by Nick Spill
Clovis tried the number again, at his apartment. A young woman answered with a heavy Texan drawl.
“This is UPS here, ma’am. And we have a delivery for a Ms. Plum Blossom. It’s been returned from her address, could you tell me the exact street and number, please?” Clovis spoke from the back of his throat in his best South Bronx accent.
The woman gave him an address in the West Village. Clovis thanked her and hung up. That trick would never have worked on a New Yorker.
In thirty minutes, Clovis had set himself up outside the apartment building. He was wrapped in his overcoat with his fingers exposed to the below zero degree cold and his violin tucked under his chin. Please don’t let the cold temperature snap my strings, he said to himself. He launched into a Hungarian Czarda, trying to warm up his body with a quick foot stomping tune and fast bowing. It was so cold, no one was on Charles Street, and if they were, they would think Clovis insane, madder than the usual New York variety.
How many times did he play that fiery dance? It was dark when he spotted Plum Blossom walk around the corner. She was wearing jeans under a sheepskin-lined coat and had her pageboy haircut exposed to the elements. Clovis kept playing. Five steps from him she stopped, her mouth wide open.
“Clovis Tibet! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed.
He stopped and smiled, his violin in one hand, his bow in the other. “Don’t I get a hug? At least.” Her smile, her accent, the way she clipped her “t’s” and stuck one hand on her hip (that was hidden under her thick coat), were too much for Clovis. He ran up to her and passionately embraced her, almost breaking the bridge of his violin in the process.
She invited him up to her apartment. Her new roommate was at her waitress job, Plum explained, as she double-locked the front door. Any inhibitions they had about each other melted, once they had taken off their coats. The passionate embrace Clovis gave Plum was returned with equal ardor as she wrapped her legs around Clovis’s back and clasped her hands behind his neck. He could feel himself become erect instantly as Plum ground her hips into him. She steered him into her tiny bedroom.
Very quickly, they undressed and fell into bed with the covers thrown off. He noted immediately, with added pleasure, that she was so tight inside and so horny on the outside, that she had to have been celibate in New York. He could feel it. There was no other explanation. No matter what he had told her six months ago; the ultimatum that she had to stop working at the Flamingo Paradise as a masseur, that she had to get a decent job to support her acting classes, all those bad emotions melted away in her bed. Clovis realized how much he cared for her.
After they had made love twice and had slept for an hour, Plum nestled in Clovis’s arms and they talked about what they had done in New York. Clovis informed her about Juilliard and his street busking, and Plum was candid about her part-time work doing fantasy recordings.
Clovis tried to convince her that what she was doing there, cutting X-rated phone tapes to pay for her exorbitant rent and food, pouring over Backstage and waiting on line every day for the countless auditions she would never be called back for. Well, this was not the way to progress as an actress. She could learn her craft, perform more roles, maybe even form her own fringe theatre group, back in Auckland, where she had the freedom to lead a decent life.
Clovis was very persuasive. Or perhaps she was blindly in love with him like she had never been before. She had to come to New York to see another way of life before realizing what Clovis wanted and what he stood for. She told him this in her own physical way.
Clovis booked two seats back. He had had enough of the bitter cold. He had learned something about life and music and reassured Plum that Auckland would be safe and full of promise.
• • •
Inspector Grimble had parked his car opposite the Wilsons’ Parnell address shortly after nine o’clock. The car was between streetlights, and there was no moon tonight. Grimble was prepared to wait until midnight, but he was not going to tell his assistant. Cadd would keep checking his watch. When you were on a stakeout you never looked at your watch unless you were writing a report. It made the time go even slower. Cadd kept quiet, much to Grimble’s relief. He did not need a comic foil. He wanted to mull over everything he knew so far about the Wilsons, which was precious little.
Grimble caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to make out the large form of Hone Wilson amble up the street. Hone disappeared down another driveway. He reappeared a few minutes later with another shorter Maori. They got into a Morris Minor that backfired as it slowly crawled up the hill.
The inspector followed them at a distance in his Honda.
“Don’t exactly go for Ferraris, do they?” Cadd said.
Grimble stopped at the top of Parnell Road. He turned off his lights as the car ahead pulled up to a phone booth. The two policemen slid down in their seats as Hone got out of the Morris.
“Why make a call there? We’re not tapping them now, are we?”
“Be quiet and watch. You might learn something,” the inspector whispered, as he watched Hone Wilson in the phone box. There was enough street light for Grimble to see Hone feed some coins into the phone box, hit it with his fist then hang up. Grimble thought he saw Hone raise his hand above his head, grab something and walk back to the Morris.
“Mmmm. Interesting,” Grimble muttered as he eased the Honda into first gear.
“Yeah. It was a signal. They’re meeting someone. Maybe we need backup?” the sergeant proclaimed. His superior kept a respectable distance from the slow Morris Minor.
Hei Hei stopped the car at the bottom of a narrow street full of parked cars.
Grimble pulled over at the top of the street with his lights off. He could barely see Hone walk back, casually turning his head. There was no one else out, not even a stray dog. Hone walked into the shadow of a dead streetlamp and stopped.
Grimble wound his window down and poked his head out to see Hone bend down and open a car door. He disappeared from Grimble’s vision.
“The Morrie’s gone.” Cadd’s voice sounded like a shout in the strained atmosphere of the car. Grimble looked at his watch, grunted and sat back. He waited for the car Hone had slipped into to move. But the car remained where it was. Cadd tried not to fidget and kept his eyes on the street. Grimble waited for something to happen and Cadd realized that if he asked what this was he would be yelled at.
“Damn!” Grimble sighed. “He should’ve pulled out by now. Walk down this side, past the car. If something is wrong, cross the street, don’t look back at me. If it’s okay just keep walking and I’ll pick you up around the corner. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
As the sergeant got out, they both saw someone as big as Hone step from a parked car and walk down the street. The man was about the same size as Hone, but it was impossible to identify the large figure in such dim light.
Cadd was almost level with the car when he saw a black Pontiac at the bottom of the street. It slowed to pick up the unidentified man. Then it disappeared from his view. Cadd crossed the road opposite the car where Hone had stopped and waved his arms frantically at Grimble who had already reached for his ignition.
Grimble roared down Summer Street in second gear and skidded to a halt next to the Lincoln. Cadd stared through the side window. Grimble stood next to him and peered into the car. Hone lay flat on his back across the front seat, his eyes wide open and his tongue hanging out to one side, like a grotesque Maori carving.
“I couldn’t see the other joker clearly. He was big, like a Maori.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t know.”
• • •
Hei Hei drove straight home as Hone had instructed him. But he did make one quick call; to a number he had for John Eustace, at the corner of John Street and Ponsonby Road. A man with a high voice answered the phone and took the message. Hei Hei told the voice that he had dropped off Hone Wilson who had been carrying a set of keys to a black
Lincoln.
“Good work. Go home now and make sure no one follows you. We’ll look after you for this,” the voice had instructed Hei Hei.
• • •
When Grimble opened the car door, Hone’s head rolled back. There was a thin red line around his neck. He checked the body’s pulse. He tried to shut the bulging eyes. But the eyelids would not move nor would Hone’s jaw close. The tongue hung out of his mouth, dark purple and bloated.
“We’ll take him inside.” The inspector grabbed the corpse under the shoulders. Cadd caught the legs and they dragged the heavy body up to the house and through the front door that opened to Grimble’s kick.
“Did you get the number of the car?”
“The one that picked up the big guy?” Cadd asked. “No. Just saw it side on. Black Pontiac, late model, four door, with white rims. Why are we doing this?”
They propped the corpse against a wall in the living room.
“Whoever did it will panic when they find the body missing.” The inspector kept an eye on the street from the window, as he answered Cadd. “If it’s another Maori, they’ll go hysterical. They’re suspicious about these things. Keep a lookout here, will you. Call me if you see anything. Don’t stand too close to the window.” The inspector left the room to search the house.
Cadd could not take his eyes off the corpse. Two big brown eyes stared at him. He tried to move the head with his foot, but the eyes kept their deadly stare on him. Poor sod, he muttered to himself, as he watched a young Samoan girl dressed only in a wraparound on her lighted porch eat a piece of watermelon. She was unaware of Cadd’s eyes on her voluptuous dark body.
There was no furniture in the front bedroom. Grimble found a suitcase on either side of the mattress on the floor. He opened the suitcases and found two passports. One belonged to a Mr. Clovis Tibet, the other to a Miss Plum Blossom. He stared at the two photographs. He was going to look through the rest of the house before going outside and securing the Lincoln when he heard Cadd.
“The car!”
They almost knocked each other over in the corridor as they rushed to the front door to see the Lincoln sail down Summer Street and disappear around the corner. They ran across to the Honda and jumped in. An old Holden station wagon, full of large Samoan men who had been drinking all night, was double-parked adjacent to them, blocking them in. Grimble honked his horn as Cadd yelled at them. But the partygoers ignored the two Pakehas. Grimble threw the car into reverse and backed out of the spot.
He steered as fast as he could, screaming in reverse, back up Summer Street and narrowly missed several cars and a van that swerved into a driveway to avoid the insane Honda driver.
The sergeant held onto his seat as Grimble swung the car around at the top of the street and gunned it down Ponsonby Road.
Grimble cursed himself for not having the sergeant outside in a car with a radio. Why didn’t they have radios? Because the Wilson case was unofficial. It was a silent operation and he was working on his own, on the commissioner’s orders. If the inspector produced results, no one would question him. That was Grimble’s style. Arrests, convictions, results, by any means. If the bad guys played dirty, why shouldn’t he? If he had had two additional cars with radio contact he would have caught everyone involved, it would have been simple. It would have been over but for the paperwork. But neither he nor the commissioner had expected this sort of thing to happen. It was too late now.
“Keep a lookout. They should be coming this way.” The Honda swerved to the right to narrowly miss a scooter making a left turn. He calculated he had less than twenty seconds to get to the other side of John Street that ran into Jervois Road. He should then be able to meet up with the black Lincoln. When they reached the corner there was no sign of the big American car. There was no traffic at this time of night. The inspector continued to race down Jervois Road, but it was hopeless. The car had slid down one of the myriad little streets in Ponsonby.
“Tell me you got the plate?” Grimble asked. Cadd nodded.
He pulled over to a phone box and told the sergeant to call in the license plate.
Grimble sat in his car, trying to make sense of the dead Maori, two getaway cars and two passports fresh from short stays in the United States. He felt disgusted with himself. He thought he could outmaneuver anyone.
• • •
Clovis heard someone on the back porch as he walked into the kitchen. He tiptoed to the back door and quietly opened it. He was hit by the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
“Nice out, isn’t it?” Wiremu spoke softly.
“Yes. Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” Wiremu was sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench facing the dark outline of a grapefruit tree. Wiremu could see the Southern Cross and Mars.
“It’s a beautiful night.”
The houses on either side cut out the glare of the streetlights. Beyond the garden was the black mass of Mount Eden.
“Up in Hokianga, I spend a lot of time up on a hill, the whole night. It’s special. You know?” Wiremu turned to face Clovis. He could feel Clovis’s anxiety.
Wiremu wore a khaki shirt Clovis had lent him.
“If anything happened to Plum, I don’t know what I would do.”
“Don’t worry, Clovis. Tomorrow we’ll go back, clean the place up and get you another home. They’ll never find you again.”
“Did they really wreck the place?”
“Not much really. Just looking for stuff. It could’ve been a robbery. Like Mel said.”
“She was trying to placate Plum.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I think it had to be Terry the Turk.”
“Is he after you or Plum?” Clovis asked.
“He wasn’t after me last week. So why this week? He seems to be after Plum.”
“Who is he then? And why would he want Plum?”
Wiremu sighed and stretched out his legs. He stared into Clovis’s eyes. Clovis was unsettled. Wiremu’s eyes did not lend themselves to any sustained investigation.
“Clovis, you have to tell me everything about Plum and Terry the Turk. Begin at the beginning.”
Clovis first met Plum when she was nineteen. They shared a house with some friends in Parnell. Plum was attending University, studying drama. Clovis was finishing his Masters in Violin at the Conservatory.
Once Plum graduated, she could not, Clovis explained, find any work. So she answered an ad in the paper for a masseuse. She had always given great massages to Clovis. She began working at the Pink Flamingo on Newmarket Road. The interior was converted to resemble a Finnish sauna. Plum was a bona fide masseuse. Clovis did not realize what she was doing for several weeks, until he visited the place. Clovis wanted her to leave. She insisted on staying. It was good money. Better than picking lettuces with her cousins in Pukekohe or being a girl Friday in an office downtown. Those jobs paid less and were far more degrading. At least in this job she could earn decent money and did not have to take her clothes off.
Clovis was not impressed. He gave Plum an ultimatum. Leave the masseuse’s job or he would leave her. She called his bluff. She stayed. Clovis, heartbroken, flew to New York to see if he could apply for a post-graduate course at the Juilliard School of Music. He was turned down. He finished up playing on the streets and made, what was to him, a lot of money. He bumped into Plum when he was playing on a street in Manhattan. Just like that, Clovis told Wiremu. It was a small world. Plum told Clovis that Terry Turner, her boss, had fired her because she would not do what he wanted her to. He wanted her to do bad things. Clovis believed her.
They fell in love again and flew back to Auckland. They rented a house in Ponsonby and went to celebrate at the Jolly Rodger. Wiremu knew the rest.
Wiremu shook his head. There was more to it than what Clovis had said. He sighed and thought there was time enough to question Plum about this at a later date. Clovis could cling to his innocence. For what it was worth.
Wiremu then began his story about Terry the Turk
.
“His real name is Terry Turner, immigrated from London, the East End, back in the early sixties. He had a vegetable barrow, you know, sold veges. He married real young, his childhood sweetheart, and came out here. He tried to run a greengrocers in Auckland but found the Chinese and Indians controlled everything, so he sold his shop, although he did have some dealings with the Chinese.
“He set up Terry’s Burgers in Newmarket. Ran it himself with his wife and two helpers. He took the midnight shift. When no respectable citizens would be out. Let alone eating a greasy hamburger. The bikies got to know and love him. This was when the cops first got interested in him. He acts like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Which is true, because there were always lots of flies around the food. He’s tiny and going bald, with a squeaky cockney voice, though he had greasy long hair back then. He’d get anyone to do anything for him.
“The cops wanted Terry to squeal on the bikies; what he overheard, what they told him. Stuff like that. Be an informer. Bikies back then rode huge motorbikes with deep-throated engines like Triumph Thunderbirds and Bonnevilles and Norton Commanders. They wore their leather jackets with patches, had their own private code and kept to themselves. Just like the cops. That was why the cops took a fundamental hatred to them.”
“Oh come on, that’s a little farfetched,” Clovis interjected.
“Okay. Cops wash and shave. So Terry, being a man of principle, refused to cooperate. They kept on trying. Then they found this kid with a hot TV set and threatened to throw the book at him unless he set up Terry. The cops busted the bikies as they were stripping a house in Remuera one night, and the kid told them it was Terry. Terry was the informer. A week later BOOM! Terry’s Burgers was blown sky high. No more burgers. Almost no more Terry. It was his night off. A helper was killed. Terry just went back and rebuilt it.
“Years later Terry came across this kid in Parry. The poor sod got impaled on an iron pipe ripped out of a shower. They never found out who did it, but we knew it was Big John. Who was going to tell on him? We’ll come to him later. Well, Terry won the bikies over to his side again with his greasy burgers.
