1971 - Want to Stay Alive (18 page)

“I pay for what I want,” he said curtly and walked out into the hot sunshine.

Ocida lost his habitual smile. He stared at the bill, then put it in his shirt pocket.

He believed no one should ever part with money unless he had to. This was his philosophy of life.

He rubbed the side of his fat jaw.

Maybe this boy was sicker than he had thought.

***

As Beigler handed back the extortion note to Terrell, he said, “Well, now we know the motive.”

“It had to be more than an old woman calling him a nigger,” Terrell said.

“How many other members of the Fifty Club have had the same demand? You follow my thinking? These people at the club, scared sick by what has already happened, could be getting demands for money and to save their skins, could be paying up and not reporting to us.”

Beigler lit another cigarette.

“I can’t say I blame them, Chief. It’s a smart ploy if that’s his racket. Three of them have been knocked off to soften the others up and we haven’t done much to give the rest of the old dears much confidence, have we?”

Terrell nodded.

“I’ll see Hansen. We’ll have to give him protection and I mean protection. He paid up, but Poke hasn’t had the money and he might think Hansen didn’t pay and he could hit back. Get a couple of good men guarding the front and back of the club. Every Indian going in and out is to be checked.”

Beigler went off to the Detectives’ room while Terrell went down the back stairs to the police yard where his car was parked.

The Detectives’ room was deserted when Beigler walked in. Every available man was out trying to find a couple who called themselves Mr. and Mrs. Jack Allen. Realising the urgency to get Hansen guarded, Beigler reluctantly called Captain Hemmings of the Miami police force to ask for additional help.

“You’ve already got fifteen of my men,” Hemmings pointed out. “Do you imagine we haven’t any crime in our own City?”

“If I could borrow two more men, sir,” Beigler said, “I’d be obliged. I’ll send them back the moment I have two of my own boys available.”

“You know something, Joe? If I was handling this thing of yours, I’d have this Redskin in the tank by now. Frank’s handling it all wrong, but it’s his territory so who am I to talk?”

Beigler controlled his temper with an effort.

“Captain Terrell knows what he is doing, sir.”

The strangled note in Beigler’s voice reminded Hemmings that he was criticising Beigler’s boss.

“Sure,” he said hastily. “Well, okay. I’ll get a couple of men over to you. Maybe if we ever have a crime wave here, you’ll help us, huh?” He gave a short barking laugh. “If we ever need help which we won’t.”

“I hope not, sir.” Beigler would have liked to have been able to slide along the telephone line, kick Hemmings’ fat rear and slide back to safety to his desk, but miracles don’t happen that way.

“Your man will be covered in an hour,” Hemmings promised.

But this coverage came too late. While Terrell was snarled up in the heavy traffic and while Hemmings was detailing two detectives to get over to Paradise City, Poke Toholo struck.

Killing Elliot Hansen didn’t present any difficulties. There were risks, of course, but Poke was ready to accept risks.

The time was 14.30: the time when the Club lunch was over; when the Indian staff were in the vast kitchen in the basement having their own lunch; when two-thirds of the members of the Club had gone back to their offices and the other third were snoozing in the lounge. All this Poke knew.

He also knew at this time Elliot Hansen retired to his office and stretched himself out in a couch for a forty minute nap. Because Hansen had sensitive nerves, at his own expense, he had had this office sound proofed. This Poke also knew.

He arrived at the staff entrance of the Club about the same time two bored detectives were heading for Paradise City and at the same time as Captain Terrell pulled up before a red traffic light, some half a mile from the Club.

Poke moved silently along the dim corridor, listening to the noise the staff made as they ate and talked in the kitchen. He took from a rack one of the many white coats hanging there and put it on. It was a little too big for him, but this didn’t matter. He walked past the open kitchen door and no one noticed him. He moved into the deserted dining room, then into the corridor and along to the bar. He slowed his step as he reached the entrance to the bar. He saw his father washing used glasses with that patience and servility that always angered Poke. He paused just out of sight to take a long look at the old man and he felt the urge to go into the big room and take his father in his arms. He knew he couldn’t afford such a luxury and he moved on.

Two club members: sleek, well fed men with cigars between their fingers went by him. They didn’t see him. Who saw a monkey in a white coat? He was as anonymous as a fly on the wall.

He reached Hansen’s office. He didn’t even look around to see if anyone was watching. He turned the handle gently and moved into the room. The door closed with a soft sigh as the air was expelled by the sound proofing around the door.

Elliot Hansen was sitting at his desk. Usually at this time, he would be asleep, but now he was too frightened to sleep. The world he had built up was crumbling and soon, he felt, it would crash down on him.

He looked up and saw an Indian in a white jacket and he waved impatiently.

“I didn’t ring for you! Go away! What do you mean coming in . . .” Then he recognised Poke and with a shuddering gasp, he shrank back in his chair.

Poke lifted the gun. There was a little smile on his brown face as he squeezed the trigger.

The first bullet made a blossom of blood on Hansen’s white jacket at his right shoulder that told Poke the gun threw to the right. The second bullet hit Hansen in the mouth, smashing his beautiful white dentures. The third bullet scattered his brains on his blotter.

That was the way Captain Terrell found him when he arrived ten minutes later.

***

Sergeant Beigler had sweat beads on his face and a stormy look in his eyes when he came into Terrell’s office. Terrell had handed him the thankless task of handling the press, instructing him to give out no information. The reaction of the press to this was almost too much for Beigler’s blood pressure.

“Do you know what those sonsofbitches are calling us?” he said, clenching and unclenching his big fists. “The Keystone cops! They said . . .”

“All right, Joe, never mind about them.” Terrell had just had a session on the telephone with Mayor Hedley who was almost hysterical. When Terrell was sure he was playing his cards right no amount of hysteria nor shouting could ruffle him. “Sit down . . . have some coffee.”

Beigler sat down and poured coffee that had just arrived into a paper cup.

“We’re in for a hell of a press tomorrow, Chief,” he said, trying to calm down. “And tonight on TV news . . . that’ll be something!”

“You told them we had no leads?”

Beigler winced at the memory.

“I told them.”

Terrell began to fill his pipe.

“Good. How many men have you pulled in?”

“Six waiting outside.”

“Let’s have them in.”

Headed by Lepski, five of Terrell’s but men came into the office. There was Max Jacoby, Dave Farrell, Jack Wallace, Andy Shields and Alec Horn.

“Find chairs,” Terrell said, “and sit down.”

After a few moments of confusion the six detectives got themselves seated.

“You know the situation,” Terrell said. “You’ve all read the reports. Our number one is Poke Toholo. These two who call themselves Mr. and Mrs. Jack Allen are working with him and could lead us to him. You have their descriptions. They shouldn’t be difficult to spot because they don’t know we are on to them. This is why we’re taking a beating from the press. We’ve given out we haven’t any lead and as long as the press call us the Keystone Cops the more relaxed these three will be and that’s what I want them to be . . . relaxed.” He paused to light his pipe, then went on, “I am sure a number of the members of the Fifty Club have had demands for money and I’m equally sure they have paid up, but none of them will admit it. They are a spineless lot and Hansen’s killing has scared them witless. Hansen did pay, hut someone found the money before Poke did, so he killed Hansen. The idea of taping an envelope with money in it under the coin box of a public telephone is a smart one. Public telephones are continually in use and it would be almost impossible to spot anyone collecting the envelope if it were not for the fact that we have the descriptions of these three: this they don’t know and they mustn’t know. We know they have used a telephone booth at the airport and as they don’t know we’re on to them, they could use it again. Max, Dave and Jack, you go down to the airport right away. Go into each telephone booth and feel under the coin boxes. If you find an envelope, leave it where it is and call me. This is going to take a little time. You must act like anyone going into a telephone booth. Just remember you may be watched and one wrong move could bitch up this operation. I don’t have to spell it out to you, do I?”

The three men nodded.

“If when you’re there you spot any of these three, stick with them. You’ll be in radio communication with Lepski. We want to pick them all up. If you spot the three together, then close in on them, but be careful . . . they are dangerous. It’s my bet only one of them will do the collecting . . . probably the girl. If it’s only one of them, tail her or him and keep reporting. Do you get all that?”

Again the three men nodded.

“Okay, get going.”

It was Jack Wallace who found the envelope under the coin box in Booth B in the airport lobby. He felt a little thrill of excitement as, leaning against the coin box, his big body blocking any watching eyes, his left hand went under the coin box as he dialled a number with his right. He had intended to have a quick word with his wife, but when he felt the envelope, he cut the connection and redialled, this time calling Terrell.

“I’ve found it, Chief,” he said. “Booth B.”

Terrell drew in a long breath: his gamble had paid off! “Fine, Jack. Leave the airport and report to Lepski.”

Wallace hung up and left the booth, glancing at the elderly woman who was impatiently waiting to take his place.

Lepski was sitting in his car, his radio switched on when Terrell’s voice brought him to attention.

“Jack’s found the envelope in Booth B,” Terrell told him. “Take over, Tom; the operation is all yours . . . and good luck.”

Lepski put his hand inside his jacket and touched the butt of his .38 police special as he said, “Okay, Chief, I’ll report when something happens,” and he switched off.

Wallace appeared by Lepski’s car.

“Alert the others, Jack,” Lepski said. “I’ll go inside and take a look around.”

He left the car and walked across the vast parking lot into the airport lobby. He moved casually, edging his way through the loitering crowd. He passed the line of telephone booths, looked briefly at the elderly woman who was in Booth B, then went up the stairs leading to the gallery overlooking the lobby where the control offices were. Up on the gallery he had a clear view of Booth B.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a girl said, “but you can’t remain here. This is for the airport officials only.”

Lepski turned and eyed her.

She was small, pretty and dark, wearing the yellow blouse and the black mini skirt uniform of the Paradise City Airlines. For a long moment, his eyes dwelt on her legs, then as she gave an embarrassed giggle, he became all cop.

“Who’s in charge up here?” he asked and showed his badge.

Minutes later, he was sitting in an office, looking through the glass partition down into the lobby and at Booth B, out of sight, and with his radio switched on.

Lepski was trained to wait. That was police business. The first four hours crawled by. At the end of each hour, one of his men went into the telephone booth to check the envelope was still there. Fifty-three people used the booth during the wait. For something better to do, Lepski counted them, but none of them matched the description of the three he was waiting for. After five hours, Max Jacoby relieved him and Lepski took a nap on a truckle bed lent by the Airport supervisor.

He dreamed of the airhostess. Her antics in his dream surprised him, and it took a lot to surprise him. He was a disillusioned man when he woke.

***

The first thing Chuck did after his morning coffee was to check the Buick.

He drove the car to a service station, had the tank filled, had the tyres and battery checked and the radiator topped up. The garage hand told him two of the plugs should be replaced so Chock had them replaced. Once he had collected the money, he had a long drive ahead of him and nothing must he left to chance. This was the end of the operation. To him, two thousand dollars and a car meant a new life. His mind was too narrow to wonder what would happen when the money was spent. He lived for the day. There was always more money to he found: always some paying racket if you looked for it. Why worry about tomorrow?

Satisfied the car was now in as perfect working order as it ever would be, he drove it to the waterfront and parked it. He checked his watch: the time was 10.43. In another half hour they would start the operation. Standing in the sun, he studied the paper Poke had given him. He decided to leave the airport to the last. From the airport he could drive to highway 25 and the n away to Los Angeles. So the first stop would be the Adlon hotel.

He had told Meg who he had left in bed, to meet him on the waterfront.

Lighting a cigarette, he walked over to a bollard and sat on it. This side of the harbour was empty. The sponge boats were at sea. On the other side of the harbour he could see the yachts, the motorboats and the sailing boats of the rich. He flicked ash into the oily water and rubbed his blunt nose with the back of his hand and tried to relax.

Chuck never read a newspaper nor listened to the radio. He lived in his own small, restricted world. So he knew nothing about Hansen’s murder nor the subsequent uproar in the press.