1979 - A Can of Worms (12 page)

I drove down to the waterfront, parked within sight of the Alameda bar, left the car and crossed the crowded waterfront to the Alameda entrance. Pushing aside the bead curtains, I walked into the big room.

There was a number of waterfront riff-raff up at the bar. Several tourists were eating at the tables. The Mexican waiters were busy, serving.

The fat barkeep gave me an oily smile as I walked up to the bar.

“Mr. Diaz,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

The barkeep’s little eyes widened.

“You want Mr. Diaz?”

“You deaf or something?” I gave him a smile to take the curse off it.

“Mr. Diaz is busy.”

“So am I. Hurry it up, fatso. Tell him it’s Bart Anderson.”

He hesitated, then moved down the bar to a telephone.

He spoke softly, nodded and hung up.

“Through there,” he said, and pointed to a door at the far end of the room.

I walked over to the door, opened it and stepped into a room furnished as an office: a desk facing me, filing cabinets to the right and left of me, two telephones on the desk and a smaller desk on which stood a typewriter.

Sitting behind the bigger desk was a slim, middle-aged man who regarded me with glittering, flat eyes a cobra might envy. His thick, well-oiled black hair grew down to his collar. He had a black moustache that climbed down either side of his face to his chin. Looking at him, I saw why Al Barney had warned me about him. As Barney had said, this Mexican was a very tough hombre.

“Mr. Diaz?” I said, closing the door and leaning against it.

He nodded, found a matchstick and began to probe his teeth.

“Are you acting for Lucia Pofferi?” I asked, watching him.

His face remained deadpan.

“You’ve got a wrong number,” he said.

“Maybe you are acting for Nancy Hamel?”

“Maybe.”

“I had a date with her at the Country Club. She didn’t show.”

He lifted his shoulders and looked bored.

“I was expecting her to hand over a lump of the green,” I said. “No green.”

Again he lifted his shoulders and looked more bored.

I saw this was going to take a little time. I pulled an upright chair up to his desk and sat astride it. Then I took out the envelope containing a copy of my detailed statement and dropped it in front of him.

He eyed it and read what I had written on it. “Are you expecting to die?” he asked quietly.

“Well, Pete Lewinski did. No, I’m not expecting to die now.”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“Don’t bet on it.”

“Go ahead and read what’s in the envelope. It’s for you to keep. After you’ve read it, maybe you’ll stop acting like a fugitive from a B movie, and start talking sense.”

His eyes gleamed, but his face remained expressionless.

Then he picked up a thin bladed knife lying on his desk, slit open the envelope and extracted the typewritten pages.

I lit a cigarette and watched him. He first examined the mug shots. They might have been blank bits of paper for all the impact they appeared to make on him. Then leaning back in his chair, he read through the five pages of typewriting, his face still expressionless.

I would hate to play poker with him, I thought as I waited.

Finally he laid down the sheets of paper and looked at me.

“And there is this,” I said, and handed him Howard Selby’s receipt.

This he studied, then placed it on top of the statement.

“Smells very strongly of blackmail,” he said. “Could get you fifteen years.”

“That’s a fact. Could get her twenty years in a smelly Italian jail, could get Pofferi the same, could get you five years for harbouring dangerous criminals.”

He reached in a box and took out a Havana cigar. He bit off the end, spat, then lit up carefully.

“What had you in mind, Mr. Anderson?”

“She told you. Let’s have some action. Breathing the same air as you, Diaz, is bad for my health.”

He blew smoke at me.

“She mentioned a hundred thousand,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I told her that was bluff.”

“Call it, and see what happens. It’s a hundred thousand or I blow the whistle.”

“And land in jail.”

“It won’t come to that. She’ll find the money. I have an ace against your king.” I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette in his ashtray. “Think about it. How much has she raised already?”

“Enough to pay you off if you play smart.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand.”

I shook my head.

“One hundred is better.”

He opened a drawer in his desk and began to put packets of $100 bills in front of me. He made a line of five packets. Then again from the drawer he took out a leather document case.

“Fifty thousand, Mr. Anderson, and I will throw in this very fine case,” he said.

I stared at the money and felt my hands turn clammy. I had never seen so much money in one lump, and the sight of all that green really turned me on.

“Seventy-five,” I said, my voice a croak.

“Fifty, Mr. Anderson. Act smart. She’s scraped the barrel.”

He began putting the packets info the document case and I just sat there, hypnotized. I knew I should bargain, but I also knew I hadn’t really believed it would be as easy as this: I didn’t really believe I would get anything. I had dreamed of laying my hands on big money, but up to this moment, I knew I had been kidding myself. Now, here I was being handed fifty thousand dollars! I could scarcely believe it.

He pushed the loaded case across his desk towards me.

“Don’t come back for more, Mr. Anderson,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes menacing. “Blackmailers are greedy, but this is the final payment. Okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and pushed back my chair.

“I promise you one thing, Mr. Anderson, if you try to put pressure on again, you will have an unpleasant end. I, personally, will take care of you. You will die slowly. Okay?”

I felt a chill run up my spine as our eyes locked. I have a dread of snakes, and right now, Diaz looked like a snake.

“You have yourself a deal,” I said. “Keep clear of me and I’ll keep clear of you.” I got to my feet, picked up the document case, then walked to the door. I paused and looked at him. “Was it you who killed Pete and the boy?”

He gave me a bored stare.

“Why should you care?” he asked, and began putting my statement back in its envelope.

I left him, crossed the bar and out into the hot sunshine.

My one thought was to get this money into safekeeping. I drove fast to my bank, rented an individual safe, took from the document case five one hundred dollar bills and locked the rest away.

It was as I was about to head for home, I remembered Joey. I drove back to the waterfront, parked the car and walked fast to
Lobster Court.
I had to knock several times on Joey’s door before he opened up. He was wearing a pair of underpants and he looked sleepy.

“Did I wake you, Joey?” I said, moving into the room.

“It’s okay, Mr. Anderson.”

“Jimbo still on the job?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“The job’s finished, Joey. Call him off. I don’t want them watched anymore.” I took out my wallet and gave him a $50 bill. “Okay?”

His eyes brightened.

“Gee! Thanks Mr. Anderson! You don’t want me to report anymore?”

“That’s right. Forget it, will you, Joey?”

He gave me an odd, sly smile.

“I don’t forget, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy.”

“Yeah, I know, but forget them. They are dangerous. Keep away from them. Okay?”

He smiled again.

“You look after your business, Mr. Anderson. Me and Jimbo will look after ours.”

“Now, wait a minute. Leave them alone! You can’t do anything to that bunch. They are in the big league.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

“Just as you say, Mr. Anderson.”

“That’s my boy!” I slapped him on his shoulder and went down the rickety stairs three at a time.

As I headed for home, I thought of all that green stuff stashed away in the bank. I could scarcely believe a snake like Diaz would have parted so easily. Well, he had parted, and I was rich!

This called for a celebration. Bertha and I would go out on the town! I looked at the dashboard clock. The time was close to 19.00. She would be back home by now. If she had a date, she would have to break it.

Leaving the Maser outside the highrise, I took the express elevator to my floor, unlocked the front door and hurried in. As I shut the door, the telephone bell began to ring.

Bertha! I grinned to myself. She could smell money two hundred miles away.

I snatched up the receiver.

“Hi, baby!”

A cool, detached voice, snooty and feminine, said, “Is that Mr. Bart Anderson?”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Hold a moment. Mr. Mel Palmer wants to speak to you.”

Before I could think of a reason why I didn’t want to speak to him, there was a click, and Palmer came on the line.

“I have been trying to contact you, Mr. Anderson,” he said plaintively.

“Right now, Mr. Palmer, I am on vacation,” I said briskly. “If it’s anything important, will you call the office?”

“Mr. Anderson, I have given Mr. Hamel your report and he is satisfied, but he wants to talk to you personally.”

I blinked, then asked, “What about, Mr. Palmer?”

He heaved a sigh that came over the line like a death rattle.

“Mr. Anderson, if I could fathom every whim or request Mr. Hamel inflicts on me, I would be less neurotic that I am. All I know is he wants to see you at his place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Tell him I’m on vacation,” I said, just to make life harder for him.

“Mr. Anderson! Please be there. Mr. Hamel is expecting you.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“What was that?”

“I’ll be breaking into my vacation so I will be working again. I don’t work for nothing.”

He gave a soft moan.

“Do I have to do this through Miss Kerry?”

“Send me a personal cheque for a hundred dollars, Mr. Palmer, and there’s no problem.”

“Very well. Can I tell Mr. Hamel to expect you?”

“You can bet your sweet life you can,” I said, and hung up.

Man! I thought, the green is rolling in. I dialled Bertha’s number. When she answered, I said, “Hi, gorgeous! Guess who’s calling?”

“Oh, you! Where’s the money I lent you?”

“Is that all you think about . . . money?”

“Where is it?”

“Honey, relax. We’re going to celebrate tonight. Hold onto your bra straps. I’m going to take you to the Spanish Bay Grill. How’s that?”

“Are you drunk?” Bertha demanded.

“Not yet, but we will be, and another thing, baby, I’ve been looking at my big double bed. It looks lonely.”

She giggled.

“Just tell me, Bart, have you got my money?”

“I’ve got it, baby. How about filling the second pillow?”

“The Spanish Bay Grill?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you know what they charge for a dinner I’m going to eat?”

“I know.”

“This I can’t believe. Have you robbed a bank?”

“I’ll give you one hour. If you’re not here in one hour, I’m calling another dolly bird.”

“Those pattering feet you are hearing running down the corridor to your door are mine,” and she hung up.

I replaced the receiver and cried Yip-hee!

Man! I said. Isn’t money beautiful!

* * *

After four champagne cocktails, I was reckless enough to confide in Bertha. We were sitting in the super-duper restaurant of the Spanish Bay Grill, and we had ordered a meal that made even Bertha’s eyes pop.

“How are you going to pay for it, Bart?” she asked. I believed she was anticipating the cops being called after we had eaten.

So I told her. I didn’t go into the small print, but I told her part of the story.

“The fact is, baby, Nancy Hamel hasn’t been behaving herself. By following her around I have opened a can of worms.”

Bertha stared.

“That prissy? What’s she been doing?”

“Never mind. I chatted her up. I produced the evidence. She didn’t hesitate. She said she would buy the evidence and for me to forget it. What could I do? I obliged the lady.”

Bertha patted my hand.

“I always knew that one day, kiddo, you would get smart. How much?”

“Fifty thousand bucks.”

The moment I said it, I regretted it, but the last cocktail was enough to push me over the edge of caution.

Bertha released a squeal that made everyone in the grillroom turn and stare.

“For God’s sake!” I said feverishly. “Remember where you are.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” she hissed, leaning forward to gape at me.

“Yep!”

The waiter came forward to serve the caviar.

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Bertha repeated as soon as the waiter had gone. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

“You and I are going on vacation, baby. It’s time we relaxed. I’m thinking of hiring a yacht and drifting in the sun. Want to come?”

“Try and stop me! Honey, leave this to me. I have gentlemen friends. I know a fink with a gorgeous yacht, and I can talk him into letting us have it for practically nothing. Four crew, a French chef, a butler and the food!” She rolled her eyes. “For how long?”

“Now wait a minute. That sounds expensive.”

“How long?”

“Four weeks: no more.”

“I know he’s chartered that yacht for twenty thousand a week,” Bertha said. “I’ll bet my panties I can get it for twenty thousand for four weeks. Imagine!”

I stared suspiciously at her.

“How do you do that?”

“He’s a kink. All I have to do is toss off my clothes and dance around his apartment while he sits and drools.”

“For that he’ll let us have his yacht for four weeks for twenty thousand?”

“Well, he’ll expect a few extras, but it’s all sex by remote control. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Okay. It’s a deal. When do we take off?”

The salmon in aspic arrived.

“I’ll see him tomorrow and fix it.”

“Are you sure you can?”

She winked at me.

“Want to bet?”