1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway (17 page)

‘I’m getting out of here,’ Randy said. His eyes showed his panic. ‘I’ll make for Los Angeles. I have a cousin there.’

‘What good will that do you?’ Harry said, scarcely controlling his impatience. ‘If the police want you, they will find you. You can’t hide from them forever. Use your head. Can’t you see our best bet is to bluff it out? So okay, someone tells the police they think they saw us with the Mustang: a tall guy with a rucksack and a little guy with long hair who was carrying a guitar. Now think . . . how many tall guys with rucksacks and little guys with long hair and guitars have you seen on the highway on your way down here? Dozens? Hundreds? So if we are unlucky and the police come here and ask questions, we know nothing about anything. We came down here on the thumb. We know nothing about a Mustang, and we know nothing about Baldy Riccard. They can’t pin anything on us unless one or both of us cracks.’ He stared steadily at Randy. ‘I’m not cracking . . . so that leaves you.’

Randy licked his dry lips.

‘It’s fine for you. You’re in the clear, but I’m a draft dodger.’

‘So what? So you get picked up for dodging the draft and that’s just your hard luck, but it’s nothing. You get picked up on a murder rap that sticks . . . that’s something. Right?’

Randy thought about this for a long, uneasy moment, then he nodded.

‘Yes . . . I guess that’s right.’

‘Come on, then; stop looking as if the end of the world’s arrived. Let’s get back to work.’ Harry paused to fold the newspaper and drop it into the trash basket, then he walked into the hot sunshine.

Reluctantly, Randy followed him. They walked along the path until they reached the bar entrance, then Harry suddenly put his hand on Randy’s arm and pulled him back into the shade as he saw the white Mercedes come into the car park.

A squat, heavily built man was at the wheel: his round, fat face was swarthy and suntanned, his small eyes, black and glittering, his mouth thin. He wore a panama hat pulled down low on his face and a bottle green shabby suit. Mrs. Carlos, her face half hidden behind her sun goggles, was in the passenger seat.

The squat man stopped the car, got out, ran around the car and opened the offside door. Mrs. Carlos got out. She had on a white mother hubbard and sandals. The squat man handed her a beach bag, took off his hat, bowed, got back into the Mercedes and drove away.

Mrs. Carlos made her way down to the beach.

‘Who’s the fat man?’ Harry asked.

‘Fernando, her chauffeur,’ Randy told him.

‘Ever seen him drive a green and white Chevy?’

Randy stared at him.

‘That’s his own car. He drives it sometimes when he has messages for Mrs. Carlos. What’s with the questions?’

Harry was remembering the green and white Chevrolet which had followed him from the airport after he had collected Baldy Riccard’s suitcase. He was pretty sure this man, Fernando, had been the driver.

‘What do you know about him, Randy? It’s important.’

‘Not much. He’s been working for Carlos for a couple of years. He’s a pal of Solo. When he is off duty, he comes here in the evening and Solo and he play cards. What’s it all about?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Harry said, his mind busy. ‘Okay, Randy, take it easy . . . see you,’ and leaving him, he headed for the beach.

He passed near Nina who was sitting in the sun checking through the previous night’s restaurant receipts. She glanced up, but Harry didn’t look at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Manuel on the veranda, watching him. He purposely passed close to Mrs. Carlos who, seeing him, called to him.

‘Hi, Harry.’

Harry approached her. She was lying on a mattress, under the shade of the umbrella and she looked up at him through her sun goggles.

‘What’s going on over there?’ She waved to the coral reef. ‘Foundations of some sort?’

‘That’s right. We’re putting up a high dive board. Solo thought it was time we had one.’ Harry was aware her eyes were going over his powerfully built body.

He, in turn, was looking down at her, imagining her again as she got out of the Mustang, hidden behind the anti-dazzle goggles, the white scarf concealing her hair and tucked into a black cotton shirt. Again he wondered how a woman like her with her money and background could have become involved with a man like Riccard.

She was saying something which he missed.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlos . . . what was that?’

‘I said I hear you are a great diver. Solo tells me you won a medal.’

‘Oh, sure.’

Again she studied him.

‘When will the diving board be finished?’

‘Less than a couple of weeks.’

‘Are you staying here long, Harry?’

‘Two months. I have a job waiting for me in New York.’

‘What kind of a job?’

‘A job, Mrs. Carlos.’

She smiled.

‘No business of mine?’

Harry didn’t say anything. He looked from her to where three teenagers were playing with a medicine ball.

‘I asked because I wondered if you would like to stay down here, Harry.’

He looked at her again.

‘What was that, Mrs. Carlos?’

Her smile became a little fixed.

‘I wish you would pay attention. How would you like to be my chauffeur?’

‘You already have a chauffeur, Mrs. Carlos.’

‘He’s not staying . . . I’m getting rid of him. It’s an easy job. You will have to look after two cars . . . drive me to the beach and collect me, take me out at night when my husband is busy. There’s a two-room apartment and $150 a week. Would you like it?’

‘I have two months here, Mrs. Carlos. I can’t let Solo down.’

‘I’m not asking you to let him down!’ There was now a waspish note in her voice. ‘I’m asking you if you would like the job. I can wait. I can get rid of Fernando any time. Do you want it?’

‘It sounds fine, Mrs. Carlos. Could I think about it?’

Again he felt her quizzing him from behind her sun goggles.

‘To help you make up your mind, come out tomorrow afternoon.’ She smiled up at him. ‘My husband will be in Miami, but that needn’t stop you. You know where we live?’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I have a date tomorrow. Perhaps next Sunday?’

He watched the muscles in her throat contract and her mouth turn ugly.

‘I said tomorrow afternoon, Harry!’

‘I said I was sorry. I have a date tomorrow afternoon.’

Her hands turned into fists.

‘Do I have to spell it out, you stupid slob?’ she said in a low, vicious tone. ‘I want you at my place tomorrow afternoon! You will be well paid . . . $300! Don’t tell me other women haven’t paid you stud fees before!’

Harry regarded her, then looked across the sand to the sea.

‘Seems one of those kids could be getting into difficulties,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Carlos.’

He walked towards the teenagers, one of them was in the sea and enjoying herself.

* * *

There was an ominous silence as Lepski walked into Chief of Police Terrell’s office, Terrell sat at his desk. Seated on his right was Sergeant Beigler.

Standing by the window, his face wearing a heavy frown was Sergeant Hess.

The three men regarded Lepski with deadpan cop stares as he came in. He paused to close the door as if it were made of eggshells, then he moved to Terrell’s desk and stood waiting.

There was a long pause, then Terrell said, ‘What the hell do you imagine you’re playing at? I’ve had a complaint from Lieutenant Lacey. He’s sending in a report about you. If half what he says is right, you’re in dead trouble.’

Lepski was prepared for this broadside and had already formulated his plan of campaign. Although sweat beads were showing on his forehead, he met Terrell’s wrathful eyes without flinching.

‘Chief, I know I did wrong,’ he said. ‘I know I was off our territory, but when Lacey said we were the worst bunch of cops on the coast, I couldn’t take it. So I wouldn’t cooperate, so he got mad. so he’s reporting me.’

Lepski was relieved to see Terrell, Beigler and Hess stiffen and blood rush into their faces.

‘The worst bunch of cops on the coast!’ Beigler snarled. ‘Did that deadbeat, hunkhead say that?’

‘That’s what he said,’ Lepski returned, his face registering injured outrage.

‘The punk!’ Hess exploded. ‘He calls himself a detective! Him! He couldn’t find himself in a toilet!’

‘All right,’ Terrell said curtly. ‘Anyone is entitled to his own opinion. If Lieutenant Lacey thinks we are the worst cops on the coast, that doesn’t mean he is right.’ He regarded Lepski suspiciously. ‘What made him say that, Tom?’

Lepski relaxed a little. He felt confident now that he had played the right card, but everything depended how he played his next card.

‘I know I was out of turn,’ he said. ‘You told me to find Mai Langley. I had a hunch she might be somewhere at Vero Beach where Baldy pulled this job. I happen to have a contact there. I know it’s off our territory, but if I had checked with Lacey, he would have taken over and then there would have been a foul-up. So I thought the quickest way to find Mai was to contact my contact. If she had come across, I would have reported to you, Chief, and then maybe you would have reported to Lacey and then maybe, after three or four days, he might have contacted Mai. As it worked out, my contact told me Mai was right in the building. I decided there could be no harm walking up a flight of stairs and having a word with her before I reported to you. While I was talking to her, a gunman burst in and knocked her off.’ Lepski made his face sad. ‘It’s my tough luck, Chief, but that’s the way it happened.’

Terrell looked at Beigler who grinned.

‘Wonderful,’ Beigler said with grudging admiration. ‘This guy could talk himself out of a coffin.’

‘All right, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘Go ahead. So what happened?’

Lepski drew in a long, deep breath. He was sure now he had taken the poison out of Lacey’s report. He told the three men what had happened and of his interview with Goldie White. While they listened Beigler took notes. When Lepski had finished, Terrell said, ‘A good job, but done badly. If ever you stray into Miami’s territory again without permission, I’ll throw you to the wolves. Remember that. This time, I’ll take care of Lacey.’

‘Thanks, Chief.’ Feeling the atmosphere was now on a friendly basis, he went on, ‘Isn’t there any coffee in this headquarters?’

Beigler stiffened.

‘Where’s Charley?’ He grabbed the telephone receiver. ‘Charley! Send one of your hunkheads out for four coffees. What’s going on down there?’ He listened, grunted and hung up. ‘Coffees coming up.’

Lepski pulled up a chair and sat astride it.

‘Chief, there’s another thing,’ he said. ‘I have a hunch I know who the guy is who tortured Baldy.’

‘For Pete’s sake!’ Hess exploded. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘All right, Fred,’ Terrell said. ‘Let Tom tell it his own way. So you have a hunch?’

‘That’s right.’ Lepski scowled at Hess who glared back at him, then went on, ‘Solo Dominico has hired a lifeguard for a couple of months. I ran into Solo and this new guy when I was at the market checking on those dips you were worried about. So okay, I met this guy: an ex-sergeant, paratrooper, a guy called Harry Mitchell. He’s just back from Vietnam and on a vacation before taking a job in New York. A couple of days ago I was at the airport, trying to get a line on Baldy when I ran into Mitchell, carrying a white plastic suitcase with a red band around it.’

A patrolman came in with four cartons of coffee which he placed on the desk then left.

‘So what’s all the excitement about the suitcase?’ Hess demanded impatiently as he reached for a carton.

Lepski wasn’t to be hurried. He was sure if he handled this right, he must get his promotion.

‘When I talked to Mai Langley,’ he went on, ignoring Hess, ‘just before this gunman bust in, she told me Baldy had taken his suitcase to the airport.’ He paused, then went on, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘This suitcase was white plastic with a red band around it!’

He sat back, reached for his carton of coffee and sipped, his eyes going first to Terrell, then to Beigler and finally to Hess.

‘You’ve made a point, Tom,’ Terrell said. ‘So . . . go on.’

Disappointed there had been no greater reaction, Lepski said, ‘I asked Mitchell if it was his suitcase. He said it was: that he had left it at the airport, but now he was working steadily for Dominico, he needed it. So I checked his discharge papers and when I saw he was a Vietnam veteran, a sergeant paratrooper, I let him go with the suitcase.’

‘You mean you didn’t look in the suitcase?’ Hess demanded.

‘Now, Fred, you know Tom had no right to look in the suitcase,’ Terrell said before Lepski could explode. ‘The point is: is a white plastic suitcase with a red band around it unique? What do you think, Joe?’

‘It could well be. I think Tom has something. Solo has been hooked up with Baldy in the past. Baldy owned a white plastic case with a red band and left it at the airport. Mitchell, who is working for Solo, collects a white plastic suitcase with a red sash. Yeah . . . of course Tom’s onto something.’

Lepski beamed, shifting forward, nearly overturning his chair.

‘I know it! Look, Chief, suppose I go out to Solo’s joint and twist Mitchell’s arm? He could spill the whole setup.’

Terrell relit his pipe which had gone out. He thought for some moments, then shook his head.

‘No . . . I want something to go on first.’ He turned to Hess. ‘Let’s get some dope about Mitchell. Telex Washington.’

Hess poked a fat finger in Lepski’s direction.

‘You read his discharge papers . . . give me the dope.’

Lepski flexed his brain muscles. He had only taken a brief look at Harry Mitchell’s papers, but he had a good memory. After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Harry Mitchell. Top Sergeant. Third Paratroop Regiment. First Company.’

Hess regarded him with grudging approval.

‘One of these days . . . maybe ten years from now, Lepski . . . you could make a good detective.’

Seeing Lepski’s face turn purple, Terrell said curtly, ‘Cut it out, Fred. Send that Telex!’

When Hess had left the office, Terrell went on, ‘You are doing all right, Tom. Just don’t lean on it too hard. Suppose you see what you can find out about these two queers: Hans Larsen and Jacey Smith. If it goes out of our territory, tell me before you do anything.’