1979 - A Can of Worms (8 page)

At the far end of the passage was a door that stood ajar.

“Let’s try this one,” Lepski said, and started forward, then stopped. He directed the beam of the torchlight to the floor.

A red ribbon of blood came from under the door.

A gun jumped into Lepski’s hand, and he snapped off the flashlight.

“Cover me,” he muttered.

I went down on one knee, drawing my police special.

Lepski reached the door and kicked it wide open, then flattened himself against the wall.

Nothing happened. With his gun pushed forward, he peered around the doorway into the room.

Now the door was open, more light came into the passage.

“Hell!” he exclaimed, and walked into the room. “Stay where you are.”

I moved forward so I could see into the room.

Lying on the floor was an Indian boy of around fourteen years of age. He wore dirty white trousers and sandals. His T—shirt was bloodstained and blood caked his face. One look at his staring eyes told me he was dead.

“Look here,” Lepski said, and swung the beam of his flashlight to a dark corner.

Pete Lewinski, an empty bottle of Scotch clutched in his hand, sat hunched up against the wall. His face was a mess of blood. I could see the hole made by the bullet above the bridge of his thick nose.

“Find a phone and alert headquarters,” Lepski snapped. “I’ll stay here.”

As I left the building and started across the courtyard at a run, I realised with an enormous feeling of relief, that poor old Pete Lewinski wouldn’t now tell Lepski a thing.

* * *

It was just after 22.00 when I unlocked the door of my apartment, turned on the lights, closed and bolted the door, then went over to a lounging chair and sat down. I had brought beef sandwiches back with me, but I didn’t feel like eating. I had thinking to do.

Pete had told me he had a bunch of kids who would stay with Jones. It seemed obvious to me that the Indian boy, shot through the head, had been one of Pete’s kids.

Could be Jones had spotted him, followed him back to Pete’s place and shot them both. I wasn’t satisfied with this thinking, but it would have to do to get on with.

Anyway, this shooting told me as nothing else could that Jones and Pofferi were as dangerous as Coldwell had said they were.

The big question mark in my mind was Nancy Hamel.

How did she come to get mixed up with Pofferi? I had no doubt she was helping him.

I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. I was still puzzling, half an hour later, and still getting nowhere, when my front door bell rang.

I went into the lobby, shot back the bolt and opened the door.

Lu Coldwell advanced into the lobby, as I stood aside.

“Saw your light,” he said. “These shootings . . . mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. Have a drink?”

“Why not?” He walked into my living room and sat down and stretched out his long legs. “There was such a goddamn uproar down there, I gave up asking anyone if they had seen Pofferi. I’ll get a couple of my men down there tomorrow when the dust has settled.”

“My guess is Pofferi has gone, if he was ever here,” I said as I handed him a stiff Scotch.

“I did ask around before half the cops in the city arrived. No one saw him. Maybe I’ll get the word from Nassau tomorrow.”

“It’s my bet that’s where he is.”

Coldwell drank half the Scotch, sighed, then finished the drink.

“What do you make of this shooting, Bart? I took a look. I’d say it was a professional killing. Two shots: two dead. That’s the way Pofferi kills. I’m wondering if there’s a tie up. What do you think?”

“More like someone had a grudge against Pete,” I said. “He fixed a number of drug-pushers in his time. Could be a payoff.”

“Why the boy?”

I shrugged.

“A witness, huh?”

He pulled at his nose and yawned.

“Well, it’s Lepski’s problem. Pofferi is my problem.”

I needed information the way a junkie needs a fix.

“Tell me about Pofferi’s wife? Let me get you another drink.”

“No, thanks. I’ve still work to do. His wife? Yeah, I’m interested in her too. I’ve wired Washington for a mug shot. I’ll let you see it. Getting around the way you do, you might spot her and you still might spot him.”

“Have you a file on her?”

“It’s almost nothing. She called herself Lucia Lambretti before she married Pofferi. The Italian cops have checked out her name, but it’s an alias. She emerged from nowhere about eighteen months ago, and ganged up with Pofferi. The Italian cops caught her when she and Pofferi were trying to rob a bank. He got away. She was held long enough to get her prints and a mug shot, then she escaped. Someone smuggled a gun into her cell and away she went, killing two guards.” He looked at his watch. “I’m off. See you,” and he left.

There didn’t seem much else to do except go to bed. It was now too late to see Bertha. I ate the beef sandwiches, thought about Pete Lewinski and wondered if Josh Jones had shot him.

I liked Pete, and I felt depressed, so I gave myself another drink, then went into my bedroom. The bed looked lonely. I wondered if Bertha would come over and share it with me, but decided it was too late. Still, it might be worth a try. I returned to the living room and was reaching for the telephone when there was a gentle ping on the front door bell.

The time was just after midnight. I walked to the front door, slipped on the chain and opened the door a few inches without showing myself. My highrise had had a couple of muggers causing trouble the previous month, and my neighbour was still in hospital.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I’m Pete’s boy.” The soft accent told me he was an Indian.

I pushed the door shut, slipped off the chain and opened up.

A thin boy of around thirteen with a shock of thick black hair, dressed in dirty white drill, slid around me, and into the lobby.

I closed the door and motioned him into the living room. He stared around. His breathing came in quick gasps, and there was sweat on his face.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked, and walked over to a chair and sat down.

Still staring around, he began to chew his lower lip, then his black eyes shifted to me.

“Joey. I work for Pete.”

“You heard what happened to Pete?”

He nodded, gulped, and his dirty hands turned into fists.

“That was tough,” I said. “Sit down.”

He hesitated, then sat on the edge of a chair, facing mine.

“Why are you here Joey?”

“Tom and me are brothers.”

“Was Tom the one. . . .?”

He gulped again, then nodded.

“Joey, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

His face tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

“That doesn’t help,” he said, his voice husky. “Being sorry.”

“I guess not. Why have you come here, Joey?”

He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“You paid Pete twenty bucks to have Josh Jones watched, didn’t you?”

I began to feel uneasy.

“So?”

“Pete told Tom and me to watch Jones. Pete said you would pay more when we had some info. Pete was square. He said we’d split the twenty three ways.”

“Do you know who did the shooting?”

“One of the three. I don’t know which one.”

“What do you know?”

He leaned forward, his black eyes glittering.

“I know where those two are right now. Tom went to tell Pete. That’s when he got killed.”

I began to sweat.

“Have you told the cops, Joey?”

“After what they did to my dad, I don’t talk to cops.”

His black eyes turned vicious.

“What happened to your dad, Joey?”

“They put him away for ten years. He has another five years to go.”

I began to relax.

“So? Where are those two right now, Joey?”

He studied me for a long moment, then he said, “What’s it worth to you, Mr. Anderson?”

I took out my limp wallet and checked its contents without letting Joey see. I thumbed out a $10 bill and held it up.

He shook his head.

“I could get killed like Tom.”

“Not if you are careful, Joey.”

“I could get killed,” he said quietly.

Reluctantly, I added another $10 bill.

“That’s it, Joey. I’m short.”

He hesitated, then reaching forward, took the two bills.

“They are at the Alameda bar.”

I gaped at him.

“That I don’t believe.”

“This morning at five o’clock, Jones and the other two left Jones’ place and went to the Alameda bar,” Joey said.

“They went in by the back way, and then Jones returned to his place. My brother, Jimbo, is there now, watching.”

“You have another brother, Joey?”

“Yes. He worked for Pete too.”

“Keep watching. I’ll pay you more later. I want to know if they move, and be careful.”

He got to his feet, tucked the two bills into his hip pocket, nodded and made for the door.

“Hold it, Joey. Where can I find you?”

“Lobster Court. It’s right by Crab Court. No 2. Top floor. My brothers and I have a room.”

“How about your mother?”

“She killed herself when they took dad,” Joey said, his face wooden. “There’s only Jimbo and me now.”

“Watch out, Joey,” I said.

I saw him to the front door, then walked back to the lounging chair and sat down.

I did some thinking. Pofferi and his wife had been hiding on the pirates’ island. Nancy had visited them and had taken them ort the yacht back to the harbour. Josh Jones then had taken them to his room, and later to the Alameda bar. Why had he taken them there? It seemed to me that Jones, through Gloria Cort, had done a deal with Diaz to hide these two: a much safer hiding place than keeping them in his (Jones’) room. He had gone to Gloria because, as Hamel’s ex-wife, she knew him, crewman of the yacht. So far, this made sense, but what didn’t make sense was why a nice girl like Nancy should be helping a couple of dangerous terrorists. Had she met them in Rome? That seemed likely. Had they some hold on her?

I stubbed out my cigarette impatiently. So what should I do? I knew what I
ought
to do. I ought to call the police and tell them where Pofferi and his wife were hiding, but if I did that, what was in it for me? Nothing that I could see except trouble. Lepski would want to know how I had found out that the Pofferis were at the Alameda. Even if I dreamed up a convincing lie, I would still be left with nothing. No one was going to give me a reward.

It suddenly occurred to me the time was ripe to talk to Nancy Hamel. Would she be prepared to buy my silence?

I grimaced. This would have to be handled carefully.

The last thing I needed was to be charged with blackmail.

Blackmail?

I had dealt with a number of blackmailers since I had joined the Agency. I had been the means of sending them to jail. Up to this moment, I had considered blackmail to be the lowest form of crime.

But was this blackmail? All I was going to do was to have a confidential talk with Nancy Hamel. I would tell her I knew of her connection with Pofferi and I knew where he and his wife were hiding. I would explain that a shamus didn’t make much of a living. I would give her my sincere smile. Of course if we could come to some financial arrangement, then I would forget the whole thing and everyone would be happy. It was, of course, up to her to decide.

Was that blackmail?

A business arrangement, yes. Blackmail, no.

I am pretty smart at kidding people, but I am in a class of my own when I begin to kid myself.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he following morning, around 09.00, I walked into Glenda’s office to find her sorting the mail.

“Hi, there,” I said, placing my hands on her desk and leaning over her. “How’s the busy bee this sunny day?”

She didn’t pause in her reading.

“What do you want? You should be on the job.”

“Never off it, gorgeous. Those poison pen letters. I need them. I’ve an idea I can trace the paper. Harry has given me a clue.”

“Help yourself.” She waved to a filing cabinet and went on reading.

“Business brisk? Lots of new suckers?” I asked as I found the two letters. Getting no reply, I put the letters in my wallet and breezed out of the office.

Taking the elevator down to the garage, I drove the Maser to the Country Club. I parked, then settled in a lounging chair, with a copy of
Newsweek,
to wait.

I had been up early and had made two reports, plus carbon copies. I now felt ready to have a confidential chat with Nancy Hamel. As I sat in the lounge, I thought about her. I recalled the impression she had made on me, both from her photograph and from seeing her. I was sure as I could be that I would have no trouble with her if I handled her right, and I intended to handle her right.

Around 10.30, she came into the lounge, carrying a tennis racket, and dressed for tennis. She went over to the Club’s porter, an ageing black with white, frizzy hair, who beamed at her.

“Has Mrs. Highbee come yet, Johnson?” she asked.

I was near enough to hear her.

“She’s down on the courts, Mrs. Hamel.”

Nancy smiled, nodded and walked across the lobby, heading for the tennis courts. I watched her go. Her hip movement was nice.

After waiting for some fifteen minutes, I went out onto the terrace and saw her playing with Penny Highbee.

Lunchtime, I told myself, would be right to talk to her, so I went down to the swimming pool, changed and swam.

The pool was crowded with the big, the fat, the slim and the dolly birds.

After an hour, I dried off, changed and wandered back to the tennis courts. Nancy and Penny were still playing.

I found a chair under a sun umbrella and sat down. A waiter slid up. I ordered a Scotch and coke. He brought the drink, I signed, tipped and he went away.

A voice said, “It’s Mr. Anderson, I believe?”

I looked up to find Mel Palmer, Hamel’s agent, wearing an immaculate off-white tropical suit, standing before me.

I gave him my wide, friendly smile, but I wasn’t smiling beneath the surface. He was the last person I needed to see.