1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway (18 page)

‘Yes, Chief.’ Lepski started towards the door, then paused. ‘You really mean you think I’m doing all right?’

‘You heard what the Chief said,’ Beigler barked. ‘Get moving!’

Lepski left the office, skidded around Max Jacoby as he was about to enter the office and then made for his desk.

Terrell looked at Jacoby as he hovered in the doorway.

‘What is it, Max?’

‘Retnick’s just called in. Chief. He’s been checking Highway 1. He says he has a description of two men driving a Mustang that matches Baldy’s Mustang. He says the car was towing a caravan.’

Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances, ‘A caravan?’

‘That’s what he says.’

‘Tell him to come in pronto.’

‘He’s on his way, Chief.’

When Jacoby had returned to his desk, Terrell said to Beigler, ‘What do you think of it now, Joe?’

‘It’s taking shape. We’ve found Baldy. We’ve found the Mustang. Now a caravan turns up. We were wondering how Baldy’s body got to Hetterling Cove. Could be the body went in the caravan . . . so I guess we start looking for the caravan.’

‘I go along with that.’ Terrell looked down at the notes Beigler had taken of Lepski’s verbal report. ‘But all this . . .’ He knocked out his pipe and began to refill it. ‘This still could be a C.I.A. thing, Joe. Maybe I should report it.’

‘Still working on the Castro angle?’

Terrell lit his pipe.

‘Yes. Look at the information we now have. To me, the clue to all this is that Baldy was a Communist with an admiration for Castro. On March 24th, he arrives at Vero Beach and hires a launch, plus two men, from Jack Thomas. His destination is Havana if we can believe what Goldie White told Lepski. It looks as if Baldy was on a smuggling deal and this had to do with

Castro. According to his girlfriend his boat was intercepted and sunk. Then two months later, Baldy appears again and tries to hire a boat from Dominico, failing this, he goes to O’Brien to raise money, failing this, he gets his girlfriend to drive him to Vero Beach. When he has settled her with Do-Do Hammerstein, he returns here, puts his suitcase in a left luggage locker at the airport, then returns to Vero Beach where he hires a Hertz Mustang under the name of Joel Blach. Then, suddenly he vanishes and the rumour goes around that he has been knocked off.

Two days later we find the Mustang which leads us to Baldy’s grave. A man answering to the description of a lifeguard hired by Dominico is seen by Lepski at the airport with a suitcase resembling Baldy’s case.’ Terrell puffed at his pipe, frowning. ‘We are making progress, but we still don’t know what Baldy was smuggling nor do we know who killed him. We have a lot of digging to do yet, but it becomes more and more obvious to me that Baldy was in some smuggling racket to do with Cuba and this makes me wonder if I shouldn’t turn the whole thing over to the C.I.A. They might do a faster and better job than we are doing.’

‘You said a couple of days, Chief,’ Beigler said. We still have a day and a quarter.’

Terrell hesitated.

‘Yes . . . well, okay, Joe. Get back to your desk, I’ll do some more thinking.’

Half an hour later, Detective 3rd Grade Red Retnick, a tall, beefy young man with flaming red hair came into the Detectives’ room.

Seeing him, Beigler waved him to Terrell s office, got up and went to the head of the stairs and bawled down to Charley Tanner to send up coffee, then he joined Retnick in the office. Retnick made a concise report which Beigler took down in fast shorthand.

‘On Thursday night, two men in a Mustang, towing a caravan, stopped at Jackson’s All-Night Cafe for coffee,’ Retnick said. ‘A trucker who had been in the cafe and who was there again on his return journey while I was making inquiries, gave me a description of these two men.’

‘Hold it a moment, Red,’ Terrell said. To Beigler, he went on, ‘Get Lepski.’

Beigler looked into the Detectives’ room and yelled to Lepski who was typing his report. When Lepski came into the office, Terrell told Retnick to go on.

‘The elder of the two men was over six foot in height, powerfully built, blond, blue eyes and a broken nose of a fighter. He was wearing khaki drill trousers and matching shirt.’

‘That’s Harry Mitchell,’ Lepski said. ‘No doubt about it!’

‘Go on, Red,’ Terrell said, relighting his pipe.

‘The other man was younger: slightly built, long black hair down to his shoulders, thin face.’

‘Mean anything to you?’ Terrell asked looking at Lepski.

Lepski shook his head.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’ Then he screwed up his eyes and snapped his fingers. Wait a minute! That could be Solo’s barman. He turns up when the season opens. I saw him there last year. The description fits him. Randy . . . something . . . Broach? Something like that. Look, Chief, suppose I go to the restaurant tonight? Solo invited my wife and me for a free meal. It would be an excuse to look around.’

Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.

‘Yes, but understand, Tom, you play it close to your chest. We don’t make any move until I get some facts about Mitchell . . . understand?’ He looked at Beigler. ‘Anything from Washington yet?’

Beigler shook his head.

‘You’re forgetting the time lag. We can’t hope to hear from Washington for some hours.’

‘So while we wait. I want that caravan found and I want it found fast,’ Terrell said.

* * *

Lepski was having an argument with his wife. This was nothing new. They had been married for three years, and on Lepski s reckoning, they had a major argument twice a day. He had jotted down figures and had come up with the result of 2,190 arguments of which, he had decided bitterly, he might have won 180 of them.

He had returned home unexpectedly at 18.00. Unexpectedly because his usual time for coming home was around 21.00. He found his wife, Carroll, preparing goulash for his dinner.

Carroll Lepski, aged twenty-six, tall, dark and pretty was a young woman with a mind and a will of her own. Before she married, she was a clerk at the American Express Company, dealing with the rich, arranging their travel schedules and advising them. The work had made her confident and somewhat bossy.

Having dealt with hundreds of irritable know-alls, she had learned that argument if carried on with logic and if persisted in generally won the day. Although Carroll was well equipped to deal with the problems of modern day life, she was a messy, but determined cook. Whenever she prepared a meal, apart from a sandwich or a heated up hamburger, her kitchen turned into a chaotic battlefield. Invariably, she used four pans when one could do; invariably she let the milk boil over; invariably she dropped some, if not all of the meal she was preparing on the floor and which she scooped up to return to the pan and then not waiting to wipe up the mess slid about on the remains with the agility of an ice skater. But Carroll had a lot of character and determination. Once she had made up her mind that Lepski was to have goulash for his dinner, then come hell or high water, he would have it.

Lepski found her not looking her best and struggling with the contents of a pot of cream that had overturned and had made a big puddle on the floor. It was a hot evening, the kitchen was hot and Carroll was hot and fussed.

So when he broke the news that he was taking her out to dinner and ‘For God’s sake, honey, get cleaned up. We’re going to a swank joint,’ she was in two minds whether to carry on with the goulash or to say to hell with the mess and try to be happy. It was so rare that Lepski had time to take her anywhere that the unexpected invitation turned her sour when it should have made her glad.

‘Why couldn’t you have told me this morning?’ she demanded pushing back a strand of dark hair that was falling over her left eye ‘We’re having goulash for dinner.’

Lepski pranced from one foot to the other in his impatience.

‘Never mind the goulash. We’re going out, and for Pete’s sake, don’t start an argument.’

This was a fatal remark which Lepski realised as soon as he had made it. Carroll stiffened and drew herself up.

‘Are you saying it is me who starts the arguments?’ she demanded.

Realising that he was now out on thin ice, Lepski gave her a false smile.

‘I said nothing of the sort. Start an argument? Now, listen, honey. . .’

‘You said, Don’t start an argument.’

Lepski tried to look amazed.

‘I said that? Forget it. It was a joke. Now, tonight . . .’

‘Your idea of a joke and mine are very different.’

Lepski ran his fingers through his hair. He took two quick steps to his left, then two to his right, then feeling relieved, he said, ‘Okay . . . no joke. Forget it, darling. We’re going to the Dominico restaurant which is the third best restaurant in this City. Marvellous food . . . sea . . . beach . . . soft music . . . soft lights . . . the works!’

Carroll’s eyes turned suspicious.

‘Why are we going?’ she demanded. ‘Have you done something you shouldn’t? Is this a softening-up process?’

Lepski inserted his finger in his collar and dragged at it.

‘We’ve been invited,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘The owner of the goddamn restaurant likes me. He said for me to bring my god . . . my wife . . . so we’re going. It’s all free.’

‘Do you have to swear like that, Lepski?’

Lepski remained very still. He was a little alarmed at the way his pulse was beating Finally, he said, ‘Forget it, honey. We’re invited . . . so let’s go.’

Carroll regarded him.

‘This man has invited us?’

Lepski nodded dumbly.

‘What’s he done then?’

Lepski walked around the kitchen. A soft humming sound came from him like a bee that has lost its hive.

‘He’s done nothing. He just happens to like me,’ he said when he could speak.

‘Why?’

‘How the hell do I know? He’s invited us for God’s sake! Do we have to get on a couch together to find out why?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t shout, Lepski,’ Carroll said severely. ‘I’m sure he is a crook and wants something out of you.’

‘Fine . . . okay . . . so he’s a crook and wants something out of me! Who cares? We get a free dinner!’ Lepski waved his hand violently. His hand came into contact with the lid of a saucepan, burning him. His language was so lurid Carroll put her hands over her ears.

‘Lepski! Sometimes I’m really ashamed of you!’

Lepski sucked his fingers.

‘So will you get ready?’ he snarled. ‘Have I any clean shirts?’

She stared at him.

‘How many shirts are you going to wear tonight then?’

Lepski closed his eyes for a brief moment.

‘I mean is there one goddamn clean shirt I can put on?’

‘Of course there is. Why don’t you look? What shall I wear?’

This question always drove Lepski crazy. Carroll always asked him and invariably it ended in an argument that went on for hours.

‘Anything . . . you know just look your lovely self. Shouldn’t you turn off the stove or something?’

An hour later, Lepski was sitting on the small patio, a cigarette burning between his fingers, containing his impatience with an effort that raised his blood pressure alarmingly.

Although married for three years, he still couldn’t get used to his wife’s method of dressing for an evening out. First she would go to her closet and take out her entire collection of clothes which she laid on the bed. Then she held a post mortem on each garment, telling Lepski, who was trapped in the room, that she was ashamed to be seen in any of them and he should be ashamed of being 2nd Grade Detective when he could easily be a Sergeant and draw Sergeant’s pay.

Lepski had been inflicted with this routine so often he let it go in one ear and out the other, but although he was dead to the monologue, he was aware that time was passing. Finally, having cunningly suggested she should wear a smart black dress, saying she would look a knockout in it and being told (as he knew he would be told) that he must be crazy to imagine she would go to a beach restaurant in a black dress, she selected a white and red number which he had wanted her to wear anyway, but knew if he had suggested it, it would cause yet another argument.

He had finally escaped from the bedroom, made himself a double whisky and soda and was now waiting while she completed her dressing.

A little after 19.15 she appeared on the terrace and Lepski regarded her. She looked so nice, so immaculate and so pretty that he started to his feet with that well-known gleam in his eyes that wives quickly recognise.

‘Don’t be disgusting!’ she said sharply. ‘Lepski! Don’t you dare touch me!’

Lepski realised this wasn’t the time so he leered at her.

‘Mrs. Lepski, we have a date when we get home,’ he said. ‘The poet who said something stirred in the forest must have been thinking of you.’

Carroll stifled a giggle, then looked severe.

‘Don’t be so coarse. Well . . . do I look all right?’

‘Marvellous, gorgeous, scrumptious! Let’s go!’

As he started towards the car, Carroll said, ‘Wait a moment!’

Lepski paused and began humming under his breath. He regarded her, forced a smile, then asked with heavy sarcasm, What is it now? A ladder in your stocking? Have you bust a strap? Forgotten your handbag? No handkerchief? Got your girdle twisted? What is it this time?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m looking at you. You’re not going out with me looking like that!’

Lepski gaped at her.

‘Me? What’s the matter with me? Clean shirt . . . pants pressed . . . beautifully shaved. Let me tell you, Mrs. Lepski, there’s not a girl in this City who wouldn’t be proud to be seen with me.’

‘If you imagine I’m going out with you when you are carrying a gun, you’re mistaken! Anyone who isn’t blind can see that awful holster through your coat. Do you imagine I want to be mistaken for a cop’s wife?’

Lepski ran his hand over his face. ‘But aren’t you a cop’s wife?’ he asked, his voice a little shrill.

‘There’s no need to advertise the fact. Lepski, park that gun!’

Lepski loosened his tie, made a noise like a bee in a bottle, longed to put his foot through the TV screen, and only with a tremendous effort, restrained himself from tearing at his hair.