The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page A

small bar well out the Sunset Strip. Dolly’s was not the kind of club I usually frequented, because one rarely saw lovely tomatoes in low-cut gowns in the place. There were generally lots of handsome fellows, but I don’t give a hang about looking at lots of handsome fellows.
    Not many customers were present this early in the evening, and I spotted Lupo right away. He and a heavy-set, soft-looking old duck were seated alone at the end of the bar, jawing and having a drink. I glanced around, to pick out an empty booth, and when I looked back at Lupo he’d spotted me and was walking my way.
    He was a tall, slim, good-looking man, about my age, thirty, with a brilliant smile and exceptionally long black lashes over dark eyes. He himself had been in the art-heisting dodge several years back, which was why I’d hunted him down. He’d found the racket too rich for his blood, however—especially after one jolt on the county—and now put his knowledge of the old and new masters to use from the other side of the law, and the other side of the counter, in Fancinni’s, Fine Arts, on Wilshire Boulevard. But he still knew most of his old cronies, kept his ears open, and didn’t object to a sawbuck or even a C-note from me on occasion.
    â€œHello, Scott,” he said—a bit nervously, I thought. A lot of guys get nervous around an investigator, public or private; but it could have been that we were both aware I wasn’t exactly in my element, not in Dolly’s.
    â€œI need a little help, Lupo. OK if we grab a booth while I tell you about it?”
    â€œSure.”
    He weaved through tables to an empty booth against the wall as I said, “Didn’t mean to break up a conversation, but this won’t take long.”
    I glanced around, but the guy Lupo had been talking to wasn’t at the bar now. Maybe he’d recognized me and thought I was here to put the arm on the joint.
    But Lupo said, “Conversation? Oh, that was just some chap … don’t even know his name. Just in for a drink.” He grinned. “Wanted to know if there was a topless act.”
    That was a laugh. I wondered what Lupo had told him. We ordered drinks, and after making sure nobody was bending an ear nearby I said, “You hear anything about an art heist last night?”
    He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Like what?”
    â€œA big one. Must’ve run to two hundred and fifty G’s. Place they hit was in Bel Air.”
    That was all I told him, and all I meant to tell him, at least for the moment. When you’re looking for a specific item and describe it to informants, occasionally one of them will come back with a fascinating tale about that item, making it sound very authentic—by including the identical details you earlier told him. Besides, I wasn’t quite sure about Lupo yet.
    We’d been acquainted for over a year, and he’d passed on a few tips to me in that time. But none of them had panned out; something was always missing. That’s not particularly unusual in my business—the unusual tips are the ones right on the button. Once in a while you nurse an informant along for months, even years, and then one short sentence from him saves you a week of legwork, or breaks a case, or maybe even keeps you from getting sapped—or shot—in the head.
    Besides, I liked Lupo, enjoyed talking to him. He was a kick, quick-spoken and witty, undeniably brilliant, an upbeat kind of guy.
    He shook his head. “Have you got a lead to anybody, Scott?”
    â€œNot yet. My guess is it was one of four guys. Luigi, Bonicef, Spaniel … make it three.”
    I’d just remembered the fourth man I’d had in mind could be eliminated. He was doing five to life at Folsom. So, unless somebody new was operating locally, those were the three who fitted the job in my book: Alston Spaniel, a tall, slim satyr with an insatiable appetite for