The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (12 page)

If this was the van I’d
been hoping to find, which now seemed a pretty good bet, I’d lucked
out and saved at least a day or two of hunting. Maybe today was my
lucky day. At least, that was the cheering thought in my mind as I
squinted a little longer at the van and, a bit late, became aware
that a large unhappy-looking egg was glomming me from its passenger
seat.

I couldn’t be certain of
his size, but he looked large, with one muscular and hairy arm
resting on the door, above it a wide beefy face. No Fu Manchu
mustache, though. And he had what looked like a lot of red hair,
certainly wasn’t bald. For a second or two he stared stolidly at my
chops, unsmiling. Yeah, that was definitely an unhappy expression,
he looked like a man passing a bunch of square
gallstones.

I looked away,
concentrated on the road ahead of me, eased off on the accelerator.
But the van slowed also, dropped back a car length behind my Cad,
then speeded up and passed me. The sour chap was gunning me again
with unfriendly eyes when they sped on by. Odd. Guys working for a
pesticide company shouldn’t mind if a traveler gawked at their
vehicle, or even at them; that, presumably, was why SOCAL PEST
CONTROL was painted on the van’s side: so people would look at it.
Of course, if they’d recently tried to run over a pedestrian, like
a doctor on Mulberry Street, they might well be edgy.

So I followed them for a
mile, and when they took the next exit I turned there, too, and
kept following them. But not for long. After about two blocks the
green van pulled to the side of the street and stopped. I slowed,
eased into the curb behind it.

As I turned off the
ignition the heavy-faced redheaded man and another, shorter and
stockier, got out of the van and stood on a dirt strip between the
curb and the sidewalk, facing each other, not looking at me. And as
I climbed out of my Cad I spotted something that intrigued me more
than a little.

The shorter man, the
driver, stood with his back to the van and right side toward me,
facing the large egg; both his hands were stuck into his back
pockets, but the sour-chopped guy’s arms were crossed over his
thick chest. They were talking to each other, and I noticed that
every time the man on my right, Sour Chops, spoke, his left hand
went up and covered or moved over his mouth as if he was brushing
an itch. Which told me this one was probably an ex-con who hadn’t
been ex- very long.

Among the losers in stir,
some learn to read lips so they can decipher what their friend—or
enemy—is saying even when the words, or whispers, can’t be heard.
As a result, many cons get into the habit, a sensible habit in the
joint, of covering their mouths when they speak so nobody else can
“see” what they’re saying.

I’d observed the habitual
movement often before, and Sour Chops’ busy left hand was a classic
giveaway. That understanding put me a little bit on edge. Just a
little, no alarm bells, but there was the familiar tightening of
muscles in my back, slightly heavier beat of blood, subtle
sharpening of senses. Asking my questions of a supermarket clerk or
garden-services salesman was one thing; asking the same questions
of a hardcase con fresh from the slam might be something else
entirely.

But I wasn’t looking for
trouble. And it was eight to five, I thought, that they weren’t
either.

How wrong can you
get?

They were standing about
ten feet away now, Sour still doing the bit with his left hand, the
other guy nodding, saying something, nodding again. Neither of them
had so much as glanced in my direction yet. So I walked over and
stopped next to the two men, and let both of them simultaneously
eye me with totally unconvincing surprise.

“
Hi,” I said
pleasantly.

Silence.

Well, if these citizens
were hard-working sprayers of dangerous insects, they wouldn’t much
care what I asked them. And if they did care, that would tell me
part of what I wanted to know. So I said cheerfully, “Van just like
this one almost creamed a friend of mine the other day. Mind if I
check out your bumper and front fenders?”

They minded. They didn’t
say so, but I could tell. I could also tell something else. This
close to both men, it struck me as highly probable that the first
one I’d seen, the guy eyeballing me from the passenger seat, looked
sour because he was sour, maybe actually fermenting inside. The
too-pale skin of his face was blotchy and pimpled, visible
blackheads, almost big enough to thud if they fell out, dotting his
nose. He did have a lot of red hair, and pinkish hair on his thick
arms. He was about an inch taller than I, and would push the scales
up to two-twenty or more.

The other man was shorter,
maybe six feet, with the build and bulging muscles of a weight
lifter, curly black hair, pale blue eyes, a straight Roman nose and
full red lips. Women who like to hang out with hoods would probably
consider him handsome or even “darling,” but to me that was a hard,
cold, cruel face. The bigger guy was probably dangerous to mess
with, but this one was worse; this one gave me the
creeps.

I took a deep breath, let
it out slowly, trying to relax the muscles of my neck and
shoulders. Because a chance to check the van’s front end for
possible damage might not come again so easily, or at all; so I
meant to check it right now, simply by walking around these guys
and taking a good look—if they let me do it. And if they didn’t
want to let me, well, maybe they’d be helpful and cooperative.
Maybe nothing unpleasant would happen. Maybe the moon is made of
oatmeal.

I took a step to my right,
began to walk past the big man, and immediately he started to make
a move toward me. But only started. The curly-haired darling with
pretty lips, acting without apparent haste, casually hooked one
finger around the other man’s arm, tugged gently, and Sour stopped,
sort of shivered a little, settled back on his heels.

“
Look at anything you want
to, pal,” Pretty-Lips said in a low, whispery voice. “You wanna
waste your time, waste it.”

I nodded silently,
uncomfortably aware of the man’s unblinking stare. Uncomfortably,
because I didn’t like the look of those icy-blue glimmers at all.
For a weird moment I could almost imagine tiny frozen worms in
there, or little snakes uncoiling behind those pale blue eyes.
Which was a thought crazy enough that I instantly pushed it out of
my mind. Or tried to.

Then I walked around the
two men. Neither of them stopped me. I squatted at the van’s front,
looked it over. It hadn’t been in a body shop, or repainted. The
bumper had been nicked several times, but not lately. Paint on both
fenders was old, weathered, some of it slightly chipped. No
question, this wasn’t a vehicle that had clipped another one
recently.

I stood up, walked back
near the two men.

“
Thanks,” I said, looking
at the pretty one. “Mind a couple questions?”

“
Yeah.” That from Sour
Chops.

“
Depends on the questions,”
said the other man. “You wanna try us out, try us out.” It sounded
like a quiet threat.

“
How many green vans are
there like this one? On the road for SoCal Pest Control, I
mean.”

“
Why don’t you go fuck
yourself, Pilgrim?” Sour Chops said.

That made me realize I
might have to hit the sonofabitch. I didn’t want trouble with these
guys, though; I really didn’t. I wanted to finish with them
speedily, at least for now, and be on my way.

“
Three,” the pretty mug
said. “Three others. Why you wanna know?”

“
I already told you. A van
like this came too close to a friend of mine. So I’m interested in
finding it.” The guy’s cold stare irritated me.

He was about to say
something else but didn’t get it out because the large sour slob
stepped closer to me, pressed his right hand flat against my chest,
and said, “Didden you hear me, Pilgrim?”

His hand was still
pressing against my chest. If he’d known anything about me, he
wouldn’t have done that. Even if he was certain he could take me,
or shoot me, or roll a cement mixer over me, he wouldn’t have done
it. Because I have what might be characterized as an irrational
antipathy toward that kind of belligerent familiarity, and do not
feel it necessary to say “Please” or even “Watch out” to such
people.

But I was still hoping to
avoid rolling around on the sidewalk with these jokers—and, to be
completely honest, I did not want to give that blue-eyed creep any
chance to get behind me. So all I did was raise both hands up near
my shoulders—still limp, not stretched open—and start to tell Sour
that I had become terminally weary of his company.

He was saying something
unintelligible to me, his wide mottled face pushed even closer
toward mine, saliva shining on his lower lip. I couldn’t help
suspecting that these two dandies didn’t add up to a
pair.

I heard the last of it
clearly enough. “... you like that, Pilgrim? So spill what the
blank you was really follerin’ us for, you blankin’ blank, and don’
gimme no blank about fenders, Pilgrim, I mean spill what your real
act is. Yeah?”

That was “Pilgrim” three
times in less than a minute. This guy had seen every John Wayne
movie twice, and maybe was even now watching a new one inside his
head. So, briefly, I played along.

“
Wa’al, podner,” I
drawled—or tried to, but it didn’t really work for me, never
does—“I was lookin’ for rustlers so me and the posse could hang ‘em
all from an oak but I guess I’ll have to settle for shootin’ yah
hand plumb off.”

“
Hand? Huh?”

If I’d had any doubts
about which of these two guys was top dog, they’d have been gone by
now. Because the man with his hand flat—still—on my chest had by
that act alone proved he was an amateur, didn’t have the faintest
idea what he was doing or what could, and I guessed soon would,
happen to him. The other man, though, the charmer with snakes in
his eyes, midway through my response moved his right arm, moved it
slowly and maybe without even thinking about it, the palm sliding
over his stomach and toward his left armpit.

I wasn’t looking at him,
but could see that movement from the edge of vision, see it stop
and then the arm drop slowly back to his side.

I had been considering
breaking Sour Chops’ collarbone on one side of his neck, maybe both
sides, but instead moved my hands down and got his little finger in
my left fist, the index finger in my right—he having left them
there handy for me, and thus having asked for it—and yanked them
apart and down toward his gut like a maniac making a wish on a
pterodactyl’s wishbone, and the rest of it also happened very
fast.

He said “Ack-hahgghah,”
louder at the end, and went down onto his knees, then onto his
broad butt, his legs bending with feet pointed outward and knees
almost touching in the middle. I was helping him along, of course,
and for a couple of seconds tried to pull his goddamned fingers off
but didn’t quite break them, not yet, even though when his coat
fell away from his chest I saw the holstered gun at his left
armpit.

I stepped on his right
knee, put my weight on it—keeping at least a fraction of my
attention on the really hard lob six feet away, making sure that
arm stayed at his side—and said to the big chap who was still
making noises similar to the first one he’d suddenly made, only
higher and softer now, “What was it you were telling me, friend?
Any more advice? I probably won’t take it, but I’ll
listen.”

He didn’t say anything
more except squeaky things. So I broke his little finger and his
index finger, snapped them quickly, then let him go and stepped
back. I wasn’t looking at the man on the ground but at his
companion six feet away.

He hadn’t moved. Rather,
he hadn’t moved that right arm. But he seemed to have shrunk a
little, as though down into himself, with his shoulders lifted
slightly and his head thrust forward, almost like a turtle’s head
coming out of its shell, or...a snake. And the queer thing, the odd
and in a way actually scary thing, is that he was
grinning.

He liked this. It was
enjoyment, kicks, way to go. I knew without logic, or maybe with
some kind of higher logic, just as certainly as I knew the sun was
shining and it was close to noon in Los Angeles and I could smell
the smog, that if I turned my back on this one for more than half a
second I’d be dead. He’d kill me and grin, and keep on
grinning.

So I kept my eyes on his,
on those little nests of snakes I’d imagined thawing in there, and
said quietly, “Maybe this Pilgrim here would appreciate it if you
took him to a doctor. For some splints on his hand.”

“
Good idea,” he said. I
could hardly hear him. “Makes a lot of sense, pal. Hey, Kell, crawl
over here. Don’t mess no more with this guy. He’s the toughest
rascal I ever did see.”

All the time he grinned at
me, never moving his eyes from mine. It actually gave me a shivery
chill up my spine right then. There are people around who just
bubble over with caring and compassion, at least so they claim, who
insist there aren’t really any evil people, not really, and even
the worst mugger or thief or rapist or mass murderer has so much
good in him, and so many inviolable civil rights—whatever that
means—plastered all over him that we should do everything humanly
possible not to punish but to rehabilitate the sucker, assuming
he’d ever actually been anything worth rehabilitating him back
to.