1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway

by James Hadley Chase

  Thomas slid around Lepski, muttered something, then left. He slammed the front door after him. For a long moment, Lepski and the girl listened to his departing footfalls as he raced down the stairs.

  Lepski crossed to the door and turned the key. He wasn’t risking another unexpected shooting.

  ‘I got your message,’ he said, coming away from the door. ‘It cost me a buck. Bucks are important to me. So go ahead and make it good.’

  Goldie moved towards a chair, her body undulating with the effortless movement of a snake.

  ‘Don’t act so tough, Lepski,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see your act is like a 1945 movie?’

  Lepski grinned evilly.

  ‘It works, baby. It’s a method I dig for. Look how it worked with your ponce.’

  ‘Him!’ Goldie grimaced. ‘If a baby shook his fist at him he would faint. I’m sorry for the creep. He has cold water for blood. But never mind him. You are here . . . I’m here . . . so let’s get acquainted.’ She sat down, spread her legs so he could see her pink nylon covered crotch and regarded him with her sexy look that seldom failed to get results. ‘Come on, tough cop. Before we talk business, reduce me to a jelly.’

  ‘That will be a pleasure,’ Lepski said.

  He crossed the room and paused before her. As she began to pull up her sweater, he swung his hand and slapped her hard on her right cheek.

  She reared back, her head slamming against the back of the chair. She recovered her balance and her face turned into an angry, snarling mask.

  ‘You stinking, goddamn . . . she began when his hard hand slapped again, jerking her head back.

  Lepski eyed her and then moved away.

  ‘Listen, baby, I take nothing from any whore. I wouldn’t touch you, wrapped in plastic. I’m busy. I’ve spent a buck. So sit up and talk fast and stop acting like a whore in a 1945 movie.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘And let me remind you you are now talking to a cop who is a better animal than you, but not much better.’

  She drew in a long breath, touched her face tenderly, stared at him, then the rage slowly died out of her eyes.

  ‘You’re quite a man,’ she said huskily. ‘Let’s go to bed, damn it! I think you could launch me off my pad.’

  ‘Let’s talk.’ Lepski sat opposite her. ‘When I’m on police duty, there’s no count down for my rocket.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I like that . . . a witty cop! Okay, so you are a stinking sonofabitch, but let’s talk. Give me a cigarette.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give you a kiss of life,’ Lepski said. ‘Talk . . . I want to get out of here.’

  She took a cigarette from the box on the table, looked at him for a light, then seeing he wouldn’t give her one, she used a match.

  ‘Jack wants his boat back,’ she said. ‘I told him if anyone could get it for him you could.’

  Lepski took a cigarette from his pack. As he set fire to it, he shook his head.

  ‘That crap doesn’t dazzle me. Let’s have it right from the beginning and fast. I have better things to do than to share the same air with you.’

  ‘Baldy Riccard talked Jack into renting his boat. The boat’s vanished. Jack’s blowing his stack He wants his boat back.’

  ‘When did he rent his boat to Baldy?’

  ‘Two months ago . . . March 24th if you want it exact.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What does it matter? He rented it. Now there’s talk that Baldy is dead. Jack must have his boat: all his money is tied up in it.’

  ‘I asked you: why did he rent the boat to Baldy?’

  Goldie hesitated, then said, ‘Baldy offered five hundred bucks. Jack would rent his mother to a circus for that kind of money. I told him he was out of his mind, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Do you have to keep asking questions?’

  Lepski rolled his cigarette around in lips as he squinted at her.

  ‘Why did Baldy want the boat?’

  ‘He was going on a trip.’

  ‘Is that right? I didn’t imagine he wanted the boat to file his nails with. What trip? Where?’

  Goldie again hesitated.

  ‘You cops! You make me sick! Always questions and no action. If you must know . . . Havana. He said he would be back in three weeks: it’s now eight weeks. Now we hear he was in Paradise City last Tuesday and the creep hasn’t been to see us. Now they say he is dead.’ Again she hesitated, then went on, ‘Jack’s not only worried about his boat, he’s worried about Jacey and Hans.’

  Lepski ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Jacey and Hans? Who are they?’

  ‘The crew, stupid! You don’t imagine Baldy could take a boat to Havana on his own, do you?’

  Lepski drew in a long, exasperated breath.

  ‘Are you telling me the crew as well as the boat are missing?’

  She slid her hand under her sweater to scratch her ribs.

  ‘Do you have wax in your ears? Isn’t that what I said? The crew and the boat are missing.’

  ‘So two men are missing for eight weeks and no one has reported it? Is that right?’

  Goldie shrugged.

  ‘They are homos. Who cares about homos?’

  ‘But Thomas didn’t go to the police? So why is he worried now about them?’

  ‘He’s not all that worried about them. He’s worried about his boat.’

  ‘Why didn’t he report all this?’

  Goldie scratched some more under her sweater.

  ‘Are you really as dumb as you sound?’ She looked wonderingly at him. ‘So Jack goes to the cops. He tells them his boat is missing and Hans and Jacey are missing. So what do the goddamn cops do? Do they look for the boat? Do they look for Jacey and Hans? That’s a laugh. They twist Jack’s arm and want to know where he found the money to buy the boat.’

  Lepski knew this was right.

  ‘So what do you think I am . . . I am a cop, damn it!’

  She relaxed back, regarding him.

  ‘Oh sure, but you’re off your territory. That’s why I told Jack you might be able to do something about his boat without involving him.’

  Lepski turned this over in his mind. He realised she had something.

  He pulled out his notebook.

  ‘Give me a description of the boat.’

  ‘It’s a forty foot launch, painted white; the cockpit painted red. Her name and port are in red: Gloria II. Vero Beach.’

  ‘How is she powered?’

  ‘Twin diesel if that means anything to you: it just means two screws to me.’

  Lepski scowled.

  ‘Cops can be witty, but not whores. How about the crew?’

  ‘Hans Larsen: tall, blond, twenty-five years of age, a Dane. Jacey Smith, small thin, broken nose, a negro.’

  Lepski paused in his writing and regarded her with grudging admiration.

  ‘It’s a shame your brains are between your legs,’ he said. ‘If you moved them up to your head you could have made a good cop.’

  She sneered.

  ‘Who wants to be a good cop?’

  Lepski shook his head in despair.

  ‘Who was Baldy scared of?’

  ‘Everything . . . everyone.’

  Lepski paused to light another cigarette, then he said in his cop voice, ‘If you go vague on me, I’ll toss you to the wolves. Keep talking and you and me are buddies: start stalling and you’re headed for the tank.’

  Goldie’s mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer.

  ‘Wake up, Lepski! You’re off your territory. You wouldn’t dare take me in. Lacey would castrate you.’

  Lepski knew that was possible. He rubbed the end of his nose with his pencil.

  ‘Don’t let’s argue,’ he said. ‘Baldy was scared. Everyone tells me he was scared. If you want me to find the boat, I must know who was scaring him. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘I don’t know. Jack doesn’t know. Yes, Baldy was scared. He pulled a big job and it turned out to be too big.’

  ‘How do you kno
w?’

  ‘He told us. He said it was the biggest job he had ever pulled.’

  ‘I know all that,’ Lepski said impatiently. ‘What was the job?’

  ‘Do you imagine we were crazy enough to ask him?’

  Lepski decided she was telling the truth.

  ‘Fifteen minutes ago, a gunman walked into Mai Langley’s room and put a slug in her head,’ he said after a pause. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. When you live the way Jack and I have to live, you have to know what’s going on . . . sometimes before it happens.’ Goldie was now speaking quietly and her eyes were troubled. ‘A friend called us.’

  ‘And if Mai hadn’t had her head shot off, you wouldn’t now be flapping with your mouth?’

  Goldie lit another cigarette. Lepski saw her hand was unsteady.

  ‘This is a mess,’ she said. ‘Someone is shutting mouths.’ For the first time since he had been in the room, he saw she was losing her poise. Fear was beginning to show in her eyes. ‘What are you going to do for us, Lepski?’

  ‘On what you’ve given me so far, nothing,’ Lepski said bluntly. ‘Use your head, baby. If you can’t put a finger on the man who was scaring Baldy and who shot Mai, what can I do?’

  ‘If I could, I’d tell you. I don’t damn well know!’

  Lepski felt he had stayed too long. Every minute he remained on Lacey’s territory was one more minute to his disadvantage.

  He got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll tell you something. Before Mai was knocked off she said the boat Baldy had hired had been sunk. This is strictly between you and me. I don’t know how Mai knew this. I didn’t have time to find out. But she said it was sunk. She said someone had shot holes in it.’ He regarded her dismay. ‘You start working out who could have shot holes in the boat. Tell Jack to use his brains to find out too . . . if he has any brains. Then if you get an idea, call me at headquarters.’

  ‘Do you mean you knew all the time Jack’s boat is sunk?’ Goldie yelled.

  ‘Don’t go shrill on me, baby. If you and Jack don’t come up with some ideas fast you’ll both see the inside of the tank as accessories.’

  Leaving her, Lepski ran down the stairs, reached his car and set off fast on his journey back to Paradise City.

  Chapter Seven

  With the help of Charley and Mike, Harry finished constructing a pair of foot-sockets with the cement they had ferried over in the dinghy to the coral reef. These sockets were to take the arms of the high dive board.

  ‘Okay, boys,’ Harry said after surveying the work. ‘We’ll let this lot set. Tomorrow, we’ll get the arms up.’ It was now after 11.00 and the sun was hot. Harry left the two negroes to row back and he swam to the shore, the warm sea washing away the sweat that had been pouring off him while he had been working on the reef.

  As there were as yet only five or six sunbathers under the umbrellas he made his way to the bar, his throat aching for an ice cold Coke.

  Joe, the barman, had the Coke ready as Harry slid onto the high stool.

  ‘I see you’ve been working out there, Mr. Harry,’ he said. ‘Plenty hot, huh?’

  Harry drank, finished the Coke and pushed the empty glass towards Joe.

  ‘Sure was. Let’s have another, Joe. Solo back yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ A second Coke slid across the counter. ‘Mr. Harry . . .’

  Harry reached for the glass, then looked inquiringly at the tall, powerfully built negro.

  ‘What is it, Joe?’

  Joe shifted uneasily. He looked around the deserted bar, then through the window at the car park, then back to Harry.

  ‘I once won a silver medal for the long jump at the Olympics, Mr. Harry.’

  Surprised, Harry smiled.

  ‘Is that right? Congratulations, Joe.’

  ‘So I reckon we have something in common, Mr. Harry.’

  ‘Cut out the mister, will you? Of course we have a lot in common.’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘Not a lot, but the Olympics is something special.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ Harry was puzzled. He looked inquiringly at the big negro. ‘Have you something on your mind, Joe?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Joe again looked out of the window, then leaning forward, lowering his voice, he said, ‘You’d better get away from here, Mr. Harry. It’s not healthy.’

  Harry regarded Joe who stared at him, his big, black eyes troubled.

  ‘Just what does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a friendly warning. Pack and go. You have no friends here, Mr. Harry, except me and Randy. No friends . . . I mean that, and there’s trouble coming for you.’

  ‘Come on, Joe. If you know something, tell me,’ Harry said, his voice a little impatient.

  ‘Mr. Solo is my boss. I owe him a living,’ Joe said, paused, then went on, ‘No one has ever knocked him off his feet and Mr. Solo is a dangerous man. That’s all, Mr. Harry. Just get away fast . . . don’t trust anyone, but me and Randy.’ Joe moved to the far end of the bar and began to busy himself preparing canapés for the noon hour rush.

  Harry hesitated, then seeing by the negro’s expression he wasn’t going to tell him anything more, he finished his drink and left the bar. He started towards his cabin as Randy appeared from his. Seeing him, Randy beckoned, then stepped back into his cabin.

  Harry joined him.

  ‘Shut the door.’ There was a quaver in Randy’s voice. ‘Seen this?’ He pointed to a newspaper spread out on the table.

  Harry closed the door, crossed to the table and bent over the newspaper.

  Staring up at him was a photograph of Baldy Riccard. The caption read: Found Dead, Have You Seen This Man?

  A jolt shot through Harry. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and read the brief account that stated that late yesterday evening, the police, acting on information, had gone to Hetterling Cove, a well-known picnic spot, and had found the body of a man buried in a sand dune. Apparently the man had died of a heart attack, but there was evidence that he had been brutally tortured before he died.

  The account went on: It is believed the dead man was a criminal known as Baldy

  Riccard. Anyone who saw this man between May 10 and 11th is asked to communicate with Police Headquarters. Paradise City 00099.

  Harry looked up at Randy who stared at him with sick, scared eyes. There was a long pause, then Harry took out his pack of Camels and offered it.

  Randy shook his head.

  ‘Do you think they can pin it on us, Harry?’

  Harry lit a cigarette.

  ‘Not unless we’re unlucky. They haven’t found the Mustang. If they do, then maybe we can start sweating.’

  ‘Do you think anyone saw us with the Mustang?’

  ‘There’s always that chance.’ Harry brooded for a long moment.

  ‘How could they have found him?’ he said as if talking to himself. He got to his feet. ‘Take it easy, Randy. Right now, we do nothing. We sit tight. Now come on, we’d better get back to work.’

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ Randy said. His eyes showed his panic. ‘I’ll make for Los Angeles. I have a cousin there.’

  ‘What good will that do you?’ Harry said, scarcely controlling his impatience. ‘If the police want you, they will find you. You can’t hide from them forever. Use your head. Can’t you see our best bet is to bluff it out? So okay, someone tells the police they think they saw us with the Mustang: a tall guy with a rucksack and a little guy with long hair who was carrying a guitar. Now think . . . how many tall guys with rucksacks and little guys with long hair and guitars have you seen on the highway on your way down here? Dozens? Hundreds? So if we are unlucky and the police come here and ask questions, we know nothing about anything. We came down here on the thumb. We know nothing about a Mustang, and we know nothing about Baldy Riccard. They can’t pin anything on us unless one or both of us cracks.’ He stared steadily at Randy. ‘I’m not cracking . . . so that leaves you.’

  Randy lic
ked his dry lips.

  ‘It’s fine for you. You’re in the clear, but I’m a draft dodger.’

  ‘So what? So you get picked up for dodging the draft and that’s just your hard luck, but it’s nothing. You get picked up on a murder rap that sticks . . . that’s something. Right?’

  Randy thought about this for a long, uneasy moment, then he nodded.

  ‘Yes . . . I guess that’s right.’

  ‘Come on, then; stop looking as if the end of the world’s arrived. Let’s get back to work.’ Harry paused to fold the newspaper and drop it into the trash basket, then he walked into the hot sunshine.

  Reluctantly, Randy followed him. They walked along the path until they reached the bar entrance, then Harry suddenly put his hand on Randy’s arm and pulled him back into the shade as he saw the white Mercedes come into the car park.

  A squat, heavily built man was at the wheel: his round, fat face was swarthy and suntanned, his small eyes, black and glittering, his mouth thin. He wore a panama hat pulled down low on his face and a bottle green shabby suit. Mrs. Carlos, her face half hidden behind her sun goggles, was in the passenger seat.

  The squat man stopped the car, got out, ran around the car and opened the offside door. Mrs. Carlos got out. She had on a white mother hubbard and sandals. The squat man handed her a beach bag, took off his hat, bowed, got back into the Mercedes and drove away.

  Mrs. Carlos made her way down to the beach.

  ‘Who’s the fat man?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Fernando, her chauffeur,’ Randy told him.

  ‘Ever seen him drive a green and white Chevy?’

  Randy stared at him.

  ‘That’s his own car. He drives it sometimes when he has messages for Mrs. Carlos. What’s with the questions?’

  Harry was remembering the green and white Chevrolet which had followed him from the airport after he had collected Baldy Riccard’s suitcase. He was pretty sure this man, Fernando, had been the driver.

  ‘What do you know about him, Randy? It’s important.’