Laurel and Hardy Murders Read Online Free Page A

center line of the road, braking unmercifully and capriciously. The wind whipping into the car ruffled up the sparse graying hair from his head, revealing the bald pate that Butler took pains to minimize.
    “Just wait’ll I fix that crap Poe!” he snarled, tramping on the brakes so hard I almost sailed through the windshield.
    “Take it easy! You almost gave me a concussion!”
    “Sorry, my nerves’re jumpy, boy. Open the glove compartment and grab me a tranquilizer.”
    The “tranquilizer” turned out to be a pint of Colt 45, one of five cans of it stored where he told me to look. The empty sixth can on the floorboard rolled back and forth under my feet. The glove compartment was stuffed with road maps, greasy rags, and debris which turned out to be pieces of walnut shells.
    I tried to dissuade Butler from drinking while driving, but he snatched the can from my grip and scowled.
    “Hell, boy, this ain’t drinkin’! When we get over to my place, I’ll show you drinkin’!” He guzzled the malt beverage.
    His place turned out to be the dingy walk-up on Camac Street. It took us a good hour to reach it from the country club, even with his supersonic-speed driving. (I had to admit to myself he took it easier once he’d gotten his mitts on the brew, but I was damned if I’d give verbal sanction to the harrowing habit.)
    The car scraped to a stop along the curb and Butler lumbered out. I followed him as he wobbled down the street in a pattern reminiscent of the way he drove the Packard. Every other step or so, he mumbled something derogatory about Wayne Poe beneath his breath.
    (Later I learned the only reason Poe had been asked to appear at the Two Tars dinner was because he’d been recommended to Butler by O. J. Wheete, president of the SOTD parent tent. It figured; O. J. would probably find something nice to say about Jesse James while handing the outlaw his wallet.)
    Butler led me up a narrow stairway past empty flats that probably once were places of business. At the top, on the wall, I saw a sign, DJINN INVESTIGATIONS INC. , with an arrow pointing to the sole door on that level. There was a bell-push in the portal, but it hung loose, gutted.
    Unlocking the door, he motioned me through a cramped green room which he called his office. He parted a dusty bead curtain, flicked on the lights, unstrapped his belt and tossed it in a corner, then invited me into a chilly chamber with patches of plaster peeping out of holes in the wallpaper. It was furnished only by a cot, a table and a few chairs, a hassock, a battered old bureau, and an open safe stuffed with walnuts. There was a great quantity of cobweb and grime and the room stank of cigars.
    “You live here?” I asked, incredulous.
    Butler shrugged, scratching his ample belly. “Family pressures. I keep this place handy when it gets too hot at home. How ’bout some gin?”
    I declined. He shook his head, unable to understand my lack of interest in juniper juice. He extracted a pint from the safe, plunked it on the table, and repeated the question, or so I erroneously thought. I mentioned I’d already had enough to drink, but he shook his head and pulled some cards from his pocket—not the 3x5s with punch lines, but a greasy, dog-eared regulation poker pack.
    “Wanna play gin?” he elucidated.
    I said yes. This was a mistake. In the next two hours, Butler consumed a pint of gin, half a dozen cigars, an innumerable amount of walnuts, and approximately one-fifth of my week’s salary.
    I didn’t actually see him pull anything funny, but gin is a game eminently suited to cardsharping. You don’t have to deal with a mechanic’s grip to control the flow of fortune. The ratio of luck to skill is about equal, so anything, no matter how slight, which tips the scale in favor of one player provides him an enormous advantage. I’m sure Butler wasn’t dealing out of the middle, but it was his deck and he might have been able to recognize certain cards from the