1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts (3 page)

He shrugged.

‘I guess I’ll go back to my pad, heat up a quick-dinner mess, then watch the box until bedtime.’

Feeling a little smug, I shook my head.

‘That’s not the way to live, Bill. You should find yourself a nice, willing girl as I have.’

He grinned.

‘Think of the money I save. Suits me. See you, Dirk,’ and with a wave of his hand he took off. I drove to my two-room apartment just on the fringe of Seacomb which is the slum district where the workers live. I parked my car and climbed up four floors in a creaking elevator to my home.

When I had first arrived in Paradise City, I found this furnished apartment going cheap, and decided it was good enough, although rather a dismal affair.

The walls were painted dark brown; the furniture was shabby and uncomfortable. The bed creaked and the mattress had lumps.

I had told myself that I wouldn’t be spending much time in the place, and as the rent was so low it made sense to take it.

All that changed when Suzy insisted on visiting me. She had taken one horrified look around and exclaimed, ‘You can’t live in a hole like this!’

I told her about the rent and she was duly impressed.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave this to me.’

Within a week, while I stayed with Bill in his tiny pad, with the aid of two of the Bellevue Hotel painters, plus furniture from the hotel storeroom at a giveaway price, Suzy converted my home into something lush. I loved it! Suzy purred every time she came in.

As you enter the apartment, you are faced with a large blank wall. Neither of us had as yet decided what to do with this wall. I thought of bookshelves, but Suzy was all for finding a good copy of a modern painting. We spent much agreeable time arguing about this, and I was getting the feeling she was going to get her way.

As I entered the apartment, I was no longer confronted by the blank wall.

Instead, scrawled in aerosol black paint in six-inch letters was the message: KEEP AWAY FROM ANGIE OR ELSE.

He must have been waiting for me behind the front door. He was quick and very expert.

I just heard the swish of a descending sap, then saw flashes of light, then there was a complete blackout.

CHAPTER 2

A
t 09.45 the following morning I walked, somewhat flat-footed, into the lobby of the Pacific & National Bank to be greeted with a cold stare from Miss Kertch, the receptionist.

‘I will inform Mr. Ackland,’ she said. ‘It is Mr. Wallace?’

I was bored with this old trout.

‘Very efficient of you, Miss Kertch. It is Miss Kertch, isn’t it?’

Tight-lipped, she flicked down a switch.

‘Mr. Wallace is here, Mr. Ackland.’

Horace Ackland, looking this time like a bishop who has breakfasted well, appeared from his office and shook hands.

‘If you will sit over there, Mr. Wallace, I have told Miss Kertch to alert you when Miss Thorsen arrives.’

I did just that and was glad to sink into a comfortable chair within ten feet of the reception desk.

I was battling with a life-sized headache which, in spite of Suzy’s administrations and five Aspros taken this morning, still plagued me.

I thought back on the previous evening.

When Suzy arrived to pick me up, she had found the front door open, the graffiti on the wall, and me dragging myself off the floor.

Suzy was one of the rare, unflappable girls who could handle any emergency. She helped me to the settee, saw the egg-sized swelling at the back of my right ear and, without talking, dashed into the kitchen, made an ice pack and held it tenderly against the swelling. After ten minutes of this treatment, my head began to clear, and I managed a wry grin.

‘Sorry about this love,’ I said. ‘I had an unexpected visitor.’

‘Just relax, darling. Don’t talk. You must get into bed.’

This seemed to me a good idea. With her help I undressed, crawled into my pyjamas and got into bed.

‘I think a double Scotch and ice would now meet the bill.’ I said as I rested my aching head on the pillow.

‘No alcohol,’ Suzy said firmly. ‘You could have concussion. I’ll call a doctor.’

I patted her hand.

‘It’s OK. No doctor. I’ve just had a professional tap on my skull. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just get me a drink.’

She sighed and left me and I heard her mixing the drink. When she returned, I was feeling better. I was glad to see she had made a drink for herself. She sat on the bed beside me and regarded me anxiously.

‘It’s OK, baby,’ I said. ‘Don’t look so tragic.’

She took a long pull at her drink and shivered.

‘You scared the life out of me. Oh, Dirk, what’s been happening?’

‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about. I’m working on a new case. It would seem I have opposition.’

‘Oh.’ Suzy nodded. By now, she knew that I never talked about my work. I had drummed into her head that no Acme operator was allowed to talk about his case. ‘I can’t ask who Angie is?’

‘You can’t ask period.’

‘Right. I’m going to give you three sleeping pills and I’m going to leave you to sleep.’ She went into the bathroom, found the pills and returned. ‘Now be good, Dirk. You need a long sleep.’

‘I could do with your company in bed.’

‘No way. Take these pills.’

By the way my head was splitting open, it wasn’t such a bad idea, so I took them.

‘I’ll get my painter pals in tomorrow to fix that wall. How did these people get in?’

‘I guess they picked the lock.’

‘Right. I’ll get a locksmith here tomorrow to really fix your door. I’ll put the new keys in your mailbox.’ She bent and kissed me. ‘Now, sleep,’ and she left me.

I did sleep, and although I still had a bad headache, I had met Bill outside his apartment block at 09.15. He in his car and I in mine, we drove to the bank. As we were early, I sat in his car and filled him in about the previous night. He listened, nodding from time to time.

‘Looks like trouble, Dirk,’ he said.

‘Feels like it, too. But trouble is our business.’

‘Quick work, huh? Someone must have alerted these guys that you are investigating Angie. They went into action fast. Who alerted them?’

‘That’s something we have to find out.’

It was now close on 09.45. I slid out of his car.

‘I’ll give you the high sign,’ I said and walked into the lobby of the bank.

At least it had stopped raining. I sat in the comfortable chair, pretending to read
The
Paradise City Herald
, and keeping one eye on Miss Kertch who was busy answering the telephone in a low inaudible voice, pressing buttons and looking sour.

Then suddenly, she rose to her feet and produced an autumnal smile, a few degrees less chilly than her wintry smile.

I guessed the big moment had arrived. I looked towards the bank’s entrance.

A girl had entered and was saluted by the doorman. She came across the big lobby swiftly. I had time to give her an in-depth look.

Thin as a matchstick; no front, no behind, she wore a big straw hat like those you see on the heads of peons working in the fields in Mexico. The hat was pulled down, obscuring her face. She wore four-inch sun goggles. Her clothes were a dark loosely fitting T-shirt, and the usual blue jeans every girl, all over the world, wears. She had on sandals. Her toenails weren’t painted. She could pass as any young girl tourist on vacation. As heiress to the Thorsens’ billions, she couldn’t have been more incognito than Garbo in her prime.

Miss Kertch was already leading her to Ackland’s office.

I hurried out to where Bill was sitting in his car.

‘The chick in the straw hat and jeans,’ I said. ‘You spotted her?’

‘I guessed she was our party,’ Bill said.

‘That’s her car, two cars ahead. A Volkswagen. She’s certainly keeping a low profile.’

‘OK, Bill. I’ll leave my car,’ and I slid in beside him. ‘We’ll wait and follow her.’

She appeared some ten minutes later. She had with her a small plastic briefcase, no doubt supplied by Ackland, and no doubt containing ten thousand dollars in big bills.

There was no problem following her. She drove at the correct speed, then turned off the boulevard and headed towards the waterfront.

She then turned left, heading away from the harbour where the rich anchored their yachts, turned down another side street and got onto the waterfront where the fishing boats were anchored and the riff-raff lived.

At this hour there was some activity. The fishermen were coming from the bars to board their vessels for a second morning’s catch. The young hippies were drinking coffee, gaping with sleep. Angela parked in an empty slot and Bill drove by her, swung the Olds into another parking slot and cut the engine.

I got out of the car in time to see her walk across the waterfront, dodging the heavy trucks and heading towards a row of bars, cafes and sleazy restaurants. I watched her enter a broken down looking dump with
The Black
Cassette: Disco. Drinks. Quick Eats
printed across the facia in peeling black lettering.

Moving slowly, I crossed the waterfront and paused outside the finger-stained glass door.

There was a notice pasted on the door: COLOURED BRETHREN ONLY: WHITE FOLK NOT ADMITTED: HEAR?

After hesitating, I decided it was too soon to stick my nose into what could be a hornet’s nest. I needed information. I returned to the car where Bill was waiting.

‘Strictly for blacks,’ I said. ‘You wait here. See how long she remains in the joint. I’m going to dig for info.’

I made my way along the crowded waterfront and arrived outside the Neptune Tavern where I was sure I would find Al Barney. Like a permanent fixture, he was sitting on a bollard, twiddling an empty beer can in his hand while he stared gloomily out to sea.

Al Barney was known as the doyen of the waterfront. He claimed, and rightly, that he was a man with his ear to the ground. There was little he didn’t know about the waterfront’s machinations.

Balding, wearing a dirty sweatshirt and duck frayed trousers, he supported an enormous beer belly on his knees. Apart from collecting information, Barney’s main interest was beer and sausages dipped in some horribly potent sauce that would skin the mouth of any ordinary man, but on which Barney doted.

He and the Acme Agency often got together: the operators supplying him with beer, and he providing the operators with useful information.

When he saw me he gave me his shark-like smile and tossed the empty beer can into the sea.

‘Glad to see you, Mr. Wallace,’ he said, ‘very glad. I was just thinking it was time for breakfast.’ He peered thoughtfully at me. ‘You feel like breakfast?’

‘Let’s go to the Neptune,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you beer and breakfast.’

‘Spoken like the gent you are,’ Barney said.

He heaved his bulk off the bollard and waddled across the waterfront to the Neptune Tavern.

I followed him.

Once inside the dingy, dark bar room, Barney waved to Sam, the black barkeeper.

‘Breakfast, Sam,’ Barney said, ‘and let’s have some action.’

‘Yes, Mr. Barney, sir,’ Sam said, giving me a wide, flashing smile. ‘And Mr. Wallace? You like a coffee or something?’

Having tried Sam’s coffee, which was terrible, I shook my head.

‘Later, perhaps, Sam. I’ve just had breakfast.’

Barney was already seated at his favourite table in a corner. I joined him.

‘How are things with you, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked. ‘OK? You look fine. Is the colonel OK?’

I knew the ritual well by now. Barney must never be rushed. He must never be asked questions until his third beer, and only when he had finished a plate of the deadly sausages.

‘The colonel right now is in Washington,’ I said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m fine. And you Al?’

‘Well, I guess I’m not getting any younger. But who is?’ Barney shook his balding head.

‘But I’m not grumbling. The tourist trade is starting next month.’ His little eyes lit up. ‘Marvellous people—tourists. They come and talk to me, take my photograph. I tell them things that makes them pee in their pants.’ He gave his shark-like grin. ‘I guess everyone likes to hear scandal.’

Sam came across and planted down a pint of beer and a big dish of the most dreadful looking little sausages that only the devil could have invented. Barney promptly threw three into his mouth, chewed, gulped, and tears rose to his eyes. He swallowed, gasped and drank half the beer.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Mr. Wallace. Nothing like them. Try one.’

‘No, thank you.’

He threw three more into his mouth and went through the same performance.

‘Wonderful for the digestion.’ He finished the beer and Sam slid across to place a refill.

I waited patiently.

Finally, the sausages and yet another beer finished, Barney released a belch that made the windows rattle.

‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked with his shark-like smile.

‘What can you tell me about the Black Cassette?’

Barney lifted what eyebrows he had left.

‘A black hangout. Dancing, poor grub, but popular.’

I waited, looking directly at him.

‘No cop trouble,’ Barney went on. ‘The joint was bought by a black about a year ago. He made it into a sort of club. We don’t have a lot of blacks here: most are Vietnamese and Ricans. This joint is a place where the blacks can get together, feel at home, dance.’

‘Who bought the place, Al?’

Barney scratched his throat. It was a sign I had learned to know so I signalled to Sam who came sliding across the room with another beer.

‘These little lovies give a man a thirst,’ Barney said. ‘You’re a swell, Mr. Wallace.’

‘Who bought the place?’ I repeated.

Barney took a long pull at his beer glass.

‘A no-good black,’ he said, scowling. ‘How he got the money to buy the joint surprised me. Five thousand bucks for a ten-year lease. My guess is he must have got the money from his pa who used to be a drinking friend of mine. A nice old guy. He’d come down here and talk with me and buy me a beer.’ Barney shook his head and looked sad. ‘Then a year ago, I didn’t see him anymore. An old guy like me misses good friends.’