From there he reached another alley, climbed another wall and finally arrived at the back door of Ocida’s rooming house.
By now the cut on his face had ceased to bleed and he stuffed the bloodstained handkerchief into his pocket. He paused in the passage, listening, then moved forward and gently opened a door he knew led into Ocida’s sitting room.
Ocida was sitting in a broken down armchair, his hands resting on his fat knees. He was talking to Manatee who had just arrived.
It took a moment, in semi-darkness, for Poke to recognize Manatee. With a quick, sly movement, Poke slid his gun into the back pocket of his hipsters.
He moved into the room and closed the door.
Ocida leaned back in his chair. His fat face unsmiling, his eyes shifty.
“This has become bad for you, Poke,” he said. “Manatee will tell you.”
Briefly, Manatee told Poke what had happened at the airport. Poke listened, his eyes glittering.
“The white man is dead?”
Manatee nodded.
“The car?”
“Finished.”
“And the girl?”
“I brought her as far as the waterfront. She walked away.”
Poke stood thinking. Had the money gone up in flames with the car? Had the girl got it? A vicious spurt of rage ran through him.
He jerked his thumb towards the door.
“Get out!”
Manatee looked at Ocida who nodded. He went quickly from the room.
There was a long pause, then Ocida said quietly, “You must go away, Poke. I’m sorry it has ended like this. It was a good idea. The accident was bad luck.”
Poke stared at the fat Indian, then he said, “I need money. I need a thousand dollars.”
Ocida flinched. Looking at Poke, seeing the expression on his face and the glitter in his eyes, he realised he was in a dangerous situation.
He thought of the gun he always kept in the top drawer of his desk. The desk stood four yards from where he was sitting. The gun was a .45 Colt automatic which he had bought from an Army sergeant and which he never believed he would use. He had taken pride in the gun. Every so often he cleaned and oiled it. Now, looking at Poke’s face, he realised this gun . . . if he could reach it . . . could save his life for he was suddenly certain his life was in danger. But sitting in this broken down armchair, he knew he couldn’t reach the gun before Poke killed him. He must, he told himself, use a little bluff.
“If I had so much money, you would have it,” he said. “Your father and I are good friends. It would be my pleasure to give it to you.”
“Never mind about my father . . . give me the money,” Poke said and his hand went behind him and reappeared, holding his gun.
Ocida nodded. He got slowly to his feet and walked over to the desk. As he reached to pull open the top drawer where the gun was, his big body shielding his movement, he felt Poke’s gun dig into his back and he knew he was defeated. His hand moved from the top drawer to the second drawer which he opened. It was in this drawer that he kept his cash.
“There . . . that is all I have,” he said. “Help yourself.”
Poke shoved him aside and snatched up a thick packet of dollar bills. He thrust the bills into his shirt and moved quickly to the door.
Ocida, still sensing danger, stood motionless.
“Remember, Poke, your father and I are good friends,” he said, a quaver in his voice.
“Open the top drawer,” Poke said. “Go on . . . open it!”
They looked at each other for a long moment and Ocida saw the madness in Poke’s eyes. Slowly, his heart beginning to hammer, Ocida opened the drawer.
Poke saw the gun lying on a sheet of oil stained blotting paper.
“Good friends?” Poke said and squeezed the trigger of his gun. The bang of the gun echoed through the building and out onto the waterfront.
As Ocida fell, Poke stepped to the desk, snatched up the .45 Colt, dropped his own gun which was now empty and ran out of the room.
Hearing the shot Detective Alec Horn who was covering this section of the waterfront arrived at the end of the alley leading to Ocida’s back entrance as Poke came through the doorway.
For a fraction of a second, Horn hesitated, not sure if this Indian was Poke Toholo. Then seeing the gun in Poke’s hand, his own gun flashed up.
Poke was just that fraction of a second ahead of him. Poke’s bullet smashed Horn’s shoulder and dropped him.
Horn’s bullet cut a groove in Poke’s left ann.
Poke swung around and ran blindly down the alley. The pain in his arm threw him off balance. For the first time, he felt he was hunted and panic seized him. He reached a door of a two-storey, ramshackled house at the end of the alley, kicked it open and blundered into a dark passage. His one thought now was to hide. Stairs faced him. He raced up them two at the time, reached a landing, then paused. To his right was a lone door and there was no skylight. He realised he had run into a trap.
Then the door swung open and he lifted his gun.
An Indian girl, tall, thin, her skin pock marked, her hair in a plait, coiled around her head, came out on the landing. She froze at the sight of him.
Poke covered her with his gun.
They stared at each other. Blood was dripping from Poke’s fingers, making a puddle on the floor.
“Fix this!” He tapped his wounded arm and again threatened her with the gun.
Her eyes opened very wide and she nodded. She moved back into the room, beckoning to him.
***
When Poke had told Manatee to get out, he had only gone as far as Ocida’s store room because he feared for his boss. When he heard the shot, he knew his fear had been realised. He had watched Poke come down the passage, then he had darted into the living room and had seen the vast body lying on the floor. He had shuddered with horror, then turned and had run down the passage to the back door. He heard the two shots as Poke and Horn had fired at each other.
Cautiously, he peered into the alley. He was in time to see Poke running away, pause, then enter the last house at the end of the alley.
Manatee then saw the wounded detective, struggling to sit up.
If Poke hadn’t killed Ocida, Manatee would never have considered for a moment betraying him, but by killing Ocida, Poke had severed the cord that linked him to the fraternity of Indian protection.
Manatee went to the fallen detective as Lepski and Andy Shields swung themselves over the wall.
Lepski’s hand dropped on Shields’ gun, pushing it down.
“It’s not him!” He shoved Manatee aside and knelt by Horn who was now sitting up and grimacing with pain. “Are you hurt bad?”
Horn shook his head.
“He went down there.”
Lepski looked along the filthy cul-de-sac.
“Take care of him, Andy. Radio for help! He must have gone over the wall.”
“Sir!” Manatee was standing now with his back pressed against the wall of the alley. “He is in the last house at the end of the alley. There’s no way out except the way he went in. I know the house. Manee, Ocida’s granddaughter, lives there.”
Lepski stared at the Indian, wondering if he could trust him. He knew all the Indians along the waterfront were loyal to each other. This could be a trick to give Poke time to get away.
“He killed my boss, sir,” Manatee said as if knowing how Lepski was thinking. “He’s crazy. He must now be caught. He is in there!”
“You’re sure there’s no other way out?”
Manatee nodded.
Two police officers came over the wall.
“You two take care of Alec,” Lepski said to them. “Come on, Andy, let’s get him!”
Guns in hand, the two detectives ran down the alley, paused at the open door of the house, then Lepski moved in while Shields covered him.
Lepski saw bloodstains on the floor and he looked up the narrow stairs.
He moved back and switched on his radio.
> Terrell came on the air.
Lepski reported what was happening and pin pointed where he was.
“We have him bottled up, Chief,” Lepski concluded. “Andy and I are going up there to take him.”
“Can he get away?” Terrell asked.
“No . . . we have him bottled up.”
“Then hold it, Tom, until I get there. I’m taking him.”
Lepski grimaced. He remembered what Beigler had said about keeping Terrell out of this mess.
“Okay, Chief,” and he switched off. He hesitated for a long moment, then he looked at Shields, “Let’s go get this sonofabitch,” and moving silently, he started up the stairs.
The Indian girl, Manee, finished bandaging Poke’s arm. While she worked, he sat on the bed, looking around the tiny, hot room. The door of the room stood open. Over the head of the bed hung a large crucifix. He looked at it, then his eyes shifted away with a pang of guilt. The crucifix made him think of his father and brought back the memory of when they used to kneel together in the church with its smell of incense, the flickering candle light and the peace on his father’s face.
“You are Poke Toholo, the son of my grandfather’s great friend,” Manee said as she moved away from him. “Please go now to my grandfather who will help you get away. He never refuses anyone help.”
“Your grandfather?” He sat upright, his eyes widening. “Ocida?”
She nodded.
“Of course. Go to him. He will help you.”
A wave of utter despair washed over Poke. For a long time now he had been frightened that there was something wrong with his brain. He had refused to believe he couldn’t cure himself by willpower. Now, he realised he was really sick. Why had he killed Ocida? He knew now that if he had only asked Ocida to hide him, Ocida would have done so and he would have been safe.
He sat still, feeling the throbbing pain in his arm, the gun resting on his knee. He knew as he sat there, that this was the end of his life. He knew he was beyond help and beyond redemption.
The tenth stair from the top of the staircase was rotten. Poke had come up the stairs two at the time, missing the tenth stair. Manee knew about the stair and always stepped over it, but Lepski trod on it. The stair gave under his weight with a splintering crash. He had his hand on the bannister rail and by clutching onto the rail he just managed to prevent his foot getting trapped. Cursing softly, he jerked his foot free, then knowing he had given himself away by the noise, he raced up the remaining stairs to find himself on a bare landing with an open door on his right. He waved Shields back and flattened himself against the wall, gun in hand.
Sunlight coming through the window of the room with the open door made an oblong patch of light on the dusty floor.
Shields came up the stairs and crouched on the third stair from the top, his gun covering Lepski.
When the stair broke, the noise made Poke stiffen. His eyes darted towards the landing beyond the open door. He lifted his gun.
Manee saw the hopeless despair on his face and she drew away from him.
With his left hand, Poke took the money he had stolen from Ocida from inside his shirt and dropped it on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the girl. “I am very sick. There is something wrong with my head.” He pointed to the money. “This now belongs to you.”
He hesitated, then went on, “I killed your grandfather. It is his money. I took it. It belongs to you.”
Creeping along the wall, Lepski paused to listen.
Manee looked at the pile of money lying on the dirty white quilt. She had never seen so much money. Her eyes opened wide.
“This is mine?”
Thoughts flashed through her mind. If this money was really for her a door would open into a new life. This room, the smell and the noise of the waterfront, the groping fingers moving up her skirt when she worked in the restaurant, the white sailors she had to bring back here when she wanted new clothes . . . all this and more would be wiped away with this money.
“Take it,” Poke said, watching her.
“You really mean it’s for me?”
She couldn’t believe it as she stared at the money.
“I killed your grandfather,” Poke said and realised she wasn’t listening. All she was thinking about was the money. He felt a surge of hatred run through him. “Take it and get out! “
She snatched up the money and ran out onto the landing.
Lepski caught hold of her wrist and swung her into Shields’ arms. Shields clapped his hand over her mouth.
Sitting on the bed, Poke stared through the open doorway. His mind came alive with pictures of past hatreds: the Club, his father’s servility, the rich, the arrogant, the unkind and the patronising.
He had often thought of death. The kindest way to die, he had thought, would be to be like a lamp when the wick is turned down. Slowly the light would diminish and finally go out. But now he knew there would be no slow turning down of the wick. As he saw Lepski’s shadow come into the oblong of sunlight, he looked at the crucifix on the wall. Staring at the crucifix, suddenly hopeful, he put the gun barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
***
“Are you looking for company?”
Meg stiffened and looked up.
For the past two hours she had been sitting on a stone bench at the far end of the harbour, alone, except for a fish hawk that circled above her.
By now she had absorbed the shock of the crash. Now, she was beginning to wonder what to do. She had no money. Her clothes were at the rooming house and she was sure if she went to collect them, the fat Indian would demand payment for the rent of the room. Besides, Poke might be waiting there. She couldn’t go back, so she had nothing but what she had on.
She had lost her gold-plated meal ticket, she thought bitterly. Some meal ticket! She lifted her long hair off her shoulders in a helpless gesture. Well, she thought, she would have to find some other man who would buy her the few things she needed. There was always some man around who would help her so long as she was willing to lay on her back.
“Are you looking for company?”
The very words Chuck had used when he had picked her up and then this awful mess had started.
She looked at the young man, standing by her side.
What a freak! she thought.
He was tall and painfully thin with a chin beard and he wore glasses. The lenses were so thick they made his eyes look like brown gooseberries. He wore a grey open neck shirt, tucked into black pants and a broad leather belt with a tarnished brass buckle around his tiny waist.
At least, Meg thought, he was clean so he could have some money. It was when they were dirty, as she was, there was no money.
Her mouth moved into a forced smile.
“Hello,” she said. “Where did you spring from?”
“I saw you. You looked lonely.” He pulled at his beard as if hoping she would notice it, “Are you lonely?”
His voice was soft and without character. As she studied him, she felt a pang of disappointment. Her hope of ‘here is someone’ wasn’t going to be fulfilled by this freak.
Still, in her present position, she couldn’t afford to be selective so she said, “I guess I am.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“I don’t mind.”
He came around the stone bench and sat by her side.
“I’m Mark Lees. What’s your name?”
“Meg.”
“Just . . . Meg?”
She nodded.
There was a long pause. She looked up and watched the circling fish hawk.
If only she could wave a magic wand and be up there with him. He would be someone. She was sure of that. How marvellous to be able to circle the sea, to dive on a fish, to be utterly free!
“Are you on vacation?”
She frowned, then came back to earth.
“What?”
“Are you on vacation?”
“Are you?”
&n
bsp; “No. I lost my job yesterday. I’m trying to make up my mind what to do and where to go.”
She felt a tiny wave of sympathy for him.
“Like me: I’m trying to make up my mind what to do too.”
He looked at her, then away. A swift, shifty look, but she knew it had taken in her full breasts and her long legs. It was so easy, she thought. Men are such stupid animals.
“I’m sick of this City. It’s too expensive. It’s only for the rich. I have a car.” He again looked at her. “I thought I’d go to Jacksonville. I’ve a friend there. He could get me a job.” Again the shifty look at her breasts. “Do you want to come along with me for the ride?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I don’t mind.”
He seemed to relax a little and again he fingered his heard. “That’s fine. Where are your things? I’ll get the car and pick you up.”
It was her turn now to study him. His thin face showed no animation. He was staring down at his thin, bony hands, resting on his knees. She felt a moment of hesitation. Maybe he was a sex maniac. She pondered for a few seconds, then she mentally shrugged. It was only if you resisted a sex maniac that he became dangerous. She had to leave Paradise City.
Jacksonville was as good as anywhere to go to.
“I haven’t anything,” she said. “No money . . . no clothes . . . no nothing.”
“You have something . . . all girls have.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”
They walked together in silence along the harbour wall and to the car park. He led her to a beaten up T.R.4.
As they got into the car, he said without looking at her, “I want to make sex with you . . . you will, won’t you?”
She knew this was coming and she thought of the moment when this dreary freak would take her and her body cringed. “Have you any money?” she asked.
He looked swiftly at her, then away.
“What’s that to do with it?” he asked blankly.
“You’ll find out.”
Then she saw her reflection in the windshield and she grimaced.
God! What a mess she looked . . . her hair!
She opened her bag for her comb and she stiffened, her heart skipping a beat. Inside the bag was a brown manilla envelope . . . the envelope she had collected from the airport. The crash had happened so quickly she hadn’t had time to put it with the other envelopes in the glove compartment and she had completely forgotten it.
1971 - Want to Stay Alive Page 18