There had been Rose — Jack Rose, ambitious to rule the western underworld. That had been the beginning. All Kells had wanted was to be left alone — he had come to Los Angeles to get away from action. But his reputation had come with him, and when he had turned down Rose’s offer of partnership, Rose had framed him for murder, because Rose thought he was planning to muscle in.
He had beaten that all right and whipsawed Rose. Now Rose was wanted for murder and was gone.
And Fenner — Fenner, the little boss of the “out” administration. Fenner’s foot had slipped too. He had overplayed his hand, had shot and killed Bellmann, his political enemy, and Kells had scared him into signing a confession and had held it over his head and had taken over his organization.
Kells had had fun for a little while. They had wanted to give him action — he gave them action. He and Shep Beery, the reporter; and Borg, who had been Fenner’s bodyguard; and Granquist, the girl from Kansas City. They’d had a swell time juggling the city, playing everything three ways from the Jack.
Granquist! Granquist had turned out to be the slip-up. She’d been Crotti’s agent all the time — Crotti, the Big Boy, head of the biggest crime ring in the country. She’d taken Kells for a swell buggy-ride. She’d waited until he got everything whipped into shape, and then she’d gone to Crotti, and Kells, not knowing that, had followed her.
Well, Crotti had propositioned him and he’d turned Crotti down. And he’d lost his coat in the fight at Crotti’s place on China Point. He’d lost his coat with a lot of cash and Fenner’s certified check for twenty-five thousand, and, most importantly, Fenner’s confession.
And he’d lost Granquist. That was a break — she’d not have a chance to doublecross him again, anyway. Everyone else had tried it and lost, but she’d succeeded.
Everybody wanted his scalp now — everybody except the ones he’d put out of commission in one way or another.
And his wounded leg... He moved it carefully and held his teeth together.
He said, “What time is it?” opened his eyes.
Borg and Shep Beery were playing cards on a table in the center of the room. Beery said: “That’s twice I’ve ruined my hand waiting for three-hundred pinochle.” He got up and came over to the bed, grinned down at Kells.
“What do you care — you’re not going any place.”
Kells looked past Beery at Borg, looked around the room. He said: “What the hell is this?”
Borg was shuffling the cards. There was a bridge lamp beside the table and the light fell squarely on his fat, pale face. He shook his head sadly without looking up.
“Slug-nutty.”
Beery sat down on the edge of the bed. He whispered confidentially: “This is the Palace, Gerry — you’re the Prince of Wales...”
“I’m Mary, Queen of Scots.” Borg looked up, smiled complacently.
Kells closed his eyes. “Give me a drink,” he said.
Beery reached over and took a tumbler, a big bottle from a stand beside the bed, poured a drink. Kells sat up slowly, carefully.
Beery handed him the glass. “You’ve been out like a light for a few days. We didn’t figure the hotel was a good spot right now so we moved you over here. It’s the Miramar, on Franklin.”
Kells held the glass with both shaking hands, tipped it, drank deeply.
Borg got up, came over and leaned on the foot of the bed. “Where do you remember to?” he asked.
Kells handed the empty glass to Beery, lay down. “When we got back from the island, I phoned Fenner — and had Bernie get a bottle...”
“Four bottles... And you sucked up three of ’em. I had to practically clip you to get a swallow. You said your leg hurt, and you wanted to get drunk...”
Kells said: “Sure, I remember...”
“You did.”
Beery chuckled. “Uh-huh,” he said. “You did.”
“Then when we got you into the hotel,” Borg went on, “an’ into bed, you started having the screaming heebies, and the Doc give you a shot in the arm — so you got worse...” Kells smiled faintly. His eyes were closed.
“The Doc was running around in circles wringing his hands because he thought the leg was going to gangrene or something. You started roaring for more M, and then when I left you alone for a minute you got up and found a tube of Hyoscine someplace, and a needle...” Borg paused, straightened up, and finished disgustedly: “And I’ll be goddamned if you didn’t shoot the whole bloody tube!”
Beery said: “Then you began to get really violent — tried to do a hundred an’ eight out the window, wanted to walk across the ceiling — things like that. We smuggled you out of the hotel and brought you over here.”
Kells said: “Give me a drink, Shep.”
He sat up again slowly, took the glass.
“How many days?”
Beery said: “Four.”
Kells drank, laughed.
“Four bottles — four days... Four’s my lucky number.” He squinted at Borg. “Once I bet four yards on a four-to-one shot in a fourth race on the Fourth of July...” He handed the glass to Beery, sank back on the pillow. “My horse came in fourth.”
Borg snorted, turned and went into the bathroom. Kells looked around the room again. “Nice joint,” he said. “How much am I paying for it?”
“I don’t know.” Beery lighted a cigarette. “Fenner has some kind of lien or mortgage or something on the building — he said he’d take care of the details.”
“It was his suggestion — bringing me here?”
Beery nodded.
“Where is he?”
“Long gone. When you told him that Crotti had his confession of the Bellmann kill, he scrammed. I got him on the phone just before he checked out of the Manhattan and he said he’d call over here and fix it for the apartment — said he’d get in touch with you later.”
Kells smiled. “All the big boys... It’s simply a process of elimination. Fenner and Rose gone — Bellmann dead. Now if we can only angle Crotti into committing suicide...” He paused, glanced at Borg coming back into the room. “Did Fat, here, tell you all about the island sequence?”
Borg said: “Sure I told him — all I knew.”
“Crotti propositioned me to come in with him on a big play to organize the whole Coast,” Kells went on. “Will you please tell me why these bastards keep dealing me in, and then figure that if I’m not for ’em I’m against ’em? First Rose — but that was an out-and-out frame; then Fenner thought he and I’d make a great team. Now, Crotti — and the funny part of that one is I think he was on the square about wanting me with him.”
Beery said: “It must be the way you wear your clothes.”
“Sure. It’s just your natural charm.” Borg made a wry face, went back to the table and began laying out solitaire.
“Of course Crotti’s got the right idea about organization.” Kells rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “But the fun in an organization is being head man.”
Beery said: “The other night at Fenner’s, when you were putting on that act for his sidekick Gowdy, you said you had some friends on the way out here. Was that a gag?”
“Certainly. I wanted to impress Gowdy with my importance to his outfit. You can get my friends in the East into a telephone booth.”
“Well, if Crotti says war” — Beery got up and went over to one of the rain-swept windows — “we’re sitting pretty...”
“Uh-huh.” Borg looked up at Kells. “In a pig’s eye. We three, an’ whatever strong-arm strength Gowdy swings — and that doesn’t amount to a hell of a lot...”
“And against us...” Beery turned from the window, stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “There’s all Crotti’s mob — and that’s supposed to be the best in the country. There’s Rose, with his syndicate behind him, and all the loogans he’s imported from back East. There’s the Bellmann outfit — they weren’t very efficient when they blew up the print shop the other day, but you can’t figure from that—”