, swung me around to face him, and said angrily, “All I got to do is whistle, you bastard, and there'll be ten men here playing games with your head.”

Some people you just can't coexist with. Husky's left hand was clutching my right wrist and his other fist was balled, held in front of him. I reached across my body slowly with my free hand, looking at his face, and trying to smile pleasantly, but as soon as my left hand closed around his wrist I stopped smiling.

I jerked my arms up, pulling my elbows in close to my stomach, pushing with my right wrist against his loosened thumb and pressing the thumb of my own hand forward against the back of his hand as it turned. Husky grunted and twisted to his right, mouth coming open as I got both thumbs together on the back of his bent hand and leaned into it. And then he was facing away from me, left arm sticking out behind him, and bending over like a man trying to bite the carpet.

I didn't want him stooped over like that, the center of all eyes, so I stepped close to him, bent his arm up behind his back, then held it with my left hand while I transferred my right hand to his right biceps and straightened him up. He straightened almost eagerly, because I was digging my fingers into the axillary nerve underneath his armpit. Now we could coexist nicely.

He whistled, but so softly that nobody more than three feet away could have heard him, like a tire going flat. I glanced around. The whole operation hadn't taken more than four or five seconds. Two people were looking at us. I put on a big, toothy grin and wiggled my eyebrows at them. The puzzled looks went away and they chuckled. It was nothing after all; just a couple of slobs.

“OK,” I said to Husky, “let's go see Norman.”

He started to say something, but I put a little pressure on the fingers of both my hands, and wondered idly if the pain going up his left arm would meet the pain going up his right arm. “You just lead the way,” I said. “And don't talk about calling guys to play games with my head. I'm in a beastly mood tonight.”

We made it, chums together, to the rear of the room and to a door there that I kicked a couple of times, gently. It opened and another apelike stranger looked out and stepped aside. As we went past him he walked along with us and said to my guide, “What's the matter with him? Huh?”

I answered for Husky, who wasn't able to say much of anything. “I can hardly stand up,” I said, grinning at him. “He hit me in the stomach.”

He grinned back at me, as if that pleased him. Then his grin went away. He looked at Husky. “Why's he so happy about it?”

Then we were at another closed door. The mental giant opened it, let us through, then pulled the door shut behind us, remaining outside. This would be Ed Norman's office, and the big heavy-faced guy behind the desk would be Ed Norman. His coat was still too tight; he was still stolid and unsmiling. I'd seen him before—last night, in fact, at Mrs. Redstone's. The tall, broad character who'd been with Garlic, and briefly with Poupelle. Some wheels started spinning in my head. There were several questions I'd wanted to ask Ed Norman, but now it seemed unlikely that I'd get any answers. None, at least, that I'd like.

Chapter Ten

I said, “So you're Ed Norman.”

“That's right, Scott. And ... What in hell's the matter with you, Foster?”

Foster, no doubt, was the large gent I was so wrapped up in. I'd tightened a little on seeing Ed Norman, and I had consequently tightened Foster. He was bent forward with his mouth wide open, making little noises.

I said, “He got fancy with me. I don't quite know what to do with him now that I've got him.”

The muscles at the sides of Norman's thick jaw bulged, then relaxed. Last night I'd noticed his marked-up face, and now I saw that he had a scar at the side of his right eye, another over one cheekbone. They looked like knife scars. Norman said, “You push your luck pretty far, don't you, Scott?” He said it casually, his deep voice soft, almost soothing. It didn't soothe me, though, and I didn't answer.

Norman got up and walked to the door. He opened it and said, “Get out, Foster.” He looked at me. I turned Foster around, gave him a shove, and let go of him. He staggered toward the door, but whirled before reaching it and started to move back toward me.

“Out,” Norman said.

Foster hesitated, glaring at me, then spun around and stalked from the room. Norman shut the door, then went back behind his desk. He pointed to a chair and I sat down in it. His phone rang.

He picked it up, grunted, and listened, keeping his gaze on me. Then he hung up and sat quietly, staring at me, a big silent hunk of cold-rolled steel bars and springs, with eyes like the eyes of a dead fish. Except for those eyes, he wasn't bad-looking. The scars just made him look more like a guy who might wrestle with the devil. And maybe win.

He blinked, as if he'd been miles away, and suddenly produced a big smile. “Well, Scott. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Norman was being charming, mine host, but he was not an actor. That smile had all the warmth and friendliness of Nome, Alaska.

I smiled back and side-stepped his question a little. “I didn't realize you were the guy I saw at Mrs. Redstone's last night. With Andon Poupelle and Garlic, I mean.”

He frowned slightly, but kept that skull grin in place. “Yeah, I saw you there. But I wasn't with Andon or—what was that other name?”

“Garlic.”

“Said hello to Andon, but I was with some other people. Friends of mine. You working, Scott?”

“Uh-huh. You never heard of Garlic, I take it.”

“Nope. Who you working for?”

“Client. Odd you never heard of Garlic. He was going to bash my head in last night, or maybe shoot me. I thought maybe you'd sent him at me. Didn't know you were Ed Norman last night.”

He chuckled through clenched teeth. “You know now.”

“Sure. Speaking of Poupelle, didn't he slip you a stiff a while back? For fifty Gs or so?”

“Well, now. How'd you find out about that, Scott?”

“Got it off the wire somewhere around town. It's the McCoy, huh?”

“That's all settled now.”

“He paid off?”

“It's all settled.”

I grinned. “That figures. I see Poupelle's still playing little games next door. Must mean he paid up, right?”

“Scott,” Norman said, unsmiling now, “you better dig a finger or two in your ears and get all the weeds out of them. Now you tell me something. You didn't come out here just to ask me about Poupelle, did you?”