Knock Knock Whos There

by James Hadley Chase

  his new bush hat.

  “Is that right?”

  “Ten dollars.” Johnny knew when a man needed money. He had

  seen that expression over and over again.

  “Sure friend, I’ll take you. Ten dollars, huh?”

  Johnny felt in his pocket and produced a ten dollar bill.

  “Let’s pay in advance, then we can forget it.” Lean, long fingers

  took the bill.

  “I’ll change the plug. You get in, friend.”

  Ten minutes later, the man swung himself into the cab beside

  Johnny.

  “I’m Ed Scott, he said as he started the motor.

  “Johnny Bianco,” Johnny said.

  The truck began to roar down the freeway.

  “What’s your racket, Ed?” Johnny asked after a mile or two of

  silence.

  “I haul shrimps.” Scott gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “Every

  goddamn day except Sunday. I pick up a hundred crates of shrimps

  and rush them to Richville : that’s a hundred and twenty mile haul:

  two hundred and forty there and back. In this truck I do it in four

  hours: so that’s eight hours of my day, sitting here, driving. I have to

  get up at five to load up. I don’t get back home until seven. I’ve a

  three-year contract with four top-class Richville restaurants: they use

  shrimps the way a bucket full of holes uses water. I thought I’d found

  Eldorado when I got this contract, but, man! is it a killer!”

  Johnny was listening. He thought: what a way to earn a living!

  “Goddamn it!” Scott went on. “I should have my head examined!

  Freda warned me . . . my wife. You know something? I don’t listen to

  women. Women are all piss and wind. They yak for the sake of

  hearing their own voices. But after eight months of this, I’m

  beginning to think Freda has more sense than me. A year ago I was

  hauling for the Florida Citrus people. That paid steady, and it wasn’t

  hard, but I have this bug: I can’t work with people. When some punk

  of an overseer starts sounding off, I flip my lid. I have to work on my

  own and for myself.” He glanced at Johnny. “You with me or aren’t

  you?”

  “I’m with you,” Johnny said quietly. He took out his pack of

  cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  “Why not?”

  101

  Johnny lit two cigarettes and passed one to Scott.

  “So I’ve saved some money and I bought this truck and I think I’m

  in business.” Scott went on. “I say I’ll haul anything. So okay, I get

  landed with this shrimp contract. There’s no let up. I’ve got to get

  these goddamn shrimps up to Richville every day or they can sue the

  pants off me. And what do I get out of it? That’s what Freda asked

  and I wouldn’t listen to her. So . . . I’ve found out. I clear a hundred

  and fifty bucks a week. That has to take care of me, my wife, repairs

  to the truck, the rent and all the other extras and I’m now finding I’m

  working my goddamn tail off for peanuts.”

  “You have yourself a tough deal,” Johnny said.

  “You can say that again.” There was a long pause, then Scott

  said, “And you? What’s your racket?”

  “Call me a bum,” Johnny said “For years I’ve been a rent-

  collector and suddenly I could take it no more. I sold up everything I

  owned: my car, a T.V. set, stuff . . . you know and I’m here. I’ve lived

  north all my life. So I’ve come south. When my money runs out, I’ll

  get a job, but not until my money runs out.”

  “You’ve got no wife?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah . . . a man is free without a woman. You’re lucky. Get a

  woman and you have to work.”

  “You got Lids?”

  “I wanted a couple but Freda’s against it. I guess, now looking

  back, she was right. The way we live . . . no place for kids.”

  “There’s time . . . you’re young.”

  Scott laughed. “I guess, but they won’t come now. Not on this

  shrimp haul.”

  He lapsed into moody silence. Tired by his walk and lulled by the

  roar of the engine, Johnny dozed off. He slept for half an hour, then

  came awake with a start. The truck was pounding down the freeway:

  on either side were mangrove trees and jungle. He glanced at Scott,

  saw his sweat-glistening, exhausted face and saw the tension in his

  hands and arms as he held the wheel.

  “Suppose you let me drive?” Johnny said, “and you take a nap?

  What’s the matter with that?”

  “Could you handle her?” Scott looked hopefully at Johnny.

  “I can handle anything on four wheels.”

  Scott slowed, pulled on to the verge and stopped the truck.

  “Could I sleep!” he said. “You keep going. When you see a

  signpost marked Eastling, wake me up. Okay?”

  “Nothing to it.” They exchanged seats, and even before Johnny

  had started the truck, Scott was asleep.

  So Johnny drove, careful not to exceed the speed limit, aware

  that if some maniac caused an accident, he would be in more

  trouble. Suddenly, after eight days in hiding, with nothing to do, he

  felt relaxed. He was now doing a job and he realized that was what

  he wanted to do.

  He thought about what Scott had told him. Eight hours a day in

  this hot truck and the pay off: one hundred and fifty dollars! His mind

  shifted to all that money waiting for him in the left-luggage locker!

  $186,000! But when would he get it? Would be ever get it? The

  organization was now looking for him! That meant hundreds of

  people throughout the south who had some connection with the

  Mafia would be warned to look out for him. One never !mew who

  was employed by the Mafia and who wasn’t, but he was certain that

  there would be always someone in a bar, a cafe, even a garage, a

  cheap eating-house, a cheap hotel, a motel who might have Mafia

  connections. When he finally reached Little Creek which Scott had

  said was where he lived, what was he to do? A sudden stranger!

  Even with his beard, he would be investigated. He was sure, knowing

  how the Mafia worked, there would be a reward out for him. He

  looked at the sleeping man lolling in the corner of the cab. Very few

  brains there, he thought. An individualist: a man who had worked on

  his own because he couldn’t submit to discipline. Johnny understood

  that, but because of this failing, this man had got himself into a rat

  race that made him less than a slave.

  Johnny switched his mind from his own troubles and thought

  about what Scott had told him. He got up at 05.00, loaded up crates

  of shrimps, then belted up the freeway, four hours there, four hours

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  back, got home at 19.00, in time for dinner, a look at the telly and

  then bed: six days a week for one hundred and fifty dollars! At the

  present cost of living, what did that mean?

  Suddenly, he could smell the sea. He sniffed at it the way a man

  will sniff at an outrageously expensive perfume. The Sea! His mind

  flashed to a white, beautiful forty-five footer . . . his! Once he had got

  all this money, waiting for him in the left-luggage locker, he would go

  to some ship builder and talk boats. His he
art beat excitedly as he

  imagined the moment when he had signed the papers, paid the

  money, then walked on the gang plank and on to the deck. His! Then

  he thought of the danger: going back, getting those two heavy bags

  out of the left-luggage locker, then getting out of town. Not yet! He

  would have to be patient. He would have to remain in hiding until

  the heat had really cooled off. Patience! Discipline! He would do it.

  Suddenly he felt confident. Sooner or later, Massino and the Mafia

  Dons would get bored trying to find him. He would keep in touch

  with Sammy who would alert him of any danger. When Sammy

  finally told him that the heat was off, then he would go back, but not

  before.

  Ahead of him, he saw the signpost: Eastling, and he slowed

  down. Reaching across, he shook Scott awake.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Eastling.”

  “Pull over and stop,” Scott said, shaking himself awake. “Phew!

  Seems only five minutes.” He dug sleep out of his eyes. “I’ll take her.”

  They changed seats.

  “Would there be somewhere for me to sleep?” Johnny asked.

  Scott looked at him.

  “I’ve a spare room: cost you five bucks a day and all found. Want

  it?”

  “You have yourself a deal,” Johnny said.

  Scott engaged gear and drove the truck on to the freeway.

  While Johnny was driving Scott’s truck, Massino was holding a

  meeting in his office. Present were Carlo Tanza and Andy Lucas.

  Massino had just explained to Tanza that the lead they had on

  this old guy Giovanni Fuselli was a washout. It was only with difficulty

  that Massino contained his rage and he kept glaring at Andy who had

  been responsible for this waste of time.

  “What we’ve got to remember is Johnny didn’t have the money

  with him when he left town,” Massino said. “It was Andy’s idea he

  was working with someone else and we thought it could be this

  Fuselli, but it wasn’t. Toni and Ernie are sure Fuselli is clean. So . . .

  one of two things. Either Johnny was working with someone we

  don’t know about or he panicked and left the money stashed

  somewhere in town.” He looked at Tanza. “What do you think?”

  “There’s a third possibility,” Tanza said. “He could have put those

  two bags on a Greyhound bus. The station is right across the street.

  No problem there for him. You buy a ticket, stick the bags on a bus

  and they’ll deliver to any Greyhound station on their route. I know

  that’s what I would have done. I wouldn’t have been nutty enough to

  stash the money here where I would have to come back for it, and

  from what I know about Bianda, he’s far from nutty.”

  “You don’t think he was working with someone?” Tanza

  shrugged.

  “Doesn’t seem likely. He’s a loner . . . the only friend he seems to

  have had is this smoke, Sammy the Black and he wouldn’t have the

  guts to steal chewing gum from a kid. Yeah, seems to me that’s what

  Bianda did. Grabbed the money, rushed it across to the bus station,

  got the bags on a bus, knowing they would be delivered to await

  arrival, then he went back to his whore, found he had lost his medal,

  flipped his lid and beat it out of town.”

  “We can check,” Massino said. He looked at Andy. “At that time

  there would be very few buses leaving. Get over there and check.

  Someone should remember if two heavy bags were put on a bus.”

  Andy nodded and left the office.

  Massino looked at Tanza.

  “He’s now been gone eight days.” His little eyes were like red

  beads. “Think you can find him?”

  Tanza grinned evilly.

  “We always find them, but it costs.”

  “So how much?”

  105

  “Depends on how long it takes. Let’s say fifty per cent of the

  take.”

  Massino said softly, “I want him alive. You’ll get fifty per cent if

  he’s delivered to me alive. A third if he’s dead.”

  “He could be tricky to take alive.”

  Massino closed his huge fists.

  “I want him alive! I’m going to smash that sonofabitch to a pulp

  with my own hands.” His rage gave him an insane look and even

  Tanza who was ruthless and tough was shocked. “So get after him!

  Get your wonderful organization hunting him!” Massino slammed his

  fists down on the desk. His voice rose to a snarling shout. “I don’t

  give a goddamn what it costs! I want him!”

  “Nearly home,” Scott said, slowing the truck. “A mile ahead and

  to the left is New Symara . . . that’s where I load. Up here,” he swung

  the truck off the freeway and driving slowly climbed a narrow, sandy

  road, bordered either side with dense stands of pines, “leads to Little

  Creek. It’s little enough. A store, around a dozen cabins and the lake.

  We’ve got a houseboat on the far side of the lake. No one bothers

  us. People in Little Creek are too busy to earn a dollar to bother

  anyone.”

  This was reassuring news to Johnny.

  The sandy track was now edged with thistles, ferns and blue

  flags. The jungle behind was so thick it looked like a black curtain to

  Johnny.

  They came out suddenly on to the lake. Johnny judged it to be a

  mile and a half across. There were several boats out with men

  fishing. One of the men raised his hand in a salute as Scott drove by.

  Scott waved back.

  “Supper time,” he said with a crooked grin. “Everyone here fishes

  for their suppers and their goddamn dinners too. I wonder if Freda’s

  caught anything.”

  Leaving the group of cabins behind them, they drove for a mile

  through the jungle, then came out suddenly into a cleared space

  where Johnny saw a long, shabby houseboat with a twenty-foot-

  long, battered pier joining it to the mainland.

  “Lived here for two years,” Scott said as he drove the truck into a

  parking bay, covered with tatty bamboo. “Got it for a Song. Had to

  work on it, but now it’s not too bad. You reckon to stay long?”

  Johnny turned and looked directly at Scott.

  “Doesn’t that depend on what your wife says? She may not want

  a stranger hanging around.”

  Scott shrugged.

  “You don’t have to worry about Freda: she’s as money hungry as

  I am. I can use thirty-five bucks a week and she can use some

  company. Not much fun for her being left here all alone all day.”

  Johnny continued to look directly at Scott.

  “Just a minute . . . Is there something wrong with your wife? Is

  she a cripple or something?”

  “No . . . what do you mean?”

  “Come on, Scott,” Johnny said impatiently, “grow up! Why

  should your wife want a man here . . . it’s lonely enough. Doesn’t it

  worry you?”

  “Why should it?” Scott said. “If you think you can lay her, go

  ahead. If she has you, you’re welcome. I haven’t touched her that

  way since we married.” He leered. “I get all the loving I need in

  Richville and I don’t need a lot. When a guy works the way I do, once

  a month is all he need
s.”

  “What’s it between you two then?” Johnny asked, startled.

  “Forget it.” Scott swung himself out of the cab. “If you want to

  stay, then stay as long as you like so long as you pay. Come on, I’ll

  show you your room.”

  As they walked across the pier, Scott paused and pointed.

  “There she is . . . swimming. Spends most of her time in the

  lake.”

  Johnny screwed up his eyes against the reflection of the sun on

  the still water. He saw a head bobbing in the water, some three

  hundred yards from the houseboat.

  107

  Scott put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. A

  hand came out of the water in a wave. “Come on in,” Scott said.

  There was a good wide deck around the houseboat and together

  they entered a long, low living room shabbily furnished, but

  comfortable enough. There was a T.V. set in one corner.

  “Here’s your room,” Scott said and opened the door.

  “Dump your things and have a swim. We swim raw. You don’t

  have to bother about Freda. She’s seen more naked men than I’ve

  seen shrimps.”

  Johnny looked around the tiny room. There was a bed, a closet, a

  night-table and a chair. The window looked onto the lake. It was all

  clean and he liked it.

  “This is fine.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Scott left him.

  Johnny looked out of the window. He would have liked to have

  swum, but not naked. He saw Scott come out on deck, naked and

  dive into the lake. He watched him swim to the blonde head, pause

  and after a minute or so, swim on. The blonde head headed towards

  the house boat.

  Johnny stood by the window and watched. He kept out of sight,

  peering around the curtain as the woman swung herself on to the

  deck. She was tall, brown-bodied and naked. She had long legs, tight,

  firm breasts and as she turned and walked along the deck, Johnny

  watched her heavy buttocks roll. His eyes had been too busy looking

  at her body to see her face except to notice her wet, blonde hair

  reached to the middle of her shoulders.

  Johnny wiped the sweat off his face. What had he walked into?

  he asked himself. This was all woman: the most sensual, sexual body

  he had seen.

  He now felt in urgent need of cold water. Stripping off, keeping

  on his underpants, he stepped out onto the deck and dived into the

  lake.