1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Read online

  It looked now as if the citizens of Searle had been right about Mitch Jackson and Colonel Parnell had been wrong.

  "Any idea how Jackson got hold of the drugs?"

  "No, and I didn't want to know and I don't want to know now."

  "He must have been picking up a lot of money."

  "I told you: at least a thousand bucks a week. The kids were really hooked. Some of them had wealthy parents who sent them money. Others stole anything they could lay hands on in Saigon when they were pulled out of the line for a week's rest."

  "What did he do with money like that? He couldn't have spent it."

  Hank shrugged.

  "I wouldn't know. Jackson wasn't the only pusher. There were a lot of them: he was the only one in our outfit, but there were pushers in every outfit. Maybe the pushers pooled the take and got it back home."

  I thought that was likely.

  "Does the name Syd Watkins mean anything to you?" Hank thought, then shook his head.

  "No. he wasn't in our outfit."

  At this moment, Mrs. Smith appeared in the doorway.

  "You want to eat, Hank? The chicken will fall to bits if you don't."

  Taking the hint, I got to my feet.

  "Well, thanks, Hank." I shook his hand. "If there's anything else I think of, can I see you again?"

  He nodded.

  "So long as it's strictly off the record."

  As I left, I gave Mrs. Smith' a friendly smile, but her expression was wooden. From her angle, I wouldn't be welcomed again.

  I went down the path and to my car. Even in the darkness, I could feel hundreds of eyes watching As I got into my car, a big, coloured man, wearing a dark, open-neck shirt and dark cotton trousers, slouched out of the shadows. He had a pair of shoulders on him that All might have envied. He rested two enormous black hands on the window-sill of my car and leaned forward. I could smell gin on his breath.

  "We don't like white men in this district," he said in a soft threatening voice. "Piss off, white man, and don't come back."

  I started the engine and shifted to "Drive"

  "Piss off yourself," I said, looking up at him, "and screw you, black boy." I trod down hard on the gas pedal and shot the car away. In the driving-mirror, I saw him move into the middle of the street, his fists clenched. He looked like a savage gorilla.

  Well, I had learned something. I had learned Mitch Jackson wasn't a white-headed hero. I learned he was the lowest scum on earth. A sonofabitch who sells drugs to kids was just that. I had a lot to think about, but it occurred to me, as I headed back to Paradise City, that I was allowing myself to be side-tracked.

  My job was to find Fred Jackson's grandson, yet I had a distinct hunch that Jackson's murder and Mitch Jackson's drug-pushing were somehow hooked up with the kid's disappearance. It was just a hunch, but I had confidence in my hunches: they had often paid off when I was working for my father.

  It was now too late to drive to Searle, so I headed back to my two-room apartment.

  I parked the car in the underground garage and took the elevator to my apartment on the sixth floor.

  My mind was busy as I unlocked my door and this accounted for my not paying attention to the fact I had trouble in turning the lock. At any other time, when I wasn't thinking so hard, I would have been alerted.

  As I moved into my small, comfortably furnished living-room and turned on the light I smelt them before I saw them. The stink of unwashed bodies hung in the room bringing me to instant alert.

  They came out of my bedroom like two black shadows, evil-looking flick-knives in their black hands.

  My neighbour below turned on his TV set and a voice began to boom out the news.

  chapter three

  The sight of these two black men really had me scared. They moved apart at my bedroom door: one moving to the right, the other to the left.

  The one on the right was tall, emaciated with sugar-spun hair. He wore a filthy goatskin waistcoat hanging open, showing his skeleton-like chest. Ropes of cheap coloured beads flopped down to his navel.

  His skin-tight scarlet trousers were stained at the crotch. The one on the left was shorter, but also emaciated. He wore a greasy black sombrero, a tattered leather jerkin and black leather trousers. Both of them were barefooted and their feet were filthy and stank.

  All this I took in with one glance.

  If it hadn't been for their smell, they would have had me, but when I walked into my room their body-smell saved me. The front door was still open.

  As they came at me, I saw their pupilless eyes. They were higher than the moon.

  I jumped back into the corridor, slammed the front door shut and darted to the elevator which was still standing on my floor. I was in it, thumbing the down button as they tore open my door. The elevator doors swished shut as they dived towards it.

  I leaned against the wall of the cage as it sank, aware my breathing was coming in gasps. Man! Was I scared! Those two were the most vicious and lethal-looking muggers I had ever seen.

  As the elevator slowly descended, I heard them pounding down the stairs after it. Their naked feet made thudding sounds as they jumped the stairs three at a time. I realized they would outrun the elevator and would be waiting as I came out.

  I waited until I heard them thud past the descending elevator, then pressed the stop button. I had reached the 3rd floor. I pressed the button for the 6th floor.

  'That'll fox you, you bastards,' I thought as the elevator began to climb. I thought longingly of the .38 revolver in my closet, but I wasn't taking the chance to get back into my apartment and get the gun.

  They could catch me before I go it.

  I felt safe in the elevator's cage.

  As the elevator climbed, I heard thumping of bare feet. One of them was chasing the elevator while the other waited below.

  That halved the odds, but I had no enthusiasm to grapple with a hopped-up mugger, armed with a flick-knife.

  The elevator door swished open on the 6th floor. I was just in time to see Sombrero come tearing around the head of the stairs. I pressed the button to the 14th floor, the top floor. At the doors swished open, he arrived, glaring with murderous hate. He tried to insert his knife between the closing doors, but he was just too late.

  Again the elevator began to ascend. I heard him thumping up the stairs. I looked longingly at the alarm button that set off a bell should someone get trapped, but I decided not to touch it. The janitor was elderly and I liked him. Those two thugs would cut him to pieces if he appeared on the scene Arriving on the 14th floor, the doors opened. I had my finger on the third-floor button. Although I could heal Sombrero coming up the stairs, I waited, listening to his gasp and snorts. He was obviously running out of gas. As he came staggering around the corner, I waved to him and pressed the button. The elevator began to descend.

  Listening, I couldn't hear him running down the stairs, Thankfully, I decided he was blown.

  But there was still Goatskin.

  Facing the elevator on the third floor was a go neighbour of mine. If I could get into his apartment, lock the door and call the cops, I could still get out of this nightmare with a whole skin. But suppose he wasn't at home? Suppose he took time to answer my ring? I could get caught by Goatskin as I frantically rang the bell.

  As the elevator slowly sank, I stripped of my jacket and bound it around my left arm. That would give me a small protection against a slashing knife.

  The elevator doors swished open at the 3rd floor. I sprang out and towards my neighbour's front Goatskin was waiting. I had just time to throw up my jacket covered arm as he slashed. If it hadn't been for my wallet in my jacket pocket, I would have been cut.

  Weaving to my right, I slammed my fist into the side of his face. He had no muscles nor bones. He went down and began making mewing noises, his knife dropping, his filthy hands covering his face.

  Then I heard Sombrero coming pounding down the stairs. I snatched up Goatskin's knife and backed away as Sombre
ro rounded the bend of the stairs and came onto the landing.

  His pal was still making mewing noises. Sombrero paused to gape at him, then he saw me.

  I showed him the knife.

  "Come on, black boy," I said. "I bet I'm better with a sticker than you."

  It is never wise to challenge a punk floating high on heroin. He came at me like a charging bull. His knife stabbed at me, but I was already on the move. My Army combat training had taught me all the tricks of knife fighting. His knife missed me by inches and slammed into the concrete wall. The blade snapped off. Dropping the knife I was holding, I hit him with all my weight behind the punch to the side of his jaw. He went down and out like a blown candle-flame.

  Goatskin was beginning to show signs of life. I went over to him and kicked him very hard on the side of his head. He stopped making mewing noises and gave a reasonable impersonation of a dead duck.

  I picked up his knife, got into the elevator and rode up to the 6th floor. I entered my apartment and bolted the door.

  Their awful smell hung in the room and I went over to the window and threw it open.

  I stood there, breathing in the hot, clean humid air. I couldn't let those two thugs get away. I had to call the police but I hesitated, remembering I was on a job and wanted to be in Searle early tomorrow morning. I knew I would be held up by police questions and making a charge, but it had to be done.

  As I was turning away from the open window, I paused.

  A black car had just pulled up outside my apartment highrise. A man slid out. As he passed under the street lamp, I saw it was the huge black who had spoken to me when I was leaving Hank Smith's villa.

  There was no mistaking the vast shoulders, the small head and the black clothes.

  I turned and ran into my bedroom, snatched open my closet door, found my .38 police special, checked to see it was loaded, then ran back into the living-room and to the window.

  The car was still there, but there was no sign of the gorilla. Was he coming up to my apartment? Was he working with those two thugs?

  As I watched, I sweated, knowing I could call the cops, but still hesitating. The gun in my hand gave me a lot of confidence. Without the gun, I would already be yelling for patrol car.

  Then I saw him, coming out onto the street. He was dragging the two thugs, one by his arm, the other by his hand. He tossed them into the back seat of his car as if they had been kittens, then he slid into the car arid took off.

  I walked a little unsteadily to the liquor-cabinet poured Scotch into a glass and drank it, then I sat down abruptly. I had never been so scared in my life and it took some five minutes for the shock to wear off. With an unsteady hand I a cigarette, smoked it, got to my feet, then walked into my bedroom. I opened the window, letting out the foul smell then returned to the living-room and checked to see if any of my things were missing or had been disturbed. Nothing was missing: nothing disturbed. I went into the now ventilated bedroom and checked: nothing missing; nothing disturbed.

  That set my nerves jumping.

  I would have been much more relaxed to have found that these two thugs were junkies in search of something to sell, but it was unpleasantly clear to me that they had come either A to cut me up or even to kill me.

  My nerves began now to jump like Mexican beans.

  But why?

  Was it because I had talked to Hank Smith? I couldn't think of any reason. The gorilla had been waiting to scare me. While he waited, he could have got my address from the licence-tag on my car. As I didn't scare, he could have a telephoned these two thugs to wait at my apartment and fix me.

  Sitting on my bed, I thought back on what Hank Smith had told me: that Mitch Jackson was a drug-pusher. Then I thought of Hank Smith. Was he in danger? I thought of his fat, disapproving wife and the photograph of his two kids. I began to sweat again.

  When I was talking with him, I had noticed a telephone in his living-room.

  Getting to my feet, I got the book and found his number. As I began to dial, I looked at my watch.

  The time was 23.30. A lot had happened since I had left Searle.

  A voice answered the second ring.

  "Yeah?" The voice of a coloured man.

  "Hank?"

  "No. I'm Jerry, Hank's neighbour."

  "Can I speak to Hank?"

  There was a long pause, then the voice said, "No one's ever going to talk to Hank now. He's dead."

  I felt the shock go through me like a punch in the face.

  "What are you saying . . . dead?"

  "I don't know who you are, mister, and I don't care much. I'm here to look after the kids while Mrs. Smith is at the hospital, talking to the cops, for all thee good that'll do her and the kids."

  "What happened?"

  "He was hit by some goddamn hit-and-run bastard. He was going to his club, then biffo!"

  Slowly, I replaced the receiver. For a long time, I sat staring into space, feeling chills run up my spine. This was turning out to be one hell of a night. Then I pulled myself together. This was something the colonel had to know. Knowing he wouldn't be at the office, I hunted up his home telephone number and dialled.

  Mrs. Parnell answered. She said the colonel had just left for Washington and wouldn't be back for at least a week.

  "Mrs. Parnell," I said, "I am Dirk Wallace. I'm one of the colonel's operators. It is important I contact him."

  "You will have to wait until he returns," Mrs. Parnell said, her voice suddenly snooty. I got the idea she considered the colonel's operators were less than the dust. "The colonel is on State business," and she hung up.

  I thought of consulting Chick Barley, but I decided against it. This was my case. I would have been correct to have consulted the colonel, but no one else.

  I stripped off, took a shower and went to bed.

  I didn't expect to sleep, so I wasn't disappointed.

  ***

  The Jumping Frog was the only hotel in Searle. It looked from the outside as hospitable as a knuckle-duster, but, climbing the ten creaking steps to the entrance lobby, I became slightly more reassured.

  There was a pretty girl with corn-coloured hair behind the reception desk. She gave me a bright smile.

  "Hello there, Mr. Wallace," she said as I reached her. "Have you come to stay?"

  This didn't surprise me. Everyone knew everyone, including strangers, in Searle. Silas Wood must have been talking.

  "That's the idea," I said.

  "I'm Peggy Wyatt. My dad owns this hotel, but I run it," she told me. "What kind of room do you want, Mr. Wallace, or may I call you Dirk? We're all pally in this town."

  I eyed her. She had a nice little body. In fact, she had that thing which told me she wouldn't be hard to drag into bed.

  "Sure." I gave her my wide, friendly smile. "Room? Well, what have you got?"

  "Between you and me, most of the rooms are pretty crummy, but there's the bridal suite: nice double bed." She gave me an up-from-under look. She had long eyelashes, carefully curled. "A little living-room and a bar refrigerator."

  "That sounds like my scene."

  She told me the cost and, as I was on an expense account, I said it was fine.

  She pushed the register towards me and I signed in, then she came around the desk.

  "I'll show you."

  She was wearing the inevitable skin-tight jeans and I followed her tight little bottom to the elevator.

  We climbed to the first floor. She kept looking at me, smiling. If Searle was supposed to be pally, she certainly was a great advertisement.

  Unlocking a door, she showed me the suite. It was comfortable, a little shabby, the small living-room looking onto Main Street. The bedroom had a vast double bed and there was a tiny bathroom leading off.

  "This is great," I said, setting down my suitcase. She sat on the bed and bounced.

  "The springs don't creak," she said and giggled.

  Just as I was thinking this was an open invitation, she got up and walked into
the sitting-room.

  "Have a drink on the house," she said and went to a built-in refrigerator. "Scotch?"

  "Only if you'll join me."

  "I prefer gin." As she made the drinks, she went on, "You'll like the food here. Don't eat anywhere else. Our cook is really fancy." She handed me the drink, waved hers at me and drank. She sighed, then again smiled at me. "At this time of the day, I need a drink. My dad doesn't approve."

  "Every hard-working soul needs a drink at eleven thirty in the morning," I said and sampled the Scotch. It was smooth and good.

  "They tell me you are a private eye," she said. "We don't get any excitement in this dump. Is it true you are looking for Johnny Jackson?"

  Feeling this might turn into a long session, I sat down and waved her to the other chair.

  “I’ll just freshen this," she said and waved her little bottom at me as she bent to the refrigerator. I was startled to see her glass was empty. She refilled, then sat down. "Is it right about Johnny Jackson?"

  "Yes."

  "Wasn't it a terrible thing that old man Jackson shot himself?"

  "These things happen."

  "Yes, I suppose. Old people haven't much to live for, have they?"

  "Some have, some haven't."

  She gulped down half her drink.

  "I'd hate to be old."

  "Well, it comes. Did you know Johnny Jackson?"

  "I went to school with him." She gave me a knowing look, then giggled. "I miss him. All the girls were after him, but be didn't care for any of them, except me."

  If Johnny Jackson had gone missing six years ago, she would have been around sixteen. Well, if she wasn't kidding me, boys and girls in a hick town like Searle started sex early.

  "From what I hear," I said, "Johnny didn't care for girls."

  "That's right. That's absolutely right. He was the kind who only went with one girl. . . that was me."

  She finished the drink. "Do you think you'll find him?"

  "I don't know. I hope so. That's my job."