The Crimes of Jordan Wise

by Bill Pronzini

  All the prospects looked good. Life looked good. Uncomplicated. Comfortable.

  Then, without warning, the bottom fell out again.

  I was having lunch alone in Harry's Dockside Cafe. A day like any other day. The place wasn't crowded and I was at a corner table, looking out through the open-air window while I ate, admiring a racing yawl with a balloon spinnaker, hull down on the horizon, tacking in search of a steady breeze. The scrape of the chair opposite pulled my gaze around. A man I didn't know sat down and fed me a lopsided smile around a thin, dark-brown cheroot.

  He was about my age, late thirties, short but muscular, and hard-looking in an indolent way. Thick biceps bulged the sleeves of the blue pullover he wore. Fair hair, blue eyes, a sideways bend in his nose that indicated it once had been broken and the break hadn't healed properly. Pale skin that marked him as a snowbird, the local name for northern tourists who flock to the Caribbean in the winter months. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.

  "What's that you're eating?" he said.

  "Fish chowder."

  "Looks greasy. How's it taste?"

  "It tastes fine," I said. "Even better without cigar smoke."

  He tapped ash on the floor. "I don't like fish," he said. "That's all you get down here, fish and more fish."

  "Try one of the downtown restaurants."

  "They serve meat in this place? Any kind of red meat?"

  "Look, I really don't want company—"

  "Maybe I'll just have a beer."

  "Have it at another table."

  "I like this one."

  He sat watching me, smoking, while I spooned up the chowder. I could feel his eyes on my face, like bugs crawling; they were making me uncomfortable. I pushed the bowl away and started to get up.

  "Hold on there," he said. "Let's talk a little."

  "I don't think so. I've got work to do—"

  "The work can wait. My name's Cutter, Fred Cutter."

  "Good for you."

  "And you're Richard Laidlaw."

  " . . . You know me?"

  "I know a lot of things about you."

  "What do you want? Are you selling something?"

  "Might say that."

  "Well, whatever it is, I'm not interested. I don't need anything."

  "You need what I'm selling. You just don't know it yet."

  "All right, what is it you think I need?"

  "Silence," Cutter said.

  "What?"

  "Richard Laidlaw's a good name," he said, "but I like Jordan Wise better."

  I could feel the muscles pull as my back stiffened. I went cold all over. "You must have me mixed up with somebody else."

  "I don't think so. Not anymore." The lopsided smile was broader.

  My control had slipped for only a second or two, but that was long enough for him to see it. "I thought I recognized you when we bumped into each other yesterday morning. I wasn't a hundred percent sure, with the beard and the long hair. Now . . . I'm sure."

  Outside my bank on Dronningens Gade, that was where I'd seen him before. We'd almost collided on the sidewalk when I walked out.

  I said, "I've never heard of anybody named Jordan Wise."

  "You're not from San Francisco, either, I suppose?"

  "That's right, I'm not."

  "I used to live in Frisco myself," Cutter said. "Worked for an insurance company in the same building as Amthor Associates. I saw you a few times in the elevators, the lobby, remembered you when the story broke in the papers. Everybody figured you disappeared into Mexico, but no, you came down here instead. Real clever, the way you pulled off the whole deal."

  Crazy coincidence. The y factor. Three years, all the traveling in the Caribbean, to New York, Paris, Monte Carlo, London, and recognition happens right here in Charlotte Amalie.

  "I've never even been to San Francisco," I said. "I'm from Chicago."

  "Uh-huh. Retired tool-and-die manufacturer, made a killing in the stock market, sold your business and showed up here three years ago. Out of the same blue Jordan Wise disappeared into."

  "If you know all that about me . . ."

  "I know that's your cover story. I made it my business to find out."

  "You want me to prove I'm Richard Laidlaw? My passport says so. So does my driver's license."

  "Sure they do," Cutter said. "The way you had the embezzlement and the disappearance planned out so smooth, you had to've arranged for some pretty good false ID."

  He was leaning forward, his voice low, confidential, but I couldn't: stop myself from glancing around at the other tables. Nobody was paying any attention to us. He didn't want to be overheard any more than I did.

  "Pretty good," he said, "but not perfect. Wouldn't stand up to a background check. And then there's fingerprints. The FBI must have yours on file."

  "If you're so sure of yourself, why come to me? Why not just go to the FBI and turn me in?"

  "Well, I'll tell you, Jordan, I thought about doing that. Might be a reward or something, even after four years. But then I thought, no, why not give you a break? I admire the way you pulled off that big score of yours. Real clever, like I said."

  "Blackmail."

  "I don't like that word. Call it a business deal. You thought I was a salesman when I first sat down, okay, that's what I am. I sell silence and you're in the market. I'm happy, Richard Laidlaw stays free and happy, too. Simple."

  "How much, Cutter?"

  "Well, I don't know yet. I'm not sure just what to charge."

  "How much?"

  "I mean, what I have to offer is a one-of-a-kind commodity, right? I don't want to sell it too cheap. Then again, I don't want to set a price so high it puts a strain on the deal."

  "I'm not as well off as you might think," I said. "I've already spent a lot of what I came here with."

  "Not all that much, you haven't. I told you, I did some checking up. You'd be surprised how much you can find out about somebody in twenty-four hours, if you see the right people and ask the right questions."

  "All right. You've made your point."

  "Tell you what," Cutter said. "I'll give it some thought and let you know. You going to be around that boat of yours the rest of the day?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe I'll drop by later. Or else give you a call at home tonight."

  "I'll be there after six."

  "Good man." He pushed his chair back, then leaned toward me again. "One thing, Jordan—"

  "Don't call me that. That's not my name."

  "Sure. One thing, Richard. Don't go getting any ideas about trying to run. You wouldn't get very far."

  "I won't run."

  "Just so we understand each other. If you're not on the boat when I come around, or not home when I call, I won't waste any time having a talk with the FBI."

  He stood up. "Well, it's been a pleasure. Later." The lopsided grin again, and he was gone.

  He didn't show up at the yawl. I didn't expect him to. Old psychological ploy: once you've got somebody on the hook, let him squirm for a while—make sure he's good and cought.

  I squirmed plenty at first. Panic kept rising and I had to struggle to hold it down. Once I thought, To hell with Cutter, to hell with the FBI, go straight downtown and clean out the bank account and catch the first plane out of St. Thomas, no matter what its destination. Or sail the yawl to Puerto Rico and charter a small plane or catch a commercial flight before the alarm went out. But without a careful plan and enough time to implement it, running was a fool's game. They'd catch me quick, and that kind of cought meant federal prison until I was too old to care anymore. Even if I'd had time to make a plan, where would I go and how would I establish a new identity? St. Thomas was the only place I wanted to be. Richard Laidlaw was the only man I wanted to be.

  Eventually I stopped squirming. Bitter resignation set in. Pay Cutter his blood money, whatever the amount, and hope he wouldn't come back too often. What else could I do?

  He didn't call that nig
ht either. I drank too much, waiting, but there was no more inclination to panic. He'd call in the morning, early—I knew that before I went to bed. The bastard was too eager for his payoff to let me squirm for long.

  The phone rang at seven fifteen. I'd been up two hours by then. "I thought it over," he said, "and five thousand seems like a nice round number. What do you think?"

  "I can afford that," I said.

  "Sure you can. Cash, nothing larger than a hundred."

  "When and where?"

  "How about I come up to your house tonight around eight o'clock? That way we can do our business in private."

  "I'll have the money waiting."

  "Good man. You know, I think we'll get along just fine."

  Five thousand dollars. Not nearly as much of a bite as I'd expected. He'd want more later—blackmailers never stop bleeding their victims—but if he limited the amounts to five thousand and spread them far enough apart, it would be a tolerable price to pay to keep my freedom.

  It was almost eight thirty before the doorbell rang. Muggy night, overcast, storm clouds making up on the horizon; the barometer had been falling steadily since mid-afternoon. A salt-laden northwest wind was already blowing at around twenty knots. I had the doors and jalousies open and all the fans running, but the house still sweltered with a sauna-like stickiness.

  Cutter wasn't late on purpose, it turned out. His face had a dark-red flush, and he was breathing heavily and wiping away a coating of sweat, when I opened the door. The yellow shirt he wore over white ducks showed dark stains under the arms and down the front.

  "Whew," he said, "that's some goddamn climb. That last set of steps almost did me in."

  "You walked up here?"

  "No point in renting a car. I won't be on this island much longer and I'd probably have gotten lost anyway. But I'd've grabbed a hack if I'd known what a ballbuster of a hike it was."

  I led him into the living room. He stood fanning himself with his hand, looking around. "No air conditioning?"

  "No. Just the ceiling fans."

  "How the hell do you stand the humidity? It's like a fucking oven in here."

  "You get used to it."

  "Not me, brother. All those clouds piling up, smells like rain."

  "Storm forecast for tonight."

  "Well, I'm not hoofing it down those steps in the rain. You can drive me back to my hotel." He went to the open terrace doors, stepped out briefly as if to make sure there was nobody lurking around out there, and came back inside. "I could use a cold beer," he said.

  "I don't have any beer."

  "A drink, then. Gin and tonic, vodka tonic, something cold."

  "Only liquor I have in the house is rum."

  "Rum. All right then, rum. What've have you got to mix it with? Tonic, juice?"

  "Water and ice, that's all."

  "Christ. You're some host, you know that?"

  At the sideboard I poured twice from the cut-glass decanter of Arundel, added ice cubes to my glass, ice and water to his. He took a long pull, made a face.

  "I don't know what you see in this stuff," he said. "Tastes like cough medicine to me."

  "Don't drink it if you don't like it."

  "Let's get down to business. Where's the money?"

  "Manila envelope on the coffee table."

  He moved over there, scooped it up, sat down with it in one of the rattan chairs. I followed him, perched on the sofa, and watched him open the envelope, dump the rubber-banded packets onto his lap, riffle through each one. Then he let me see his crooked grin.

  "Five thousand on the nose, all fifties and hundreds. I figured you'd come through, but I had to be sure. Good man, Jordan."

  "I asked you not to call me that."

  "Yeah, okay, whatever." Cutter put the money back into the envelope, slugged more of his drink and then rolled the wet glass across his forehead. He was still oozing sweat, his face still red-flushed with prickly heat; the wet spots on his yellow shirt hadn't dried any. "How the hell can you stand this climate? Even at night, you can hardly breathe."

  "It isn't always this muggy."

  "Well, you can have it. Closing in on winter up north, but I'd rather freeze my ass off than suffocate any day."

  "Where do you live, up north?"

  "Uh-uh," he said, "you don't need to know that. All you need to know is what I tell you. Now here's the deal, Jordan. Tomorrow—"

  "Richard. My name is Richard."

  "Jordan, Richard, who the hell cares?"

  "I care," I said.

  "Just shut up and listen. I wasn't going to spring this on you for another day or two, but I've had enough of this shithole. I'm leaving as soon as I can rebook my flight. And when I go, I'm taking the second installment with me."

  I tightened up inside. "What do you mean, second installment?"

  "You think all I wanted was a paltry five thousand? Uh-uh. This was just a test."

  "How much more?"

  "Another twenty-five."

  "Twenty-five thousand!"

  "Nonnegotiable and no arguments. Then I'll go away and you can stay here and keep on drying out like old shoe leather."

  "Until the next time, the next installment."

  "Don't worry about that," Cutter said. "You just go back to your bank tomorrow and draw out the twenty-five thousand and have it waiting for me here when I call you. Fifties and hundreds, same as the first installment."

  "I don't have that much in my account."

  "Then get it from the one in the Cayman Islands. A wire transfer doesn't take long."

  " . . . How did you know about the Cayman account?"

  "How do you think? Same way I found out everything else about you."

  "Not by asking around, you didn't," I said. "Nobody on this island knows about that account but me and my bank, and they wouldn't give out the information."

  "Well, somebody else knows."

  I got it then. All at once, like a rocket going off inside my head. Crazy coincidence, hell. Y factor, hell. Yplus x equals xy squared—that was the real equation here. My hands had started to shake. I pressed them together, hard, between my knees.

  "Annalise," I said.

  His face bunched into a scowl. "Who?"

  "Blue eyes. Jesus, I should've known. She always was partial to men with blue eyes."

  "Huh?"

  "She told you. That's how you knew about the Cayman account. About Jordan Wise. About the steps from downtown, too—you couldn't have figured out the way up here just from looking at a city map, or been able to find this house in the dark. You're not from San Francisco, you never laid eyes on me before that bump in front of the bank. She told you where to find me, told you everything. You're in this together, you and Annalise."

  He didn't try to deny it. "Oh, what the hell," he said. "She didn't want you to know, but you figured it out anyway and I don't give a shit. That's right, me and Annalise."

  "How long have you known her?" I could barely get the words out.

  "Three months, if it matters."

  "Living together?"

  "Uh-uh. I had enough of that."

  "What about her?"

  "What do you care?"

  "Where does she live? New York City?"

  "Never mind where. None of your business anymore." The grin was back on his mouth. Now that the truth was out, he was openly enjoying himself. "She's some piece," he said.

  "Some piece."

  "You were lucky to hang on to her as long as you did, you know that? Woman like her." The grin widened into a smirk. "Really something in bed, isn't she? Man, she could suck the varnish off a table leg."