1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (22 page)

I was tempted to tell them that the deal would not go through. I was tempted to tell them that within days the Drug Enforcement people would be swarming all over the factory and that Raiz and Stobart would be in the stammer, but why spoil their moment of happiness?

I lifted my glass, saluted Peggy and drank.

"Marvellous."

"Isn't it? I now have enough to help Dad," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I've always longed to help him. He's going to a clinic in Miami. I'm hoping and praying they will be able to help him."

I glanced at Pollack who sadly shook his head.

"I've warned Peggy," he said. "There is no hope for poor Bob."

"I don't give a damn! He's going to the clinic!" Peggy said. "What is money for except to help those one loves."

"And the hotel?" I asked. "Is that going to be sold."

She shook her head.

"Not now. I've changed my mind. Dad wants me to keep the hotel running. With the money I'll get for the factory and the grocery-store, I plan to modernize the hotel. Mr. Pollack thinks I'm right."

"What happened at the Weatherspoon inquest?" I asked Pollack.

"That was quickly over: accidental death."

I shrugged. Dr. Steed was certainly being loyal to his old, drunken friend.

"Well, Peggy, congratulations again. I wish you the best of luck," and, leaving theta, I went to my room. Lying on the bed, still a little shaken by the attempt on my life, I took stock.

I was on the verge of busting a drug-ring, but that hadn't been my assignment which was to find Johnny Jackson. So, following my father's advice: When you are stuck, son, go back to square A, and you might, if you use your brains, find an important fact that you may have overlooked. So I went back to square A and did some heavy thinking.

I dismissed the drug-ring, Raiz, Stobart and Stella. They were diversions. I concentrated on Wally Watkins, the kindly old man who grew roses. I saw him clearly in my mind when I had asked him if he had seen Johnny Jackson recently and recalled his hesitation—the hesitation of a good, honest man about to tell a lie.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. The time now was 19.20. I was hungry so I went down to the restaurant, nodded to the various salesmen who were eating and working and ordered the special: a T-bone steak.

After eating, I left the hotel, got in my car and headed towards Wally Watkin's little home.

The sun had set and the shadows were lengthening. I turned off the highway and within a couple of hundred yards of Watkin's home I parked the car off the road and walked the rest of the way. Turning the slight bend, I saw the little house. Lights showed in the living-room. The curtains were drawn. I could smell the roses.

Moving silently, I skirted the house and got around to the back. The bedrooms were in darkness. I had brought with me my powerful flashlight. I paused to listen. Only the sound of the trucks roaring along the highway came to me.

I found a little gate that led me into the back garden. I walked by the long-stemmed roses, those that had been cut to lie on Frederick Jackson's grave, and I reached the house. I could hear a voice from the TV set. The bedroom windows faced me. One of them was wide open. I threw the beam of my flashlight into the roam which belonged to Wally Watkins: a thoroughly male room with a double bed, closets, no frills. I moved to the next window and sent the beam of my flashlight through the glass. This was a smaller room, a single bed, a feminine room. There was a small dressing-table on which stood a bottle of perfume and things women use. What caught my attention was a wig of long blond hair on a headstand, its tresses finely combed and dropping nearly to the floor.

I tried the window but it was locked, so I moved back to the open window, climbed silently into Wally Watkin's bedroom, opened the door carefully and moved into the dark passage.

Wally was listening to the news. I heard the telecaster saying something about an earthquake. I moved to the second door, opened it and was in the feminine bedroom. Closing the door, I looked around, sweeping the beam of my flashlight. This was a young girl's room. There were dolls on shelves against the far wall. There was a poster of a pop-group pinned on another wall. There was a brown, well-worn looking cuddly bear on a chair. Swinging the beam of my flashlight around, I stiffened, seeing a wooden glassed frame above the head of the bed.

I moved forward. The frame contained a medal. I moved further forward and stared at the Medal of Honor: Mitch Jackson's medal that I was sure had hung above Frederick Jackson's bed and which was now hanging above the bed . . . of who? Johnny Jackson? Was he such a raving queer that he had a woman's wig, a cuddly bear, dolls? It was possible, but I felt doubt.

Moving away from the bed, I went to the closet and opened the doors. There were a few dresses hanging there: all for a young girl: cheap dresses you can buy at any store. There was a leather jacket and a couple of pairs of Levis. On a shelf, I found two brassieres and three white panties.

I again looked at the Medal of Honor, then I turned to Wally Watkins's room, slid out of the window and went around to the front of the house. I pushed open the gate and walked up to the front door. I pressed the bell. I heard the TV snap off, then there was silence. I waited a few moments, then pressed the bell again. There was another long pause, then the front door opened and Wally Watkins regarded me.

"Hello, there, Mr. Watkins," I said. "Dirk Wallace."

"Yes," he said, standing squarely in the doorway. "I'm afraid, Mr. Wallace, your visit isn't convenient. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Sorry, but not tomorrow. I have to talk to you about your son."

I saw him stiffen. The light from the passage was behind him and his face was in shadow.

"Mr. Wallace," he said, hesitation in his voice, "I think I told you my son no longer interests me. If you have something to tell me, then it can wait until tomorrow. You must excuse me," and he began to shut the door.

I moved forward.

"Still sorry, Mr. Watkins, but this is a police matter. It is just possible you could be involved. We had better talk."

"Police matter?" He gave ground and I moved into the passage and shut the front door.

“That's right," I said. "I'm still sorry, but we have to talk."

He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders in a defeated shrug. He opened the living-room door.

"Then you had better come in, Mr. Wallace."

I followed him into the comfortable, neat living-room. The table was set for dinner: two places laid.

"I hope this won't take long, Mr. Wallace," he said. "I was about to have dinner." He hesitated, then his old-world courtesy forced him to ask, "Perhaps I can offer you a drink?"

"Thanks, no." I went to a lounging-chair and sat down. "I'm sorry to tell you your son is in serious trouble. In a few days he will be arrested. He has been running a drug-ring right here in Searle." I was watching the old mart and saw him flinch.

"My son? Here? In Searle?" He moved to a chair and dropped heavily into it. "I don't understand. Syd here?"

"Not in Searle. He has been living in Paradise City under the name of Herbert Stobart. He has a house worth at least half a million dollars and a Rolls Royce. He and Harry Weatherspoon organized a very profitable drug-ring. The yearly take is over three million dollars."

"Weatherspoon?" The old man looked utterly dazed.

"Let me explain, Mr. Watkins. Most of what I am going to tell you is based on guess-work, but I have strong evidence that my guesses are correct. It began in Vietnam. Weatherspoon was a narcotic agent, working with the army. The drug situation in the army was bad. Weatherspoon found out who was supplying drugs to the kids, serving in the army. This drug-pusher had to have a contact to supply the drugs. Weatherspoon found out the contact was your son. Before the drug-pusher, Mitch Jackson, could be arrested, he was killed in battle. Weatherspoon must have discovered how much money was passing hands. He was a man greedy for money, so he contacted your son and they did a deal. When they were demobilized, between them, they dreamed up an idea of using canned frogs to supply rich degenerates with heroin. The drug was in sachets, supposed to be a sauce to go with the frog saddles. It was a nice idea and a safe one. Your son developed an impressive mail-order list of names, sent heroin in the cans of frog saddles to these people once a month. Weatherspoon handled the canning end and your son handled the customers and supplied the heroin. Then something happened. I don't know what, but Weatherspoon decided to pull out. He had made half a million, so he decided to quit. Maybe he quarrelled with your son. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Like most drug-traffickers who decide to get out of the racket, he ended up dead. The frog-factory has just been bought by a Mexican, Edmundo Raiz, financed by your son. These two imagine .hey can continue their racket, but I have enough evidence to put them away for some fifteen years."

Watkins sat motionless for some moments, then he looked at me.

"I have told you I want nothing to do with my son. What you tell me is shocking, and I hope Syd gets what he deserves. I suppose I should thank you for telling me this, but I can't see it is any concern of mine. It is hurtful, of course, but Syd has always hurt Kitty and myself. You said something about rue being involved." Be looked directly at me. "Am I involved?"

I ignored this, wanting to keep him off balance.

"It is odd the way things happen, Mr. Watkins," I said. "Some ten days ago, the Agency received a request from the late Frederick Jackson to find his grandson. As Jackson sent us one hundred dollars as a retainer, we accepted the assignment, but only because Jackson reminded Colonel Parnell that his son, Mitch, who served in Vietnam under Parnell, had won the Medal of Honor. I got the job to find Johnny Jackson. While making inquiries, I uncovered this drug-ring. This happens to be a side issue, although an important one. I still haven't found Johnny Jackson. I asked you the other day if you had seen him recently, and you said you hadn't. I was under the impression then, and I am more sure now, you were not telling me the truth. So ask you again: have you seen Johnny Jackson recently?"

He stared down at his hands and said nothing.

"Have you seen Johnny Jackson recently?" I repeated.

I say, by the pained expression on his face he was steeling himself to tell another lie, but at moment, the door jerked open and Be-Be Mansel came in.

"Okay, you creep, on your way!" she snapped. "On your feet and beat it!"

I regarded her. She was wearing a T-shirt that emphasized her small rounded breasts, and tight Levis. Her long black hair was silky and reached nearly to her waist. Her small white face was as hard as stone.

"Sure," I said and stood up. I looked at Watkins, still sitting staring down at his hands. "Mr. Watkins, you haven't answered my question."

Be-Be rushed up to me, grabbed my arm and swung me around. "Get out!" she screamed at me.

I looked down at her, then the whole set-up jelled in my mind: the second bedroom, the cuddly bear, the clothes in the closet and the Medal of Honor on the wall.

"Okay," I said. "I'm on my way."

She went to the door and threw it wide open.

"Get out of here!"

As I moved by her, I caught hold of a handful of her silky black tresses and jerked the wig off her head. She screamed, then her hand lashed out, but I caught her wrist.

I stared at her blonde, boyish haircut. She looked like a replica of the late Jean Sebourg.

I smiled at her.

"Hello, Johnny Jackson," I said "So I've found you at last."

The hum of heavy trucks on the distant highway was the only sound in the neat, comfortable living-room.

Wally Watkins sat as if turned to stone. The girl was also motionless. She looked at me, then at him.

I let the silence hang, then Watkins said gently, "I think, Johnny dear, we should give Mr. Wallace an explanation."

"Oh, go ahead!" she exclaimed, grabbing the wig out of my hand. "Tell him!" And she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Watkins regarded me.

"Perhaps you will join me in a little Scotch, Mr. Wallace? Perhaps you would be so kind as to fix the drinks. My knee is playing up."

"Sure, but what about your dinner?" I went to the liquor-cabinet and poured two drinks. "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Watkins."

"Oh, dinner can wait. It is nothing grand." He took the glass, eyed the colour of the Scotch and nodded. "You make a good drink, Mr. Wallace."

I carried my glass to the armchair and sat down.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Mr. Watkins. I have found Johnny Jackson and that ends my assignment," I said.

"I wish it were as simple as that," he said and sipped his drink. "I want you to hear the story of Johnny Jackson, then I hope you will be more understanding towards her."

I lit a cigarette and relaxed back in the chair.

"Okay. So tell me."

"I will be as brief as I can. Both Kitty and I have been in on this sad story from the beginning. We were disappointed with our son. I don't have to go over that again. We love children. When Johnny first came to Searle and came to our store, we both took a great interest in her. We both thought she was a boy. We knew how old Fred lived and we asked Johnny if he would like to have a weekly bath at our place. Old Fred never took a bath. In fact, there was no bath at his cabin. Johnny loved that. So we saw him regularly and we grew to love him. Mr. Wallace, I now regard Johnny as my own daughter. It was when Johnny reached the age of fourteen that Kitty suspected he wasn't a boy, but a girl. By then, Johnny loved us, but not as much as she loved that dirty, rough old man. One evening when she was here for her bath, she confided in us." Watkins paused to sip his drink, then went on, "His mother Stella Costa met Mitch Jackson just before he was drafted. There was something about Mitch that fascinated women. Stella became pregnant with Johnny. She begged Mitch to marry her and he told her, providing the child was a boy, he would marry her on his return from Vietnam. This woman longed to marry Mitch. It's something I don't pretend to understand. So when the baby was born and was a girl, Stella realized Mitch now wouldn't marry her. In desperation, she registered the baby's birth as Johnny Jackson, a boy, and sent Mitch a copy of the certificate, reminding him that he had promised to marry her on his return. Now, it appears, the Jacksons were very odd. They were only interested in male heirs. Neither of them had time for female heirs. Mitch wrote back, delighted, and renewed his promise to marry Stella on his return. Stella brought her child up as a boy. She was having a hard time as Mitch sent her no money. She found Johnny, now eight years old, a hindrance. She decided to send him to his grandfather. She explained the sordid story to Johnny, instilling into him or her that he or she must never tell old Jackson he was a girl, and at that age Johnny liked being a boy. Old Jackson was delighted to have a grandson. In his rough way, he treated Johnny well, and Johnny came to love and admire this old man. She told us how, at nights, old Jackson would tell her tiles about his life, about his alligator fights, and he would talk about Mitch. So the years passed. Then, of course, Johnny became more girl than boy. Often, old Jackson would talk about girls, and his talk was crude and brutal, and Johnny realized that if he found out she was a girl she would lose him." Watkins looked at me. "It's sad, isn't it? By then Johnny really worshipped this old man, but she became more and more aware that soon he would realize she was a girl. By then, my Kitty was dead, but Johnny came regularly once a week for her bath, and we would talk. She was binding her chest flat to deceive old Jackson, but the tension of discovery became too much for her. I advised her to leave him and come and live with me. Rather than face his fur: when he discovered the truth, she did this. Neither of us expected old Jackson to write to Colonel Parnell. Then you came investigating and you have found out the sad truth. Now you know Mr. Wallace. We have nothing to be ashamed of. It now doesn't matter because Johnny is going away. I have fixed her -up with a job in Los Angeles. My nephew runs a dress-shop there and he is willing to have her. She'll be off tomorrow and I hope she will happy.” He smiled sadly. "I will miss her."