Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

Bobo walked across the street, a toothpick in his mouth, still plenty of cat-spring to his walk. He had on a thin summer shirt and when the hot wind pressed it against him, you could see all the big muscles. He got in beside me, said, “Better grab a bite. Food ain't too bad over there.”

I shook my head. The mention of food reminded me of the coffee and cream standing on a kitchen table.... Louise's bloody body.

“Learn anything in the bank?”

“Brody and Shelton would have had plenty of time to make duplicate keys, look the vault boxes over,” I said, turning the ignition key.

9

Shelton must have been poorer than Brody, for he lived in a small apartment house a few blocks west of Brody's place. It was almost a tenement, a walk-up with wooden stairs, the halls badly in need of paint and repairs. I rang the bell of his top floor flat—the cheapest rent—but didn't get any answer.

I went back down to the main floor, pressed the janitor's bell. She turned out to be a thin, elderly woman with a pleasant face, and like most janitors—full of gossip. I tipped my hat—and it touched the bump on the back of my head where I'd been sapped, and I damn near opened the conversation with a scream. I gulped, managed to say, “Good afternoon. Can you tell me when George Shelton will be home? Two months ago he ordered a...”

“Two months—oh my! The poor man was shot to death in a dirty hold-up last month!” she said, happy to find someone who didn't know the news.

I tried to look shocked. I didn't have to say a word for she went right on with, “Oh my, yes, it was a blow to all of us. I'm not one to speak harmful of the dead, and Mr. Shelton was a good man, I suppose, even though he did cause his poor wife's death and...”

“He did what?”

“That was many years ago, when I first took this job. A most tight man with money, George Shelton was. Had that good job with the bank, could have moved into a better house. His dear wife used to complain something awful about the stairs, but he was so thrifty... and in the end justice was done, like it always is. I always say things catch up with you in this world. That Mrs. Shelton was a meek, genteel soul and she took sick with a lingering illness. When she finally passed away, he was in debt for years paying off the doctors. That's what a person gets for being penny-wise and pound foolish. Would of driven him mad if it wasn't for his daughter Laurie. You've heard of her?”

“Don't think I have.”

“Name's in the papers all the time. She's the tennis champion of the state, or the East, some big thing. Girls these days.... Spends all her day practicing on the tennis courts here. Poor child, she and her father were close and his death upset her something awful. An only child is always...”

“Thank you very much, have to cancel the order. By the way, did Shelton have a new car recently?”

She let out a shrill cackle, revealing a cheap set of false teeth. “Him with a car? Why he wore a suit till it was threadbare, scrimped on everything he...”

I tipped my hat again—carefully—said I had to run... and walked out, her chatter following me. My theory sounded so damn good, yet something was wrong—there had to be a pile of jack some place.

10

Bobo and I started driving around, looking for the tennis courts I'd seen from Will's window. When I finally found them, they were empty except for a girl in white shorts hitting a ball against the side of a one-story building. I watched her legs moving around, realized this was the same gal I'd seen through Will's binoculars... and that she must be Laurie Shelton. Merely looking at her was a pleasure... she was short, but unlike most short girls wasn't bony or overfat, rather she was a lot of hard, healthy curves, and so well proportioned, she looked tall. Her face was almost pretty, dark hair cut close around the clean features. But it was a tired face, a little strained and hard—with the deadpan look of an athlete going through the monotony of the daily training grind.

Watching the smooth ripple of muscles as she moved about, the small pointed breasts shaking under her tight blouse... left me confused. There wasn't anything sexy about her. I almost suspected she had a lot of man in her —yet I found myself completely forgetting Louise, had that tight-hot feeling inside me I get when I want a girl real bad. I was as warm as a...

Bobo nudged me in the ribs. “That little hunk of fine stuff on our suspect list?”

“I'm sure going to find out,” I called over my shoulder as I stepped out of the car. Walking through the wire-fence doorway, I stopped about ten feet from her, watching the sure way her legs moved, the determined expression on her face as she whacked the ball—and she could really punish the pill.

The ball hit a warped plank of the wooden wall, went off at an angle. She reached too far to her right for it, lost her balance. As she fell, she neatly tossed the racket aside, broke the fall by slapping the hard court with her outstretched right hand, and with her left hand down by her strong hips. I ran over as she sat up, asked, “Hurt, Miss Shelton?”

She shook her head, jumped up. I got the racket. “Where did you learn how to fall? Judo?”

“You know judo?” she asked, looking me over coolly.

“Black Belt, First Degree,” I said and her eyes said she thought I was a liar.

“How did you know my name? Tennis fan?”

“Going to be. I'm Hal Darling. The janitor at your house said I'd find you here.”

She went over to a bench in the shade of the shack she'd been bouncing the ball against, brushed herself off, tossed a sweater on her shoulders as she sat down. She was sweating a little, but not as much as she should, a sign she was overtrained. But even her sweat smelt like perfume to me.

“All right, Mr. Darling—what is it?” Her voice was hard and tough, yet I had a feeling it was all a sham—an old act.

“I'm a detective and...”

“Christ, I've seen enough detectives.”

“Private dick. Have ideas about your father's murder.”

“Not interested in hiring you. The police are handling the hold-up and...”

I wanted to jar her. “I didn't ask you to hire me. And it wasn't a hold-up, it was deliberate murder.”

Nothing happened, except her eyes narrowed and her large mouth tightened. “The police will be interested in you—your ideas.”

“Going to the police when I can prove my... eh... ideas. Look, I was working on another case, but it keeps crisscrossing your father's murder, so I...”

“Murder?” she snapped. “I guess a hold-up killing can be called that.”

I wanted to reach over and stroke her tense face, or slap the coldness out of it. “Two more killings make it out-and-out murder. Interested in finding the killer...?”

“Yes!” she said with a savage fierceness that made me jump. “I must find the killers!”

I waved my hands. “We have a lot in common, same size, judo, now this. I'd like to ask you some questions, frank ones that may...”

“Be as frank as you wish.”

“Thanks. Mr. Shelton come into any money before he died? Talk of expecting any?”

“No.”

“Did he gamble, play the market, seem in debt... have any women...?”

She looked away as she said, “If you knew my father....”

“Hear he was a tight guy with a buck. Was he in any kind of money trouble?”

“Never.”

“Did a phony detective search your place week or so before the shooting?”

Now she stared at me. “Why, yes, a man from some insurance company. How did you know?”

“Upset your father a lot?”

She nodded. “His life followed a certain mold, anything out of way upset him.”

“Then why didn't he report it to the banks, to the cops?”