1979 - A Can of Worms (6 page)

“What’s that mean?”

“Young chicken, rice, red peppers, asparagus tips. Very special.”

“Okay, and Scotch on the rocks.”

I saw him looking at the girl on the paperback.

“Some chick, huh?” I said.

He gave me a long stare, then walked away. Settling myself on the chair, I lit a cigarette and picked up the book. I learned from the blurb on the back cover that:
this
explosive novel, written by the sensational master of
American fiction, soon to be a motion picture, has already
sold over 5,000,000 copies.

The fat barkeep came over and put a Scotch on the rocks on the table. He showed me yellow teeth in a friendly smile, then returned to the bar.

After a ten minute wait, I got served. I was hungry, and the chicken looked good. The waiter put the dish before me, nodded and joined the other waiters.

While I was helping myself, three tourists came in: two elderly women and a youth festooned with cameras. They sat down away from me.

I ate. The chicken was tough, and the peppers hot, but I had eaten worse. It was while I was dissecting the drumstick, a woman came from behind a curtain at the far end of the room, paused to look around, then came over to my table.

She had thick hair, dyed the colour of mashed carrots.

She had good features, a lush body, showed to advantage by white, skin tight trousers, and a green halter that just kept her breasts under control, but only just. She paused at my table and smiled. Her white teeth were too regular to be her own.

“Enjoying it?” she asked.

I guessed she was Gloria Cort.

I gave her my sexy smile.

“A lot better now you have arrived.”

She laughed.

“Lonely?”

I noticed the three tourists were staring with disapproval. I half got up and eased out of the chair.

“Have a drink with me.”

She signalled and the waiter came across like a grey-hound out of the trap.

“Scotch,” she said, and sat down. “You’re a stranger here,” she went on. “I’m good at remembering faces.”

I stared hard at her breasts.

“I would remember if I had seen you before.”

Again she laughed.

“I see you’re reading one of my ex’s books.”

I put on a surprised expression.

“Come again. Did you say your husband’s book?”

“We parted last year.”

“Well, what do you know!” I pushed my plate aside. “Tell me something: what’s it like to be married to a bestselling author?”

She grimaced.

“I wouldn’t know about other authors, but Russ was just a pain in the ass. His books are loaded with sex. Have you read that thing yet?”

“I just bought it. I haven’t read his stuff. Knowing he lives here, I thought I’d take a look.”

“You think a guy who could write that stuff would be good in bed, wouldn’t you?” She leaned forward, her head on one side. “Was I conned? He’s as useful to a woman as boiled spaghetti.”

“It happens,” I said. “Tough on the woman.”

“You can say that again.”

The waiter came over and cleared the dishes. I said I’d take coffee.

“He’s married again, hasn’t he?”

“She’s welcome. I’ve seen her: strictly for the birds. There are some girls who don’t mind.” She gave me a long, sexy smile. “I do.”

The waiter brought the coffee.

“Do you like it here?” I said. “You do an act, don’t you?”

“Only Saturdays when we get busy. It’s all right.” She got to her feet. “See you around,” and with a smile, she walked over to the three tourists who were being served with the special. She had a word with them, then went back behind the curtain.

I lit a cigarette and sipped the coffee. I had a little information. Russ Hamel could be impotent. I thought of Nancy, seeing her in my mind’s eye. If she wasn’t getting it from Hamel, maybe a tough hippy would find her an easy mark.

I began reading Hamel’s book. It started off with a seduction scene that gave me a hard-on. He certainly could produce a vivid scene.

After a couple of chapters, the waiter came over with the check. I paid, tipped him, then wandered out into the darkness. I had still some hours to kill. I wasn’t interested in Hamel’s heroine. I would have liked to have met her in the flesh, but on paper, she was too remote. I dropped the book into a trashcan, then wandered back along the quay, passing Hamel’s yacht.

There was light enough for me to see Josh Jones was still sitting on guard. I gave him a quick glance and kept moving. The tourists had returned to their hotels, but fishermen still moved around or stood in groups, talking. I saw Al Barney still sitting hopefully on his bollard. I kept well clear of him. I was now looking for a place where I could watch the Hamel yacht, and not be seen. I had two hours before midnight. A big moon had come up, making the sea glitter and casting the quay into deep shadows. A small cafe-bar was shutting for the night. A tired looking waiter pulled down the shutters, then he went inside, closing the door. There was a wooden bench, close to the wall of the cafe, and under a shabby awning. I went over to it and sat down. I could see the Hamel yacht, about a hundred yards from me. I was sure Jones couldn’t see me.

I waited. The life of a shamus consists of waiting, and I am good at it. I watched one group of fishermen after another break up. These men would be out to sea at dawn, and they began reluctantly to make for their homes.

Around 23.00, Al Barney tossed his empty beer can into the harbour and getting heavily to his feet, waddled off into the darkness. By now the quay was almost deserted.

A few night watchmen, guarding the more swank yachts, stood in a group. A cop went by. Two thin cats appeared. One of them came over and sniffed at my trousers cuff. I gave it a sharp nudge with my foot, and it slid away.

I now concentrated on Hamel’s yacht. It was just as well that I did for I suddenly realized that Josh Jones was no longer sitting in his chair.

I got to my feet, alert.

Minutes passed, then I saw three shadowy figures on deck and I heard the gang plank run out. Almost immediately the three figures were on the quay. They paused to look in the direction of the night watchmen who had their backs turned to them, then they started off away from them.

Keeping in the shadows, I moved after them. As they passed under an overhead light, I saw the taller of the three was Jones. The other, by his shock of black hair, would be my hippy. The third member of the party was a woman. She was slightly built, and wearing a scarf over her head. I guessed she was the one who had shared the tent with my hippy on the pirates’ island.

They didn’t go far. They turned down a narrow alley.

Stepping silently from dark doorway to dark doorway, I followed them.

I saw Jones pause, then beckoning to his companions, he disappeared through an archway.

Cautiously, I peered around the arch, and was in time to see Jones open a door and move out of sight, followed by the other two. Remembering Al Barney had told me Josh Jones had a room off the waterfront, I guessed Jones had reached home.

I moved into the shadows and waited.

A light went on in a third floor window. I saw Jones come to the window and look out, then he moved out of sight.

I waited.

After an hour, the light went out.

Still I waited.

Nothing happened, then as dawn began to lift the shadows, I gave up and went home.

CHAPTER THREE

S
ome fifteen years ago, Pete Lewinski was considered to be the best and nicest cop on the waterfront. He had patrolled the waterfront from his rookie days, and even the drug-pushers, the smugglers and the young dropouts agreed they always got a square deal from Pete.

Then one day, Pete bought his wife Carrie, a dishwasher. Everyone on the waterfront knew Pete adored his wife. She was a fat, jolly Swede who liked her liquor, and she, in turn, thought everything of Pete.

So on her forty-second birthday, Pete bought her this dishwasher. Carrie was a good cook, but the clearing up depressed her. The dishwasher was the nicest present, she told everyone on the waterfront, she had ever had, and the fishermen, their wives, the riff-raff, the fruit and shellfish vendors, and even the drug-pushers, were pleased for her.

It wasn’t clear what happened, but three years after the dishwasher had been installed, Pete, returning from a spell of duty, found Carrie dead, beside the machine.

It was thought something had-gone wrong with the machine and Carrie, with a load on, had fiddled and got electrocuted.

From that dreadful moment when Pete walked into the small kitchen and found Carrie, like a stranded whale, lying on the floor, he went to pieces. His many waterfront friends, worried by his dazed expression, insisted that he should take a little of the hard stuff to bolster up his morale. Pete had always been a mild drinker, and never took a drink when on duty. Finding Scotch blurred the edges of his grief, he began to drink heavily. Chief of Police Terrell who doted on his own wife, was understanding. He talked to Pete, but he could have saved his breath.

Two vicious kids attempted to hold up one of the many waterfront bars. Pete, loaded, appeared on the scene and shot the kids to death. When he was sober enough to realize what he had done, he had wept. Chief of Police Terrell had no alternative but to retire him. The City’s administration officer refused Pete a pension. After spending his small savings, Pete became just another of the many riff-raff that haunt the waterfront, picking up a job here and there, living rough.

Through Al Barney who was a close friend of Pete, I got to know this big hulk of a man with his red-rimmed eyes and his close cropped white hair, and when I ran into him, I slid him a pack of cigarettes, knowing that but for the dishwasher, he would still be keeping law and order on the waterfront.

Around 09.00 the following morning after I had followed Josh Jones and his two companions back to Jones’ room, I went in search of Pete.

The sun was beginning to show some authority, and I was feeling jaded, after only a few hours’ sleep. I walked along the quay. It was too early for Al Barney to be on show. He only came out of his room when the tourists appeared, but I found Pete mending a fisherman’s net, sitting on an upturned box.

“Hi, Pete,” I said.

He looked up and smiled at me. His raddled face was heavily tanned and his blue eyes were watering.

“Hi, Bart,” he said. “You’re early.”

“I’m working on a job. Can you leave that net and have a coffee?”

He carefully arranged the net, then stood up.

“Sure. There’s no hurry. A coffee? Yeah, I could use a coffee.”

We walked over to the Neptune bar. I noticed Pete was dragging his feet. He moved slowly, like a sick elephant.

Sam beamed at me as Pete and I settled at a table.

“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” he said, coming over .and giving the table a polish with a dirty cloth What’ll it be?

“Two coffees, a bottle of Scotch, one glass and water,” I said, not looking at Pete.

“Right away, Mr. Anderson,” and Sam hurried back to the bar.

“Pete, I have a job for you,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It pays twenty bucks.”

Pete stared at me, his eyes popping.

“You can’t mean . . .” He stopped short as Sam put a jug of coffee, the Scotch, mugs and a glass on the table.

When he had returned to the bar, Pete went on, “What’s the job, Bart? Could I use a twenty!” He was staring at the bottle of Scotch the way a kid looks at ice cream.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Take a shot.”

“I shouldn’t, but maybe just one. It’s early.”

With a trembling hand, he poured the Scotch into the glass until the glass was full. I looked away, hating to watch the further disintegration of a decent, nice man, but knowing he was hooked, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

I gave him a few moments, then said, “Do you know anything about Josh Jones?”

Pete wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drew in a long slow breath.

“Tosh Jones? There’s no one on the waterfront I don t know. He’s a no-good nigger. He works for this rich author, Mr. Hamel. He would sell his mother . . .”

“I know all that,” I broke in. “I’ve talked to Al Barney Pete nodded. His hand strayed to the bottle. His hand paused.

“Go ahead, Pete. I know you need it.”

“I guess.” He poured another shot that would have had me walking across the ceiling.

“Pete, I want you to fix it that Jones is tailed. I want to know everything he is doing. He has two people in his room. I want to know when they leave, where they go: a man and a woman. Can you fix it?”

He poured the Scotch down his throat, sighed, stretched his big frame, then with a steady hand poured coffee for me and for himself.

“No problem, Bart. I have a bunch of kids who’ll stick with Jones like glue and these other two.”

“Then get it organized.” I sipped the coffee, then went on. “It’s important these three get no idea they are being watched. The man is medium height, black hair and beard. I didn’t get much of a look at the woman, but they are together.”

“It pays twenty?”

I looked across at the bar. Sam had his back turned, I slid a twenty to Pete.

“There will be more.” I took out my business card. “Call me if the man and the woman move. Okay?”

Pete nodded. He was now a cop. The Scotch had brought him back to the time when he had been a good cop.

“You can rely on me, Bart.”

“Take the Scotch with you. This is important to me.”

He grinned, showing black, rotten stumps.

“Okay, Bart. No problem.”

I left him, paid for the Scotch and the coffees, then went out into the sunshine.

It was the best I could do, I told myself. Not good, but better than nothing.

I walked to where I had left the Maser, got in and drove to the entrance to Paradise Largo. I sat in the car with Bob Dylan on tape to keep me company, and waited for Nancy Hamel to appear.

* * *

Chick Barley was fortifying himself with Scotch when I returned to the office.