by Don Porter
Maggie sharpened pencils with her electric gadget, making a terrible racket while George unscrewed the mouthpiece on her phone. The bug was clipped across the wires, using the mouthpiece itself for a microphone. Maggie stopped grinding, and George unclipped. We carried the bug down to the lobby and installed it on one of the pay phones. Thing is, if a bug goes dead, they'll be back to replace it, but it should take them a while to figure out the moves.
“Maggie, are you sure you don't mind going through with this?” I was stuffing the scrapbook of newspaper pictures into the morning paper.
“Sure, no problem. After all, what are associate detectives for?”
That was an interesting twist. I didn't recall changing her title from receptionist to associate, but this wasn't a time to argue with her, and I'm sure she knew that. I decided it was okay, at least until we discussed the duties and perks that went with being an associate. I dug a ten out of the petty cash drawer and handed it over, along with the newspaper.
“Grab something to go, and sit at one of those long tables outside.” We walked over to the window together and looked down at the pedestrian mall. “Sit at a table where we can see you from here. Dallas will come along and sit at the other end of the table. Make a show of reading the paper, but be careful not to expose the scrapbook because someone will probably be watching. When you finish eating, if it looks safe, leave the paper on the table. If you see a threat, just bring the paper back with you.”
“Got it. This will likely be a long lunch, I want to be convincing.”
“Take your time, and enjoy the sunshine.”
Maggie scooped her purse off the coat tree, folded the paper with scrap book under her arm, and skipped out.
“You, or me?” George asked. I looked him over. Funny, we work together every day, but I seldom actually look at him. Maybe that's to protect my sensibilities, because as usual, he was wearing an aloha shirt so loud that it was deafening. Brilliant blue ocean was breaking in waves all over the shirt, with neon-green palms hanging over a golden beach and brightly colored surfers on every wave.
“Me,” I decided. “If that shirt blinded someone, we might be liable.” I checked the Beretta, chambered a round, but slipped the safety on, and stuck it in my pocket. “I'll stop by the car and pick up the cell phone. Three minutes.”
George just nodded. By the time the elevator came, he had grabbed a pair of binoculars out of his desk, dragged a client chair over to the window, and pulled Maggie's phone to the edge of the desk where he could reach it. I took the elevator to the basement and collected the cell phone out of the Jag. I didn't see anyone, but I sure got that watched feeling.
I walked back to the elevators and pushed the up button, but when the door slid open, instead of stepping in, I stepped behind the bank of elevators and took the outside stairway up to the mall. An observer would have expected me to get into the elevator and would have to be watching pretty closely to notice that I didn't. The top of the stairway has a hibiscus hedge to make it blend with the decor, and I stopped behind that. I couldn't see much of the mall, but watching Maggie was George's job. I dialed the office.
George reported. “All quiet on the western front. Maggie's picking up a pizza slice and a Coke. No empty tables, she's looking around … she's sharing a table with a couple of college boys, about forty feet from the stairway, on your left.”
“Got it. Oops, someone is coming up, gotta tie my shoe.” I used the top step for a footstool and busily tied while a banker-type chap ran up the stairs and turned right. I picked up the phone again. “Okay, I'm standing by.”
Maggie took her time. It was, no doubt, very pleasant in the mall with a temperature around 84 and a nice trade wind blowing. The concrete stairway where I was loitering was protected from the breeze. The sun was almost overhead, reflecting off those white steps, and threatening to bake me.
“The kids left the table, and Maggie spread out her paper. She's reading the comics and her pizza is gone.” A few more minutes of my parboiling passed in silence.
“Oh, oh, I don't like this. That guy who came up the stairs after you, what color shirt was he wearing?”
“I don't know, I was tying my shoe. He had gray slacks and black oxfords.”
“I think the same guy is sitting outside the Chinese booth. He has a bowl of noodles, but he's not eating, and he's not looking at Maggie.”
“So, maybe the noodles are too hot, and there must be lots of guys who don't look at Maggie.”
“Not since she got her new bazooms. Oops, here comes Dallas. She's dragging a shopping cart full of garbage and she just stopped to dig through a trash can.”
Dallas wheeled her cart right past the stairway, I could see the wheels through the hedge and then a pair of tennis shoes and the cuffs of her overalls.
“Dallas sat down to rest at Maggie's table. She's sitting with her back to Maggie, but the noodle man is looking at her. Maggie just dug an ice cube out of her cup to chew on, and she's folding up the paper. She left the paper and is headed for the trash can with her cup and plate. JIGGERS, HERE COMES NOODLE MAN!”
I jumped up the last two steps and sprinted left. Noodles was ahead of me, I recognized his shoes. Dallas was stuffing the paper into her cart. Maggie had turned around to stare. I got to the cart at the same time he did. He reached for the paper, I threw an open-field shoulder block into him and sent him sprawling. Dallas pulled the paper out of the cart and stuffed it into her overalls. Noodles had rolled over a couple of times and was reaching for Maggie. I dived on top of him, trying to pin his arms, but he was a tough customer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dallas pull a three-foot-length of water pipe out of her basket. Noodles managed to roll us over so that he was on top, I flipped us back again, just as Dallas swung the pipe.
“How's the head?” George asked. I couldn't tell him how bad it hurt, because the fog was too thick. I felt it turn from burning to freezing and opened my eyes. Maggie had her cup of ice in her hand and was rubbing it over my cranium. More details emerged from the fog. We were sitting at the table, and the table was coming into focus. The shopping cart was beside us.
“Where's Dallas?” I asked.
“Long gone, but she has the scrapbook.”
“Where's Noodles?”
“Probably in the hospital. Dallas must have fractured his skull, but he crawled down the stairs, and by the time I got there, he was gone.”
“Poor guy. Fractured skulls hurt like hell.” I was giving a testimonial. Maggie dumped some of the ice into her handkerchief and applied it to the back of my head, only it didn't feel like my head. It was someone else's, but it did hurt less.
Chapter 11
It turns out that the best home remedy for a fractured skull is a couple of rum and Cokes. They were really helping quite a lot, and George felt sorry for me, so he was buying. We had gone to Fat Fat because of the expected phone call from O'Malley, but we did want to act normal while we waited.
Business was booming, Cy mixing drinks two-per-minute, and Floralita zipping around like the marble in a pinball machine. Half a dozen guys were playing darts just inside the front door, pausing when someone came in. The contest seemed to be who could throw the hardest rather than who could hit the targets, so there were more darts buried in the plaster than on the bull's-eyes.
The noise level had escalated to a dull roar, but it was a cheerful happy sound, lots of laughter, good-natured shouts, clinking glasses, and the thwock of darts plowing into plaster. When the phone rang, Cy handed it over the counter to me, and it was O'Malley.
“Did you recognize a picture?” I asked.
“Nah, he wasn't there. Look, Payne, maybe I imagined the whole thing. I mean, maybe I couldn't recognize the guy, after all.”
“Hey, you didn't imagine the goons that have been following us, and it doesn't matter if you can recognize him or not. He thinks you can, so he wants you dead.”
“Yeah, that's just the point. I've been keeping too
high a profile. I'm going to lay low for a while, so I won't be needing you guys anymore, but thanks a lot for all your help.”
“O'Malley,” I shouted, but I was talking to a dead phone. I must have looked shocked.
“What's the matter?” George asked. “Did he recognize the head of the FBI?”
“Worse. He says he didn't recognize anyone, and he fired us.” We both consulted our glasses for explanations and inspiration. George was inspired first.
“Dick, we gave him a picture of everyone who's been in the news for months, complete with captions. The perp had to be there.”
“Okay, granted, that's highly likely. So, is it someone so dangerous and powerful that O'Malley is petrified?”
“I hope so.” George consulted his glass again and shoved it across the counter. Cy set a fresh one on the coaster. George approved of that one, too. “The more horrible thought that comes to mind is that O'Malley might be thinking of a scam, say blackmail, for instance. He recognized the guy, but needed us to give him a name. Now we've provided O'Malley with a name and address, maybe he's going into business for himself.”
I gulped down the last few drops and traded the empty for a full one. “And, that leaves us?”
“Worse off than ever. Both the bad guys and Cochran will still think we have him, and if he starts making waves, like demanding blackmail, for instance, it's going to get very hot here in the kitchen.”
The alcohol was lubricating my gray cells, too. “George, if you were a bad guy, I mean even worse than your usual abrasive self, and you wanted to put pressure on us, how would you do it?”
“Well, the first thing that leaps to mind is, I'd kidnap Maggie, and maybe mail us a body part every day until we produced O'Malley. Wouldn't that work?”
“Just might,” I agreed. “It would sure raise hell with our insurance rates. Noodles was reaching for Maggie when I nailed him, just before Dallas nailed me, and if he'd gotten hold of her, the situation was going to be awkward.” I threw in the nailing by Dallas to keep the sympathy level up.
“So, we need to get rid of Maggie for a while?”
“Seems indicated. I saw an ad for a Las Vegas getaway in that morning paper. Airfare and a week at the California Hotel for five hundred ninety-five dollars, and they throw in some gambling chips. I think that's the cheapest way to get off the island.”
“And you think Maggie is going to go quietly?”
“I wouldn't tell her that we're ditching her. Tell her it's an assignment. Let's send our new associate to scour Las Vegas for O'Malley and his family.”
George gestured toward the phone that was still sitting beside my glass. I dialed Maggie's number. She came on the line gasping for breath, managed “Hello”, and then gave a heavy breathing performance reminiscent of the most obscene phone calls.
“Maggie, if this is a bad time, I'll call back.”
“No, oh, hi, Dick, pant pant. I was just doing my aerobics, pant, what's up?”
“Little problem. We have reason to believe that O'Malley and family have skipped to Las Vegas. We need you to go check it out. Are you up for the assignment, Associate?”
“Oh, sure, no problem. When do I leave? Hey, wait a minute, are you guys trying to get rid of me? Do you think I might be kidnapped?”
“Of course not. If you don't want to go, I'll gladly take the Las Vegas assignment.”
“Yeah, and just how did O'Malley and crew get the money to go to Vegas?”
“We think it was blackmail. Stand by. Pack your bag for a week or so, but don't leave the house. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning as soon as the plans are set.” I hung up.
“And, if they decide to kidnap her tonight?” George asked.
“Well, then naturally, they'll find me there guarding the house, wide awake and gun in hand. You make the reservations, and make them soon.” I shoved my glass away and gave Cy the universal gesture, thumb and two fingers lifting a coffee cup. He nodded and served me a cup of coffee that would have melted a brass Buddha. I drank the road tar, scalding hot, and let it burn a sobering path all the way down. I stood up, held on to the counter, didn't wobble too badly, and stumbled out of the bar. I heard darts whizzing past my throbbing head when I neared the door.
The tail was parked across the street at the bank again, two of him this time. The blue Ford was in his usual spot and a gray Honda was parked behind him, so George and I each had a personal escort. I was in no condition to drive, so I hiked down Beretania Street. The air was bracing, by Hawaiian standards, and after two blocks, the sidewalk was running straight and standing still. The Ford moved up and parked, half a block behind me. I turned around and walked back to the Jag. Let him deal with being out of position on a oneway street.
He did pretty well. He'd had to go ahead another block, race down to King Street, and back three blocks, but he was screeching around the corner onto Beretania again, just as I pulled out. I herded the Jag in a drunken weave down to Punchbowl Street and turned right toward the freeway on-ramp. That ramp goes into a tunnel under the freeway, makes a left turn, and just as you come out of the tunnel it splits, left to the freeway, right to the Pali Highway.
The instant his headlights disappeared from my mirror, I punched the Jag, took the right turn on two wheels, and swerved off the Pali again on the first side street, up the hill toward the Punchbowl Cemetery. I stopped and looked back in time to see the Ford merging with the freeway traffic.
Maggie lives on Date Street in a run-down neighborhood of single-family houses and rectangular, cement duplexes. She has the right-hand half of a duplex that is starting to sink into the ground, and list as it goes. I found a parking spot where I could see her front door and the path that leads around behind. I admit that I napped occasionally, but woke up to run the engine each time I got chilly. If they had attacked Maggie's place with Howitzers, I probably would have noticed.
Yeah, I woke up for something else, too. Detective School 101: Lesson two, “Always carry an empty gallon jug when you're on stakeout.” By six on a clear Hawaiian morning there was light in the sky and people were starting to come out of houses and drive away. The lights had been on in Maggie's house since five thirty, and I was debating the propriety of going in and trying to bum a cup of coffee when George called my cell phone.
“Eight-thirty, charter flight to Vegas. Meet you at the Roberts Tour desk in the inter-island terminal.” He sounded wide awake and sober, and I didn't want to disgrace myself, so I just punched “end” and dialed Maggie.
“Ready to travel?” I asked.
“Good morning, Dick. Didn't you get cold out there? Why don't you come in and have a cup of coffee while I finish packing?”
I was stiff from sitting too long, and if I hadn't had to address the gallon jug four times in the night, I might not have been able to move at all, but I made it to Maggie's porch. She opened the door before I knocked.
“So, you guys really are worried about me, huh? This Vegas trip had better not be a wild goose chase.” She gestured me toward a table. Two wooden chairs sat beside a red, oilcloth-covered, three-foot square. An electric coffeepot, one cup and one saucer sat on the table. Maggie was wearing a straight gray skirt and a gray blouse in some shiny fabric that stretched tight over her new bazooms. She disappeared into another room and I attacked the coffee.
The apartment had a snug, cozy feel to it, with braided scatter rugs that didn't clash with the davenport. The walls were covered with posters, obviously musicians although not what my generation called musicians, and I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't recognize a single one of them. I think music is what separates the generations. In my day, music had charms to soothe the savage breast. Now, I understand, it's more apt to incite riots.
Sometimes I'm tempted to think that civilization is going to hell in the proverbial hand basket, but then I remember a quote that I read a while back. The speaker was having that same thought. He said, “Young people today have lost the work ethic and are listening to wild, undiscipli
ned music.” The reason I think that quote is important is that it was Socrates speaking, about four hundred years before Christ was born, so maybe every generation has the same thought, and maybe civilization will keep muddling along for a while.
I do think it's an unbridgeable gap though. Once in a while some otherwise-intelligent, middle-aged guy will have a mid-life crisis and show up with a twenty-year-old chick on his arm. My thought is, buddy, just wait until she cranks up her music. You'll crawl back to your forty-year-old wife on your hands and knees.
The coffee was excellent. It was warming me right up and melting the cobwebs. The main part of the house was actually all one room, but divided into utilitarian areas. Behind me were a refrigerator, electric stove, and a sink with one dish, one knife, one fork, and one cup in a drainer. Daylight was beginning to show a tiny back yard with bamboo next to a wooden fence, no kidnappers apparent.
Maggie came back wearing heels and hose, and carrying an overnight case. I drained my cup and reached for the case.
“Don't you need to use the bathroom before we go?”
“Nah, I'm fine. Let's ramble.”
“Wow,” she said. She handed me the case. I motioned her to wait, stepped outside and surveyed the street. No blue Fords, no gray Hondas. Jag still parked across the street, and a couple of young punks eyeing the hubcaps. I motioned for Maggie to follow. She stopped to lock the door. The punks saw which way I was heading and strolled on down the street to look for something else to vandalize.
George was standing by the Roberts Tours desk, a packet of tickets in his hand, waiting for Maggie to arrive and show her picture ID. He motioned me toward the automatic teller machine across the lobby. I went over and fed it my access card. The Bank of Hawaii will dole out three hundred dollars in twenties during any twenty-four-hour period. I took those and wandered back to George and Maggie. She was holding the tickets, and George's three hundred. I handed her mine, and she stuffed the bankroll into her purse. Her suitcase was disappearing on the endless belt.
