1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘OK, Bill. Stick around. I think this could be the right moment to talk to Mrs. Smedley.’

  I left the car. It had stopped raining, so I took off my mac and threw it on the back seat of the car, then I walked to the front door of the cottage. I pressed the doorbell, then, finding the door unlocked, I entered the small lobby, then walked into the living room.

  Mrs. Smedley was sitting in a heap in an armchair. She looked up, stared at me, then nodded.

  ‘You! What do you want?’

  She didn’t look or sound hostile so I sat down in a chair near hers.

  ‘You have been told by Mrs. Thorsen to pack up and leave. Is that right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s right, and I’ll be glad to go. I have had enough of the Thorsens. I’m going back to my people. For the first time in twenty years, I feel free to do what I like.’

  ‘I am glad for you,’ I said in my most soothing voice.

  ‘Before you go, Mrs. Smedley, will you tell me about the Thorsens? I want to know why Angie was being blackmailed. Do you know?’

  She stared at me for a long time while she was thinking; then she shrugged her massive shoulders.

  ‘Yes,’ she finally said. ‘I guess I need to talk to someone before I leave. I want all this off my mind before I return to my people. I have four brothers and three sisters. They’ll all welcome me. I come from a big family. If it wasn’t for Miss Angie, I would have gone to them years ago. I nursed Miss Angie from the moment she was born. I knew she was a little crazy. I helped her a lot. I did everything for her, and she loved me for it. Her mother never did a thing for her. Miss Angie worshipped her brother. They got along fine together until he began to grow up, then I saw he was getting tired of her. She wouldn’t leave him alone. I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen. Then he started this piano playing. He would lock himself in the music room and she would sit outside, listening. She was mad about his playing. Then he and his father had a quarrel. Mr. Terry left home. He didn’t even say goodbye to Miss Angie. It was a terrible shock to her, and from then on, she became more and more crazy in the head. I had a bad time with her, but I did manage to control her. Then Mr. Thorsen died suddenly and left her all this money and this cottage. She moved into it at once. She hated her mother. She did nothing. She would sit in a chair all day, staring and muttering to herself. I guess I made a mistake. I should have told Mrs. Thorsen to get a doctor, but I disliked Mrs. Thorsen, and I hoped to pull Miss Angie out of this mood, so I kept trying to get her interested in the garden, to do something around the home, but she took no notice. This went on for a week and I was making up my mind to get help when a man arrived.’

  Mrs. Smedley paused to wipe away the sweat that was running down her face. ‘He didn’t ring the bell. He just walked in. I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He sat where you are sitting and took off his hat. He was completely hairless and had the face of a devil. I was just coming out, when I heard him say he knew where Terry was, so I waited and listened. Miss Angie completely changed. She became alive. “Where is he?” she demanded. This man told her her brother didn’t want anyone to know where he was. He was being a success with his piano playing. He told Miss Angie her brother sent her his love. Then the business. This devil of a man told her her brother was under his protection. “I don’t protect people for nothing,” he said, “I want you to go to the Black Cassette club on the first of every month with ten thousand dollars. As long as you continue to do that, your brother will be protected by me. If you don’t, someone will break your brother’s hands with a hammer, and he will never play again. You have the money. I have the protection”.’

  Mrs. Smedley paused again to wipe the sweat off her face. ‘This was ten months ago, Miss Angie said she would pay. This devil of a man told her where to find the Black Cassette. He said all she had to do was walk in with the money on the first of every month. She would find an old friend, waiting. The old friend was my no-good son. May he never have been born!’ She thumped her knees with her clenched fists. ‘I tried to talk to Miss Angie. She wouldn’t listen. I tried to warn her this man was a bluffer. I said it wasn’t likely he did know where Mr. Terry was. She wouldn’t listen. She kept screaming, “To break those wonderful hands with a hammer.” So every month, she went to the bank, got the money and gave it to my no-good son. Doing that seemed to give her more peace of mind. She wasn’t so difficult. There was nothing I could do about this, so I just looked after her.

  ‘Then, soon after, this hairless man came again. I listened from the kitchen. He said if Miss Angie gave him a hundred thousand dollars, he could fix it for her to meet her brother. Then you came, telling her you were looking for her brother because he had inherited a hundred thousand. You told her all he had to do was to go to the bank and they would pay him. Miss Angie wanted this money so she could see Mr. Terry again. Into her crazy mind came the idea of finding someone to impersonate Mr. Terry, get the money, and she would give it to this hairless man and finally see her brother. She went to Hank who found someone. You know what happened. She came back here in a terrible state. She behaved like a vicious, wild animal. She scared me. I shut myself in the kitchen. She kept screaming, “I’ll fix that sonofabitch. He must have a girlfriend. I’ll talk to Hank. I’ll fix him good.” Then she left in her car. I didn’t see her for three or four hours When she returned, she was much calmer. “I’ve fixed him,” she told me. I had no idea what she was talking about until I read in the paper about the acid attack.’ She shuddered ‘I’m sorry, but she’s not in her right mind.’

  I thought of Suzy: the acid, the pain, the truck smashing into her.

  ‘And Angie?’ I asked. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

  Mrs. Smedley lifted her vast shoulders in a gesture of despair.

  ‘She’s being put away in a nuthouse—they call it a mental clinic. I listened while the two doctors talked to Mrs. Thorsen. They said Miss Angie was beyond recovery. There was no hope for her. The only thing to do was to keep her under drugs and locked up. Mrs. Thorsen told them to go ahead. Miss Angie now might as well be dead.’

  There was nothing more I wanted to hear: nothing more I wanted to know. I got to my feet.

  ‘If there is anything I can do to help you, Mrs. Smedley, just tell me. I have a car outside. Can I drive you down to the city?’

  She stared at me, then shook her head.

  ‘I don’t need anyone’s help. Go away! I’m going back to my people.’

  I left the cottage, and stood for some minutes in the garden, feeling the humid heat and hearing the distant sound of the traffic.

  Hank was dead. Angie was locked away for life. Two down: one to go.

  Hula Minsky!

  I knew I would never rest until I had fixed that hairless ape. When that happened, this cold fury inside me for revenge might die. Suzy might become a wonderful memory. Stupid hopes? Could any revenge blot out Suzy’s last moments of life?

  I walked to where Bill was waiting.

  ‘We’ll go home and talk,’ I said.

  I got in my car. He got in his and we drove to my apartment.

  Bill made coffee while I gave him the complete picture about Angie and Terry and Minsky, but about Josh I had given my word, so I kept my mind and my mouth shut.

  ‘Well, there it is, Bill,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I see Sandra. All I’m interested in is to fix Minsky. I’m going to bed.’

  I stunned myself to sleep with three sleeping pills.

  It was while I was finishing a solid brunch breakfast that Bill had prepared that the telephone bell rang.

  The time was 11.15. Both of us had slept heavily. The sound of the bell made me wince.

  I picked up the receiver.

  ‘Dirk Wallace,’ I said.

  ‘This is Sam, Mr. Wallace, the Neptune Tavern. Mr. Barney wants to see you. He says it’s important.’

  ‘Where is he, Sam?’

  ‘He’s here, having his breakfast. He says he’ll wait.’

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p; ‘I’ll be along in twenty minutes. Thanks for calling, Sam,’ and I hung up.

  I told Bill.

  ‘You stick around,’ I said. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Hold it,’ Bill said, a snap in his voice. ‘I’m sick of sticking around. I’m coming with you. I’ll stick around in the car if I’m going to stick around anywhere.’

  So, leaving the breakfast debris on the table, we went down to the garage and I drove to the Neptune Tavern.

  Leaving Bill in the car, I crossed the waterfront and entered the tavern. I found Al Barney seated at his special corner table, wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread.

  I sat in a chair opposite him. He regarded me, then nodded.

  ‘You want breakfast, Mr. Wallace?’ he asked.

  I said I’d already had breakfast and did he want a beer?

  ‘I never say no to a beer, Mr. Wallace.’ He signalled to Sam who came racing over with a beer and a plateful of the lethal sausages.

  After he had swallowed half the beer, he set down the mug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, threw into his shark-like mouth three of the sausages, then relaxed back in his chair.

  ‘Mr. Wallace, I am a man with his ear to the ground. I don’t ask questions. I listen. So OK. You told me you were interested in Terry Zeigler. So I listen. You still interested?’

  ‘Yes, Al,’ I said.

  He threw three more sausages into his mouth, chewed, grunted, then leaned forward, his peppery breath fanning my face.

  ‘The man you want to talk to is Chuck Solski. He was a drug pusher before the Mafia took over. From what I hear Zeigler was a close pal of his. Solski needs money. If you spread some dollars in front of him, he’ll tell you what happened to Zeigler. You’ll find Solski at 10 Clam Alley, top floor. That’s the best I can do. OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Al.’ I took out my wallet, but he waved it away.

  ‘We’re friends, Mr. Wallace. I don’t take money from friends.’

  I shook his clammy hand.

  ‘Thanks again, Al.’

  I returned to my car where Bill was waiting I told him what Al Barney had said.

  ‘I’ll see if this guy is home.’

  ‘Clam Alley? That’s at the far end of the waterfront. It’s a condemned slum. I’ll be surprised if anyone is living there. The few apartment blocks are going to be torn down.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Bill gave a sly smile.

  ‘Barney isn’t the only one who keeps his ear to the ground. No point in walking. We’ll drive.’

  With Bill at the wheel, we drove slowly along the waterfront, now packed with tourists.

  Finally, he pulled into a parking slot.

  ‘Clam Alley is just ahead.’

  ‘You certainly know this district,’ I said as I got out of the car.

  He walked with me.

  ‘I’ll stick around, Dirk,’ he said. ‘That’s number 10 facing us.’

  Clam Alley was the worst slum I have ever seen. There were four five-storey blocks. Every window in these blocks was smashed.

  The door to number 10 hung drunkenly open on one hinge. I edged into the filthy, stinking lobby, littered with rubbish. Bill followed me.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely no one lives in this cesspit.’

  Facing me were stairs.

  ‘Al told me he’s on the top floor,’ I went on.

  ‘Watch it, Dirk,’ Bill said. ‘Those stairs look rotten. You could break a leg.’

  I started up the stairs that creaked as I climbed. The door to the first apartment hung open. It was empty and filthy. I climbed to the second floor. The same empty apartment. The third floor was the same. Whoever had lived in these hovels had gone. Finally, with Bill behind me, I reached the top floor. The stink of the place was stomach turning. Facing me was a door that was closed: the only door in this ghastly building that was closed.

  I rapped on the door and was greeted with silence. I rapped again, still silence. I tried the door handle and the door creaked open, I moved cautiously into a small attic room. Bill remained outside, looking through the open doorway.

  I’ve seen slums in the Negro quarters in West Miami, but nothing like this dreadful little room. It contained a packing case to serve for a table, two stools and a bed. The litter of past meals, newspapers, and other muck covered the floor. The room was a hellhole of squalor.

  Lying on the bed was a man. He lay on sheets that hadn’t been washed in years. The man and the bedding matched the awful squalor of this room.

  I moved towards him, paused by his side and stared down at him. He was wearing a pair of filthy, tattered jeans. He was as thin as a skeleton. His matted black hair fell to his shoulders. His beard hid most of his face. At a guess, I thought he was around 35 years of age. He gave off the body stink of a man who hadn’t washed in months.

  He seemed to be sleeping.

  I hated to touch him, but I took hold of his arm and gave him a violent shake.

  ‘Hey! Chuck!’ I bawled in my cop voice. ‘Wake up!’

  His eyes snapped open and he stared at me, then he swung his spindly legs off the bed onto the floor.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, his voice husky. He was now sitting upright.

  ‘I’m a guy with money to spend,’ I said, stepping away from him. ‘I want information from you.’ I took out my wallet and produced two one-hundred dollar bills. ‘These interest you?’

  He stared at the bills as if I was showing him all the gold in Fort Knox.

  He ran his fingers through his matted hair.

  I kept well away. I didn’t want to collect any of his lice.

  ‘Jesus! I want money!’ he muttered. ‘I need money!’

  ‘I need information, Chuck. We can do a deal.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘Are you OK? You don’t look it. Can you think straight?’

  He sat there for several minutes, staring down at the filthy floor. I could see he was pulling himself together. Then, finally, he looked up and nodded.

  ‘I sleep a lot,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing for me to do but sleep. When I sleep, I hope I won’t wake up, but I still do. I always wake up and find myself in this goddamn hole. I haven’t the guts to jump into the harbour. At the end of the week, they are coming to knock this rat hole down. I don’t know where I am going. I’ve come to the end of my line, but the goddamn line won’t finish.’

  ‘Chuck, I want information from you, and I’ll pay two hundred dollars for it.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ He regarded me. ‘You ain’t a cop, are you?’

  ‘No. I want to find Terry Zeigler.’

  He sat there, scratching his awful mop of hair while he continued to stare at me.

  ‘Why?’ he finally asked.

  ‘That’s not your business, Chuck. I’m offering you two hundred dollars to tell me all you know about Zeigler and where I can find him.’

  He grimaced.

  ‘Is that right? Suppose when I tell you, you spit in my face and walk out with the money?’

  I tossed a hundred-dollar bill into his lap.

  ‘You’ll get it, Chuck, so start talking.’

  He fondled the bill.

  ‘Jesus! I need this,’ he muttered. ‘Know something? I haven’t eaten for three days.’

  ‘Start talking about Zeigler,’ I barked. ‘Come on, Chuck. The stink in this room is killing me.’

  So he started to talk.

  I sat on the packing case that served as a table and listened.

  He told me he had met Terry at the Dead End Club. They became friends. As he was on the needle himself, he realised that Terry was also hooked. This made a bond between them.

  Chuck was trying to promote a moneymaking drug business. He could get the stuff, but he failed in pushing it. He talked to Terry about this who said he was willing to try. During the afternoons, Terry would go out and sell the stuff. He was a big success. He had many contacts with the kids. They all
loved his piano playing. Between them, Chuck and Terry, they worked up a flourishing business. Chuck got his supplies from an old Chinese, Terry sold the stuff.

  ‘It looked super good,’ Chuck said, vigorously scratching his head. ‘We were both making money. I had a nice pad and lived on my own. Women have never interested me. Terry had a good pad and he had Liza, his girlfriend, to live with. Then, just when we thought we were set, we ran into a real problem. As usual, on a Monday, I went to my supplier to get more of the stuff. I walked into his office and found Hula Minsky at the desk.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Do you know Minsky?’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Skip him. So. . .?’

  ‘The sight of that ape scared the shit out of me,’ Chuck said, and shivered. ‘OK. I’m on the needle and I have no guts. He told me my drug racket was finished. He said to tell my pal to lay off pushing—that was Terry. I was so scared of him, I would have kissed his feet if he had told me to do it.’ Chuck ran his filthy hand through his filthy beard. ‘I knew Terry was with Liza. I telephoned him and told him what Minsky had said. Terry said not to panic, but we would get together. He said he was coming to my pad. He moved in with a couple of suitcases. We talked it out. The supply had dried up. I couldn’t afford to pay for my pad. We both had blown our money away. I told him I would have to move out. He said we must look for another supplier. He didn’t give a shit about Minsky. I told him I was through. You don’t buck an ape like Minsky.

  ‘Terry said he would find another supplier. I didn’t want anything to do with it. Terry was stubborn. He kept saying the hell with Minsky. I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. I remember him staring at me. He said he had more than fifty kids waiting for their fix. He wasn’t going to let them down. I told him the hell with the kids, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he had got these kids on the needle and he was going to feed their habit. He said he couldn’t do anything else. I gave up. He took off, and he found another Chinese who could supply him. He got the stuff and sold it to the kids. I knew something would happen. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I wouldn’t take any of the money he made. I am so gutless, I just sat in my pad, shivering with fright. This went on for a week, then it happened. I knew it would. I kept warning Terry. He was telling me how much money he had made, and the new supply would be at the end of the week, when the door was kicked open and there was Minsky with two thugs. It happened so fast, I don’t remember what did happen. I was lying on the floor, covering my head with my arms. There were awful noises: bones breaking: horrible noises. That was the end of Terry. I had warned him. Then Minsky kicked me. He said as I had done what he had told me to do, I could forget it. He said I was lucky to be alive. Then the door slammed. I got up and looked around. Terry was gone. I had warned him. You don’t fool around with an ape like Minsky. You want to know where Terry is? My guess is his smashed-up body is in a cement overcoat and at the bottom of the sea. They smashed him to bits and took what was left of him away. There was nothing I could do. I hadn’t any money. I moved into this God-awful room. It was for free. I’m waiting to die. That’s what I want—to die.’