Read Online The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard S. Prather
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were still a few more lines to put out.
I left the car in front of the Spartan, trotted in and got my key at the desk, then walked slowly up to 212, thinking. I was jabbing the key at the lock when I noticed the little metal flag over the keyhole. It looked like part of the design, only I knew it shouldnât have been in evidence unless somebody, while I was out, had let himself in.
Or, of course, herself.
Actually, the only previous time my little alarm system had tipped me to somebodyâs presence inside, I had sprung in with my .38 Colt Special ready and cocked and had come within an inch of shooting a gorgeous belle named Lucretia, an acrobatic dancer who, in the moment of my bursting-in, became more acrobatic than even she in her dizziest dreams had dreamed she could become.
The desk clerk had let her in, gasp, sheâd said. He must have, gasp, forgotten to tell me. I was still thinking about that when I went in this time, so I was smiling. Oh, I did it right. Key in the lock silently, door open and me bent low and inside in a hurry. But the basically amusing episode was still in my thoughts, so I guess I was still smiling when I shot the guy.
He was standing near the wall on my right, gun in his hand. In his hand, but not pointed at me. Heâd been waiting for a sound, probably the key in the lock, knob turning, and hadnât heard it. Not in time.
He was a big man, with the pale face that comes from avoiding sunlightâor from a stretch in stirâand he moved suddenly, whipping the gun toward me like a man starting to throw a ball. I pumped two into him before he could get the gun aimed at me and I saw him bend forward as his eyes closed.
He didnât go down, but his gun arm kept moving, toward me and past, sinking toward the floor. But the heat was still in his hand and I fired one more slug into his chest. Then he dropped the gun.
He staggered back, hit the wall. His eyes opened. Slowly he slid down until his seat hit the floor. His arms hung limp at his sides, backs of his hands on my yellow-gold carpet, palms up and fingers curling. Blood gushed up into his throat and slid over his lower lip.
I jumped to him, kicked his gun away, and said, âWas this your own idea, or did somebody send you?â
He blinked at me, licked his wet lips. âWhereâd you come from?â he said. The words were quite clear.
He didnât know how bad he was hit. Sometimes itâs like that, the shock dulls pain, dulls comprehension. He didnât know; but I thought I did. I gave him a minute, or seconds. These were the last sweet moments of his life.
âHurry up, you bastard,â I said.
I raised the gun toward his face, thumbed back the hammer again.
He coughed. âWasnât my idea,â he said. âIt was a job. A G now, andâ¦â His head went back suddenly, then rolled a little to the side. In a couple of seconds he was looking at me again, but there was something in his eyes that hadnât been there before.
âSpill,â I said. âOr do you want one in the teeth? Who sent you here? Who hired you?â
âSpaniel. He told me his name was Al Spaniel. Give me the G and said ââ He stopped.
Now we both knew.
Nothing more was said. Even if he could have spoken, I imagine he was too busy thinking to speak. Too much to think about, and too little time. Well, they should think about that before they start dying.
His eyes didnât close. He just slumped back a little more and slid sideways down the wall, head turning on a rubbery neck. His dark hair left a faint smear of oil behind him.
I looked him over, checked his pulse, his pupils. He wasnât out; he was dead.
I was on the phone and dialing before it hit me.
I hung up as racket sounded in the hallway. Thumping feet, shouts. It took me a minute to calm the startled tenants, shoo most of them away and shut the door on the few remaining. Then I went back and stood by the phone
I left the car in front of the Spartan, trotted in and got my key at the desk, then walked slowly up to 212, thinking. I was jabbing the key at the lock when I noticed the little metal flag over the keyhole. It looked like part of the design, only I knew it shouldnât have been in evidence unless somebody, while I was out, had let himself in.
Or, of course, herself.
Actually, the only previous time my little alarm system had tipped me to somebodyâs presence inside, I had sprung in with my .38 Colt Special ready and cocked and had come within an inch of shooting a gorgeous belle named Lucretia, an acrobatic dancer who, in the moment of my bursting-in, became more acrobatic than even she in her dizziest dreams had dreamed she could become.
The desk clerk had let her in, gasp, sheâd said. He must have, gasp, forgotten to tell me. I was still thinking about that when I went in this time, so I was smiling. Oh, I did it right. Key in the lock silently, door open and me bent low and inside in a hurry. But the basically amusing episode was still in my thoughts, so I guess I was still smiling when I shot the guy.
He was standing near the wall on my right, gun in his hand. In his hand, but not pointed at me. Heâd been waiting for a sound, probably the key in the lock, knob turning, and hadnât heard it. Not in time.
He was a big man, with the pale face that comes from avoiding sunlightâor from a stretch in stirâand he moved suddenly, whipping the gun toward me like a man starting to throw a ball. I pumped two into him before he could get the gun aimed at me and I saw him bend forward as his eyes closed.
He didnât go down, but his gun arm kept moving, toward me and past, sinking toward the floor. But the heat was still in his hand and I fired one more slug into his chest. Then he dropped the gun.
He staggered back, hit the wall. His eyes opened. Slowly he slid down until his seat hit the floor. His arms hung limp at his sides, backs of his hands on my yellow-gold carpet, palms up and fingers curling. Blood gushed up into his throat and slid over his lower lip.
I jumped to him, kicked his gun away, and said, âWas this your own idea, or did somebody send you?â
He blinked at me, licked his wet lips. âWhereâd you come from?â he said. The words were quite clear.
He didnât know how bad he was hit. Sometimes itâs like that, the shock dulls pain, dulls comprehension. He didnât know; but I thought I did. I gave him a minute, or seconds. These were the last sweet moments of his life.
âHurry up, you bastard,â I said.
I raised the gun toward his face, thumbed back the hammer again.
He coughed. âWasnât my idea,â he said. âIt was a job. A G now, andâ¦â His head went back suddenly, then rolled a little to the side. In a couple of seconds he was looking at me again, but there was something in his eyes that hadnât been there before.
âSpill,â I said. âOr do you want one in the teeth? Who sent you here? Who hired you?â
âSpaniel. He told me his name was Al Spaniel. Give me the G and said ââ He stopped.
Now we both knew.
Nothing more was said. Even if he could have spoken, I imagine he was too busy thinking to speak. Too much to think about, and too little time. Well, they should think about that before they start dying.
His eyes didnât close. He just slumped back a little more and slid sideways down the wall, head turning on a rubbery neck. His dark hair left a faint smear of oil behind him.
I looked him over, checked his pulse, his pupils. He wasnât out; he was dead.
I was on the phone and dialing before it hit me.
I hung up as racket sounded in the hallway. Thumping feet, shouts. It took me a minute to calm the startled tenants, shoo most of them away and shut the door on the few remaining. Then I went back and stood by the phone
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