Amelia

by Harvey Mendez

  Vincent checked the bilge, the head, made sure no one else was on board, then ran to the Harbour Master’s office.

  Two hours later, the police began their round of questions for the third time. How long had he been moored? What was he doing in port? When had he hired the deceased? Where did he go when he left the boat? Vincent’s answers were abrupt, but to the point.

  Satisfying the officers for the time being with his story, Vincent told them he had to make a phone call. He walked off the boat and ran to Amelia’s flat. What if they’d killed her too?

  He knocked on her door. Come on! He knocked harder. Damn! Well, he had put her off yesterday. She wanted to go to the island with him. Now, Sam, another dead body.

  The desk clerk interrupted his banging. Vincent bribed him with a big bill for a key to her room.

  Amelia was not in the flat. Everything was neat and tidy. Two partially filled glasses sat on the sink. He walked into her bedroom, smelled her perfume. Bed made tight, military style. Stan’s daughter all right. The closet door was open a crack. He scratched his beard. Someone had been with her.

  Vincent started down the stairs, saw a police car pull up in front, retreated to the other end of the hall, and fled out the backdoor.

  He rushed back to his boat. A yellow tape barred his entrance. Two policemen stood guard.

  “Aren’t you guys done yet?” Vincent asked.

  “New evidence, mate,” one of the guards said. “You’ll have to talk to the sergeant.”

  Vincent ducked under the tape, climbed aboard. He crossed the empty deck and walked down to the cabin.

  “Well, Carlson, I’ve been waiting for you.” The sergeant, a short, lean man with thick black hair and bushy moustache, stood before him.

  “I thought the police were finished with me.”

  “Seems there was a witness.”

  “Yeah, who?” Vincent glanced around the cabin.

  “A lady.” The sergeant’s dark eyes focused on Vincent. “She’s pretty, Polynesian.”

  “So?”

  “Your girlfriend fits her description.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He glared at the officer.

  The sergeant exchanged a knowing glance with the other policeman. “We think different.”

  “Look,” Vincent said, “I’ve been coming here five years; when I need a woman, I know where to go.”

  The sergeant thumbed through a small black notebook. “So, you know nothing about this sweet little bird, eh?”

  “Did she see the killing?” Vincent leaned forward, tried to make out the notes.

  “Sorry, mate.” He shook his head.

  Vincent put his hands on his hips, stood feet apart. “Well, can you tell me anything?”

  “They were after you. Do you know why?” The sergeant put his book away.

  Vincent shrugged. “I’m just here for supplies.”

  “What about the girl?”

  Annoyed, Vincent looked around the disrupted cabin. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “We’d better go down to headquarters.” He pointed up the companionway.

  * * * *

  Marvin Yamaguchi sat at the radio table on his sailboat. He took off his dark stocking cap, switched on the transmitter. Static cracked over the earphones. Adjusting the dials, he tuned in a coded channel, clicked on his mike button.

  “Toshio, this is Honda, Mary-Alpha-Ray 1947, over.”

  A few seconds delay, then the silence was broken.

  “Honda, this is Toshio, over.”

  “Business not going well. Electra trouble, a law matter. Deckhand killed. He’s suspected, over.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Was the note paid? Over.”

  Marvin felt the wake from a passing boat. “Paid and delivered. How about the merchandise? Over.”

  “Too many shipments misplaced. The two main suppliers must have ally, over.”

  Marvin fine-tuned the set, cleared more static from the wire. “Like to know who it is, over.”

  “Our same old competitor is back in business, just like before, over.”

  After a long pause, Toshio came on again. “Did you copy? Over.”

  “Roger... just thinking. That was years ago, over.”

  “I told you, Triangle never forgets. If you get in trouble use the Dragon Red code, Electra will help you. How about the secretary, she still employed? Over.”

  Marvin hesitated. It was his job to keep tabs on Amelia. “She’s disappeared, over.”

  “Find her.” His voice was stern. “She’s employed for good reason. Triangle will strike through Electra to get to me, over.”

  “I’ll stake out her watering hole, over.”

  “One last item. You’ve got to locate war merchandise and stop those shipments to VC. This is Toshio, Trooper-Alpha-Day 1917, out.”

  Marvin heard the click, pulled off his earphones. “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  When Vincent and the sergeant arrived at the police precinct on Queen’s Wharf Road, three drunken sailors were slouched on wooden benches outside the booking room. A prostitute wearing black fishnet hose, a short leather skirt, and a pink feather boa twirled around her neck, pouted at the desk sergeant.

  Vincent stopped beside her, cleared his throat.

  The desk sergeant glanced up. “Name?”

  “Carlson, Vincent Carlson.”

  “Hi, Vince.” The woman batted her heavy black eyelashes at him and twisted her red lips into heart shape. “‘Member me?”

  Everyone behind the counter looked up.

  Vincent turned, peered into her flashing eyes. “Harbor business still booming?”

  “So, you do remember.” She brushed her breasts against his arm.

  Vincent stared at her bulging bosom.

  “This way, mate,” The desk sergeant motioned to a black-uniformed officer to escort Vincent to an interrogation room.

  Vincent winked at the prostitute, slid his eyes over her thin, low-cut blouse once more.

  “See ya, cutie.” She threw him a kiss, brushed a few strands of blue-black hair off her painted face.

  Inside the small, windowless room, a single light bulb on a long, frazzled cord hung above a square table.

  Cheap cigar smoke drifted to Vincent’s nostrils. He inhaled, twisted his mouth. A classic B-movie setting, wall mirror and all.

  “Have a seat, mate.” A short, thickset man dressed in a dark-blue suit sat at the table. A half-smoked cigar dangled from his lips. “I’m Detective Kelly, Homicide.”

  Vincent stood straight. “Am I a suspect?”

  The detective coughed, took a puff from his cigar, and gestured to the chair across the table. “We’ll determine that.”

  “I wasn’t at the boat when he was shot.” Vincent sat down.

  “Shot?” Kelly fixed on his eyes. “Who said he was shot?”

  Vincent glared. “Anyone could see the bullet hole.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Carlson, she was seen.”

  “No girl, I know was on my boat.” Vincent looked right at him.

  “You know they were trying to kill you.” Kelly stared past him into the large mirror on the side wall. “Better tell us your real business.”

  Vincent deadpanned. “Just came to port for supplies.”

  “Why is the U.S. Military so interested in you?”

  “Military? You guys must be nuts.”

  Kelly took a long puff on his cigar. He watched Vincent through squinty eyes.

  Vincent met his questioning stare. “I told you—only came here for supplies.”

  “We know your record,” Kelly said.

  Vincent raised his voice. “What does that have to do with Sam’s death?”

  “Somebody thought it was you.” Kelly hammered away again. “Why are the Vietnamese after you?”

  “The Vietnamese?”

  “The guy in the bar�
��now your deckhand.”

  A loud knock sounded on the door. A uniformed officer poked his head in. “An urgent call for you, Detective.”

  Kelly looked up, put his smoldering cigar in the ashtray, and hurried from the room. Vincent pressed his hand over the cigar, ground it out.

  * * * *

  Returning fifteen minutes later, Kelly sat down again, his expression sullen. The detective saw his crunched cigar, scowled at Vincent, then lit another. “You’re free to go, Mr. Carlson.” His glance did not meet Vincent’s.

  “I knew you guys were blowing smoke.” Vincent rose from his chair, walked out of the room, down the dirty-white hall.

  Outside the precinct, he skipped down the front steps and bumped into the prostitute, standing at the bottom.

  “Hi, love.” She winked. “Short sentence, huh.” She looped her arm through his, snuggled her body close. “Been a long time.”

  He felt her warmth. “It was different then.”

  Her red high-heels clicked along the sidewalk beside him. “Quite stirring, you might say, mate.”

  “I do remember some good times, but right now I’ve got to clear up some things.” He released her arm.

  “Good-bye, love,” she said. “Keep in touch.”

  “You never can tell.” Vincent walked a little faster down the street, turned, and saw she still stood where they parted.

  She raised her hand.

  He waved back. “Yeah, sure.”

  * * * *

  Voices and music mixed, buzzed like a swarm of bees in the smoke-filled Jungle Wings. Amelia sipped her drink, not really listening to the droning.

  Blue walked over to her. “Have you seen Vincent?”

  She looked up. “No.”

  “Someone was asking about him.”

  “Who?”

  “Young Japanese guy. Had lots of questions.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’d better find Vincent.” She pushed off the stool, started through the crowd toward the front swinging doors.

  Just before the entrance, a hand grabbed Amelia’s left arm. She looked down.

  “Huh?”

  “Relax,” Harry said, from his booth.

  “Harry! What’re you doing here? I thought you were on Saipan.”

  “Don’t you even have a kiss for me?” He drew her arm down to his chest and tilted his face upward.

  “This is a surprise.” She pecked his cheek.

  He frowned. “It used to be a different kind of kiss.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes it was, but that little taste of you has stayed with me.” His dark eyes flashed.

  “Harry, I thought we understood each other.”

  He released her arm. “My father said to say hello.”

  “Your father never did like me.” Amelia adjusted her thin blouse.

  “On the contrary, he was impressed with you. He saw how you excelled in high school, how you dug a little deeper to achieve. Almost like it was an inherited trait.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” she said. “I wonder who he thought I inherited it from. He didn’t know my parents very well. He never said much to me, just seemed to stare at me.”

  “I noticed that, too.” Harry looked into her dark eyes.

  “Seems so long ago.” She started to sit down.

  He scooted over, made room for her. “I never forgot how you felt.”

  “We’re still friends, Harry.”

  He moved closer to her. “I meant how your skin felt to touch.”

  “Oh . . .” She turned away, thought about the last time she was with Steven. Her experiences with Harry seemed so naïve compared to true lovemaking. Would she ever have that other feeling again? “Sorry, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to tell me that.”

  “You’re right, but such pleasure is hard to forget.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “That was part of the trouble, Harry. It was mostly your pleasure.”

  “You didn’t say anything then.” He took a drink of his beer.

  “I didn’t know any different.” Was he deliberately trying to provoke her?

  His eyes narrowed. “So, your American friend has changed you already.”

  “I resent that.” She looked square into his stern face. “You said he killed my father.”

  “Don’t forget it.”

  “That’s why I’ll do what you say.”

  Harry shifted his gaze. “We’re not done with him. He also killed his deckhand, must’ve caught him snooping around.”

  “What?” Amelia’s mouth opened wider. How was that possible? When she’d gone by the boat, two Vietnamese in combat fatigues were leaving. She thought they’d seen her so she went to Jungle Wings. “How do you know?”

  “I have sources. You find out exactly what he’s doing here in Brisbane. How he’s involved in the war.”

  “That may be hard. He’s going back to some island soon. You think he’s involved in the Vietnam War?”

  Harry patted her on the forearm.

  Amelia drew back. Harry wouldn’t answer her. Was he mixed up in the war?

  Harry twisted his lips into a half smile, withdrew his hands, and started to rise. An Oriental man in fatigues approached, put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He turned. The man whispered in Harry’s ear, then walked away.

  Harry shifted back to Amelia. “I have to leave.”

  “When will we meet again?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” He rose, downed the rest of his beer.

  Amelia saw the man in fatigues waiting outside when Harry opened the swinging doors. Two other soldiers joined them. They were the same men she’d seen leaving Vincent’s boat. She’d better follow them. Harry was lying to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Vincent walked back to his boat thinking about the times before the war when he and Tad frequented brothels in Hawaii, San Francisco, and Singapore. Mostly on business, but sometimes for their own pleasure. Polynesian-Oriental women were more than quite alluring. The Japanese ran more houses than anyone, a real hotbed of info.

  He didn’t think the Australian girl at the police station would remember him. After all, it’d been some time ago. He tried to squash his basic physical needs but concentrated research would only go so far, no matter how dedicated to AE he was.

  Now, he’d met Amelia, a beautiful young woman, and he was attracted to her. Why wouldn’t he be? He was a normal male, even if he was a lot older. But there was something about her, a doubt maybe, or was it a cautionary response to her beauty? Had he been trained too well? Never trust anyone; go for the kill before they got too close. Was she really Stan’s daughter? Stan was so American. Amelia had that perfect Polynesian-Oriental look he loved in a woman.

  Vincent stubbed a foot on one of the pier’s planks, almost tripped, but caught himself. The police barrier tape was gone. He climbed aboard, started down the companionway. A white piece of paper was taped on the door. TRIANGLE’S BACK—DRAGON RED.

  “Triangle . . .” He opened the cabin door, snapped on a light. Only Tad knew that code. That detective said something about the Nam war. Good old Ito would never pass up a chance to rip the U.S.

  Vincent fumbled with the buttons on his long-sleeved shirt, peeled it off. Somebody had called off the cops. Smelled like Company business. He reached into a locker, pulled out a gray sweatshirt with tattered, cut-off sleeves.

  In a phone booth on the wharf, Vincent dialed 703-TTO-SHIO. The number rang until a recording came on the line. “The number you dialed, 703-886-7446, has been disconnected.”

  “Damn.” He dialed again, same results. So, they’ve moved him. Vincent held the hook down, then rang another number.

  “Central Intelligence Agency,” a male voice answered.

  “This is the Bank of America in San Francisco. We’d like to verify employment of a Tad Yamaguchi.”

  “This time of night?”

  Vincent looked at
his watch. “It’s early evening here.” He sounded overworked.

  “Repeat the name, please.”

  “Yamaguchi—Tad.”

  “One moment.”

  Vincent shifted his weight, gazed through the open door at the harbor lights.

  “Hello . . .”

  The voice came back. “No Yamaguchi listed.”

  “What do you mean? I’m looking at his loan application right now.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t you know the access code?”

  “Beg your pardon.”

  “Forget it.” Vincent slammed down the receiver. What the hell was happening here? If Tad didn’t call off the heat, who did? He stood outside the booth, leaned on the glass. Cops said Amelia was at his boat. He’d better find her.

  Jungle Wings still hummed from the crowd when Vincent walked in. Blue stood behind the bar pouring drinks. Vincent made his way to the counter. “Blue.”

  “Evening, mate,” the big man said.

  “Have you seen Amelia tonight?”

  “Earlier, she and that Harry fella sat in one of the front booths.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yeah, Japanese guy.”

  “She leave with him?” Vincent felt the flush on his face.

  “Didn’t notice.”

  He saw Blue’s expression was matter-of-fact and took a little breath. “Thanks, see you later.”

  * * * *

  Amelia didn’t recognize the area near the docks where she followed Harry and his thugs. Thought she knew Brisbane well, but half the streetlights were out—most industrial buildings run-down or empty. No wonder tourists stayed away.

  The men disappeared into a two-story structure that showed no sign of deterioration. Amelia waited across the street until a dim light flicked on upstairs in a back room. Above the front entrance, a small well-painted sign read SOUTH SEAS TRADING COMPANY. What was Harry involved in?

  Amelia walked around the building, tried two locked doors. Near the back, a window just above her head had a long crack in the large panel. Turning an empty trash can upside down, she set it underneath the window. She put down her purse, climbed up, and nudged against the glass with her hand. The crack loosened. She pulled back. The glass’d crash on the floor if she pushed too hard.