1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 9

  ‘I guess that’s right, but make no mistake about this, Mr. Wallace no one messes with the Mafia.’

  ‘Why are they blackmailing Miss Thorsen?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Hank knows?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s just a collector.’

  ‘Mrs. Thorsen hired me to find out who was blackmailing her daughter. Now, she has stopped the investigation. Do you know why?’

  He took a long gulp at his drink, and for some minutes he remained still, staring with almost sightless eyes at me.

  ‘Why?’ I asked again, raising my voice.

  He hesitated, then said, ‘A man threatened her, Mr. Wallace. I have an extension on the telephone. I heard him tell her that if she didn’t call off the investigation, he would burn down her house—this house, Mr. Wallace, this beautiful house.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Who else? The Mafia. A voice. He had that kind of voice that scares people. Mrs. Thorsen listened, then hung up. I don’t know anything more.’

  ‘But you do know that Hank is heading for a fifteen-year stretch in the slammer as a blackmail collector, don’t you?’ I said it quietly and slowly so my words would sink in.

  He flinched.

  ‘Fifteen years?’

  ‘That’s it, Josh. Fifteen years.’ Looking at this wreck of a man, I felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’ve warned him,’ he said, after minutes. ‘He just laughs at me. What do I do, Mr. Wallace? I love my son.’

  ‘You really have no idea why Miss Thorsen is being blackmailed?’

  ‘I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you any news of Terry Thorsen?’

  I had to repeat the question three times before he reacted, but it was a negative reaction.

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’

  There was no further point in staying in this sad, depressing room. I got to my feet.

  ‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, Josh.’

  I left him, staring almost sightlessly at his half-finished drink.

  In my racket you pick up all kinds of useful information.

  Getting into my car, I drove down to the shabbier quarters of the waterfront where there were stalls, seedy boutiques and junk on trestle tables.

  I parked and walked to a stall run by an Arab or maybe a Palestinian. I wouldn’t know the difference. His name was Ali Hassan, and he sold junk to the tourists.

  I found him smoking a reefer behind a stall of utter junk. By his side, sitting on the ground, was his wife who looked like an inflated balloon about to take off.

  Hassan was short, fat and wearing Arab robes with a headdress. He looked the answer to any tourist’s prayer.

  ‘Mr. Hassan,’ I said, pausing before him. ‘My name is Doe. I have some private business with you involving money. Can we go someplace where we can talk?’

  He regarded me, his little eyes like wet black olives, then he got to his feet, muttered something to his wife who shrugged her fat shoulders, then he joined me.

  ‘Anything to do with money interests me,’ he said. ‘So where do we go?’

  I led him to my car and got him settled in the passenger’s seat. His body smell was a little overpowering and I opened all the windows.

  This helped, but not much.

  ‘Mr. Hassan,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to waste your time, nor mine. I have information that you are a bomb expert. I need a bomb for which I will pay good money. Are you in the market?’

  He drew on his reefer without moving his steady gaze.

  ‘Who gave you this information?’

  ‘Do you care? I want a bomb. If you can’t deliver, just say so, and I’ll shop elsewhere.’

  ‘What kind of bomb?’

  ‘Something small that will do a lot of damage, but won’t start a fire.’

  He sat silent, like a coiled fat snake, staring now at the busy waterfront, then he nodded.

  ‘It’s possible. Yes, I could arrange that, but what will you pay?’

  ‘What’s your usual charge?’

  ‘For a small bomb, without causing fire, that is safe for an amateur to handle and will cause a lot of damage, my price would be three thousand dollars.’

  He expected to haggle, and I didn’t disappoint him. I spent nearly thirty minutes haggling with him. I was in no hurry. Finally, we settled for one thousand and three hundred.

  ‘OK, Mr. Doe,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow night at this time, you come to my stall and I’ll deliver. No problems. A nice little job, plenty of noise, plenty of damage and no fire. OK?’

  I took out my wallet and gave him five hundred. As he stowed the money away in his voluminous robes, I said, ‘Mr. Hassan, I know you have a good reputation. Make sure you live up to it. I could make your life a misery.’

  He grinned uneasily.

  ‘No problems, Mr. Doe.’

  He climbed out of my car and went waddling through the stream of tourists to his junk stall.

  I set the air conditioner working to clear his smell, then closed the windows and headed for home.

  As I drove through the traffic congested streets, I thought that in the early hours of tomorrow morning the Black Cassette would no longer be in business.

  So, OK, this was revenge, but whatever I did wouldn’t bring Suzy’s bright face again on my pillow.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was just after 23.00 when I rang on my front door bell. There was a delay as Bill regarded me through the spyhole, then he opened up.

  ‘No problems, Bill?’ I asked, as he relocked the front door.

  ‘I’ve settled in.’ He moved into the living room. On the table was the Thorsen file. ‘I’ve been going over this, Dirk, over and over, because pretty soon we’ve got to squeeze something out of it. Something or somebody’s got to give.’

  I sank into an easy chair.

  ‘Let me shoot off my mouth, Bill,’ I said, then went on to tell him about my talk with Josh Smedley.

  ‘The Mafia are active,’ I concluded. ‘Well, OK. We expected this. They’ve put the fear of God into Mrs. Thorsen. No news of Terry.’ I paused to light a cigarette. ‘Now, Hank. I intend to make his life a misery.’ I went on to tell Bill about the bomb. ‘It’ll wreck the club. I am going to wreck his car. I want him to feel life is on top of him. Then I’m going to wreck his home. Now, Bill, the big point is I don’t want Hank to get the idea that it is me after him. If he does, he’ll run to his Mafia pals and scream for protection, and we could be in trouble.’

  I got to my feet and went into the kitchen.

  I found a small piece of cardboard. On it I wrote with a felt pen the following: BLACKS NOT WANTED HERE: K.K.K.

  I returned to the living room and showed Bill the notice.

  ‘This will be tacked on the door of the club. It should divert Hank’s thinking that it is me after him. I’ll do the same with the car. This way we’ll gain some breathing space. Of course, sooner or later, the Mafia thugs will realise it is me hitting them, and then they’ll hit back. We have to be ready for that. So once we really get started, we must go underground. I know a place where we can live. It’ll mean leaving here. OK with you Bill?’

  ‘If you say so, it’s fine with me.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘I’m going to bed. You keep out of this bomb job, Bill. I’m doing this on my own.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Bill said. ‘Where you go, I go too. OK, let’s go to bed.’

  ‘I don’t want you. This is a one-man job.’

  ‘Two men are always better than one,’ Bill said and went off to his bedroom.

  I had a quick shower, then got into bed. I put my hand on the empty pillow where Suzy’s lovely head so often rested. I thought of her getting acid sprayed in her face, her awful pain and rushing into the street where that truck smashed her to pieces. I didn’t sleep that night.

  I lay and thought of those times we had had together, how she had done so much for me, added so much
richness to my life.

  It wasn’t until the sun began to come through the rain-cloudy sky, that I finally fell asleep, but only for an hour. I dreamed of Hank, this massive ape of a man, and I woke up, sweating, and seeing the time, I got up, shaved, showered and dressed.

  Bill was already up. He had coffee on the table and rounds of toast and jam. We sat opposite each other.

  We ate in silence for several minutes, then he said, ‘OK, Dirk, when you have fixed Hank, what’s the next move?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got this slob on my mind, and I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ he said, ‘but isn’t there something I can do?’

  ‘God knows!’ I said impatiently. ‘You joined me. You’ll have to put up with me!’

  ‘OK. So I’ll go out and take a look at the scene. Let’s have lunch here. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for tonight,’ I said, shoving my coffee cup away from me. ‘You do what you like.’

  ‘Can I take the car?’

  ‘Oh, sure. I’ll be here. I have nothing to do, but to wait until that dump of his closes at 3 a.m.’

  ‘Try and take it easy, Dirk.’ Then getting to his feet, he left the apartment.

  I took time washing the coffee cups and clearing the table. I moved like a zombie. I was like a man with an inflamed, festering boil that had to be lanced. The boil was Hank Smedley. I sat in the living room, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and thinking always of Suzy. The hours dragged. It wasn’t until 13.00 that Bill returned.

  ‘I’ve got two steaks,’ he said, and went into the kitchen.

  Food didn’t interest me. I heard the grill sizzling. I lit another cigarette.

  Bill came in, laid the table and dished up the steaks. We ate them with coarse brown bread.

  I played with my food. My mind was too obsessed with Suzy and Hank.

  ‘I went down to the waterfront,’ Bill said as he finished his steak. ‘I talked around. Hank’s club shuts at two thirty. Everyone leaves. The place will be deserted.’

  ‘Nice work, Bill,’ I said, pushing my half-finished steak from me. ‘Fine. I’ll go down there at two and case the joint. I’ve got to get in, and there are those two waterfront cops to watch out for.’

  ‘We’ll go down there, Dirk,’ Bill said firmly.

  I shrugged.

  ‘If you want to. Yes, OK, you’ll be helpful.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Bill exclaimed, staring at me. ‘You are in a mental mess, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got to fix this black bastard. I want to kill him, but I’m not starting on murder. So, I’ll make his life a misery.’

  ‘I know. You told me. You are going to blow the Black Cassette to hell. Fine. So, when you have made Hank’s life a misery, what are you going to do?’

  ‘There’s time to think about that,’ I said. ‘See you, Bill,’ and I left the apartment.

  Soft rain was falling. I walked, not noticing the rain. I walked for hours. The streets of Paradise City were almost deserted. As I walked my thoughts churned with pictures of Suzy and Hank. I kept seeing in my mind Suzy leaving her apartment block: a car stopping, a request for directions, then the acid. Some thug had handled the acid. Hank had driven the car.

  I paused outside police headquarters, hesitated, then went in. I asked to speak to Sergeant Joe Beigler. Charlie Tanner, the desk sergeant, regarded me with sympathy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dirk, about your trouble,’ he said. ‘Go right on up. Joe’ll see you.’

  Beigler heaved himself out of his desk chair and gave me a double-fisted handshake. He was trying to express sympathy. I needed sympathy like lemon juice on an open wound.

  ‘Any news, Joe?’ I asked, putting my hands on his desk and leaning forward.

  ‘A little—not much,’ Beigler said, dropping back into his chair. ‘We came on a witness who lives in a condo above where it happened. He saw the whole thing, and got the number of the car—stolen. Both men wore gloves—no fingerprints. The driver was black. That’s as far as we’ve got, but we’re still investigating.’

  ‘He’s sure the driver was black?’

  ‘He swears to that.’

  ‘If that’s the best you can do, I won’t waste your time.’ Turning, I left him and walked out into the drizzle of rain. At least, I was now certain that Hank was involved.

  I walked down a side street and arrived on the waterfront. After a couple of minutes, I slowed my pace as I came upon the Black Cassette. Outside the place was the Olds that once had belonged to Terry Thorsen: a nice car. I moved more slowly. The time now was 16.30.

  Hank would be preparing for the evening’s shindig. I kept on and took a long look at Joe Walinski’s luxury yacht. As there were other tourists, done up in their plastic macs, also staring at the yacht, I paused and joined them.

  The man I knew as Lu Gerando was pacing the deck. He stared down at the tourists and sneered at them. After Hank, I thought, this yacht would go. I would have to have a limpet mine. Ali Hassan would supply that. He would supply anything if the money was big enough.

  I had walked far enough. I took a taxi home.

  Bill was out. I had more hours to kill. I sat down and forced myself to relax. Action tonight, I kept thinking. Hitting back.

  Bill returned soon after 20.00. I let him in and he was carrying a plastic sack in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said, dropping the two bags. ‘I’m starving.’

  He went to the kitchen, and I returned to my chair. I wasn’t hungry: only hungry for revenge.

  A few minutes later, Bill appeared with hamburgers, heated up. He set the table and sat down.

  ‘Come on, Dirk, for God’s sake!’ he said sharply. ‘You’ll be a nutcase if you don’t watch out.’

  I picked at the hamburger.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Around and about. Now, look, Dirk, let’s get Hank fixed first. Maybe, when we’ve fixed him, you’ll be able to listen and make some sense. OK?’

  ‘What’s in the duffel bag?’

  ‘All we’ll need to break into Hank’s club, and all we’ll need to smash up his car.’

  I nodded and suddenly found I was hungry.

  I ate the hamburger.

  ‘I’ve talked to Beigler. The cops are getting nowhere, but they have found a witness who swears the driver was black.’

  ‘We more or less knew that,’ Bill said, his mouth full. He darted into the kitchen and came back with two more hamburgers. We ate them, and I kept looking at my watch. The time now was 20.35. God! I thought, how time drags!

  I went back to my chair, lit a cigarette while Bill cleared the table. I was tempted to have a double Scotch, but refrained. This wasn’t the lime to get reckless on Scotch.

  Finally at 21.00, I got to my feet.

  ‘I’ll get the bomb, Bill.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll come along. I’ve got nothing to do.’

  Leaving Bill sitting in the parked car, I walked to Ali Hassan’s junk stall. In spite of the drizzle the tourists were still on the waterfront, most of them staring at the junk stalls. It was several minutes before Hassan, sitting under an awning, saw me. He got to his feet, spoke to his wife, then joined me.

  ‘You got it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s a beautiful job, Mr. Doe. Worth every dollar you are paying for it.’

  ‘Let me have it, and I’ll give you the money.’

  ‘That’s as it should be. It is all ready. Now listen, Mr. Doe, there is no problem. There is a switch at the top. You turn that to the right and the bomb goes off in ten minutes. It is safe so long as you don’t touch the switch. You can even drop it. No problem.’

  Moving into the deeper shadows, I took out my wallet and gave him the balance of the money we had agreed on. He counted the money, nodded and stowed the bills under his robe.

  ‘Just a minute, Mr. Doe.’ He waddled away, then returned carry
ing a plastic sack. This he gave me. ‘Turn the switch to the right, Mr. Doe, then take off. In ten minutes there will be a big bang and a lot of damage.’

  ‘Could be I will want something else,’ I said. ‘Something that could sink a hundred-foot yacht. You in the market?’

  He put his hand under his robe and scratched himself.

  ‘That would come expensive, Mr. Doe. I could arrange it, but I would have to fix it with a Marine sergeant who comes very high.’

  ‘But you could arrange it?’

  ‘If the money is right, anything can be arranged.’

  ‘I could be seeing you again,’ I said, and leaving him, I returned to the car. I put the plastic sack on the back seat and slid under the driving wheel.

  ‘That it?’ Bill asked, turning to stare at the sack.

  ‘That’s it.’ I started the motor. ‘We’ll go home and wait.’

  ‘I’m not crazy about bombs,’ Bill said. ‘Is that thing safe?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘Relax,’ and I drove back to my condominium. In the underground garage, I opened the plastic sack and took from it a black, square-shaped object. As Hassan had said, there was a small switch on the top of the box. Bill watched, his eyes goggling.

  ‘You push this switch to the right,’ I said, ‘and after ten minutes—boom!’ I returned the bomb to the sack, and leaving the car, we took the elevator up to my apartment.

  ‘We have a five-hour wait,’ I said. ‘Let’s have some coffee.’

  ‘Sure.’ Bill went into the kitchen.

  I put the bomb on the table, then, lighting a cigarette, I sat down.

  Bill came in with a jug of coffee, a cup and saucer.

  ‘I’m taking a nap, Dirk. Call me when you are ready to take off.’

  When he had gone to his bedroom, I drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, paced the living room, constantly looking at my watch. My mind now was solely on the thought of making Hank Smedley’s life miserable as he had made my life miserable.

  Finally, at 01.45, I roused Bill who was sleeping peacefully. I envied him.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘We’ll take a look at the scene.’

  So with the plastic sack containing the bomb and the K.K.K. notice, we drove down to the waterfront. It had begun to rain again. The waterfront was more or less deserted. A few fishermen were leaving their boats. The tourists were in bed. There was no sign of the two waterfront cops.