by James R Benn
"There are a few obvious places. He is in great danger though, if he asks openly about buying or selling drugs. One must be introduced by the right people."
"Who are the right people?"
"There are several. The Sicilians are represented in the Algiers underworld. There are two major French crime families, as well. The Grimauds have connections with the nomadic Arabs and deal in smuggling and caravans from the interior. The Bessettes run the docks and-"
"Bessettes? As in Captain Henri Bessette?" I asked.
"Yes, he is part of that family. He used to be a colonel in France, they say, but was demoted and sent back here in disgrace after killing a man. It could not be proved, but the army was not pleased. It is rumored he bribed his way to a staff position here."
"Well, it seems he may be working on his retirement plan. He hasn't stopped killing people either. I saw him bash a French officer's head in a couple of nights ago."
"Bessette's family owns a carpet business. It is his trademark. We know about Captain Pierre Labaule's death. He made the mistake of being an honest man, and reporting the corruption he found. Follow me."
Vincent took us to a seedy little bar on a side street just off the main marketplace. There were a few tables outside, shaded by a covering arcade. It was cool, and we had a good view of the square. Vincent spoke to the Arab waiter and in a few minutes three glasses of hot mint tea appeared.
"The Arabs believe hot sweet tea will cool you on a hot day," Vincent explained. "I've come to agree with them. Try it; it is very refreshing."
"Look, Vincent, I'm sure the tea's great, but shouldn't we be looking for Dunbar?"
"We are," he answered, keeping his eyes on the square as he sipped his tea. "Watch that stall, the one with the red awning at the end of the row. They sell Arab knives and metalwork, but their main business is distributing drugs."
"Do you think Dunbar will show up there?"
"It is very possible. This is a small-time operation, run by Arabs, the Tabriz brothers. They do business with all the organized crime gangs, including the Bessettes. If your doctor asks around in the Kasbah, this is where he would be sent."
"Why?"
"Because if he is with the military police, then no one will care if the Tabriz brothers are arrested. It won't make trouble for the Sicilians or for the French mob. Also, one of them speaks English. It is my best guess. In any event, if Doctor Dunbar has a meeting set up with any of the main crime families, then we would not be able to follow him. Not if we are concerned with staying alive."
"It's a big concern of mine, Vincent, but I don't have a lot of time."
"You are speaking to a man who has lived the last ten years of his life in Algiers, Lieutenant Boyle. I have learned here that we all have the same amount of time." He smiled thinly and sipped his tea, eyes darting across the square. I decided not to debate the nature of time with Vincent and drank my tea. It was pretty good, but it didn't cool me off. I guess it took a few years here to achieve that effect. I wondered how long the war was going to last and if I'd still be in North Africa in a couple of years, an old hand with strange acquired habits, still very far from home.
I tried to not keep looking at my watch, but I couldn't help it. After about the twentieth time, I looked up to see a U.S. Army officer walking among the stalls. He had blond hair like Dunbar's under his fore and aft cap, but I couldn't make out his face or rank. He was wearing a khaki uniform jacket with big pockets, just right for carrying half a dozen small cardboard boxes.
"That could be him," Kaz said before I could.
"If he comes this way, Vincent, we'll duck into the bar and you keep an eye on him," I said as I strained to see between the stalls and awnings in the marketplace. He turned toward us and I could see his face clearly. It was Dunbar, and he was looking over his shoulder, like a guy carrying stolen drugs in a bad part of town.
"It's him," I said as Kaz threw some francs down on the table and we got up to follow at a distance.
"Wait," Vincent said, holding up his hand to keep us back. "He is being followed, see there?" Two bull-necked guys in dark, dusty suits were trailing Dunbar, stopping to look at a stall full of dates or nuts or grapes every time Dunbar looked around. I couldn't tell if they were French or Arab, but one thing was for certain, they weren't there for the fruit.
An Arab kid ran up to Dunbar and said something, pointing to an alleyway at the end of the square. He nodded and dropped some coins into the kid's palm. He went off toward the alley with the two goons in his wake. It's amazing how a guy smart enough to be a doctor can be dumb enough to get in a fix like this.
"He's being hustled," I said, "let's go."
"I must leave you now," Vincent said. "I cannot be involved any further. Your friend Doctor Dunbar is not a very clever drug dealer."
"He's neither. Thanks, Vincent." I heard Kaz say goodbye-or who knows what-in Polish as I trotted across the square, trying not to be noticed by the two big guys whose backs were just disappearing into the dark alleyway.
The sound of a big meaty fist smashing into a ribcage is really unpleasant, but I knew I'd rather hear it than feel it. It came from inside a doorway in the alley, and was followed by a loud thud, a groan, and a yell. I made it to the alley in time for someone to throw Dunbar onto the ground. I could hear the door slam as he fell against me, knocking me down, too. I had my hand on my. 45, but there was no one else around except Kaz, a few paces behind me. He pulled Dunbar off me and leaned him up against the wall. The doctor's eye was puffing up and he held his ribs, wincing every time he drew a breath.
"Boyle… what are you…" That was all he could manage. I gave him the once-over. No broken bones. He had gotten a nice professional beating. No blood on the bad guy's hands, lots of close-in work to the torso. He'd have cracked ribs at the least. No syrettes in his pockets, and no wallet. No shoes, either. That made me laugh.
"Doc, you are one goddamn dumb Barney."
Dunbar moaned.
"Barney?" Kaz asked. "Is that American slang for a doctor?"
"No, it's strictly a Boston term. We call the Harvard boys Barneys, because of the trolley barns that used to be near the university. And this chowderhead is the dumbest Barney I've ever come across."
"The Arab boy… he was supposed to…" Dunbar stopped to wince again.
"He was supposed to take you to meet someone who would buy your drugs," I said, trying to finish the sentence for him.
"Oh God," Dunbar wailed, "what have I done?" He started crying.
"For starters, stolen U.S. Army property and conspired to sell it for personal profit."
His face went white. Tears were still streaming out of the corners of his eyes, but he seemed too stunned to take notice. Before I could say anything else, he doubled over and vomited.
"Good thing you don't have those nice leather dress shoes to worry about anymore," I said as I jumped back to dodge the splatter. I grabbed an arm and dragged him back across the marketplace, where the Arabs who didn't ignore us looked at each other and laughed. The whole place seemed to know what had happened. We walked under the arched entrance to the Kasbah and back to the jeep. Dunbar was still out of breath, rubbing his nose with his sleeve, and trying not to blubber.
"It was… just supposed to be… a one-time thing," Dunbar said, gasping for air as I helped him into the jeep, barefoot, dribbled stains on his tie and shirt, his cover gone. He was definitely out of uniform, which was the least of his problems right now.
"Sure, sure. Now just sit there and lean out the side if you feel sick again." I turned to Kaz, who was surveying the situation with that slightly amused look that usually seemed to be on his face. Around me, anyway.
"Big waste of time, huh?" I said.
"Well, Billy, I think you can eliminate the good doctor from suspicion of being the brains of a smuggling ring."
"Maybe that's what he wants us to think?"
"If so, then I am very impressed by his ability to vomit on command just to convince
us he is a frightened incompetent."
We both managed a laugh. I heard Dunbar moan a bit as he tried to find a comfortable position and that made me feel better too. I plopped myself down behind the wheel as Kaz pulled himself into the passenger's seat.
"Okay, let's get back on track, Kaz. How's your arm feeling?"
"It hurts, but I'm fine. The doctor said I could have the stitches out the day after tomorrow."
"If you're up to it, can you work on the Blackpool connection?"
"Yes, I was just about to start when you called. Vincent is inquiring quietly about smuggling connections into Tunisia, assuming that Villard and Bessette are selling to the Germans. He also knows dock- workers who may have information about a smuggling route, through neutral vessels in the harbor. He said he's heard of refugees being smuggled into Portugal in the holds of merchant ships flying neutral flags."
"That fits with the Bessette family's control of the docks."
"Yes, but they will have to find an alternate route for the Germans or Italians now that Algiers is in Allied hands. We will search the vessels more thoroughly than the Vichy did, when they weren't bribed to look the other way."
Something in the conversation clicked in my mind. I had no idea what, but something Kaz said started the wheels turning. What was it? Bribes, Portugal, dockworkers…? I had the feeling that somehow he had given me the answer to a big question, but all I could think of was a million little ones.
"Billy, are you listening to me?"
"Yeah, Kaz, yeah, I am. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I will use the radio link at Headquarters to contact the base at Blackpool and the Provost Marshal's office. Call the hotel and ask for me anytime. The staff will know how to find me."
"I'll bet. In the bar or the dining room, if I know you."
"Are you going to turn me in?" whined Dunbar from the back of the jeep.
"Shut up," I said over my shoulder. "Kaz, I have to get back, unload this bozo, and meet Harding. I'll drop you at the hotel and be in touch as soon as I can."
I started the jeep and gunned the engine as I drove down the narrow street. I was rewarded with a grunt and a groan from Dunbar as he was thrown back against his hard seat. Kaz was laughing as I pulled in front of the hotel and hit the brakes just enough to throw Dunbar around some more.
"Good luck, Billy," Kaz said as the smile disappeared from his face. "Stay alive and find Diana."
He put his good hand out and we shook. There was a lump in my throat. I watched the emotion sweep over his face as he wished for me what he could never again have for himself. I nodded my head, and watched him walk up the steps to the hotel, whistling a tune.
"Can we get the hell out of here now?" Dunbar said. "I need medical care in case you haven't noticed."
How do people turn out so differently? Kaz had lost his family, his country, his true love, was scarred for life, almost killed, and could still wish me luck and whistle as he went up the steps. Dunbar lost his shoes and took a few lumps, had blubbered like a baby, and now was acting like one. Time he grew up.
Chapter Seventeen
"It's not just Walton." Dunbar said in between bumps and potholes in the road as we drove to the hospital. "I'm in hock to a couple of other guys too. About a thousand, all told. I had a string of bad luck. Kept making stupid bets to try to win it back."
"And then you hit on this really good idea to break even? Selling morphine meant for the front?"
"Boyle, you should see all the stuff that comes through the supply depot. There's enough for an army!"
I was about to explain to Dunbar how that was exactly the point, but if he didn't understand now he never would. He was one of those guys who put their own problems, no matter how small, in front of everyone else's, no matter how large. That meant I had to make it a big problem in order to get his attention. I downshifted to take a corner, and looked around for a place to pull over. We were on the outskirts of the city where palm trees lined the road and peddlers pulling donkeys plodded along on the shady side of the street.
"Do you want me to shoot you right now, Dunbar, or would you rather wait for the firing squad?" I had to turn my head and yell at Dunbar, to be heard over the sound of the engine and tires in the open jeep.
"That's not funny, Boyle," Dunbar said. He spoke in gasps, as if talking emptied his lungs of air. Broken rib, maybe a couple.
"I think it's hilarious. Nice Harvard boy gets mixed up with gambling and drugs, ruins promising career, disgraces his family. Just the story to amuse an Irish kid from Southie."
"You can't prove a thing, anyway."
"You don't actually trust that rat Willoughby, do you? How do you think I got to you so fast?"
"Jesus," he said, again in that whining, airless voice. "I thought… What am I supposed to do?"
"I couldn't care less. Why should I help you figure that out? What can you do for me anyway, give me free poker lessons?"
"Will you help me if I help you?"
That's what I wanted to hear. But I shrugged. As if I were indifferent.
"Maybe you wandered into the wrong part of town and I happened by at the right time. Or not. It all depends on what you can tell me."
"What about Willoughby?"
"Leave him to me."
"Aw, Christ. What do you want to know?"
"Anything about drug thefts, Vichy officers coming by the hospital, anything suspicious, or even just odd."
"This was the first time I took anything, honest…"
"I'm talking about penicillin, the wonder drug, remember? Not your pathetic little pilfering. A real heist. Did you see anybody casing the joint before Casselli got killed? Any other drugs gone missing?"
"Oh. No. I was pretty busy getting things organized. I picked the location for the medical supplies when we first got here, then left it to Casselli."
"So you walked the grounds and chose that spot by yourself?"
"Why do you ask?"
That did it. I pulled the jeep over to the side of the road. We h cleared the city and they hadn't bothered to plant nice rows of shad palms out here. Just sand and a gravelly gully leading to more sand,^ rocks, and boulders. No Frenchies, donkeys or Arabs. I took my. 45 out of the holster and ran a round into the chamber. That sound always had a nice, threatening ring to it, a metallic snick click that meant business. I held it in my left hand, pointing at Dunbar.
"Now listen up, you worthless piece of dog meat. This isn't a social conversation. I ask, you answer. If you answer right, maybe I'll save your bacon. Piss me off again and I'll shoot you and leave you for the Arabs to strip."
"You wouldn't…"
I clicked the hammer back. Another snick.
"Okay, okay, okay!" He put his hands up in cross in front of his face, palms toward me. I had found a small-time drug dealer once, with holes in both palms and another where his left eye had been. He was flat on his back, arms outstretched, a Jesus on the pavement. Funny the things you think about at the oddest times. I waited for Dunbar to drop his hands and lowered the. 45, but kept it pointed in his general direction and waved it as an invitation for him to keep talking.
"Casselli was with me when we walked the grounds. The place used to be a military base but was closed down. There was plenty of room, we just needed to decide what went where."
"Why did you put the Medical Supply Depot in a separate building?"
"Casselli thought it would be better for the patients, so the loading and unloading wouldn't disturb them."
"So it was Casselli's idea, not yours?"
"Well, yeah, I guess so, now that you mention it."
Any sergeant worth his salt knew how to "suggest" things so an officer thought it was his idea. Casselli was no different. It was no more Dunbar's idea than it was Ike's.
"How long did you know Casselli?"
"He joined up with us about three months ago, in England, after our first supply sergeant deserted."
"What? Deserted? In England? Where the hell d
id he go?"
"No one knows. Captain Morgan saw him leave in a jeep one night, after lights out, and he never came back. He must've had someplace to hide out."
"Where were you based again?"
"Outside of Blackpool, on the coast. It had a port and we got a lot of our supplies right from the Liberty Ships that docked there. Pretty big operation."
It's amazing how chatty a loaded. 45 automatic can make a guy, especially one who's just been rolled in an Arab bazaar. I eased the hammer down and holstered the piece. So Casselli was the second supply sergeant to lose the job, one way or the other. I wondered where the first guy was. I wondered where they'd found his jeep. I wondered what Gloria Morgan was doing out after lights out, and who she was doing it with.
"Okay, let's get you taken care of."
"Are you going to report me?"
"No."
"Thanks, Boyle, I really owe you."
I pulled back onto the road and didn't say you're welcome. I only promised not to report him. If he wanted to feel thankful about that, he didn't have much of an imagination. I did.
Ten minutes later Gloria Morgan herself was comforting poor Doctor Dunbar as Rita taped his chest.
"What were you doing alone in the Kasbah, Doctor? You know we were told not to go there alone," Gloria said. She was patting his hand and her soft southern voice had a singsong lilt to it, as if she was reminding a small child to look both ways before crossing. Dunbar was eating it up.
"I was lucky Boyle showed up when he did. Those two hoodlums took my wallet, my shoes, my hat Who knows what else they would have done to me!"
He was so amazed at his own luck that he forgot to thank me. He looked to Gloria for some more warm sympathy as Rita caught my eye and pulled the tape tightly across his bruised ribs. He gasped.
"Ow! What are you doing, trying to kill me?" Dunbar demanded.
"Don't worry, Doctor," Rita said, "Billy is here to protect you."
Gloria turned her head, too much the senior officer and Southern belle to laugh at a doctor's discomfort. Rita didn't even crack a smile. I did, for all of us.
