1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf

by James Hadley Chase

  All thoughts of talking to Harry Weatherspoon and Wally Watkins were dismissed. I had to find Mrs. Stella Costa, and pronto.

  Paradise City has the reputation of being the most expensive, lush-plush city in the world. To keep this reputation, and to cosset the billionaires who live in the city, it is essential to employ a vast army of workers, street-cleaners, hotel staff and life-guards. This vast army resided in Secomb, a mile drive from the city.

  Secomb is not unlike West Miami: a compact town of walk-up apartment blocks, tatty bungalows, cheap eating-places, tough bars and a number of sleazy nightclubs.

  Macey Street led off Seaview Road, which is the heart of Secomb's busy shopping centre.

  I was lucky to find a hole in which to park my car. I looked for No. 7 and No. 9. While I looked I was jostled by a steady stream of shoppers: white, black and yellow. Secomb was as active as a kicked-over ant-hill.

  No. 7 proved to be a small, shabby tailor's shop. The owner, a Chinese, standing in his doorway, gave me a hopeful smile. I moved on. No. 9 looked more promising: a shabby door, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a drugstore.

  On this door was a sign that read: Rooms To Let: Vacancies. I walked into a dimly lit lobby that smelt of stale cooking, cats and garbage. To my left was a door on which hung a sign: Rental Office. I rapped on the door, pushed it open and walked into a small office. At the shabby, chipped desk sat a black man, reading a racing sheet. He was well into his seventies, woolly white hair, dressed in a dark blue aged suit. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a small black hat rested on the back of his head.

  Laying down the racing sheet, he regarded me and then gave me a sly, inquiring smile.

  "What do you fancy for tomorrow's three o'clock, mister?" he asked.

  I moved up to the desk.

  "I wouldn't know. I'm not a racing man."

  He nodded.

  "I didn't think you were, but it's always worth a try." He eyed me over, then went on, "And you're not looking for one of my rooms?"

  "No. I'm looking for Mrs. Stella Costa."

  He lifted shaggy eyebrows.

  "Now, what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"

  I gave him a friendly smile.

  "She'll tell you if she wants you to know."

  He thought about this, taking of his spectacles, then putting them back on.

  "She wouldn't give me the time of day."

  "That's sad. Where's her room?"

  "Mrs. Stella Costa?"

  I gave him my cop stare.

  "I haven't time to waste. Where do I find heir."

  "Not here. That's for sure. She moved out years ago." I pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat astride it. "I didn't get your name."

  "Just call me Washington. My dear and departed parents had a sense of humour."

  "Well, Mr. Washington, can you tell me where she moved to?"

  He produced a grubby handkerchief, took off his spectacles and began to polish them.

  "We folk in Secomb, mister, have to be careful about giving out information about folk," he said, squinting at me. "I would like to repeat my original question: what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"

  I had experienced this approach often enough when working for my father. I knew the key that opened the door. I took out my wallet and produced a $20 bill. I fingered it, folded it, then looked at him.

  By this time he had replaced his spectacles. He eyed the bill, then me.

  "I see you are an intelligent young man," he said. "A little oil always makes a machine run better."

  "Where do I find Mrs. Costa?" I asked.

  “That's a good question. Where do you find her? I am an honest man, and I would very much like to earn that offering you are showing me, but I believe in giving value for money. Frankly, young man, I don't know where she is, but I can tell you some of her history. Would that interest you?"

  I dropped the bill on the desk before him. He regarded it, then picked it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket.

  "Now, mister," he said, smiling, "we're in business. You are asking about Mrs. Stella Costa?"

  "Yes, Mr. Washington. What can you tell me about her?" He held up a pink-black hand.

  "Please don't call me Mr. Washington. That gives me a superiority complex and at my age, that is bad for me. Call me Wash, as everyone does around here."

  "Okay, Wash. She lived here and she's gone . . . right?"

  "That is correct."

  "How long did she stay here?"

  "You want me to start at the beginning?"

  "That's the idea."

  "Well, then. Some twenty years ago, she came here with her baby son. I don't remember the exact date, but it would be some twenty years ago. From the look of her, I thought she would he about seventeen years of age. She hired my two best rooms. She called herself Stella Costa, but I'm inclined to think that wasn't her real name."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "As owner of a rooming-house, I have to be a little particular," he said and gave me his sly grin.

  "When she was out, leaving the baby crying, I looked in just to be sure the baby wasn't making a noise for nothing." Again the sly smile. "I have a pass-key. The baby was just yelling as babies do. There was an envelope in the trash-basket, addressed to Mrs. Stella Jackson, so I assumed she was using another name."

  "Did she earn a living?"

  "Oh yes. She was remarkably pretty and well built. Quite outstanding. She got jobs with various strip-tease clubs."

  "While she worked at the clubs, what happened to the baby?"

  "She only worked nights. There was no problem about the baby.

  "This went on for how long?"

  "Some five years. She always paid the rent. She slept most of the day. In spite of neglect, the baby survived."

  "The baby grew up?"

  "You can't stop babies growing up, can you?"

  "Eventually he went to school?"

  "Of course. It may surprise you, but here in Secomb have a good school. Johnny went there. He was a nice kid: perhaps a little soft, but I was fond of him." He took off his spectacles and polished them again. "It was a pity about his mother."

  "What about his mother?"

  "Well, Mrs. Costa didn't make much money. So she brought men back and Johnny, of course, was in the way. She sent him out to wander the streets until her men friends left. Sometimes, when I wasn't busy, the kid would come to die and I'd give him a bite to eat, but most times I was busy, so he would walk around, often in the rain. He told me that as soon as he could he was leaving home. I didn't take this seriously: kids talk that way, but I should have, I guess. Anyway, whets he was around nine years old, he did leave. He was here one day and gone the next. Mrs. Costa asked me if I knew where he had gone. I gave her a little lecture about the duties of I mother, but she told me to shut my mouth. She said it way good riddance and she had had enough of Johnny.” He rubbed the end of his black nose and shook his head. "She wasn't the maternal type."

  "When did she leave here?" I asked.

  "About two years after Johnny left. Her last job was at the Skin Club."

  I groaned to myself. The gold scam I had thought so promising was petering out.

  "She left no forwarding address?"

  "In my business, I don't forward letters nor do I ask questions. So long as I get the rent, they come and they go."

  "Did you ever talk to Johnny about his father?"

  "Just once. I wasn't curious, you understand. I was just making talk with the kid while he ate. He told me his father was the best and finest soldier in the Army. I asked him why he thought that, but he just smiled at me and I could see he really thought it was time. He was only seven years old then. You know how kids talk. I thought nothing of it, except to feel sorry for him. I guessed he was a kid of some soldier who had knocked up Mrs. Costa. I guess she must have told the kid that his father was the finest and the bravest. I don't know why else h
e should have been so proud of an unknown father."

  It seemed to me I had got all the information I could out of this old man. I had learned a little, but I still had to find Stella Costa.

  "Where do I find the Skin Club?" I asked, standing up.

  "East side of Secomb Road." He peered at me. "It's owned by a Mexican, Edmundo Raiz. Are you planning to talk to him? If you are, keep your hand on your pocket book."

  "Thanks, Wash, see you around," I said and left.

  The Skin Club was a typical cellar joint that catered for the depraved, the drunks and the randy tourists.

  This was the dead time for all nightclubs. The time, by my watch, was 18.05. I paused to look at the fly-blown photographs of strippers, a three-piece black band and a large black woman who leered at me from a fading gilt frame. I descended a long flight of stairs, covered with a tatty red carpet, pushed aside a bead curtain and entered a big room with tables, chairs, a bar at one end and a band dais at the other end.

  One solitary light hung over the bar where a man stood staring down at a sheet of paper. He was probably totalling up last night's loot.

  This man was dark, swarthy with a pencil-lined moustache and a face that looked as if it had been carved out of stone. He was short, compactly built, with square, powerful shoulders. He lifted his head and gave me a long, steady stare as I crossed the room towards him.

  "The bar's closed," he said curtly.

  "I don't need a drink," I said, coming to rest at the bar. "I'm Dirk Wallace. I work for Howard & Benbolt, the attorneys. I'm looking for information."

  A flicker of interest crossed his face.

  "Yeah? What information?"

  "We are trying to trace Mrs. Stella Costa. I understand she once worked here."

  His black eyes narrowed.

  "Howard & Benbolt?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Why do they want to trace her?"

  "She's been left a small legacy," I lied. "We want to clear up the estate."

  He ran a powerful-looking hand over his sleek hair.

  "How small?"

  "Small. Not your kind of money, Mr. Raiz, but we want it cleared up. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

  At this moment a girl came out of a room at Eke far end, by the band dais. She came across the big room with long, graceful strides. I reacted to her like steel filings react to a magnet. She was around twenty-two, above average height with silky, long, black hair. She wore skin-tight jeans and a skin-tight T-shirt that framed her breasts. She was the sexiest menace to men I had seen for a long time.

  Raiz glared at her.

  "Piss off, Be-Be," he snarled. "I'm busy."

  She came up to the bar and smiled at me. She had sensual red lips and even white teeth.

  "Cheapie has to act tough," she said. "Excuse him. He's only just started to wear shoes. Who are you?"

  "Dirk Wallace." I eyed her, thinking one night in bed with her would put me in an intensive-care unit, but it would be worth it.

  "Hi, Dirk!" She thrust her breasts at me, made a face at Raiz, then she went around the bar and pointed to a bottle of Cutty Sark. "Give Dirk a drink and stop acting like a greaser, Eddy."

  "This sex symbol is Be-Be Mansel. She works here and screws everything except elephants," Raiz said. He reached for the bottle and poured three drinks. "Ignore her. Her brains are strictly between her legs."

  Be-Be giggled.

  "Don't listen to him. Just because he never got there, he's sour." She raised her glass and emptied it in one long, thirsty swallow.

  "Will you piss off now, baby?" Raiz said in a soft menacing voice. "This is business."

  "I heard. Handsome wants to know where he can find Stella. Why make a thing of it?" she said. "Be your age, Eddy. Tell him."

  It happened so quickly, I had no chance to intervene. Moving with the speed of a striking cobra, Raiz hit her with his open hand across her face, sending her crashing back against the rows of bottles, bringing a number of them tumbling down on the floor behind the bar. Then he grabbed hold of her belt, flung her over the bar, sweeping away my drink. She landed on all fours, was up and of like a startled deer to the door by the band dais and disappeared.

  Raiz gave me a thin smile as I gaped.

  "Forget it, Mr. Wallace," he said. "In my trade you have to know how to handle broads. I'll get you another drink." As he poured, he went on, "Stella Costa? That's interesting. She worked for me for a long time. She was my best stripper. That kid, Be-Be, isn't bad, but she hasn't the real touch." He placed the drink before me. "To be tops, a girl has to have just a little extra something."

  "I guess." I used some of the drink. "Where do I find Mrs. Stella Costa?"

  "Yeah." He gave me another of his thin smiles. "Howard & Benbolt? They must be rolling in the green. What's the reward worth?"

  "No reward. I told you. We want to clear up the estate. If you must know, she was left three thousand dollars. That would be chick-feed to you, wouldn't it?"

  "Who left it to her?"

  "I wasn't told. Who cares? Where do I find her?"

  His face turned blank.

  "I wouldn't know. She quit a year ago. She started to put on weight." He drank, shook his head. "She must have been shoving forty. My clients like them young."

  "She just quit?"

  "Well, maybe I persuaded her." He produced his thin grin again.

  "Didn't she say where she was going?"

  He looked bored.

  "I didn't ask."

  Another goddamn dead end, I thought.

  "Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Raiz. We'll now have to advertise."

  His eyes shifted.

  "Who cares about a whore?"

  "Was that what she was?"

  "Do you have to have it in big print?"

  "We'll advertise. Should be a boost for your club. Will Stella Costa, stripper and prostitute who worked at the Skin Club, please get in touch . . . " I gave him my knowing smile. “ You know the guff."

  "You don't mention my club!" There was a sudden snarl in his voice.

  "Why not? Lots of tourists would like to know where they can find a stripper, plus a whore. It'd be food for trade, Mr. Raiz."

  He leaned forward, glaring at me.

  "You mention the name of my club and I'll sue!"

  "Okay. Then I'll go along to the cop house and ask them. They might come up with more information than you're offering."

  "Get the hell out of here!"

  chapter five

  Where?" I asked I asked as we got into my car.

  "Straight ahead. Left at the traffic lights. Left again at the next junction." She put her hand to her cheek. "That bastard hurt me."

  "Not as much as I hurt him," I said, as I started the engine.

  "Goodie! I've had it up to here with him. I'm quitting."

  I drove to the traffic lights, turned left, slowed, then at the first junction turned left again.

  "That dump on your right," she said.

  By a miracle there was parking-space and I pulled up outside a shabby, five-storey building.

  "This it?"

  "Yes, handsome. My stinking little pad." She slid out of the car and walked up broken steps to a battered front door. She kicked it open, walked down a dark corridor, fumbled in her bag, found a key, unlocked a door and entered. I kept close behind her.

  We entered a tiny room that contained a camp-bed, a portable wardrobe, a small table and chair. A dusty, threadbare carpet covered the floor. A door to the left that stood open revealed a toilet and shower.

  I closed the door and looked around.

  "Is this your home?" I asked.

  She went over to the bed and sat on it. It creaked and sagged.

  "It's somewhere to sleep." She shrugged. "I spend all my waking hours at the club. Sit down, handsome." She motioned to the chair. "The bed won't hold the weight of both of us, so don't get hopeful ideas."

  I sat astride the chair and regarded her.

  "Why do
you want to find Stella?" she asked.

  "I don't. I want to find Johnny Jackson who I think is her son.

  She ran a finger along the crease in her jeans.

  "What makes you think Stella had a son?"

  "Didn't she?"

  She gave a giggling little laugh.

  "Why do you want to find Johnny Jackson?"

  "His grandpa left him a frog-farm. Someone wants to buy it. Without Johnny's say-so the farm can't be sold."

  "Is it worth much?"

  "Enough. Look, honey, don't let's waste too much time. If I find Stella, I could find Johnny and I could relax and forget about this minor deal. Do you know where I can find her?"

  She fingered her cheek. A small bruise was now showing. "I've had it up to here with Eddy. I'm quitting. Suppose you give me a hundred dollars. I need a getaway stake."

  "Why should I?"

  "I could tell you about Stella and Johnny so you can relax."

  I took out my wallet, extracted a $20 bill and offered it.

  "What's that for?" But she took it.

  "Start talking, honey. The rest will come if you give me what I want."

  "Stella died of an overdose. She had been on heroin for months. That's why Eddy booted her out."

  "Eddy told me she had been killed by a hit-and-run."

  She nodded.

  "He would say that. He's sensitive about drugs."

  "Stella got her shots from him?"

  "I didn't say that, did I?" Her eyes turned cold. "Stella's dead."

  "You knew her?"

  "Of course. She taught me the stripping trade. I've got her job now."

  "Did she tell you Johnny was her son?"

  "Did she say who the father was?"

  "Another $20 buys the answer to that one."

  So I gave her another bill.

  "She told me the father was a soldier out in Vietnam."

  "Were they married?"

  She grimaced.

  "Who wants to get married these days?"

  "Did she talk about her son?"

  "Not often, but every now and then when she was high she did."

  "What did she tell you about him?"

  "She said he ran away when he was a kid and she was damn' glad he did."

  "Did she say why?"

  "He was in the way. She had her boyfriends who didn't want a kid around." she nodded to herself.