The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page B

other people’s art objects, including women; goateed Guy Bonicef, ex-artist, ex-art teacher, and ex-inmate of San Quentin; and an old, but still slick, three-time loser named Luigi.
    While not averse to picking up a poke of cash or the family jewels if opportunity knocked, each of them specialized in works of or objets d’art: valuable paintings, ancient Chinese jade, Ming dynasty vases and such.
    Lupo ran the tip of an index finger over his right eyebrow. “I haven’t heard anything,” he said slowly. “At least not anything definite.” He was silent for a while. “Not about a job, I mean. Nothing about Bel Air.”
    â€œYou sound like you’ve got something.”
    â€œI’m not sure. Maybe it’s nothing. It’s just I know Al Spaniel’s down on his uppers. No score for a long, long time for Al.”
    That checked with what I knew. Spaniel had, so the story went, been living off the last of his ill-gotten gains for several months, and the living was getting lean. Moreover, Spaniel was a man who liked to live high, and usually spent more on busty babes than most men spend on home, job, family, and life insurance.
    â€œThat’s no news, Lupo,” I said. “And it doesn’t mean he’d get reckless, unless he’s really broke.”
    â€œWorse than broke, the way it reached me. I hear he’s into Joe Pappa for five thousand. Which is now about seven thousand. Is that news, Scott?”
    â€œYeah. He was that broke, huh?”
    â€œBroke for him. They say Al met one of those fat redheads he goes for. You know Al.”
    I did know Al. There was no secret about Al. And Lupo’s describing whomever Al had met as a “fat redhead” was merely Lupo expressing his opinion. It was almost a certainty that, if I could see her, I would not even think of describing her as a fat redhead. Nor would Al.
    â€œFive G’s, huh?” I said. “Not exactly small change.” Joe Pappa was an unofficial bank. He’d lend a guy money at ten percent. Ten percent a week. You didn’t have to pay it all back at once. He’d settle for ten percent interest and then the principal, or a hundred percent of your blood. People should never borrow from the Joe Pappas. But they do. And a guy like Spaniel, if he saw a really “fat” redhead, and needed loot for the conquest, would not only borrow from a Joe Pappa but promise to pay off in transfusions.
    He was, indisputably, possessed of a gargantuan sexual appetite; satyr, freak, or man with a genital tapeworm, whatever the cause of his elephantine libido, it was said he had the virility of a stone statue and the perseverance in pursuit of an aphrodisiacal Javert. Or, in the language of his cohorts and those in illegal cahoots, Alston Spaniel was remarked as the horniest citizen in at least one and possibly several counties.
    â€œWhere would I find this gal?” I said. “I mean, Alston and his new amour.”
    â€œThat I don’t know, Scott.”
    â€œThink you could find out?”
    â€œI could try.”
    â€œTry.”
    â€œWhat was the score?”
    â€œArt, from Bel Air.” I grinned at him.
    He grinned back. “Yeah. So, OK.”
    â€œOK.”
    It took me an hour to run down my second informant, an ex-con named Zeke, and the dialogue was about the same as it had been with Lupo—except that my second man didn’t know anything, not even about Alston’s recent indebtedness. Didn’t know, but would go amongst ‘em and look and listen, and maybe ask a question from time to time. That was good enough for me, because Zeke was, among my informants, a kind of lieutenant, with a number of privates who reported to him.
    That done, I headed for North Rossmore and the Spartan Apartment Hotel. The night was far from over; in fact, it was only beginning for me. But I wanted to grab a sandwich at the apartment while I used the phone. There