1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway (19 page)

‘Listen, honey, it’s regulations,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have to wear a gun. Pretend to be blind! Even pretend I’m a cop! Let’s go!’

‘I’m not going to a high-class restaurant with you if you are wearing that gun!’

He recognised from the tone of her voice that this was final.

He knew the argument could last for the next two hours and still get him nowhere. He was hungry for a good, free meal, so he took off the holster and threw the gun and the holster with some violence on the settee.

‘There’s no need to show off,’ Carroll said quietly. ‘I don’t mind a little temper . . . that is manly, but please don’t be childish.’

Lepski made a noise like a distracted goat.

‘Do we go or don’t we?’ he snarled.

Carroll regarded him with astonishment.

‘I’m ready and waiting. I’m not holding us up, it’s you.’

With the veins in his neck like steel cables taking a strain, Lepski stamped towards his car.

* * *

On Saturday night, a big crowd always descended on the Dominico restaurant, and this night was no exception. The staff was at full stretch. Solo had asked Harry to help in the bar. Nina had dropped her usual role of circulating and charming the businessmen. She too was ferrying drinks and taking orders.

Manuel moved quickly around the restaurant, conducting people, settling them, leaving them with menus, before darting back to the entrance where other people were waiting impatiently to be taken to their tables. As he arrived at the entrance for the fifteenth time, he pulled up short as if he had walked into a brick wall.

The sight of Tom Lepski with a tall, dark girl Manuel recognized as Lepski’s wife came as a shock and an unpleasant surprise.

‘Mr. Lepski!’ He showed his teeth in a wide, false smile. ‘This is indeed my pleasure!’

‘Solo said for us to come . . . so here we are,’ Lepski said, a little nonplussed to find so many people arriving.

‘Of course.’ Manuel always kept three tables in reserve for just such an emergency. ‘Delighted . . . this way, please.’ He escorted them to a corner table, settled them, snapped his fingers at his assistant, showed his teeth and raced back to the entrance.

As soon as the crowd began to slacken, Manuel rushed to the kitchen to warn Solo that Lepski had arrived. Working under pressure, Solo grimaced, then waved Manuel away.

‘Let him have everything the best all on the house.’

As Manuel returned to the restaurant he saw Harry coming from the bar, carrying a tray of drinks.

‘Number four table, in the corner,’ Manuel said. ‘Get their drink order . . . it’s on the house.’

It wasn’t until Harry reached the table that he realised who he was about to serve.

‘Hello, Mitchell,’ Lepski said, giving Harry his cop stare. ‘Remember me?’

‘Mr. Lepski,’ Harry said, his face wooden.

‘That’s right. How are you making out here?’

Harry stared at him for a brief moment, then turned to Carroll.

‘What would you like to drink?’

Carroll felt a slight stirring of her blood. She thought this tall, powerfully built man was just the sexiest looking male she had ever seen.

‘Could I have a Tom Collins, please?’ she asked with a smile Lepski hadn’t seen since they were married.

‘I’ll have a double Scotch on the rocks,’ he snapped, glaring at Carroll.

‘Isn’t that excessive, Tom?’ Carroll asked, aware that she had prodded alive a jealousy she had thought long since dead. ‘After all, you were drinking before we left home.’ She looked up at Harry. ‘Please bring my husband a small Scotch with plenty of Whiterock.’

Harry went away.

‘Look, honey, I know my goddamn capacity,’ Lepski said heatedly. ‘Would you please . . .’

‘I just don’t want you to get drunk.’

Lepski made a hissing noise that would have frightened a snake.

‘You stay sober if you want to, I’m going to please myself!’

While they were arguing, Harry, in the bar, told Randy that Lepski was in the restaurant. Randy nearly dropped the cocktail shaker he was manipulating.

‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Getting a free meal and probably taking a look around. Relax, Randy. A Tom Collins: double gin, and a double Scotch on the rocks.’

Randy made the drinks.

‘He saw you with Baldy’s suitcase, Harry,’ he said as he placed the drinks on Harry’s tray. ‘Do you think . . .?’

‘Take it easy. He can’t prove anything. He has no witnesses.’

Harry picked up the tray. ‘Give yourself a drink.’ He left the bar.

As he reached Lepski’s table, Manuel was taking the order.

Harry placed the drinks. Seeing what he had been given, Lepski looked up at Harry and winked.

Manuel was being expansive.

‘Solo would like you to try his speciality, Mrs. Lepski,’ he said, leaning over Carroll and showing her his teeth. ‘Casserole of duck with green peppers. I suggest fried oysters on shrimp toast to begin. How does that sound?’

Carroll was entranced.

‘Don’t tell me . . . just bring it to me,’ she said.

Manuel looked at Lepski.

‘Would that be okay for you too, Mr. Lepski?’

‘I’ll have a steak.’

Carroll gave an exasperated sigh.

‘Oh, Tom, for goodness sake! Can’t you eat anything but steaks? This casserole . . .’

‘I’ll have a steak,’ Lepski said firmly. ‘Can’t a man eat what he wants for God’s sake?’

‘Well, if you want a steak . . . have a steak!’

An hour and twenty minutes later, the meal finished, Lepski felt a twinge of conscience. While they were waiting for their coffee he decided it was time he went to work, but he knew it would be fatal to tell Carroll they were here on police business.

‘Honey, I’m taking a pee,’ he said, pushing back his chair.

‘Lepski! Must you be so coarse? Can’t you say you are going to the toilet?’ Carroll demanded, outraged.

Lepski looked wonderingly at her.

‘That’s where I said I was going. You sit still. Anything you want, ask the spic.’ He got to his feet, and before Carroll realised there was more to this than a visit to the Men’s Room, he made his way quickly from the restaurant and out onto the cement path that led to the kitchen.

Seeing him go, Manuel pressed a button which started a buzzer in the kitchen, warning Solo there could be trouble. Solo was in the middle of serving four specials and he cursed.

As Lepski moved into the night air and walked past the kitchen, he looked through the window, seeing that Solo was busy at the cooking range. He heard a car arrive and looking towards the car park, saw a white Mercedes pull up under one of the tall standard lights.

The car attracted Lepski’s attention. He paused to watch a woman get out of the car. He recognised her as Mrs. Carlos, the wife of one of the richest men in Paradise City. But he scarcely looked at her. His attention became riveted on the squat, heavily built man who held the car door open for her as she got out.

Lepski worked on hunches. As soon as he saw this man, he became positive from his build that he was the man who had killed Mai Langley. He slid his hand inside his jacket for his gun, then remembered, because of Carroll’s snobbery, his gun was lying on the settee in his living room. Sweat started out under his arms. This man who was now leaning his fat body against the car and lighting a cigarette, could be a killer. Lepski had two choices: either to telephone headquarters and ask for help: in which case he would have to admit he was unarmed and why, or he could take a chance and tackle this possible gunman and hope there would be no gunplay.

He shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision.

He was sure if he balled up this situation, his promotion would go down the drain. It didn’t occur to him that all he had to do was to return to the restaurant, sit down with Carroll and continue to enjoy his evening. Lepski had come up from a patrolman and during the years, he had absorbed into his system the police code. He hesitated for only a few seconds, then he walked out of the shadows, crossed the car park and arrived by the Mercedes.

The squat man looked at him and stiffened. His right hand went casually to the middle button of his tight fitting coat and released the button so the jacket swung open. That told Lepski the man was carrying a gun.

Lepski regarded the man, imagining how he would look with a handkerchief masking his face, and became even more convinced he was the killer.

‘Police,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘Who are you?’

Under the glaring light, Lepski saw the man’s eyes shift and glitter.

‘I don’t understand,’ the man said. ‘I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’

‘What’s your name?’ Lepski asked and he moved forward slightly. If he could slam a punch at this spic, he thought, he could get his gun, but the man edged away.

‘I don’t understand,’ he repeated. ‘I am Fernando Cortez. I work for Mrs. Carlos.’

‘Okay, Cortez,’ Lepski said, aware his heart was thumping. ‘Get your hands up! Come on . . . up!’

That bluff, he thought sadly, wouldn’t convince a child. It certainly didn’t convince Cortez. He remained still, staring at Lepski.

‘I don’t understand. I am Mrs. Carlos’s chauffeur.’

‘I heard you the first time. I want your gun!’

Cortez hesitated.

‘I carry a gun for Mrs. Carlos’s protection.’

‘I want it.’ Lepski held out his hand which was steady, but he was sweating hard.

Cortez hesitated again, then stepped back.

‘Okay, copper, so you can have it!’ he snarled. The gun jumped into his hand and aimed directly at Lepski. In the brief second that Lepski stared at the gun, he recognized it as a Walther 7.65: the same type of gun that had killed Mai Langley.

He was bracing himself for gunfire when a vivid white light exploded inside his skull as a vicious blow slammed down on his head.

Chapter Eight

H
er coffee finished, Carroll Lepski was looking impatiently at her watch when she saw Manuel, the Captain of Waiters, weaving his way around the tables and heading towards her. He arrived at her table and gave her that sad smile people wear when about to break bad news.

‘Excuse me, Mrs. Lepski,’ he said, leaning over her, his voice low and confidential. ‘Your husband is in a little trouble. Don’t be alarmed. It happens now and then, although it’s the first time in this restaurant.’

Carroll’s eyes opened wide.

‘Trouble? What do you mean? Is he hurt?’

‘No . . . no . . . no . . . certainly not. He’s just passed out. Maybe the heat . . . maybe a little too much Scotch.’

Carroll started to her feet.

‘Are you telling me my husband is drunk?’

‘Well, you could say that.’ Seeing Carroll s eyes light up with anger, Manuel felt it safe to look superior. ‘I always say, Mrs. Lepski, some can take it . . . some can’t.’

Blood rushed into Carroll’s face. She felt humiliated and furious.

‘Where is he?’

‘We’ve put him in his car, Mrs. Lepski. He’ll be fine by tomorrow morning. We’re sending someone with you. You’ll need help getting him to bed.’ Manuel showed her his teeth in a sympathetic smile. ‘Think nothing of it, Mrs. Lepski. These things happen . . . so sorry.’

Carroll snatched up her bag and walked towards the exit, sure everyone in the restaurant was looking at her. By the time she got into the hot night air, she was in such a rage she was practically breathless.

Manuel trotted behind her.

‘To your right, Mrs. Lepski,’ he said.

Carroll stamped across the car park to where she could see Lepski’s Wildcat in the shadows. By the car stood the handsome man Lepski had spoken to and had called Mitchell. He stood back as she reached the car. She peered into the back seat where her husband sat, his head resting on the back of the seat, his eyes closed. Through the open car window came a strong smell of whisky.

Carroll hesitated: a little alarmed. She had never seen her husband like this. How could he have got so drunk in such a short time?

‘Now don’t worry, Mrs. Lepski,’ Manuel said soothingly. ‘This happens all the time. Harry will drive after you and help you when you get home.’

‘Are you sure he’s all right?’ Carroll asked, a quaver in her voice.

‘He’s fine. A little headache perhaps tomorrow morning, but otherwise . . . fine.’ Manuel shifted impatiently. Why the hell didn’t she get in the car and take off? He had a restaurant full of people needing his attention.

Suddenly, from the car, came a loud, strangled snore. To Carroll, this revolting sound was like a spark in a gunpowder factory. She got in the car, slammed the door and gunned the engine. As she began to drive out of the parking lot, Manuel signaled to Harry who got in Solo’s estate car and went after her.

Harry was puzzled. He had been serving d inks when Manuel bad told him Solo wanted him. He had found Solo kneeling beside Lepski’s unconscious body.

‘Look at this!’ Solo had said, his voice despairing. ‘I tell him it’s all on the house and he disgraces my restaurant. Swell! He must have swam in the stuff.’

Harry bent over the prone body. The stink of whisky made him wrinkle his nose.

‘Is he all right?’

‘All right? He’s drunk!’ Solo said bitterly. ‘Now listen, Harry, his wife is in the restaurant. You take my car and help her . . . hey? Put him to bed. Soothe her. This is very bad for my business. Help me get him into the car.’

While he pondered on all this, the Wildcat ahead of him was tearing along the highway. Harry had trouble in keeping up with it. The brake lights shone red as the Wildcat swung off the highway, raced down a narrow twisting road so fast Harry let it go. If this woman wanted to kill herself, she could do it. He wasn’t going to risk his neck on such a road.

He lost sight of the Wildcat for several minutes, then picked up the taillights again on a strip of road leading to a housing estate. The Wildcat skidded to a halt before a two-storey house with a tiny lawn, a patio and a garage.

Harry got out of the estate car as Carroll got out of the Wildcat.

‘I can’t tell you how ashamed I am!’ Carroll said as Harry came up to her.