Knock, Knock! Who's There? Page 7

  As Mulligan began mumbling thanks, Massino hung up.

  At 19.00, Massino was still at his desk. Spread out before him were the various items that Mulligan had sent him and that Toni and Ernie had found in Johnny’s apartment.

  Andy hovered behind him, chain smoking, but quiet. He could feel the intensity of Massino’s vicious fury that was only just under control.

  “So what have we got?” Massino demanded suddenly.

  “He’s our man,” Andy said. “No question about it now and he’s skipped town.”

  “Who the hell would have thought Johnny would have done this to me?” Massino asked, pushing back his chair. “The sonofabitch! Well, okay, I’ll turn the organization after him. It may take time, but they’ll find him and then he’ll wish he’d never been born!”

  Andy came to the desk.

  “This interests me, Mr. Joe,” he said and picked up a much thumbed copy of Yachts & Motorboats, a technical magazine for boat builders that Toni had found in Johnny’s apartment. “Why should Johnny have this?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Massino snarled. “It means nothing!”

  Andy was flicking through the pages, then he paused at an advert of a thirty-foot cabin cruiser that had been ringed by a pencil.

  “Look at this.”

  Massino glared at him.

  “So what?”

  “Do you think Johnny is interested in boats? Do you think his plan was to skip in a boat?”

  Massino became attentive.

  “Yeah… another pointer to the South.”

  “And this.” Andy picked up a gaudy Christmas card that Toni had also found. Written in a spidery handwriting was the legend:

  See you sometime.

  Giovanni Fuselli.

  Jackson.

  “Where the hell is Jackson and what’s so important about this goddamn thing?”

  “Jackson is around thirty miles from Jacksonville, Florida.”

  Then the telephone bell rang. Ernie was on the line.

  “Got something, boss,” he said, his voice excited. “Just been talking to a young punk who says he gave a ride to a guy who matches up with Bianda’s description. He dropped him off at Reddy’s cafe.”

  “Get him over here. I’ll show him Bianda’s photo.” Massino hung up, then looked at Andy. “Looks like Johnny got a ride out of town to Reddy’s cafe: that’s where the truckers stop before driving South, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “South!” Massino said. “It all points south, doesn’t it? That’s where the bastard’s gone!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ernie, accompanied by Joey, looking uneasy, came into the office.

  Massino pushed the photo across the desk.

  “That him?”

  Joey peered at the photo, then nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay.” Massino took out his wallet, found a five dollar bill and tossed it at Joey. “Get his name and address,” he said to Ernie, “and get him out of here.”

  “Wait.” Andy came forward as Joey started for the door. “This guy you gave a ride to was carrying two heavy bags… right?” Joey shook his head.

  “He wasn’t carrying a thing.”

  “He didn’t have even one bag?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Goddamn it!” Massino snarled. “He must have been carrying two bags!”

  Joey paled, but shook his head.

  “Honest, sir, he wasn’t carrying a thing!”

  “Okay,” Andy said quietly, “take him away.”

  As the office door shut, Massino glared at Andy. “You reckon the money’s still in town?”

  “No. Let’s look at this, Mr. Joe. Don’t let’s rush it.”

  Andy began to pace up and down and because Massino knew this little man was no fool, he restrained his impatience while he waited. Andy paused. “Bianda is a loner. He has no friends we’ve been able to dig up, yet he gets this Christmas card so he does have someone. He takes off, but he hasn’t the money with him and he must know he could never dare show his snout again in this town if he stashed it so it looks to me that he wasn’t working alone. Call this a hunch, Mr. Joe,” Andy paused, then went on, “Suppose this other guy Bianda was working with rushed the money out of town while Bianda was looking for his medal? Are you getting my thinking, Mr. Joe? Bianda and this other guy do the job. This other guy takes the money. Bianda goes back to his whore. The idea is none of us would suspect him of the steal. Then he finds the medal gone. He knows he’s cooked if the medal is found in my office. He has to be sure, but Benno has the cops here so Bianda panics, gets a ride out of town and beads south to join this other guy.” Andy leaned forward and tapped the Christmas card. “Fuselli. It’s my guess he’s this other guy.”

  Massino glowered at him.

  “You’re nuts! This Fuselli… how do you know because he sent a Christmas card that he is working with Bianda?”

  “I don’t know, but Bianda is a loner and here is someone who

  kept in touch with him… someone living south.”

  Massino hesitated.

  “Well… could be. I’ll call Carlo. He’ll turn the Florida mob onto Fuselli.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Joe,” Andy said. “There’s no rush to call in Tanza. We could handle this ourselves. Have you thought how much the Big Man will take if they go after Bianda? They would take half: $93,000! They could even take more. We know the way the Big Man operates. If he puts a finger on a man, sooner or later, that man’s dead. It might take a couple of years, but once the sign is on, that man’s dead. Suppose we send Toni and Ernie down to Jackson and check this Fuselli out first? If he’s our man, we save ourselves $93,000. If he’s in the clear and Bianda isn’t there, then we turn it over to Tanza. We lose a few days, but we can afford to do that. What do you think?”

  Massino considered this, then nodded.

  “Now you’re using your head, Andy,” he said. “Okay, get those two off by the first plane. Let’s take a look at Fuselli.”

  Ernie and Toni arrived at Jacksonville airport some minutes after 11:00. They went immediately to Hertz Rent-a-car bureau and hired a Chevvy. While waiting for the car, Ernie asked the girl the best way to Jackson.

  “Follow the freeway to your right,” he was told. “No problem: Jackson is sign-posted: around thirty miles from here.”

  Ernie got in the passenger’s seat. When he could avoid any form of work, he did so. After all, Toni was five years his junior, was his reasoning, so why the hell shouldn’t he do the driving?

  On the freeway, he said, “Let’s get this organized, Toni. If we run into Johnny, you take care of him and Ill take care of Fuselli… right?”

  Toni stiffened.

  “Where do you get this I take care of Johnny crap?” Ernie hid a sly grin.

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ve always said you could beat Johnny to a draw. Looks to me, we’re heading for a show down. This is your chance to prove you’re better and faster with a gun than he is.”

  Toni shifted uneasily. Johnny’s past reputation had always hung over him like a dark cloud and was still hanging over him.

  “Maybe both of us had better take care of him,” he said. “That punk can shoot.”

  “So can you.” Ernie relaxed. “Didn’t you tell me only last week that Johnny was old and washed up? You take care of him. This Fuselli might be as fast as Johnny.”

  Toni felt sweat beads suddenly on his forehead.

  “So that’s fixed, huh?” Ernie said, enjoying himself. “We shoot first and talk after, huh?”

  Toni didn’t say anything. He was aware of a tight ball of fear in his guts. He drove in silence for ten miles, then aware that Ernie was dozing off, he said. “Do you think Johnny really took all that bread?”

  “Why not?” Ernie shook himself awake and lit a cigarette. “Boy! Could I use money like that! You know something, Toni? Johnny has more guts than you or me.”

  “Maybe, but he can�
��t get away with it. If we don’t find him, the Big Man will. The bastard’s stupid.”

  “Maybe, but he’s tried and that’s more than you and me would have done. There’s always a chance he just might get away with it.”

  Toni glanced at his fat companion.

  “You’re nuts! No one has ever beaten the organization and no one ever will. If it takes years, they’ll find him, if we don’t.”

  “But think of what he could do with all that bread even if he lasted only two years.”

  “To hell with the money! I’d rather stay alive!”

  “There’s the sign post,” Ernie said. “Jackson five miles.”

  “I can read,” Toni said and the knot of fear in his guts tightened.

  Jackson turned out to be a tiny fruit-growing town with a Main street, a number of fruit-canning factories and out-lying farms. Toni drove down the Main street, passing a small, clean-looking hotel, the Post Office, a general store, a movie house and a cafe.

  “What a goddamn hole,” he said as he pulled up outside the cafe. “Let’s have a beer. Maybe we can get a lead on Fuselli.”

  They were aware that the people on the street, mostly old women and older men were staring curiously at them. They went into the cafe, crossed to the bar and hoisted themselves up on stools.

  There were a few old men sitting at tables, nursing glasses of beer, who gaped at them as if they were something out of a zoo.

  The barman, fat, balding, with a friendly red face, came to them.

  “Mornin’ gents. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Beers,” Ernie said.

  “Nice to see strangers in our town,” the barman went on as he drew beers, “Harry Dukes is the name. Welcome, gents.”

  In spite of his friendliness, Ernie could see Dukes was looking at them curiously as if trying to decide who and what they were. Toni’s black-and-pink-flowered kipper tie seemed to be bothering him.

  They drank, then Ernie said, “Nice little town you have here.”

  He always did the talking while Toni watched, listened and kept his mouth shut.

  “Not so bad, and thank you. A bit quiet, but it could be worse. Lots of old people here, but in the evenings it livens up when the boys and girls come in from picking.”

  “Yeah.” Ernie took out his wallet with a flourish and extracted a card he always carried around with him. The times this card had got him out of trouble and got him information were without number. He pushed the card across the counter.

  “This for me?” Dukes asked startled.

  “Just take a gander, friend.”

  Dukes went to the back of his bar and found a pair of spectacles. He put them on while Toni hissed softly under his breath; Ernie nudged him and Toni subsided.

  Dukes read:

  THE ALERT DETECTIVE AGENCY

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Presented by: Detective 1st Grade Jack Loosey

  He looked up, removed his spectacles and gaped. “This you?” he asked, tapping the card.

  “Yeah, and this is my assistant: Detective Morgan,” Ernie said.

  Dukes whistled softly. He was obviously impressed.

  “You know something? I had an idea there was something special about you two gents,” he said. “Detectives, huh?”

  “Private,” Ernie said gravely. “Maybe you can help us.”

  Dukes took a step back. He began to look worried.

  “Nothing in this little town for you, gents. I assure you.”

  “Have a drink and give us another beer.”

  Dukes hesitated, then drew three beers and stood, waiting.

  “We get all kinds of jobs,” Ernie said. “You’ve no idea. Does the name Giovanni Fuselli mean anything to you?”

  “Sure does.” Then Dukes stiffened and his eyes turned hostile. “What’s he to you?”

  Ernie grinned slyly.

  “Nothing to me, Mr. Dukes, but plenty to him. Does he live here?”

  Dukes had now turned very hostile.

  “If you want to know anything about Mr. Fuselli you go to the cops,” he said. “Mr. Fuselli is a fine gentleman. You go to the cops: don’t come here asking me questions.”

  Ernie sipped his beer and then laughed.

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Mr. Dukes. Our job is to find Mr. Fuselli. We’ve been told what a fine man he is. We’re trying to help him. Between you and me, a relative of his has left him some money: his aunt died last year and we’re trying to clear up her estate.”

  Dukes hostility went away like a fist opening into a hand.

  “Is that right? Mr. Fuselli has come into money?”

  “He sure has. It’s not my business to tell you how much,” Ernie winked confidently, “but it’s a nice slice… We’ve been told he lives around here, but we haven’t his address. Like I said: we get all kinds of jobs. This is one of the nice ones.”

  Listening, Toni marvelled at Ernie’s glib talk and envied him. He knew he could never talk as convincingly as this.

  “Well, I’m glad. Mr. FuseIli is a good friend of mine,” Dukes said. “Right now, he’s away. What a shame! Left last week for a trip up north.”

  Ernie slopped some of his beer.

  “Is that right? Do you know how long he’ll be away?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Fuselli goes north from time to time. Sometimes he comes back in a week… sometimes in a month, but he always comes back.” Dukes grinned. “Just shuts up his little house and takes off.”

  “North? Where?”

  Dukes shook his head.

  “Mr. Fuselli never says. He’ll come in here, have a beer, then he says to me, ‘Well, Harry, I guess I’ll go north for a while. See you when I get back.’ Mr. Fuselli never talks about himself and I don’t ask questions.”

  Ernie lit a cigarette while he thought.

  “Doesn’t someone look after his place while he’s away?”

  Dukes laughed.

  “Not much of a place to look after. No, I guess no one goes near it. It’s in a pretty lonely spot.”

  “Just where is it?”

  “Out on Hampton’s hill. You being a stranger here wouldn’t know Hampton’s hill, would you?”

  Containing his impatience with an effort, Ernie agreed.

  “Well, you go down Main street, take the dirt road to your left, drive up the hill for a couple of miles and pass Noddy Jenkin’s farm. Then you go on for another mile and you’ll see Mr. Fuselli’s place on your right: a little clapboard house, but he keeps it nice.”

  “We’d better write to him,” Ernie said and finished his beer. “The address is Hampton hill, Jackson?”

  “Yeah. This is good news about him inheriting money. An aunt? Jesus! She must have been old. Mr. Fuselli is pushing seventy.”

  Ernie gaped at him.

  “Seventy?”

  “That’s right. He had his seventy-second birthday last month, but he’s tough. Make no mistake about that… spry as a man half his age.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll be getting along. Nice meeting you, Mr. Dukes.”

  After shaking hands, Ernie followed Toni out into the sunshine. “Canned stuff and bread and a bottle of Scotch.”

  “What the hell for?” Toni demanded.

  “Go get enough food to last us a couple of days,” Ernie said. “Can’t you see all these old creeps are watching us?”

  Toni went down the street to the general store while Ernie got into the passenger’s seat of the car. He pushed his hat over his eyes and rested.

  After a while Toni came back with a big bag of groceries and a bottle of Scotch. He put the bag on the back seat, then got under the driving wheel.

  “So now what?”

  “We go to Hampton hill or whatever the hell it’s called,” Ernie said.

  “Is that such a hot idea?”

  “Use your nut. We flew down here. Johnny and Fuselli are driving down. We have four or five hours start ahead of them. It’s my bet they’ll bring the money here. When they arrive, we’ll be all over th
em before they know what’s hit them, but we could have a wait.”

  Toni thought about this, then grunted.

  “Okay.”

  Engaging gear, he drove fast along the broad road, lined on either side with trees heavy with oranges and headed for Hampton hill.

  FIVE

  A cup of coffee before him, Johnny sat at a small table and looked around the crowded cafe. There was a steady roar of voices as long-haul truckers greeted each other, ate hamburgers, swigged numerous cups of coffee, then heaved themselves to their feet and went out into the pale sunshine as other truckers came in.

  Johnny glanced at his watch. The time was 05.25. He had to get moving soon, he told himself, but up to now, he had held back as every trucker seemed to know every other trucker and he was uneasy about approaching a group of them. He had tried one man who stood near him while waiting for ham and eggs, but the man shook his head.

  “No luck, pal. No passengers: against the Company’s rules.”

  Then a powerfully-built man came in and Johnny noted with surprise no one greeted him. This man went to the bar and ordered pancakes and syrup and coffee, then looked around for a vacant seat.

  Johnny waved to him and carrying the plate of food, the big man came over and sat down.

  Johnny looked searchingly at him: an ex-boxer, he thought. The flat nose and the scar tissues made this an easy guess. The face was lined, worried and sullen and yet there was something likeable about this man.

  “Hi!” the man said as he set down the food. “Joe Davis. This goddamn place is always over full.”

  “Al Bianco,” Johnny said.

  Davis began to eat while Johnny lit a cigarette. Again he looked at his watch. Time was moving along. He wondered if Massino had alerted the organization or what he was doing.

  “Going south?” he asked.

  Davis glanced up.

  “Yeah. You ain’t trucking?”

  “Looking for a ride,” Johnny said. “I pay my way. Would you be going near Jacksonville?”

  “Right through to Vero Beach.” Davis regarded Johnny, ate some more, then said, “You’re welcome. It won’t cost you a thing. I welcome company.”

  “Thanks.” Johnny finished his coffee. “You reckon to take off soon?”