I found easy parking within a hundred yards of the Black Cassette.
‘I’ll take a look, Bill,’ I said, and slid out of the car.
Leaving him, I walked past the club, hearing jazz. There was a side alley that I guessed led to the back of the club. Moving silently, I went down the alley and peered into a rear window of the club. It was a window which would offer no resistance. I saw a couple of blacks wandering around. The room looked like a makeshift kitchen.
One of the blacks was taking off his dirty apron as if preparing to go home. The other sat on a table, munching a hot dog.
I ducked away, then moved silently back to the car. I joined Bill.
‘There’s a rear window. No problem,’ I said.
We sat in silence and waited. By now the waterfront was quite deserted. Rain fell steadily. The only lights showing came from the Black Cassette.
As the hands of my watch crawled to 02.30, some of the lights in the club went out. There was a babble of voices, then some thirty-odd blacks, men and women, came out onto the sidewalk. They were all chattering like magpies. After a minute or so the group broke up.
There was a lot of shouting and waving, and they dispersed down the various alleys.
Then four big black men, who I guessed were the staff, came out and hurried to a car parked not far from where we were parked.
They scrambled in and drove away.
Just after 03.00, Hank Smedley appeared.
There was no mistaking his giant, ape-like figure. He and a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a white jacket paused for a moment while Hank locked the door of the club. Then they walked rapidly to Hank’s Olds, got in and drove away.
‘Who’s the guy wearing the hat?’ Bill asked. ‘He’s white.’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ I said. ‘Come on, Bill, we have a job to do.’
We left the car. Bill had taken a short jemmy from the duffel bag. I carried the bomb.
It took Bill less than a minute to open the window into the smelly kitchen. I had brought a powerful flashlight with me. I switched it on, then motioned Bill to give me the bomb. ‘I’ll fix this. You go and fix the K.K.K. notice on the door.’
I found my way into the big room where the blacks danced. I put the bomb on the bar counter. Then, gun in hand, I checked the whole place to be sure no one was sleeping there—no one was.
Satisfied, I returned to the bar and pushed the switch on the bomb to the right. Then I returned fast to the kitchen, climbed through the window and joined Bill in the car.
‘Think we are far enough away?’ Bill asked, an anxious note in his voice.
‘I want to see it,’ I said, gripping the steering wheel, my eyes on the club, thinking this was the first step towards avenging Suzy, and I felt good.
The hands of the car’s dashboard clock crawled on. Ten minutes passed.
Bill moved uneasily.
‘It could be a goddamn dud!’ he muttered as the hands of the clock reached fifteen minutes past.
‘Quiet! Wait!’ I snapped.
I had scarcely stopped speaking when the bomb exploded. The noise and the blast rocked us and rocked the car.
The front windows of the club flew onto the waterfront. There was a tearing sound as the club’s roof collapsed. I saw the front door sagging, holding the K.K.K. notice. There was more noise: more sound of the club falling apart.
This was good enough for me. I started the car’s motor and drove off the waterfront before the cops and firemen arrived.
I had done what I wanted to do. The Black Cassette was permanently out of business. The realisation of this was like a great weight lifted off my back.
‘Some bomb,’ Bill said. ‘Now what?’
‘You know where Hank lives?’
‘Sure.’
‘So we go there and wreck his car.’
He directed me to Seagrove Road.
‘That’s his pad. On the right.’
I parked, then both of us, armed with short-handled club hammers, walked down to the underground garage.
It took us less than ten minutes to reduce Hank’s car to scrap. While I smashed the windows and windscreen, Bill fixed the engine.
There was noise, but at 04.15, who paid attention to noise? We stabbed the tyres, then using my felt pencil I wrote on the only undented door panel: K.K.K.
Then we retreated to my car.
‘Satisfied?’ Bill asked as I started the motor.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll sleep. Thanks Bill.’
I headed back to my apartment.
For the first time since Suzy died, I slept dreamlessly. By the time I got out of bed, shaved, showered and dressed, it was 11.15.
Bill had a brunch ready, and while we ate he regarded me searchingly.
‘I think you are over the hump, Dirk,’ he said, cutting into his third egg.
‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘Hank drove the car, but I’ve got to find the acid sprayer. I’ve got to fix him too.’
‘So, OK, we’ll fix him,’ Bill said. ‘We’ll ask around.’
After the meal I drove with Bill to the waterfront. Parking was tight, but finally I found a slot, then together we walked by the junk stalls, the fishing trawlers and finally reached what remained of the Black Cassette.
There was a crowd of tourists, gaping. They were held back by the two waterfront cops. I spotted Detective Tom Lepski talking to a fireman.
‘ Stay here,’ I said to Bill, and shoved my way through the crowd.
One of the waterfront cops started towards me.
‘Hi, Tom!’ I called, then as Lepski waved to me the cop pulled back. I joined Lepski.
‘Take a look,’ he said, waving to the broken entrance of the club. ‘Something for the record.’
I had a hard time to conceal my satisfaction as I peered through the sagging doorway. The bomb had done a great job.
‘Looks like a bomb,’ I said.
‘Damn right. Something that’s never happened in this city. The mayor is laying eggs.’ Lepski grinned. ‘It was time someone fixed this club. Well, whoever it was, certainly fixed it.’
‘I guess that’s right,’ I said, aware Lepski was regarding me thoughtfully.
‘Yeah. There’s a Ku-Klux-Klan notice on the door, but that doesn’t wash with me nor anyone else. Someone who hated Smedley did the job,’ Lepski said.
I nodded.
‘You may be right, Tom. Have you seen Smedley?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Lepski shrugged. ‘I’ve got no time for that spade. Someone smashed up his car. We reckon it’s the same guy who let off the bomb. Smedley is out of his mind, yelling for us to find the guy.’ He shrugged. ‘OK, it’s our job to look around, but we’re not going to sweat. Smedley had it coming.’ Again the hard cop stare. ‘I hear you have quit the agency, Dirk.’
‘That’s right. Suzy’s death has taken the stuffing out of me. Maybe, I’ll return to the agency in time. How are your investigations getting on about Suzy, Tom?’
‘We’re still digging. We’ve found another witness, and from her, we have a description of the guy who used the acid: not much of a description, but maybe it’ll help. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a white jacket and a broad-brimmed hat. We are looking for someone to match that description.’
My face expressionless, I nodded.
I remembered the man who had come out with Hank from the club, wearing a white jacket and a broad-brimmed hat. They had gone off together.
Lepski was still regarding me.
‘Look, Dirk, Hank’s been fixed. We don’t want any more trouble. This is a very sensitive zone. The news is being broadcast that a bomb has gone off. Bombs scare the rich to hell. Already hotels are getting cancellations for next month. We don’t want any more bombs. You read me, Dirk?’
‘Why tell me, Tom? You’d better tell the bomber if he will listen.’
Lepski shrugged.
‘Play it your way,’ he said, ‘but I’m telling you if another bomb goes off, we’ll
throw the book at the bomber. He’ll go away for fifteen years.’
‘You tell him that,’ I said. ‘Well, be seeing you, Tom,’ and I moved back into the crowd.
I signalled to Bill to stay where he was, then walked along the waterfront to the Neptune Tavern. I found Al Barney, sitting on his bollard, talking to two young, goggle-eyed tourists. I waited. Finally they took photographs of him, and the man produced a ten-dollar bill. Al snapped it up, waved to them as they walked away.
‘Tourist trade prospering, Al?’ I said as I came up to him.
‘Ah, Mr. Wallace. Well, it comes and it goes.’
He put the bill in his dirty sweatshirt pocket.
‘Next month will be the time.’ He regarded me with his small shark-like eyes. ‘Some bomb,’ he went on. ‘That puts paid to Smedley.’
‘Al, do you know anything about a broad-shouldered man who wears a white jacket and a wide-brimmed hat?’
Barney grimaced.
‘Hula Minsky,’ he said. ‘Keep clear of him, Mr. Wallace.’
‘Who is he?’
Barney looked furtively around then, lowering his voice, said, ‘One of Walinski’s thugs. Poison.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘You don’t want to find him, Mr. Wallace. Like I said—poison.’
‘Where do I find him, Al?’ I repeated.
‘When he’s here, he shacks up with Hank Smedley. He comes down here before the first of the month to collect the payoffs.’
‘Thanks, Al,’ I said, and giving him a pat on his fat shoulder, I walked back to where Bill was waiting.
‘The cops are pretty sure I let off the bomb,’ I concluded after telling him what I had been doing. ‘Lepski gave me a straight warning, but they have no proof.’
Bill shrugged.
‘The cops always have theories.’ He slid into the passenger’s seat. ‘Hula Minsky—some name. What are you going to do with him?’
‘Bust him. I’m going to bust him so hard, he’ll go around in a wheelchair for life.’ I started the car motor.
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Around seven, we’ll stake out Hank’s apartment and wait.’
‘That could be tough.’
‘So, OK, it’ll be tough.’
‘You handle Minsky. I’ll handle Hank,’ Bill said. ‘I’m thirsting to hit that black.’
‘That’s the idea, Bill.’
Back in my apartment, Bill moved around the living room restlessly while I lit a cigarette and brooded.
The telephone bell rang. I reached and picked up the receiver.
‘Mr. Wallace?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Correct. Who is this?’
‘I am Mr. Walinski’s secretary,’ the voice told me: a hard, metallic voice of a woman who could be of any age. ‘Mr. Walinski would like to talk to you. Will you come to the Spanish Bay Hotel at five o’clock. I will be waiting for you in the lobby and will take you to Mr. Walinski’s suite.’
The phone clicked off before I could say a word. I put down the receiver and told Bill.
Bill whistled softly. We both knew that the Spanish Bay Hotel was the best, most expensive and most exclusive hotel on the east coast.
‘Does himself well. Are you going?’
‘I’m going,’ I said.
At a few minutes to five o’clock, I walked into the ornate lobby of the Spanish Bay Hotel.
There was the usual scene: old residents sitting, drinking tea and yakking. This was a place for only the rich. Two waiters moved around, pushing trolleys loaded with cream buns and fancy cakes. They were not short of customers.
She was waiting by the reception desk: tall, raven-black hair, green eyes: not a beauty, but so sensual, her vibes seemed to flick out of her like sparks. She was in white: a short coat and a beautifully tailored skirt. She looked a million dollars.
She lifted a hand with long, slender fingers and came towards me.
‘Mr. Wallace? I am Sandra. My other name doesn’t matter. I’m always known as Sandra.’
‘Hi, Sandra,’ I said, looking at her body. She had everything a man could desire. Big breasts, tiny waist, solid buttocks and long legs.
‘What’s all this about?’
‘Mr. Walinski wants to talk to you. Be careful with him, Mr. Wallace.’ She regarded me thoughtfully. ‘He’s not what he appears,’ then, turning, she led the way to the bank of elevators. We rode up to the sixth floor and walked down a long passage, then she paused at a door, inserted a key, then paused to look at me.
‘Be careful,’ she murmured, and opening the door, she stood aside and waved me into a big room with a vast terrace. It was all very deluxe.
I walked in.
‘Mr. Walinski, Mr. Wallace is here,’ Sandra said, raising her voice. ‘He’s on the terrace,’ she said to me.
So I walked across the big room and out onto the terrace that overlooked the beach, the palm trees, the bathers and the sea.
Joe Walinski was standing by the balcony rail. He turned and came towards me.
I was surprised. I was expecting to see a big, threatening thug of a man. Knowing that Walinski was a mafioso, knowing he was a blackmailer, I was thrown off balance by his appearance.
Smiling, was a short, thickset man who could be any one of the many big shot businessmen one sees down here on vacation. He was slightly overweight, balding, sun-tanned, immaculately dressed in a lightweight pale blue suit, a silk cream-coloured shirt, and some kind of club tie, his feet in Gucci slipons.
His round well-fed face was equipped with a short nose, a wide, almost lipless mouth and blue-grey eyes, set wide apart. He had a big dimple in his jutting chin. He oozed wealth and good humour.
‘Good of you to come, Mr. Wallace,’ he said, offering his hand.
I hesitated, then shook hands. He had a firm but not aggressive grip.
‘Let’s sit down. It looks as if we’re going to have more rain. This is the rainy season.’ He led the way to a table and chairs, covered with an awning, and waved me to one of the chairs.
We sat down, and I was aware he was sizing me up. Those blue-grey eyes were searching: eyes that never missed a thing.
‘Coffee, perhaps?’ he said. ‘It is a little early for a drink.’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
‘Perhaps tea?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’
He lifted his heavy shoulders.
‘Well then, let us talk. I am busy. You are busy. We mustn’t waste each other’s time.’
I waited.
He crossed one short leg over the other.
‘I want to tell you how sincerely sorry I am about Miss Suzy Long. I want you to believe that this devilish job was done without my knowledge. This was done by a man who happens to work for me. He was a mindless creature who would do anything for money. When I questioned him, he confessed he had received five thousand dollars to do this devilish job. He told me he had got the money from Hank Smedley who was acting for someone else. He didn’t know who. Under pressure, he said it was a private vendetta.’
I was listening. My mind switched back to the scene in the bank when Angela Thorsen had hissed at me: I will make you sorry for this! God! You will be sorry!’ I saw again her frustrated expression. Was it she who had given Hank five thousand dollars to ruin Suzy’s face?
‘Mr. Wallace, you have settled accounts with Smedley. I have settled accounts with my man.’
Walinski paused and those grey-blue eyes suddenly became steel-blue eyes. ‘He is a thing of the past. I have an organisation that takes care of people like him: no fuss: finish. As for Smedley, I no longer employ him. If it will make you feel better, he too, can be a thing of the past. Would that please you?’
‘You mean you turn your thumb down and Hank will be dead?’ I said.
‘That’s crudely put, Mr. Wallace, but not to waste time, just tell me.’
‘Let him live.’
‘You have a forgiving nature, Mr. Wallace. If someone had done to my girl wha
t those two did to yours, I wouldn’t be forgiving.’
‘Let him live,’ I said. ‘I will make his life a misery.’
He nodded.
‘I am sure you will.’
Sandra came out with a tray of coffee things, set the tray on the table, poured two cups of black coffee and then went away.
She was so electrifyingly sensual, I had to make a considerable effort not to turn in my chair and watch her cross the terrace.
I became aware Walinski was watching me.
‘She’s a useful girl,’ he said with his good-humoured smile. ‘Her father once worked for me. When he died, I took her on as my secretary. She is quite indispensable now.’
I said nothing.
He sipped his coffee. I didn’t touch mine.
‘Well now, Mr. Wallace, let us conclude this meeting,’ he said. ‘I hope you are satisfied. I want you to be satisfied. My man is no more. I leave Smedley’s future in your hands. Now, Mr. Wallace, I realise that by destroying Smedley’s club you took a quick revenge. However, when a bomb goes off in this tranquil city, it causes a ripple of fear among the rich who come here. I don’t want any more bombs. My business is with the rich. If they think there will be more bombs, they will go elsewhere, and that’s bad for my business. You are an intelligent man. You will understand what I am saying, but at the same time, you could be tempted to start more trouble. I ask you not to do that.’ He smiled. I was beginning to hate his wide, good-humoured smile. To me, it was like a rattlesnake smiling. ‘As you probably know, I am part of a vast organisation which operates in every country in the world.’
He finished his coffee and set down his cup.
‘So I advise you not to cause any more trouble in this city. But if you do, you will regret the impulse. Is that understood?’
I got to my feet.
‘I hear you, Mr. Walinski,’ and turning, I walked across the terrace and into the big living room.
Sandra was waiting and moved to the door.
She paused, her hand on the door handle and we looked at each other. No woman I had ever seen compared to her. She wasn’t a woman I could love as I had loved Suzy. She was apart from all other women I had known. Those green eyes were compelling: dangerous, fascinating eyes. Then there was her sensuality, her body, and the complete, cold confidence so few women have.
1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts Page 10