1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts

by James Hadley Chase

  She then turned left, heading away from the harbour where the rich anchored their yachts, turned down another side street and got onto the waterfront where the fishing boats were anchored and the riff-raff lived.

  At this hour there was some activity. The fishermen were coming from the bars to board their vessels for a second morning’s catch. The young hippies were drinking coffee, gaping with sleep. Angela parked in an empty slot and Bill drove by her, swung the Olds into another parking slot and cut the engine.

  I got out of the car in time to see her walk across the waterfront, dodging the heavy trucks and heading towards a row of bars, cafes and sleazy restaurants. I watched her enter a broken down looking dump with The Black Cassette: Disco. Drinks. Quick Eats printed across the facia in peeling black lettering.

  Moving slowly, I crossed the waterfront and paused outside the finger-stained glass door.

  There was a notice pasted on the door: COLOURED BRETHREN ONLY: WHITE FOLK NOT ADMITTED: HEAR?

  After hesitating, I decided it was too soon to stick my nose into what could be a hornet’s nest. I needed information. I returned to the car where Bill was waiting.

  ‘Strictly for blacks,’ I said. ‘You wait here. See how long she remains in the joint. I’m going to dig for info.’

  I made my way along the crowded waterfront and arrived outside the Neptune Tavern where I was sure I would find Al Barney. Like a permanent fixture, he was sitting on a bollard, twiddling an empty beer can in his hand while he stared gloomily out to sea.

  Al Barney was known as the doyen of the waterfront. He claimed, and rightly, that he was a man with his ear to the ground. There was little he didn’t know about the waterfront’s machinations.

  Balding, wearing a dirty sweatshirt and duck frayed trousers, he supported an enormous beer belly on his knees. Apart from collecting information, Barney’s main interest was beer and sausages dipped in some horribly potent sauce that would skin the mouth of any ordinary man, but on which Barney doted.

  He and the Acme Agency often got together: the operators supplying him with beer, and he providing the operators with useful information.

  When he saw me he gave me his shark-like smile and tossed the empty beer can into the sea.

  ‘Glad to see you, Mr. Wallace,’ he said, ‘very glad. I was just thinking it was time for breakfast.’ He peered thoughtfully at me. ‘You feel like breakfast?’

  ‘Let’s go to the Neptune,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you beer and breakfast.’

  ‘Spoken like the gent you are,’ Barney said.

  He heaved his bulk off the bollard and waddled across the waterfront to the Neptune Tavern.

  I followed him.

  Once inside the dingy, dark bar room, Barney waved to Sam, the black barkeeper.

  ‘Breakfast, Sam,’ Barney said, ‘and let’s have some action.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Barney, sir,’ Sam said, giving me a wide, flashing smile. ‘And Mr. Wallace? You like a coffee or something?’

  Having tried Sam’s coffee, which was terrible, I shook my head.

  ‘Later, perhaps, Sam. I’ve just had breakfast.’

  Barney was already seated at his favourite table in a corner. I joined him.

  ‘How are things with you, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked. ‘OK? You look fine. Is the colonel OK?’

  I knew the ritual well by now. Barney must never be rushed. He must never be asked questions until his third beer, and only when he had finished a plate of the deadly sausages.

  ‘The colonel right now is in Washington,’ I said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m fine. And you Al?’

  ‘Well, I guess I’m not getting any younger. But who is?’ Barney shook his balding head.

  ‘But I’m not grumbling. The tourist trade is starting next month.’ His little eyes lit up. ‘Marvellous people—tourists. They come and talk to me, take my photograph. I tell them things that makes them pee in their pants.’ He gave his shark-like grin. ‘I guess everyone likes to hear scandal.’

  Sam came across and planted down a pint of beer and a big dish of the most dreadful looking little sausages that only the devil could have invented. Barney promptly threw three into his mouth, chewed, gulped, and tears rose to his eyes. He swallowed, gasped and drank half the beer.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Mr. Wallace. Nothing like them. Try one.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He threw three more into his mouth and went through the same performance.

  ‘Wonderful for the digestion.’ He finished the beer and Sam slid across to place a refill.

  I waited patiently.

  Finally, the sausages and yet another beer finished, Barney released a belch that made the windows rattle.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked with his shark-like smile.

  ‘What can you tell me about the Black Cassette?’

  Barney lifted what eyebrows he had left.

  ‘A black hangout. Dancing, poor grub, but popular.’

  I waited, looking directly at him.

  ‘No cop trouble,’ Barney went on. ‘The joint was bought by a black about a year ago. He made it into a sort of club. We don’t have a lot of blacks here: most are Vietnamese and Ricans. This joint is a place where the blacks can get together, feel at home, dance.’

  ‘Who bought the place, Al?’

  Barney scratched his throat. It was a sign I had learned to know so I signalled to Sam who came sliding across the room with another beer.

  ‘These little lovies give a man a thirst,’ Barney said. ‘You’re a swell, Mr. Wallace.’

  ‘Who bought the place?’ I repeated.

  Barney took a long pull at his beer glass.

  ‘A no-good black,’ he said, scowling. ‘How he got the money to buy the joint surprised me. Five thousand bucks for a ten-year lease. My guess is he must have got the money from his pa who used to be a drinking friend of mine. A nice old guy. He’d come down here and talk with me and buy me a beer.’ Barney shook his head and looked sad. ‘Then a year ago, I didn’t see him anymore. An old guy like me misses good friends.’

  ‘What’s the name of this new owner?’ I asked.

  ‘Him? Hank Smedley. You don’t want to have anything to do with him, Mr. Wallace. He’s tough and nasty, and doesn’t dig interference.’

  I kept my face expressionless.

  ‘The name of his father?’

  ‘Josh Smedley. He works as the butler to that rich, snooty bitch, Mrs. Henry Thorsen. From what I hear, poor old Josh is now hitting the bottle. I don’t blame him. What with his no-good son, his wife quitting him and Mrs. T., it’s enough to drive any guy to the bottle.’

  ‘His wife left him?’

  Barney nodded and took another gulp of beer.

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Wallace. He told me about it. The trouble there was Mrs. Smedley just couldn’t put up with her son. He was and is a wild one, but poor Josh loved him. He and his wife were always fighting over Hank. Finally, when Mr. Thorsen died, they split. Josh looked after Mrs. T. and Hanna—the wife—looked after the daughter who came into a load of money left her by her father.’ Barney sighed. ‘The way the rich live! Still I don’t envy them. What with taxes, their children and divorces: not for me. I like the life I live. I’ve no problems.’

  ‘Good for you. Know anything about the daughter, Al?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. I heard she was a nutcase. I did hear that when she was around 16 or so, Hank was screwing her. Don’t quote me, Mr. Wallace. This was just a rumour. She could be one of the girls who like to be screwed.’ Barney shook his head ‘This is the modern thing. It was different when I was a kid. Then I really had to work for it.’ A sudden crafty look came into his eyes. ‘You interested in Angie Thorsen, Mr. Wallace?’

  ‘More interested in Hank Smedley.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Wallace, be careful how you tread with that one. He’s dangerous: wild and vicious.’

  ‘Angie had a brother: Terrance. Know anything about him?’r />
  Barney looked down at his empty plate, then thoughtfully at me. I took the hint.

  ‘Go ahead, Al,’ I said.

  ‘This is my breakfast and my lunch,’ Barney said and gave an elaborate signal to Sam who rushed over with another plate load of sausages and a pint of beer. ‘A man of my size has to keep his strength up.’ He popped three of the sausages into his mouth, chewed, grunted and nodded his approval. ‘What were you asking, Mr. Wallace?’

  ‘Do you know anything about Terrance Thorsen?’

  ‘You could say I know something. He and his pa didn’t get along. Terry walked out and got a room on the waterfront. A sleazy old condo called Breakers, you wouldn’t want to know it. This would be some two years ago. He played a hot piano, so I’ve been told. I never heard him. He got taken on at the Dead End Club which is run by Harry Rich. The boy changed his name to Terry Zeigler. I heard he increased the club’s business no end. The swinging kids were crazy about his playing. He played every night, nine till two, never spoke to anyone. Just played. Then around three months ago, he dropped out of sight. No one has seen him around since then, though I did sort of hear that this Hank poison tried to poach him away, but it would have been hot news if Zeigler had played at the Black Cassette, and that’s never happened. No sir. Not likely.’

  I thought it was time to go. I didn’t want Barney to know how much I needed information. I took out my wallet and produced a twenty bill which I slid over to him.

  ‘Keep your ear to the ground. Hank, Terry and even Angie. OK!’

  He gave me his shark-like smile and snapped up the bill the way a lizard snaps up a fly.

  ‘You know how to find me, Mr. Wallace. I’ll listen.’

  ‘See you, Al.’

  I crossed over to Sam, paid the check, then walked out into the steamy humid atmosphere.

  I felt my morning wasn’t wasted.

  I found Bill, sitting in the car, chewing gum and mopping the sweat off the back of his neck.

  I slid in beside him.

  ‘She shown yet?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago. I didn’t know if I should follow her or wait for you. She wasn’t carrying the plastic bag, and she took off uptown.’

  ‘OK. I’ve a raft of information.’ I told him what I had learned from Barney.

  ‘So we have to go someplace—after we’ve had a beer?’

  ‘Next stop the Breakers,’ I said. ‘Before beer.’

  ‘I guessed that,’ Bill said, and began to mop his face.

  We found the Breakers condo down a side street. It was a typical dwelling that housed the many workers that went daily to the city to pander to the rich: shabby, with paint peeling, surrounded by small shops that sold anything from fish to panty hose.

  The narrow street was crowded with Vietnamese, Ricans, a few blacks, and white elderly women with shopping bags.

  Bill found parking space with a struggle, and we walked back to the entrance of the condo.

  ‘Wait around, Bill. I’ll go talk to the janitor.’

  I found the janitor on the basement floor. He was using a broom as if his hands were tender.

  He was a big, fat, hairy lump of a man, wearing a dirty singlet and dirtier trousers. He leaned on his broom and regarded me.

  ‘I am looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, giving him my cop stare.

  ‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘You look for him. I’ve got work to do.’ He began sweeping again.

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  He paused, stared at me, then asked, ‘You a cop?’

  ‘I’m looking for him because he has come into some money.’

  He stopped his tender sweeping and interest suddenly lit up his face which looked as if a child had carved out his features from a lump of lard.

  ‘Much?’

  ‘I don’t know. No one tells me anything.’

  It’s wonderful how this worn-out gag works, I thought.

  ‘Would there be a reward?’

  ‘Could be twenty bucks if I was steered right.’

  He scratched his hairy arm while he thought, then leant his massive weight on the broom handle.

  ‘Terry Zeigler?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He rented the top apartment around eighteen months ago. Paid steadily. No problems, though he seemed to work night and days. Then two months ago, he took off. He told me he was quitting, paid the rent, slung a couple of suitcases in that Olds of his and left. That’s the last I’ve seen of him.’

  Patiently, I asked, ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’

  ‘No. Why should I care? They come and they go.’

  ‘An Olds, you say. Remember the number?’

  This large lump of fat seemed to me as helpful as a fractured leg, but this one registered, even brought a gleam of intelligence to the lardy face.

  ‘Sure I remember a simple number like that. Want to write it down? PC10001.’

  ‘Did someone take his apartment?’

  ‘Yeah. Zeigler hadn’t been gone more than an hour when this girl arrived. She paid two months’ rent in advance, and moved in.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Dolly Gilbert. Anyway, that’s what she calls herself. I know nothing about her. She works nights is all.’

  He began to move his broom restlessly so I decided maybe a little oil might produce something more tangible. I took out my wallet, thumbed out a five-dollar bill and let him see it. He eyed the bill and stopped his sweeping.

  ‘That for me?’

  ‘Could be if you are more helpful. I have to find Zeigler. Surely someone in this building can give me a lead.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He paused to scratch his arm. I could almost hear his brains creak while he thought. ‘Come to think of it your best bet would have been Miss Angus. She could have told you about Zeigler. She lived in the apartment opposite his. She was a nice old lady: shoving 80. She cleaned for him and gave him a hot meal from time to time. She was one of these old girls who like being helpful. Nothing she liked better than to yak with people. She yakked with me until I nearly blew my top. Yeah, I guess, she could have told you about Zeigler.’

  ‘Could have?’ I asked. ‘Has she left?’

  The janitor made restless movements, his eyes on the five-dollar bill so I gave it to him.

  He regarded the bill, kissed it and stowed it away in a pocket of his dirty trousers.

  ‘She certainly left—feet first. That was three days after Zeigler quit.’

  ‘What do you mean—feet first?’

  ‘When I was cleaning up on Miss Angus’s floor, I saw her front door was ajar. I remembered I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, so I looked in. There was Miss Angus lying on the floor. She was dead. I called the cops, and left it to them.’ He again scratched his arm. ‘I can do without the fuzz asking questions and making pests of themselves. I couldn’t tell them a thing. Finally the cops decided it was some junkie, looking for money, who killed her. He had punched her in the face and her home was turned over. At her age, a punch in the face is a killer. I guess she could have told you where you might find Zeigler. She often spoke to me about him, saying what a nice boy he was. I shouldn’t think he would have walked out of here without telling her where he was going. Well, that’s it. Can’t do more for you, can I?’

  ‘Someone take on Miss Angus’s apartment?’

  ‘Not yet. She had a three-year lease and her own furniture. Some lawyer is tying up her affairs. As soon as he’s finished, the apartment will go fast.’

  ‘Do you know who the lawyer is?’

  ‘Some Yid. He came to see me.’

  ‘Know his name?’

  The janitor scratched his arm again, thought, then said, ‘Solly Lewis.’

  I decided he wasn’t going to produce any further information of interest.

  ‘OK, and thanks,’ I said. ‘Maybe, I’ll be seeing you later with another five-dollar bill.’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s fine with me. Come as often as you like.’


  I climbed the stairs to the lobby and went out into the humid heat where Bill was leaning against our car, chewing gum.

  ‘Getting places,’ I said. ‘Find out the address of a lawyer: Solly Lewis. I’ll be back in a while.’

  I returned to the lobby and took the elevator to the top floor. There were only two apartments up there. On the right-hand door was a sticker that read Miss Dolly Gilbert.

  I leaned against the bell push. Waited, then leaned again. I thought at this hour, which was now 17.50, Dolly might just be out of bed. I had to ring a third time before the front door jerked open.

  I was confronted by a girl who looked around 20 years of age: a blonde, with curly hair, a face plastered with makeup, a mouth that told me that she had lived tough, and still lived that way. She was wearing a wrap that hung open.

  Apart from a pair of pink panties, she was naked.

  She looked me over, then smiled. Her smile was that hard, welcoming smile a whore knows how to give.

  ‘Sorry, buster,’ she said. ‘In a couple of hours, huh? I’ve got a friend here right now.’

  ‘So what do I do? Wait around for a couple of hours?’ I said, giving her my friendly smile. ‘A pal of mine told me you could take care of me.’

  I was looking beyond her at the big room, comfortably furnished with ageing furniture.

  Across the room was a door that probably led into the bedroom. The door was half-open.

  ‘I sure can,’ she said, ‘but right now. . .’

  A voice suddenly boomed out of the bedroom.

  ‘Tell that fink to piss off! Let’s have some action! You think I’ve got all the goddam day?’

  The girl stiffened.

  ‘Man! He sure is a wild one. See you,’ and she slammed the door in my face.

  I knew for sure that harsh, booming voice had come from the mouth of a negro. There was no mistaking the lilt.

  ‘A wild one’, the girl had said.

  I had a hunch. I rode the elevator down and joined Bill.

  ‘Get the address?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s in the book. 67 Seacomb Road.’

  ‘OK. Listen, Bill, within a short while, a black will appear. I want you to stay with him. I’ll leave you the car in case he’s on wheels. Stay with him. I want to know if he could just be Hank Smedley.’