1979 - A Can of Worms (7 page)

With the money Bertha had loaned me, I had bought a bottle of Cutty Sark. As I unwrapped the bottle, Chick asked, “Whose ear did you bite?”

I sat at my desk, poured a shot and grinned at him.

“I have friends. What’s with it with you?”

He blew out his cheeks.

“Don’t even mention it. There are times when I hate this job. The Paradise Self-Service store has trouble. One of the staff is taking them to the cleaners. So I walk around the goddamn store, making threatening gestures. What a job! And you?”

“Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time and money.”

I had followed Nancy to the club, watched her play tennis with Penny Highbee, watched her lunch on a prawn salad, then followed her down to the waterfront. She didn’t use the yacht, but wandered around like someone killing time. She bought some oysters and a lobster, then she drove home: a lonely woman, apparently with nothing to do, but now I knew different. I was hoping she would have gone to Josh Jones’ place, but she didn’t. There was no sign of Jones either on the yacht or on the waterfront.”

Having finished my drink, I went along to Glenda’s office. She told me the Colonel was tied up. I gave her the report I had churned out on the typewriter.

“Like I said . . . nothing.”

“Well, stay with it,” Glenda said. “Something might happen.”

“Like the end of the world? Which reminds me, Glenda, I’m due for my vacation.”

“When this job’s through.”

“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me,” and I returned to my office.

Chick was on his way out.

“You see, pal,” he said. “The old grindstone tomorrow, huh?”

“Great dialogue. Stay sober,” and when he had gone, I began to clear my desk. I decided I would see Bertha. I checked my wallet to see what I was worth. I had just under a hundred dollars and eight more days to go. Maybe I would find Bertha in a less extravagant mood, but I doubted it.

As I reached for the telephone, the telephone bell beat me to it.

“Yeah? Bart Anderson, Parnell Agency,” I said.

“This is Lu Coldwell. I need to see you. It’s urgent. Do I come to you or you come to me?”

I became alert. Lu Coldwell was the field agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had an office in the city, but he was rarely there. There was little of interest for the FBI in Paradise City. His main action was in Miami.

“I’ve a date, Lu,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”

“No way. I said it was urgent.”

“Spell it out.”

“The prints on that lighter you found that Harry Meadows sent to Washington. Up there, they are flipping. You to me or me to you?”

I didn’t hesitate. I knew if Coldwell was spotted here by Glenda, she would want to know why he was calling on me.

“Wait for me, Lu. I’ll be over in ten minutes,” and I hung up.

Now this one, I told myself, had to be played very carefully. My hippy had been identified. If Washington was flipping, this meant he was important. Again, I could hear Bertha saying,
I’d look around among the rich creeps I
work for and put the bite on them.

Play this one very closely to your chest, Bart, I thought, as I left the office and took the elevator down to the garage.

I found Lu Coldwell waiting for me in his small, shabby office. He was a tall, rangy man of around forty, his hair shot with grey, lantern jawed and tough. There were the odd times when he and I played a round of golf together. I made it my business to keep in with the cops and the FBI.

As we shook hands, I said, “You’ve ruined a date, but always business before pleasure.”

He waved me to a chair and sat behind his desk.

“This cigarette lighter . . . where did you find it? Why did you check the prints on it?” He rested his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands. He didn’t look over friendly.

While driving to his office, I had prepared my story. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the pirates’ island nor Nancy.

“What’s so important about it?”

“Come on, Bart!” The snap in his voice told me this wasn’t the time to fool around with him. “Where did you find the lighter?”

“A couple of nights ago. I was down on the quay. . . .”

“Why?”

“This sounds like an interrogation.”

“What were you doing down on the quay?”

“I had finished work and I like the quay. I know people there.”

“What are you working on?”

“A job. If you want details ask the Colonel. He’ll tell you to go to hell.”

“This is serious, Bart,” Coldwell said, softening his tone. “Okay, so you were on the quay . . . what time?”

“I got down there about ten o’clock. I shot the breeze with Al Barney, bought him a couple of beers, then I wandered down to the commercial harbour. I watched the ships for a while, then as I was deciding to have one more beer before going home, this character appeared out of the darkness. I was feeding a cigarette into my face and he offered me a light, with the lighter you’re worked up about.”

“Hold it! Let’s take this a step at a time. This character . . .” He pulled a scratch pad towards him and found a pencil. “What did he look like?”

“Medium build, stocky, heavily bearded, dark, thick uncut hair, wearing jeans and a dark T—shirt.”

Coldwell wrote this down, then opening a drawer in his desk, he took out a folder. From it, he produced a glossy mug shot and pushed it across the desk.

“That him?”

I studied the photograph. It showed a clean-shaven man of around twenty-five with close cropped black hair, lean features and small vicious eyes. The eyes gave him away. This was my hippy all right.

“Could be.” I put on my doubtful expression. “The light was bad, and he was wearing a beard and his hair was long, but . . . yeah, I wouldn’t want to swear to it, but could be.”

Coldwell took back the photograph, found a felt pen and gave the face a beard and long hair and pushed the photograph back to me.

I had no doubt then that this was my hippy.

“Still wouldn’t want to swear to it, but I’m pretty sure this is the guy.”

Coldwell sucked in his breath.

“So, go on.”

“I wondered who he was,” I said. “I meet all kinds on the waterfront, and I hadn’t seen him before. He seemed jumpy, and he kept looking around as if he thought he was being watched. He asked me if I knew anything about boats going to the Bahamas. I said I didn’t, but Al Barney could tell him, and he was sure to find him in the Neptune tavern. I warned him it would cost him a couple of beers. He muttered something and took off. He headed for the tavern, paused as if changing his mind, and I lost sight of him. On the ground where he had been standing was this lighter. I guess he must have had a hole in his pocket.” I gave Coldwell my cocky smile. “Being a smart shamus, I told myself this guy might be on the wanted list. From Nassau, it’s no sweat to get to Havana. Right?”

Coldwell nodded.

“So I took the lighter to Harry and asked him to check the prints. You know the rest.”

“Havana . . . yeah, it figures,” Coldwell said thoughtfully. He reached for the telephone, dialled, then talked to someone about boats leaving for Nassau. He scribbled, said he was obliged and hung up. “The Chrystabelle sailed for Nassau this morning. She’s an old tub that does a regular run twice a week to the islands. This guy could have smuggled himself aboard. Nice work, Bart. I’ll get his description on the wire. He might be spotted in Nassau. It’s a long shot.” He paused as he reached for the telephone. “Was he alone?”

“He was when he spoke to me. Should he have been with someone?”

“He’s supposed to be travelling with his wife. Look, Bart, I’ve got to get busy, then I’m going down to the waterfront.”

“I’ll drive you down. My car’s outside. If he didn’t get on the boat, he might still be around and I might spot him.”

Coldwell nodded and began dialling.

“I’ll wait in the car,” I said and left him.

Getting into the Maser, I did some quick thinking.

Travelling with his wife.
Was that the explanation of the two beds and the woman’s things I had seen in the tent?

Coldwell joined me in five minutes, and I headed for the waterfront.

“Who is this guy, Lu, and what’s all the excitement about?” I asked.

“If it is him, his name is Aldo Pofferi: an Italian terrorist. He’s wanted for three murders and his wife for two murders. The Italian police say they are the most dangerous of the Red Brigade.”

“What’s he doing here, for God’s sake?”

“Italy got too hot for him. He’s over here to raise money for the Brigade. Anyway, that’s the story. Could be. He and his wife robbed three banks in Milan. The police alerted us to look out for him. They think he reached New York about a month ago. We have been digging around, but have come up with nothing. These prints you found are our first break.”

I pulled up on the waterfront and we both got out.

Detective Tom Lepski with Detective Max Jacoby came out of the crowd and joined us. Quickly, Coldwell explained how I had run into Pofferi and had been smart enough to have the fingerprints on the lighter checked.

“You’ll make a good shamus yet, Bart,” Lepski said with a grin.

I considered him the smartest detective on the force: an opinion he shared with me.

Coldwell showed him and Jacoby Pofferi’s photo: the one to which he had added the beard and long hair.

“Bart’s seen and talked to him. So suppose he goes with you, Tom, and Max and I work together? He’s damned dangerous, so watch it.”

“Yeah.” Lepski looked at me. “Carrying a gun?”

“Always do.”

“If there’s any shooting, cover me,” Lepski said. “Let’s go.”

Leaving Coldwell and Max to cover the yacht basin and the vendors stalls, Lepski and I walked along the quay towards the commercial harbour.

“Let’s talk to Al Barney,” Lepski said. “That old soak knows everything going on around here.”

We found Al Barney, sitting on a bollard, holding an empty beer can. He regarded Lepski with a disapproving stare.

“Hi, Al,” Lepski said, coming to rest before Barney.

“Evening, Mr. Lepski.” Barney’s little eyes shifted to me, then back to Lepski.

“We’re looking for a guy.” Lepski gave a description of Pofferi. “Seen him around?”

I knew this was the wrong approach. The only way to get information from Barney was to take him into the Neptune tavern and buy him unlimited beer.

Barney tossed the empty beer can into the harbour as a hint, but Lepski didn’t rise to it.

“Seen anyone like that around?” he repeated in his cop voice.

“Can’t say I have,” Barney said indifferently. “All these young punks look alike.”

“This punk’s a killer,” Lepski barked.

Barney shifted his eyebrows.

“Is that right?” He heaved himself to his feet. “I’m thirsty.”

“When aren’t you, you old soak?” Lepski snarled. “Have you seen him or haven’t you?”

“Not that I remember, Mr. Lepski,” Barney said with dignity, and waddled off towards the Neptune.

Lepski glared after him.

I had been looking towards the yacht basin. I could see Coldwell and Jacoby talking to a group of fishermen. I could also see Josh Jones, sitting on the deck of Hamel’s yacht. As Barney was walking away, I saw Jones get to his feet, jump off the yacht and disappear fast into the milling crowd.

“The man to talk to is Pete Lewinski. If he hasn’t seen Pofferi, no one has,” Lepski said. “He should be around somewhere.”

Pete Lewinski!

My heart skipped a beat. In spite of his drunkenness, I knew Pete remained a cop at heart. He wouldn’t hold back any information he thought would help the Paradise City police. If he were asked the right questions by Lepski, he would tell him of my interest in Josh Jones and the man and woman Jones had taken to his room the previous night. Then Lepski would turn on me. I had given Pete a description of my hippy and he would tell Lepski. If my hippy was Aldo Pofferi, and I was sure he was, I would be in a jam. I could get charged with concealing a criminal, or even worse, as an accessory after the fact.

“Pete’s a lush, Tom,” I said. “Let’s not waste time with him.”

“Maybe he is a lush, but he’s an ex-cop. That’s good enough for me.”

He stopped one of the waterfront’s riff-raff: a little old man, wearing a battered yachting cap and tattered, filthy ducks.

“Seen Pete around, Eddie?” Lepski asked.

“Not today, Chief. He’s usually around, but I ain’t seen him all day.”

“Do you know where he lives, Eddie?”

“Crab Yard. Number 26,” Eddie said, then hopefully, “Got a smoke to spare, Chief?”

Lepski gave him a cigarette, then nodding, he started off across the waterfront. I followed him, feeling clammy in spite of the heat.

Lepski plunged into the back alleys, dark and evil smelling, with old buildings constructed of wood and tarpaper: the slum district of the waterfront. He seemed to know where he was going. I tagged along behind him.

“What a hole to live in,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. My mouth had turned dry. I kept trying to think of some lie to tell Lepski if Pete told him I had hired him to watch Jones.

“Here we are,” Lepski said, arriving at an archway that led to a small courtyard, surrounded by high, battered buildings. Tattered laundry festooned the buildings and were strung across the courtyard. Overflowing trash cans stood outside the entrances of the buildings, and the smell of decaying fish, stale frying oil, urine and rotting vegetables made me breathe through my mouth.

A group of dirty kids were kicking a ball around. When they saw Lepski, the game stopped and they all disappeared down another alley.

At the far end of the courtyard, Lepski found No 26. I had a feeling we were being watched, but looking around, could see no one.

Lepski peered through the doorway of No 26.

“What a stink!”

I looked over his shoulder into a dimly lit lobby: facing, were stairs. To the right, a passage, going away into complete darkness.

“Now, where does he hang out?” Lepski muttered. He moved forward, then taking a flashlight from his pocket, sent the beam down the passage.