1979 - A Can of Worms Read online

  We had visited Cayman Islands, Bermuda, the Bahamas and Martinique. We had swum, eaten the best food money could provide, drank four bottles of champagne every day, plus a continuous supply of rum punches that had made Bertha so sexy I had trouble to supply the demand.

  We entertained the usual scroungers who always invade luxury yachts when they tie up.

  We had a ball, but nothing lasts forever.

  We were now heading back to Paradise City and would arrive this evening.

  “Are you packed, honey?” I asked, stretching.

  “Don’t spoil it. I don’t want this ever to end.”

  “Me too, but we’d better pack.” I got to my feet. “I’ll pack first, you next, huh?”

  “Go away!”

  I went down to the state cabin and looked around.

  Man! Was I going to miss all this! Reluctantly, I took a suitcase from the closet and tossed it on the bed.

  There came a knock on the door, and the Chief steward-cum-butler-cum-valet entered.

  He was tall, lean with a hatchet shaped face and beady eyes as animated as sea washed pebbles. His service to us had been immaculate, but all the time he was with us, he looked as if there was a faint, unpleasant smell under his thin nostrils.

  “I will be happy to do that for you, sir. You will be leaving us I believe this evening?”

  “Yeah. That’s a good idea. Pack for me, and pack for Mrs. Anderson.”

  For the sake of decency, we had come aboard as husband and wife, but I had the idea that we weren’t conning this guy, nor the Captain, nor the rest of the crew.

  “Yes, sir.” He paused, then produced a fat envelope.

  “Here is the accounting, sir. It is usual to settle before we land.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll fix that.”

  “It is also usual to distribute twenty-five percent of the total amongst the crew, sir. I will be happy to do this for you.”

  I looked at him and he looked at me.

  “Twenty-five percent?”

  He allowed his thin lips to part in a smile.

  “Well, of course, sir, if you wish to increase the amount . . .”

  “Sure . . . sure,” and I left him and went into the saloon. Sitting down at the desk, I opened the envelope and regarded the account. The total came to $36,000. The Chief Steward had added in pencil $9,000 for booking: final total $45,000. I sucked in a long, slow breath. Then I went through the items. Then I sat back. After more staring at the account, I took out my pencil and did a little figuring. I came to the conclusion that I was now worth two thousand, three hundred dollars, after having had over fifty thousand dollars four weeks ago.

  I walked to the sun deck where Bertha was pouring yet another glass of champagne.

  “That was quick,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’ve packed already.”

  “Prune face is doing it. He’s doing yours too.”

  She stretched, smiling.

  “This is the life, Bart, Hmmm, lovely.”

  “Yeah. Take a close look.”

  I handed her the misery. She spent a few minutes going through the items, then shrugged and handed the accounts back to me.

  “It was worth it. I don’t regret a dime.”

  My money, of course, not hers.

  “This practically puts me back in hock again, baby.”

  “Well, you still have your job.”

  “Yeah. I still have my job.”

  She poured me champagne and patted the mattress.

  “Don’t look so down in the mouth, pet. Money is for spending.”

  I sat beside her. I was now thinking what a birdbrain I had been to have accepted fifty thousand dollars from Snake Diaz. I hadn’t even pressed him. I had asked for one hundred thousand, and had let him rob me off with half!

  Man! How stupid can you be? I thought. I had had that snake over a barrel, and I had let him get away with it.

  Then I remembered what he had said: Don’t come back for more. Blackmailers are greedy. This is the final payment. Okay? Then he had said: I promise you one thing, if you try to put the pressure on again, you will have an unpleasant end. I, personally, will take care of you. You will die slowly.

  What a mug! I thought. Well, that’s it. I’m not taking any more chances with that snake. He means just what he said.

  “Bart!” Bertha said sharply. “Tell me something: how bad is this can of worms you’ve opened?”

  “Couldn’t be worse.”

  “She paid fifty thousand to keep it quiet without a struggle?”

  “Well, not quite, but she paid.”

  “You went to the wrong customer, Bart. You shouldn’t have gone to her.”

  I stared at her.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Did you or did you not get the money from Nancy Hamel?”

  “I worked through her agent, but she found the money.”

  “If the can is as bad as you say it is, you could have asked much more, couldn’t you?”

  “She hadn’t any more.”

  Bertha nodded.

  “That’s where you made your big mistake. You should have gone to Russ Hamel who is worth millions.”

  “You don’t know the set-up, honey.”

  She lit a cigarette.

  “Then tell me.”

  “Bertha, you don’t want to get involved in this.”

  She looked hard at me.

  “Tell me!”

  “It’s safer for you to keep out of it!”

  “Stop acting like a virgin who sees it for the first time! Tell me!”

  So I told her. As I talked, I felt a sense of relaxation. I needed to confide in someone. It wasn’t until I started from the beginning: watching Nancy, Josh Jones, running into Pofferi, Pete and Tommy, then Coldwell with his mug shots, and finally Diaz with his threat, that I realized just how much I needed to confide.

  Bertha listened. When I got up to the part about Nancy being Lucia Pofferi, she sat up, staring at me, but she said nothing until I had finished.

  “You really mean Nancy Hamel is Lucia whatever her name is: a murderess?” Bertha asked, her voice low.

  “No doubt about it.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, closed and opened her eyes.

  “Man!” she whispered.

  “Yeah. I told you. So okay, now you know. The weak hinge is that if it ever surfaces, I’ll spend years in jail.”

  “And you sold this package to Diaz for fifty thousand?”

  “I’ve told you!” I snapped. “Okay, I wanted a hundred, but when he put all that green on his desk, I fell for it.”

  “Man!” She cupped her breasts and moaned softly.

  “Okay. Okay, don’t tell me. I should have twisted his goddamn arm, but he’s dangerous. He said she had scraped the barrel.”

  “But there was nothing he could have done to you!” Bertha hissed. “You had him! He couldn’t touch you with that report with Selby! Bart! You had him, and you let him jump off the hook!”

  I wiped the sweat off my face.

  “I’ve been telling myself that again and again, but I did it!”

  Lowering her voice and putting her hand on my arm, she said, “You still have another hook and a much bigger fish.”

  I stared at her.

  “Now, look, honey, I’m all through. I got fifty grand. We’ve enjoyed it, and we’ve spent it. That’s it. I’m back in hock again, and I start work on Monday.” I paused and gave her a double take. “What hook? What fish?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh.

  “There are times, Bart, when I really and truly think you need your head examined. You should never have gone to Nancy. You should have known she would have rushed to Pofferi. By trying to put the pressure on her, you come against Diaz.”

  “I know that now,” I said angrily, “I thought I had a soft touch. Well, it paid off, didn’t it?”

  “Did it? What have you left?”

  “What hook? What fish? Spel
l it out!”

  “Russ Hamel! You should have gone to him in the first place. Can’t you see that? Take a look at Hamel, Bart. Take a close look. Here is a big selling writer, getting long in the tooth, and rolling in money. He meets up with Nancy and falls for her. He sees in her his second chance. Bear that in mind, Bart. His second chance. He found out his first wife was a tramp. That must have dented his ego. He got rid of her. Now he marries a young woman he thinks blameless. Think how he would react if someone tells him she is one of the most wanted Italian terrorists with two murders behind her. How do you imagine he would react?”

  “You’re doing the talking,” I said, leaning forward. “You tell me.”

  “This man is world famous. The scandal and the uproar if the press got hold of this would be like an atomic bomb going off. A man with his imagination would flip his lid, but, apart from doing everything to keep this quiet, he would want to protect his wife. He would think her past was behind her. He would believe she loved him as he loves her. He would do anything — repeat — anything to keep her out of an Italian jail.”

  “Would he if he finds out she is married to Pofferi? That could sour it.”

  “How do you know she’s married to Pofferi? It’s only what the Italian police say, isn’t it?”

  “There’s that, but why should they say so if she isn’t?”

  Bertha made an exasperated gesture.

  “You’re getting away from the point! The point is you can bet that Hamel will pay to have this swept under the rug whether she’s married to Pofferi or not.”

  I thought about this and began to get a little excited. A man like Hamel just wouldn’t want his public to know he had been taken for a sucker. I was willing to bet on that.

  “And listen, Bart, don’t let this fish jump off the hook. He’s good for at least a million.”

  I gaped at her.

  “A million! You’re out of your mind!”

  “He’s rolling in money. What’s a million to a man like him . . . chick feed.”

  “Wait a minute. He might turn ugly, babe. He might call the cops, and then where would I be?”

  “Then where would he be? Where would Nancy be?”

  Bertha said. “You have him, Bart. It’s a cinch.”

  And listening to her, suddenly thinking of what it would mean to own a million dollars, I kidded myself it - was a cinch.

  The first thing I did when I returned to my apartment was to call Howard Selby. I told him I was back from vacation.

  “Keep that envelope, Howard,” I said. “I’m back on the job again. I’ll call you every week to tell you I’m still alive. Okay?”

  “Sounds as if you’re up against a tough bunch,” Selby said. “Do you think they mean business?”

  “No, but I’m taking no chances. Thanks, pal,” and I hung up.

  I poured myself a Scotch and sat down. Bart, baby, I said to myself, here’s where you exercise your smart brain. I had been away from Paradise City for four weeks. I had been out of touch with any developments.

  Suppose Pofferi had been caught? Suppose Coldwell had found out who Nancy was? Man! Would I look a stupe trying to bite Hamel’s ear if that had happened! I sweated a little just to think of it. I could almost hear the clang of the cell door.

  The quickest and easiest way to check would be to go once again to the Paradise City Herald’s morgue. I looked at my watch. The time was 19.40. Fanny Batdey would be on duty. Finishing my drink, I went down to the Maser.

  “My! What a tan!” Fanny exclaimed as I walked into the morgue. “Did you have a good time?”

  “You can say that again.” I rested my hands on her desk and leaning forward, gave her my sexy smile. “It all went too fast. When are you going, Fan?”

  “Next month. I’m going to my folks in Georgia.” She sighed. “A duty visit.”

  “Yeah, I know. Well, what’s new? Any excitements?”

  “Nothing much. A few Big Wheels down here on vacation and throwing their weight around. No, can’t say any excitements.”

  “Nor crimes?”

  “A couple of breakins, but they were caught: hippies. A jerk tried to hold up the Casino. He lasted two minutes. I think that’s about all.”

  I relaxed. If Pofferi had been caught, Fanny would certainly know about it.

  “The same old city, huh?”

  “I guess. There was a horrid hit-and-run case the night before last. Penny Highbee.”

  I stiffened.

  “The attorney’s wife?”

  “Yes. A drunk driver. She was getting into her car, and this car came from nowhere and slammed into her. Two witnesses saw it. They said the car was swerving like crazy.”

  I felt a prickle run up my spine.

  “Hurt bad?”

  “She died on the way to hospital.”

  “Jesus!” I found my mouth dry. “Have they caught the driver?”

  “Have they?” Fanny snorted. “Neither of the witnesses got the number, and one swears it was a blue car, the other a green.”

  Nancy Hamel’s best and closest friend! I thought. Did it mean anything?

  “We’ve given her a big write—up,” Fanny went on. “Do you want to see it?”

  “No, I guess not.” I looked at my watch. “I guess I’ll get moving. I start work on Monday.”

  “We all have to do it.” As I began to move, she went on, “There was that little Indian boy they fished out of the harbour, but he wouldn’t interest you, would he?”

  I felt my heart give a lurch.

  “What little Indian boy?”

  “Just one of the kids on the waterfront. The cops reckoned he slipped and hit his head and fell in.”

  “What’s his name, Fan?”

  She gave a quick glance, but true to her reputation, she didn’t begin to ask questions. She got up and went to the card index, searched, then said, “Jimbo Osceola. He lived at Lobster Court.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last night.”

  “Thanks, Fan,” and leaving her looking puzzled, I returned to the Maser.

  I had an instinctive feeling that the deaths of Penny Highbee and Jimbo were connected with Nancy and Pofferi. I sat in the car and brooded. Could be, I told myself, that Penny Highbee had begun to suspect that Nancy wasn’t all she appeared to be. The two women were close friends. Maybe, Nancy had let the mask slip. Pofferi wouldn’t hesitate to put an end to Penny if there was the slightest suspicion she might blow Nancy’s cover.

  I had warned Joey to keep clear of Diaz. Remembering his sly smile when he said he would, I now felt sure he hadn’t heeded my warning. Jimbo had got too close, and they had spotted him as they had spotted Tommy.

  Where was Joey?

  I felt an urgent need to talk to him. I drove down to the waterfront, parked the Maser and walked fast to Lobster Court. The usual bunch of kids, kicking a football around, paused in their game to stare at me.

  As I headed for Joey’s building, one of them called, “Hi, mister.”

  I paused. A dirty Indian kid of around nine years of age, ran up to me.

  “No use looking for Joey, mister.”

  I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t live there no more. He quit last night.”

  “Where’s he gone?”

  The kid looked dumb.

  “I don’t know, mister.”

  I produced a dollar bill.

  “Where’s he gone. . .” I repeated.

  He stared at the bill with greedy eyes.

  “You Mister Anderson, mister?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He didn’t tell me where he was going, mister, but he said to tell you the guy was still there.”

  “You’re sure you don’t know where he is? I’m a buddy of his. I want to see him.”

  I produced another dollar bill.

  “I don’t know. He took the bus. He had a suitcase with him.”

  “What bu
s?”

  “The Key West bus.”

  “Okay.” I gave him the two dollars. “Listen, if you see him, tell him to telephone me.”

  The kid grabbed the money and grinned.

  “Betcha, mister.”

  As I headed back to my apartment, I felt worried and lonely. I decided I didn’t want to spend the night alone. I changed direction and drove to Bertha’s highrise.

  I found her still unpacking.

  “Why, honey,” she exclaimed as she opened the front door. “What’s with it? I’m in a hell of a mess.”

  Although Bertha always looked immaculate, her apartment was always in a perpetual mess, and now, plus half opened suitcases, clothes all over it was in even a worse mess.

  “Throw something on, baby,” I said. “We’ll eat out. I’ve things to talk about.”

  She gave me a quick probing stare, then went into her bedroom. She returned, dressed and immaculate in under ten minutes which was a record for her.

  “Something happened?”

  “Yeah, but it’ll keep. We’ll go to Chez Louis. We can talk there, and baby, I need a sleeping companion.”

  “No problem.” She hooked her arm in mine. It wasn’t until we had reached the Maser that I understood her docile performance. Usually, we would always have an argument about where we were to eat. I gave a wry grin as I helped her into the car. She was already imagining I was worth a million dollars.

  It wasn’t until we had settled in the small restaurant which was half empty and had ordered blue crab and steaks stuffed with oysters that I told her the news.

  Fortified with a champagne cocktail, she listened without popping with her eyes.

  “Could be a coincidence,” she said when I was through.

  “Could be hell! Highbee the night before last. Jimbo last night,” I said. “I told you, babe, these guys are lethal.”

  “They can’t do anything to you.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Then the sooner you talk to Hamel, the safer it’ll be for us to pack and blow.”

  “I can’t talk to him yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “The wife of his attorney and his wife’s best friend has died,” I explained patiently. “This isn’t the moment to get to see him. It’s going to be a real job anyway to see him without this complication.”

  She attacked her crab.

  “What’s the complication about seeing him?” she asked finally.