The Pop-Op Caper

The room was full of naked blondes. An even dozen of them were sprawled across the blood-soaked Persian rug like so many big, beautiful, broken dolls--and the weasel-faced kid with the wild purple eyes was coming at me, fast, a smoking cannon in each crippled fist. I knew he was kill-crazy. Twelve natural blondes had died under his guns in the last five minutes, and I was next.

The kid was grinning, his thin, scarred lips pulled back from pointy little teeth. God, but he was ugly! My arms were useless; he'd already planted a slug in each of them, so I kicked out desperately at him. And missed. He raked the side of my face with one of his irons and I went down hard. Both cannons were aimed at my head.

Insane purple light danced in the kid's eyes. Then, still grinning, he fired--and my skull exploded into raw, red fire.

At this point, I was either dead or dreaming. And I wasn't dead.

The swivel chair woke me. I'd leaned back so far in it that my head cracked the window frame behind my desk. I blinked death out of my eyes and rubbed my scalp, wondering whether I was glad to be alive or not. At my age, where I worked and for what I got, I couldn't be sure.

Outside my crummy office, the smog pressed down over the city like a hangman's shroud. It was July in the armpit. That's what I call this rat-lousy downtown section of Greater Los Angeles below Spring, where I grub for bread. Wino heaven. Geek Street. The armpit of L.A.

I tried to read the Times, but it depressed me. The news stories were no worse than usual--war, death, rape, kidnaping, murder, revolution, starvation, suicide--but it was Thursday and I hadn't seen a client all week, so I was allowing myself the luxury of depression.

Take suicide. Here was a story about a rich punk, Anson DeWitt, Jr., whose father owned half of Florida. The kid had driven his brand-new Cobra right off a cliff in the Palisades. They found a note in his pocket indicating he was in some kind of trouble over a bad debt. Dumb. That's all it was. A dumbhead thing to turn off the lights over dough when your old man owns half of Florida. It depressed me.

The sun was down and that meant I could go home.

No dames to peek at through hotel keyholes; no bums to roust for unpaid bills. The ills of society weren't paying me a goddamn cent this week.

I opened the top drawer of my desk and took out a sadly depleted bottle of Scotch. Emptied it in three swallows. That made me feel a little more human, but meaner because the last of the Scotch was gone. I was putting on my coat, my back to the open door, when I heard a guy say, "Are you available, Mr. Challis?"

I finished putting on the coat, then turned to see who my potential client was. Tallish. Elegant-looking. Gray-white hair. Tailored cashmere jacket. His kind didn't belong in the armpit. I wondered what he wanted with me, so I asked him.

"I want you to find a white 1967 Cadillac sedan," he said, sitting down in my dusty, cracked-leather clients' chair. He looked up at me with the gold-flecked eyes of a hunting hawk.

"Yours?"

"My wife's. It was--taken."

"So call a public cop. I'm private."

"There are ..." He smiled gently over the word. "... complications."

"The Cad hot?"

"No."

"Got junk in it?"

He shook his elegant head. "No illegal drugs. In fact, there's nothing illegal in any way about the automobile. I simply want it located quickly, without publicity--for personal reasons."

"Then let's get personal. I work with the deck on the table."

"Very well." He fixed me with his hawk's eyes. "My name is Gibney Eugene Raphael. My wife's name is Angeline--Angela--and the car is registered in her name. It was an anniversary gift. We've had twelve happy years together."

"Get to the point, Mr. Raphael. I don't require a rundown on your marital bliss."

"Ah--but you do. I'm here because the happy years are ending. My wife is having an affair with the man who took her Cadillac."

"If you know who snatched it, then why----"

"Because I'm not equipped to track it down on my own. That's why I came to you. Angela swears the car was stolen, but I'm sure she gave it to this man, to her lover, who is keeping it hidden until she can collect the insurance. The money she receives will allow her to run off with this fellow."

"You keep her strapped, eh?"

Again I got the gentle smile. "Angela has her allowance, but it is not substantial enough for her purposes in this instance."

I sighed, rubbing my sore head. "You want me to locate the car and prove this guy has it stashed for her?"

"Exactly."

"And if I find it? What will you do then?"

"I shall punish her in my own fashion. I don't want the papers to get wind of the facts, since I dislike playing the cuckold for our national press. Of course, Angela has already notified the police, representing it as an ordinary theft."

"Where does loverboy hang out?"

"He's no boy. His name is Sidney Arlinger. Man in his late forties. Manages a small club in Las Vegas, the Cool Cat. I'll provide you with his home address. I have a strong hunch the car is in his garage. Do we have a deal?"

Raphael got out a hand-tooled-leather wallet and selected some impressive bread. I folded it into my hot little palm. Now I was smiling. "Yeah," I said, "we have a deal."

• • •

The room was full of naked blondes.

But this time I wasn't dreaming. The room was Marla Tate's boudoir and she had mirrors set in the walls and ceiling, reflecting her cream-gold body. Marla was on the bed taking a sun bath when I walked in. I killed the sun lamp and said hello.

"Hi, lover," she murmured in a voice you could pet a cat with.

"Had a dream about you," I told her. "You were dead, with eleven other blondes."

"Ummm. I'd hate being dead."

"It'd be a helluva waste," I admitted, walking toward her.

She rolled over on her back and smiled at me. She had on a pair of eye plugs, or whatever you call them, so she couldn't see me. I didn't bother to take them off. Everything else was already off.

Later, I said, "Why don't we get married and make this legal?"

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

She flipped off the plugs, walked over to her dressing table and began to brush her hair.

I lit a cigarette and relaxed, watching the smooth play of muscles along her back. Marla was, as they say, a lot of girl. We'd known each other for over a month and I still wasn't tired of her.

"I'm gonna be gone for a day, maybe two. Up to Vegas for a client."

"Bring me back a silver dollar."

"Can't. They replaced 'em. No more cartwheels in Vegas."

"Then bring me back Frank Sinatra."

"Can't. They replaced him with Dean Martin."

I leaned over her and fingered the velvet skin along her shoulders. She was one of those soap girls, carved right out of a giant bar of Lux. She smelled delicious. I nibbled her neck.

"MMMMmmm."

"Check my answering service in the morning for messages," I said. "Not that I expect any, but one never knows."

"'K," she agreed, turning to fold herself into my arms. "When do you have to leave?"

"Now," I said.

"Damn," she said.

• • •

All the way to Vegas, I kept thinking how much I didn't buy this case. Too many loose ends. If Angela Raphael wanted to run away, why pull such a complicated gig? If she needed the scratch, why not get it from this Arlinger guy? And if he was too poor to supply it, why would he be dumb enough to agree to stash her Cad? Spooky. But it paid the rent and mine was overdue--so I'd go along with the tricky Mr. Raphael. But I'd also keep my eyes wide open.

It was dark when I drove into town. No, not dark; it's never dark in Vegas. The main stem glittered like 10,000 Christmas trees and I eased the Chevy to the curb in front of a giant, illuminated cowboy who was maybe 50 feet high.

The Cool Cat was half a block down, with a neon kitten in a tux blinking across the facade. Raphael had suggested I give the place a look-over to make sure Arlinger was working the floor. If so, I could proceed to check out his garage without worrying about being interrupted.

I had a photo of Sidney Arlinger. Beefy guy with a Chaplin mustache and lots of teeth in his smile. I'd know him when I saw him.

Inside the club, at the bar, I let my eyes adjust as the barman laid a Scotch on me. By the time my glass was half empty, I'd spotted Arlinger. He was conversing with a neat number in gossamer hose by the rear door. Now I could move.

On my way out, a meaty broad in a dress that plunged lower than the stock market in '29 gave me a husky come-on: "Why the rush, sugar?"

"My rich aunt just died in a balloon explosion," I told her. "I have to pick up my inheritance."

"Take me along."

"Sorry. I only pick up one bundle at a time."

Outside, as I drove away, I saw a dark-red Pontiac slip in behind me. It rode my tail, a block back. Which was not good, because I'd seen the same red Pontiac earlier in the evening. Maybe Mr. Raphael didn't trust his employees.

I rolled on out to the Strip--greenback country--where the big clubs operate, past the Sands, the Stardust, the Dunes and the rest of them. The Pontiac stayed well back in traffic, riding me like a pro. I decided to go ahead and check out Arlinger's garage, since it figured the guy in the Pont would know where I was headed. I'd let him play out his hand.

The bright lights of the Strip faded into normally lit residential streets. Sometimes you forget real people live in real houses in Vegas. I braked the Chevy and got out. The gun under my coat felt warm and comforting; it's nice to have at least one friend you can trust, and I trusted my .38 Smith and W. in its spring-clip holster.

Arlinger's place was Las Vegas modern: a pink-stucco flat-roofed job, silent and lifeless. I stepped around to the rear of the house, moved along the pebbled drive.

The garage door began sliding up. Apparently I'd broken a hidden eye beam I didn't know about. Raphael hadn't mentioned it.

There she was: a ghost-white Cad sedan, all chrome and custom leather, sitting in the garage waiting for some chump to find her. Because that's what I was, a chump who'd been sold out. People who hide Cadillacs don't leave them in unlocked garages. Raphael had a reason for getting me here, and it had nothing to do with his mate's love life.

A crunch of gravel spun me around. I had my .38 out and was halfway to cover when a gun began spitting at me like grease on a hot skillet. I felt a sharp tug at my coat as a slug whipped through it. Then I was belly-flat behind a mass of thick shrub, ready to exchange ballistic greetings.

I aimed just below a blue-orange stab of fire and triggered off a couple. A grunt. Then a broken, wet, rattling cough.

"Damn you, Challis!"

He came staggering out of the trees into the filtered light of the drive, and I didn't do a thing. I didn't have to. He was already as good as dead.

He didn't ring any bells with me. Bony face, with a nose like a cavalry saber. A long scar lived under the nose, tucking itself into his neck.

"Why'd you try and tag me?" I asked him. I stood up. He'd dropped his iron, so it was safe enough.

"Damn you, Challis!"

"You're repeating yourself," I said. "Try answering my question."

"Try going to hell!" he whispered, and flopped over.

His wallet told me this pile of dead meat had been a guy named Samuel Meehan--and that put him into focus for me. Sad Sammy Meehan, a runt from Chi with his iron for hire. Paid (by Raphael?) to put me away. Why?

I took a quick gander at the Cad. It bore Nevada plates and was properly dated and registered to Sidney W. Arlinger at this address. Which meant Raphael had lied about the car all the way down the line. I wasn't surprised.

I backed through the hidden eye and the door slid closed.

Getting out my pocketknife, I pried my slug out of Sad Sammy's chest and left him for the cops to find. They'd be glad someone put the freeze on him. One less crumb on the table. With the used slug in my pocket, I was home free.

In the morning, I'd be asking Mr. Raphael some pertinent questions, but before driving back to L. A., I needed a little sacktime.

• • •

The hot-eyed chick behind the desk at the Gambler's Choice Motel looked me up and down and said, "You alone, sweetie?"

"I have my mother-in-law in the trunk," I said. "Then there's the guy under the hood. He's an engine nut. Likes to stay close to his work."

"Just askin", that's all." She looked miffed. "That'll be ten bucks for a single."

I paid and she gave me a key.

The room smelled of disinfectant. I opened a window to let in some gambler's air, and when I turned back toward the bed, a tall guy was standing in front of it with a Colt Woodsman in his hand. Aimed at me. His dark skin was pitted like the hull of a rusty freighter and a pair of tobacco-brown eyes burned out of a hard, square face that could take a lot of beatings and not crack much. It was a face that never smiled.

"Haven't I played this scene once tonight?" I said.

"Yeah--but this time, you won't be around for no curtain calls."

I knew the bo. "You're Indian O'Toole, from Cincy."

"Right, chum."

"And Gib Raphael hired you to kill me?"

"That's for me to know and you to wonder about."

I was trying to buy some time, but O'Toole's Colt moved a half inch to the left--to level on my heart area. The Indian was through talking. His iron would finish the conversation. It would tell me I was dead.

I was about to try for O'Toole's gun hand, certain I'd never live to reach it, when three muffled thuds lifted my guest off his feet and put him on the bed.

A fat little man with a square mustache stepped through the door, unscrewing a silencer from the barrel of a Luger. He walked over to the bed, looked calmly down at Indian O'Toole. "He'll ruin the mattress."

"He almost ruined me. Thanks for the target work."

"I don't believe we've met. I'm Sidney Arlinger."

He slipped the gun into his pocket and extended a chubby hand. I shook it. "Bart Challis. Private detective from L.A."

"Do they have anything to drink here?"

"I can ring for the maid, but she might want to make the bed."

"Forget it," said Arlinger. "I'm just--kind of tense."

"Welcome to the club. I've been that way for the last fifteen years."

Arlinger slumped down heavily in an overstuffed chair by the wall. I did some pacing while we talked.

"Can you explain why two hoods tried to chill me tonight, Mr. Arlinger?"

"Possibly. First, would you care to tell me why you were trying to steal my Cadillac?"

I grinned. "That's a switch. I was told you were the boy who took it away from a gal named Angela Raphael. Know her?"

"Of course I know her. We've been ... very close."

"Like close enough to shack up together?"

He looked disturbed. A blue vein pulsed in his forehead. "She's happily married to Raphael. And is completely faithful to him. Did he tell you she wasn't?"

I told him what Raphael had told me.

"All lies. You were the patsy. After (continued on page 86) The Pop-Pop Caper (continued from page 80) Sammy killed you, he would have put a slug from your .38 into me and placed me behind the wheel of the Cadillac. Then he would have put his gun in my hand. To the police it would appear that you and I had shot each other during an attempt, on your part, to steal my car."

"Why should Raphael pick me?"

"You are a poor man, a private investigator of dubious character. The police would believe you saw a chance to lift a car for some quick money. People a whole lot more respectable have tried it."

"And where did you just jump up from? How did you know I was at this motel?"

Arlinger shifted his bulk in the chair, nervously fingered his mustache. "I was lured into the alley behind my club shortly after your visit there. I was abducted by Meehan and taken to my home, where I was left tied in Meehan's car while he attempted to gun you."

"Red Pontiac?"

"No. The Pontiac belonged to O'Toole, who was backup man on the operation. When Sammy didn't return, I managed to free myself. O'Toole had parked farther back, awaiting Meehan. When he saw your car pull away, he knew the job had been botched and followed you here to this motel. I trailed along."

"Exactly why does Raphael want you dead?"

"I have no idea. Gib and I have been close friends for years. I'm truly mystified."

His eyes told me he wasn't spilling all he knew.

"I'll have a stern talk with Mr. Raphael about this," I said.

"You'd better be careful. Gib won't be pleased you're still alive."

"Look--can you handle the Indian?"

"Certainly. I'll tell the police that O'Toole tried to rob me and that I was forced to shoot him. He staggered blindly into your room to die. You won't be implicated in any way. As a substantial property holder and owner of the Cool Cat, I wield a certain amount of influence in town."

"Owner? I thought you just managed the joint."

"Another falsehood. Gib wanted you to think I needed money. I don't. I am very rich, Mr. Challis. Rich enough to pay you for saving my life."

He handed me a sheaf of fresh green. I pocketed it without an argument. If this kept up, I'd be the richest stiff in the morgue.

I'd arrived in Vegas working for Gib Raphael. Now I left on Sid Arlinger's money. I was getting sweet music out of both ends of the horn.

• • •

The lobby of the Golden Roxy Hotel smelled like somebody's old bathrobe. I was in Hollywood, the seedy end of it near Western, where you can get a haircut or a mug job for the same price.

The leathery crone behind the desk gave me a gimpy stare. "Whatcha want?"

"I was hoping for an orgy," I told her, laying a folder five-dollar bill on the counter, "but I'll settle for Myna O'Toole's room number."

Her claw snapped down over the fiver and she smiled. It was awful to watch; her mouth looked like a bomb crater. "That'll be number thirty-nine, mister. Third floor. Take the stairs up. We ain't got no elevator."

"Myna in now?"

"She ain't ridin' bareback at the circus."

The stairs were as dark as a pawnbroker's soul, but I managed them--and laid my knuckles on the unpainted door of room 39.

The door squeaked open a few inches and a woman's face peered from the crack. It was a tired, used-up face. "If you're law, I'm clean," said Myna O'Toole. "Been off the stuff for months."

"Relax," I said. "I'm a friend of Indian's."

"Where is the bastard?"

"Croaked. Bought it last night. Can we talk?"

She shrugged and moved back, pulling the frayed ends of a colorless terry-cloth robe closer around her gaunt body. Her hair was a rat's nest of dyed red.

I stepped in to face a florid mass of flab sitting on the fold-down bed.

"This here's the house dick," she said. "Name's Bannister. He's just leavin'--aincha, Fats?"

Fats Bannister poked a dead cigar into his face, pulled on a stained pair of blue slacks and buttoned a wrinkled shirt over the swell of his gut. He was flushed with booze and mean-looking. I stood aside as he lumbered from the room.

"S' long, Fats," said the girl, shutting the door after him. "I've got to give a little to Fats to stay out of stir," she told me. "I'm on horse and he keeps the fuzz off. Now, honey, tell me all about my late husband."

"Nothing much to tell. He tried to chill me in Vegas and another party intervened. I got your name from his wallet."

"Whatcha want with me?"

"Talk."

She slumped into a broken-backed sofa and I sat down on the bed. The air was sour with cheap whiskey.

"Well, snap it up. I don't feel so hot."

"Who hired Indian when he worked out of L.A.?"

"Plenty of people."

"People named Raphael?"

"Gib Raphael gave him a job now and then." She scratched her rat's nest.

"Maybe Lorrie could help ya. She knows Raphael real good."

"How good?"

"Good enough to make it with him whenever he stops by to see her. She's a looker."

"Last name?"

"Maddox. Lorraine Maddox. We usta pal around before I got on the stuff. She lives somewhere in Studio City now. I know her and Raphael been makin' it for over a year. They dig each other."

"You got a phone?"

"End of the hall."

"Thanks." I started to leave but felt her fingers close on my arm.

"Why not stick around--and console a grieving widow?"

"Love to, but I was crippled in the War," I said. "Got nothing below the belt but shiny scar tissue."

She yelled something obscene at me as I headed for the phone.

Under a dim overhead bulb that hadn't been changed since Teddy Roosevelt was elected President, I looked up Lorraine Maddox and dialed her Studio City number.

"Yeah?" A tough feminine voice.

"Hello--Lorraine?"

"Who's this?"

"Challis. Private cop. I just got back from Vegas, where your boy Raphael sent two hoods to chill me. They're both dead now and I'd like to discuss the situation."

Her toughness dissolved into fear. "Then it's started!"

"What has?"

"The killing. I was scared it would. God, it's gonna be a bloodbath!"

She obviously knew a lot more than I did.

"I need some inside info. Can you supply it?"

She hesitated. I could hear her breathing fast.

"OK. I'm ten kinds of chump for spilling to you, but I'm liable to get it next if someone doesn't stop this thing now."

"I'll be right over."

"No ... not here. I don't want to be seen with you. Listen, meet me at the Arapaho Bookshop on Hollywood Boulevard. In their pop-art room."

"You mean the place in back where they keep all the old comic books?"

"That's it. They lock the room in the mornings, but I know the owner. He'll give me a key. We can talk in private there."

"When?"

"Gimme time to pick up the key on the way. Meet you there in half an hour."

"Check," I said.

I ankled into the bar next door to the Roxy and had myself a cold beer. Hunting down Myna O'Toole had paid off. I'd figured both Raphael and Arlinger were (continued on page 185) The Pop-Op Caper (continued from page 86) lying. Now I was close to some truth for the first time since this caper began.

• • •

The Arapaho specialized in used books and back-issue mags; and unless you knew where to look, you'd never connect this store with the pop-art craze. A small yellow card in the window was the only clue to their "by appointment only" comics room, which featured stuff such as the first copy of Batman, which you could whisk home for a hundred fish. Other collector's items sold for double that price. I'd never seen the room, but the window card described it as "a collector's wall-to-wall paradise."

It reminded me of the way some of the New York, shops handled their porno line. In L.A., pop art was right up there with sex.

I climbed the carpeted steps to the mezzanine balcony and scanned the area for a nervous-looking chick. Who'd be Miss Maddox.

"Help you, sir?" a bald guy asked. He blinked as though he hadn't been outside a book cover in years; his skin looked white enough to ski on.

"I'm here to meet a young lady."

"Right on back, sir. She's in our pop-classics room waiting for you."

I walked to the rear of the building, between narrow rows of packed bookcases, to a door with a Batman poster tacked to it. I tried the handle. The door was unlocked. I stepped in.

The card in the window had been correct in its description: All four walls were ablaze with caped heroes in long underwear. Captain Marvel, lightning bolt and all, rode a torpedo in one corner; the Phantom wrestled a fat yellow tiger in another; Batman and Robin were locked in battle with some clown-faced weirdo in a purple tux. The room was rafter-jammed with comic books spilling out of shelves and boxes.

But none of this really held my attention; Lorraine Maddox did. A beautiful broad. Early 20s. Ash-blonde hair. Powder-blue knit dress that cooperated with her figure.

Lorraine didn't say anything--but her cut throat gave me a wide red smile, and it didn't require a medical degree to know she was as stiff as a headwaiter's shirt. She'd spoiled a collector's stack of pre-War comics; blood-soaked issues of Superman are hard to hustle.

I didn't touch her, but I did go through her purse, being damn careful not to leave any prints. I found the usual woman's goop. Except for two items: a news clip on the Palisades death of Anson DeWitt, Jr. (with all the details about the suicide note underlined), and a photo of Miss Maddox in amorous embrace with her light o' love.

Not Gib Raphael.

The man in the photo was Sidney Arlinger.

• • •

I've always believed in the direct approach. You want facts, you go to the source. And right now, the last person Gib Raphael expected to walk up to his front door was me. I was supposed to be Vegas dog meat. Mr. R. would be unpleasantly surprised; and if I didn't get myself killed or beaten silly, I just might get some of the answers I was after.

I took the Chevy down Sunset into Beverly Hills. Raphael's pad was on Bedford Drive, on the expensive side of town, and I had no trouble finding his big white pseudo-Colonial mansion set back on a stretch of trimmed lawn like a tall ship on a green sea.

I got out and surveyed the place, No activity. No cars in the curved outer drive. Halfway up the twist of white gravel, I was stopped by a bulldog voice that growled: "Hold it, fella."

A character with a hard set of biceps approached me. Young. Nasty. Red-lidded eyes. The kind of guy you go out counting your teeth after talking to.

"I want to see the boss."

"The boss ain't home. So dust."

"Where is he?"

"Who's askin'?"

"Just answer the question."

"Dust, I said."

"Suppose I don't?"

"Suppose I break you up a little?" He smiled. "I like to take jokers like you apart just to hear their bones snap."

"Surely you're not threatening me with physical harm? Pardon me while I quaver."

"One more time I'll tell you, pally. Move out!"

"Go milk an elephant!"

We didn't say anything else. We were too busy trying to beat hell out of each other. He was good, and I had to sweat more than a little to put him away. Finally, though, he was slumbering on the lawn as sweet as a bottle baby. I dragged him into the bushes, checked his wallet (his name was Walt Hotcher) and went on up to the house.

An unlocked window would help, but I didn't find one. The house was as tight as a bank vault.

I decided not to press my luck. (Leaving the Arapaho with a dead dame in the back room had been risky enough.) The cops were tough in Beverly Hills and they'd love tying a break-and-enter to my tail.

Walt Hotcher was going to tell me some things. I slapped him awake and asked him where Raphael was. He didn't want to say--so I asked him with the shooting end of my .38 pressed against his skull. He suddenly got informative. Raphael was in Palm Springs, at his house there, and his wife was "visiting friends" in Baltimore. It figured; Raphael would want Angela out of the way during the caper.

"The boss has a real wild pad down at the Springs," the punk told me. "Big castle of a joint on Ramon Road. You can't miss it."

"When I leave here, you'll phone Raphael."

"Naw, I won't. I swear I won't."

"That's right, you won't," I said, putting him back to sleep with my .38.

I tied and gagged Hotcher and left him in the garage. By the time someone found him. I'd be at Raphael's.

Before I left. I gave Marla a ring at her apartment to find out if there had been any messages for me. She said a Mr. Raphael had been trying to reach me. "Yeah, with a lead slug," I said.

"Are you in trouble again, Bart?"

"Am I ever out of it? Right now, I'm on my way to the Springs to clear up a slight misunderstanding with a client. If I'm not back in twenty-four hours, you'd better go shopping for a new boyfriend."

"I worry about you, Bart."

"That makes two of us. S' long, plum-cake."

I headed for my Chevy.

• • •

On the drive down, to keep myself awake, I reviewed what I had so far on Raphael and Arlinger. Raphael had tried to set me up for Arlinger's murder--and things had happened so fast since last night that Mr. R. couldn't be sure whether or not I was still around. But by now, without any word from Meehan or O'Toole, he'd be damn worried. Raphael's car-theft story was phony; apparently he found out that Arlinger was playing in the haystack with Lorrie Maddox. And that would explain why Arlinger pretended not to know why Raphael wanted him chilled. He didn't want to tie himself to Maddox.

Which brought up the question of who'd slit Lorrie's beautiful throat. If Mr. R. was in Palm Springs and Mr. A. in Vegas, how had they (or he) found out that Lorrie was ready to spill to me? Maybe Myna O'Toole killed Lorrie to get even with Raphael for Indian's death; but that didn't jell, since Myna didn't seem to give much of a damn about Indian's buying it. No, my dough was on Arlinger for the throat job. He could have tailed me all the way from Vegas, overheard my phone conversation with Lorrie and then taken care of her.

Lorrie Maddox had personal info on the whole Raphael-Arlinger situation, and it had something to do. I was certain, with the Anson DeWitt suicide. Her killer had been in a big hurry to avoid running into me and had neglected to search her purse. That was a point for my team. And my team needed all he points it could get.

I was almost into the spa when I suddenly realized I was starving. I might have some fancy gunwork to do at Raphael's--and I hate shooting people on an empty stomach.

I rolled the Chevy into the lot of Bimbo's Pancake House on the edge of Palm Canyon Drive and got out, stretching under the hot desert sun. The air was sharp as diamonds and utterly smogless. The mountains were so clear they seemed to jump at me.

A motor scooter barked into the lot, ridden by a kid in a zebra-striped zipper jacket with BUG off, CHESTER! stitched across the back. His hair was long enough to harvest and a purple bruise puffed one eye. He looked sore at the world.

The sore-looking kid joined a group of intense college types inside. Under furrowed brows, they were heatedly discussing the pros and cons of African independence. Listening to them, I felt about a million years old, give or take a century; but after putting away a thick steak and three eggs, I was able to appreciate living again.

Which was more than Sad Sam, Indian O'Toole or the Maddox girl could do. I'd been involved with three stiffs since last night, with the big showdown still ahead. Somehow, I had the feeling I should be a traffic stopper; people should Oh and Ah over me. But those intense college types never gave me a look.

When I left Bimbo's, they were heatedly discussing the pros and cons of cross-fertilization.

I drove through this gaudy peacock of a town, past the Chi Chi and the sassy shops (many of them closed for the summer), on out beyond the tennis club to Ramon Road, a sharp left off Palm Canyon Drive.

I'd looked up Raphael's address and I was careful to park a half mile short of my goal. This was a necessary precaution, since Mr. R.'s sprawling layout was well separated from its neighbors. Parked cars were easy to spot over the flat desert terrain. In fact, I spotted one myself as I came in on foot: a dusty Cad sedan. White. With Nevada plates.

Arlinger!

I opened the door, ran my palm along the seat. The driver area was still warm, but the rest of the seat was cool in the air-conditioned interior. Which meant that Arlinger had arrived just ahead of me--and was alone. He could have heard about Lorrie's death on the car radio--the news guys surely had it by now--and blamed Raphael for it. Which would give him a double reason for killing Mr. R. If he hadn't killed Lorrie himself.

It was going to be an interesting afternoon.

I had run a morgue file on Mr. Gibney Eugene Raphael before leaving L.A., and this boy was a bona fide eccentric. His grand passions were pop art and classical opera--which made him a pop-op collector--and he'd studied voice in his early years, and even tried to buy his way into the Met as a tenor. They wouldn't have him. His voice was lousy and everyone knew it but Raphael. Finally, when he couldn't go pro, he built a full opera stage down here at his pad in the Springs, paying out-of-work singers to back him up in his own starring productions.

Like, wow.

At the edge of the Raphael grounds, where the sand and cactus ended and the grass began, I eased myself over a low wall and dropped behind a giant pepper tree.

Three hard-faced characters were sprinting toward me--and I knew it was no use playing coy. They'd obviously seen me take the wall. I snapped out the .38, but my thumb never reached the safety.

Crack! A leather sap decked me and the gun was kicked out of my hand. I sat up, rubbing my neck.

"Who sapped me?" I asked.

Three big hoods were standing above me holding three big guns.

"Me," said the ugliest of them. "Philly. Short for the Philly Kid. Maybe yahearda me. I handle a sap real good. These here two gennulmen are Rodeo Dutch Charlie and Trembles Bender. Real name's Mickey, but they call him Trembles, cuz he shakes a lot."

"A real pleasure," I said, standing up. My head felt like it had been used for spring football practice by the L.A. Rams.

The Philly Kid smiled at me and his teeth glittered gold. His square hands were hairy and freckled, with black, ragged nails.

"Your friend has lovely fillings," I said to the others, "but he could definitely use a manicure."

The Kid kept grinning.

"Philly don't mind clever insults," said the man called Dutch. "He's got himself a terrific sense of humor."

Trembles Bender didn't say anything. Sunlight danced on the barrel of his gun as it jerked spastically in his fist. A thread of saliva filmed his half-open mouth.

"Mr. Bender worries me," I said. "That cannon might go off and kill me. And I dislike being killed. I try to avoid it whenever possible."

"Don't worry about Trembles," said Dutch. "He knows guns like Eyeties know spaghetti. He can shoot a wart off your nose at a hundred yards while you're sneezing."

"Remind me not to catch a cold," I said.

They were giving me the fisheye. "Well, this has been a most stimulating conversation. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll be on my way."

"Your way is inside," said Trembles in a voice you could sandblast paint off buildings with. "Just keep your paws out where we can see 'em--and walk."

"I'd like to----"

"Walk!"

I walked.

Gib Raphael's Spanish-Moorish palace was a nutsy mixture of old and new: dim, varnished antique chairs, bronze lamps, marble tables, polished mahogany player pianos--versus wild pop paintings of soup cans, comic-strip heroes and giant cereal boxes, all in blazing primary colors.

The master of the house was in the library and I heard him before I saw him. A thin, reedy voice rising and falling miserably in the final aria from Pagliacci; it had to be Raphael.

The awful singing stopped just before we walked in.

Gibney Raphael was kneeling in the middle of the room, dressed in a full clown's outfit, all frills and wild polka dots and dead-white make-up, crying like a baby.

"The boss always busts up when he sings Pallyachi," said Rodeo Dutch. "Kinda touchin', ain't it?"

Raphael stood up, wiping away his tears with the edge of a lace sleeve. "I hope you'll pardon this raw display of unleashed emotion, Mr. Challis--but the loveliness of my own voice always makes me weep."

I could have told him that with a voice like his, I'd cry, too. Instead, I got down to the case at hand. "Why did you try and put Sid Arlinger on a slab?"

His gold-flecked eyes hardened. "That, after all, is none of your concern. I'm only sorry I failed to get the job done."

"You're going to be a lot sorrier with your potential victim around. He's here, you know. Arrived in the Cad just before I did."

Raphael tensed for a moment, then sighed. "I hope you'll forgive my not taking you seriously. My employees would have waylaid him."

"Your employees were too busy waylaying me. Arlinger probably slipped in while your terrible trio played ticktack-toe on my skull. If you don't believe me, send a goon out to check. Arlinger's white Cad is parked down the road."

Raphael gestured and Rodeo Dutch Charlie drifted out of the room. Splitting up the crowd helped the odds. One less gun to handle. I figured Arlinger could take care of himself.

"You'll naturally appreciate the fact that I cannot allow you to go on living," Raphael said.

"Naturally," I said, wishing I had the .38 in my hand. I'd blow this bastard's head off.

"So...." He raised a finger--and the Philly Kid nodded.

I could see Trembles Bender grinning as Phil brought up his iron to finish me. I thought of kicking out at the Kid, or jumping him, or trying to butt him to throw off the shot. Sure. I thought of a dozen ways to die.

The decision was taken out of my hands by a double thunder from a curtained alcove to the left. The first slug took out the Kid's gun hand and he literally ate the other one. The bullet entered his astonished open mouth and took out the back of his skull on the trip through. He tumbled forward into my arms and I grabbed his .38, diving sideways and firing at Bender. Raphael was behind the desk, shooting into the curtains.

I saw Sidney Arlinger duck out of them into the hall, and I heard more gunfire from that direction. Dutch Charlie must have joined the party.

I snapped another shot at Bender, then pitched myself through a half-open door into what looked like the interior of a theater. It looked like that because it was.

Raphael's private opera house.

I ran down the center aisle, with guns crashing behind me, vaulted onto the stage and bellied down for some return action. Trembles Bender charged the aisle, an iron spitting orange in his hand. I squeezed off three shots and he took two of them in his chest, spilling him back into a row of seats. The gun dropped. He didn't know he'd lost it. I held my fire, watching him. Bender staggered like a drunk on opening night, collapsing into a seat. His eyes glazed. He wasn't grinning anymore. He was very, very dead.

I heard a scuffle of shoes backstage and twisted for a shooting angle. Too late. A slug caught me below the left shoulder, slamming me onto my back. It was Gib Raphael, clown suit and all, trying to finish the job he'd started.

I triggered my .38 and missed.

"Too bad, Mr. Challis--but you lack stage presence," he said, kicking the gun from my hand. I grabbed his ankle, pulling him off balance, and his second shot fanned up splinter an inch from my cheek.

Sidney Arlinger saved my life for the third time that week.

I had counted myself dead, but I didn't know that Raphael had already bought his in the library in that first exchange of lead. Now he stumbled, coughed blood, fell to his knees.

"'La commedia e finita,'" he said.

And died.

Silence. The smell of gunpowder and grease paint.

I slipped down into the aisle, moved to the door and eased it open.

Arlinger was lying on his face in the hall, next to Rodeo Dutch Charlie. They were both slab cases. Each had gunned the other. Lorrie Maddox had named it, and she was so right.

A bloodbath.

• • •

I had some hefty explaining to do before the case was officially closed. First with the law, then with Marla Tate at her apartment. A lot of pieces had fallen into place after the shooting stopped.

"Who killed the Maddox girl?" Marla asked me. "I know it was either Arlinger or Raphael."

"Negative," I told her. "The guy I swapped knuckles with in Beverly Hills and left in the garage--Hotcher--has admitted killing Lorrie in the Arapaho after she'd talked with me. He had her phone bugged."

"But didn't you tell me she was Raphael's mistress?"

"Negative. That was before she met Arlinger."

"Then she loved Arlinger?"

"Negative. He loved her, but she dug Hotcher."

Marla shook her lovely head. "I don't get it. I just don't."

"She knew who Anson DeWitt, Jr., really was and why he committed suicide."

"You mean the suicide boy used a phony name?"

"Negative. He thought he was Anson DeWitt, Jr. But he wasn't."

"Then who was he?"

"Gib Raphael's blood son. Abandoned as a baby in Florida when Raphael was running from the law after a bank job. Old DeWitt adopted him, raised him as his own. He grew into a spoiled apple. Gambled. Got in debt up to his eyeballs. Enter Arlinger."

"Then Arlinger knew he was Raphael's son?"

"Negative. He didn't connect him with Raphael. It was simple business: The boy was in hock to Arlinger and the squeeze was on to pay up. When the kid drove off a cliff, Raphael blamed Sid Arlinger for his death. That's when he got the idea of using a dumb op--me--as the fall guy in an attempt to chill Arlinger."

"But how did Hotcher get into it?"

"On the blackmail end. He'd nosed it all out and was going to put the screws to Raphael for a pay-off to keep quiet. After the murder, of course."

"I'm hopelessly lost, Bart. Finding out who killed who, or whom, in these complicated capers always gives me a terrible headache. But I think I've got it now. Hotcher killed Lorrie Maddox because she found out that he was going to blackmail her ex-lover!"

"Negative. She was in on. the deal. She and Hotcher were planning to skip on the Raphael blackmail dough. But she cracked when things went wrong and Hotcher and to kill her to keep her from spilling the truth to me."

"Ah--so that's why Arlinger came down to L.A.--to kill Hotcher."

"Negative. Arlinger didn't know about Hotcher. He figured Raphael killed the girl. Out of jealousy. So he drove down for his personal revenge."

"Then"--Marla said dizzily--"then Angela Raphael wasn't sleeping with Arlinger, after all?"

"Oh, sure she was," I said. "Raphael never really cared who Angela slept with after the doc told him she couldn't have any more kids. He lost interest in her-- so she played the field. She was even sleeping with Hotcher."

"Whew! What a sex circus."

"You just said the magic word."

"Circus?"

"No--sex."

"Bart--you have a broken arm and you're all bruised and, besides, I still don't understand how Hotcher found out about----"

I mashed my lips over hers to shut her up. She didn't say anything else for an hour. By that time, she didn't give a damn about Hotcher.

I went back to the office to count my money. I wasn't rich, but one thing was for sure: At least I could afford a full bottle of Scotch.