"Made sense to me."
"Did she know where he went?"
"Why should she care? He went, period."
So far, I was getting nowhere fast.
"Did you ever meet Johnny?"
She gave me a bright sly smile.
"You've taken a long time to ask that, and let me tell you, handsome, that's the sixty thousand dollar question."
I had an instinctive hunch that I was going to strike gold. What was fifty dollars to the Agency? I peered into my depleted wallet, found fifty and gave it to her.
"I repeat, did you ever meet Johnny Jackson?"
"Two months ago, the day before Stella died."
"Come on, honey," I said impatiently. "Tell me."
"Give me a cigarette."
I took out my pack, gave her a cigarette, lit it, lit one for myself and waited.
"Well, Stella and I were in the club. We were there alone. It was the dead time. Eddy was in his office. We were talking." She grimaced. "Then these two came in. I've seen fags often enough, but these two were really something to see. One of them was black. He was the bull. The other was his boy: pretty, fair, dressed to make your eyes fall out with beads and bracelets. The black stood at the entrance. The pretty boy came mincing across the room: little steps, hips swaying. I don't have to tell you." She grimaced again. "I hate fags. They spoil the trade. They're everywhere now like a rash of cancer. He came up to our table and simpered at Stella. I thought she was going to spit at him, but instead she just sat like a waxwork. I mean that. She had gone the colour of snow and she scarcely seemed to breathe. 'Hi, Ma,' this abortion said in a high shrill voice. 'I'm short. Lend me fifty, will you?' She just sat there, staring, so I yelled to him to get the hell out. My voice seemed to break the spell. Stella said, 'My God, Johnny! What have you done to yourself?" He grinned at her. 'Come on, Ma! What have you done to yourself? Give me fifty. I'm short!' Stella started crying, so he reached for her bag and, as he was opening it to help himself, I threw my coke in his face. He started back, screaming 'You've spoilt my clothes!' Then the black came charging across the room. I thought he was going to kill me, but he grabbed hold of Johnny and hustled him out. Stella got up, still crying, and went up to her room. That was the last I saw her alive. She took a treble shot."
The jigsaw pieces were falling into place. Johnny Jackson, the son of Mitch Jackson, drug-pusher and a Medal of Honor hero, was a homosexual. This explained why the girls at Searle's school couldn't make an impression on hip; And also why all those I had talked to had said he was a nice kid, but "soft.” I felt, at last, I was getting places.
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"He could be anywhere. No, I don't, and couldn't care less. Look, handsome, I'm taking off so how about the other ten dollars?"
"Where are you going?"
She shrugged, her expression stony.
"I don't know. I've had enough of the Skin Club." She stared at me. "Do you imagine a girl with my looks and my thing will starve?"
"You must be going somewhere."
"That's for sure. New York, maybe. Somewhere where the action is. All I know right now is I want to get away from Eddy. How about the ten dollars?"
"Baby, a hundred won't get you far. New York? That's miles away from here."
She held out her hand.
"Ten bucks, handsome."
"Tell me about Eddy Raiz."
Her eyes widened.
"You crazy? That's one creep I don't talk about. Come on, handsome, I've told you about Johnny, now let's break it up."
"Eddy's in the dope racket," I said. "You don't have to tell me. It's in the big print."
She got up, walked across the room and opened the door.
"Screw the ten dollars . . . out!"
I looked at her and felt sorry for her. She was a beautifully built girl, adrift, and struggling to survive as so many kids, her age, are struggling to survive.
What had they to offer? Nothing anyone wanted except their beautifully built bodies and their willingness to drop on their backs on a bed. It never crossed their young, stupid-minds that the years move on and they would become less and less attractive. Men hunted for the young. Right now, with all the assurance her young body gave her, she couldn't imagine the time would come when some other kid, struggling to survive, would push her down the lust-queue to the waiting perverts and the drunks who would grab anyone in the shape of a woman.
"Honey, pause a moment. Think ahead. You are walking into a mess," I said. "Stella walked into a mess. Isn't there something else you can do except stripping?"
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes hostile.
"Go shake your goddamn tambourine someplace else," she said. "If there's one thing I can do well, it's to handle my own life." She pointed to the door. "Beat it!"
I walked away from her, realizing that no talk could influence her, as no talk will ever influence the kids of today unless they want to listen.
As I walked down the sleazy passage to the street, I heard her door slam.
Getting into my car, I drove down the street, turned right, saw a car edging out of a tight parking-space. I slammed on my brakes and beat another quester by a whisker. He glared at me as he went on to hunt. I locked my car, then walked fast back to Be-Be s street.
As I walked, I was jostled by the milling crowd. I found a 'doorway that gave me a clear view of Be-Be’s apartment block door. I climbed the three steps, propped myself up against the door post, lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.
Be-Be interested me. I wanted to see where she was going.
After a ten minute wait, the door behind me opened and I glanced around.
A big black buck, wearing an orange shirt and black satin trousers, moved by me. He stank of cheap scent. He took two steps forward, then stopped, turned and stared at me with menacing, bloodshot eyes.
I gave him my cop stare.
"You want something, white man?" he demanded in a gravelly voice.
"If I did, black man," I said. "I wouldn't want it from you."
He flexed his impressive muscles that made his shirt strain at the buttons.
"Take the air, white man," He snarled. "Move with the hoofs!"
I undid the middle button of my jacket and slightly opened e jacket, revealing the .38 snug in its holster.
He stared at the gun, then at me, then he gave a weak smile.
"Why didn't you say you were a cop, boss?" he said and moved away, then he set off at a fast pace, shoving his way through the crowd like a bull-dozer shifting heavy soil.
I rebuttoned my jacket, flicked my cigarette butt over the heads of the passing crowd and continued to wait. Another twenty minutes of patience brought its reward. Be-Be appeared, looked to right and left, then set off down the street. I expected her to be carrying a suitcase, but she was carrying only a sling bag.
I gave her room, then walked after her. She certainly didn't look like someone leaving town.
I had trouble keeping her in sight, weaving my way through the crowd, then abruptly she turned right and for a moment I lost her. I shoved my way past a group of Mexicans who were arguing as only Mexicans can, rounded the corner in time to see her at the far end of the street. She was about to get into a TR7. The car surprised me. It looked new, glittering paintwork: pale blue, an open top. I twisted around a fat woman, ladened with shopping-bags, as I heard the link car start up. It shot away, but I was close enough to get the number on the license plate before she whipped the car around a corner and was gone.
I scribbled the number in my notebook, then walked back to her apartment block. I pushed open the door, walked down the sleazy passage to her door. I expected it to be lucked, but it swung open at my touch.
I spent five minutes searching and came up with nothing. The portable wardrobe was empty. The bed-sheets were dirty. The shower-room, with three fat roaches having fun, looked as if it hadn't been used in months. I came to the conclusion Be-Be had conned me. This sordid room was certa
inly not her home.
I drove to the office and visited Charles Edwards, the vulture who presided over the expense accounts of all operators. After a short, sharp argument with him, I replenished my wallet, promising to give him a detail statement of how I was spending the Agency's money.
Chick Barley was out. Shutting myself in my office, I called the Traffic Control officer at police headquarters. I had already made my number with him and, as the Agency helped the police, the police helped the Agency.
"Lew," I said when he came on the line. "I want to trace a car registration number: PC400008."
"Hold it."
While I waited, I doodled on a scratch-pad thinking of Be-Be. Why had she taken me to that sordid room? Did she really mean she was quitting the Skin Club? How was it she owned an expensive sports car when she had bitten me for a hundred dollars? May be she didn't own the car: borrowed or stolen?
"Dirk?" The traffic controller came on the line. "The car is registered to Mrs. Phyllis Stobart. The address is 48, Broadhurst Boulevard. P.C."
"Thanks, Lew," I said and hung up.
I pulled the portable typewriter towards me and typed out my expense statement for Edwards. I hoped it would satisfy him.
The door opened and Chick Barley breezed in.
"You again?" He sat at his desk. "I've something for you."
He opened his desk drawer and took out a brief report. "No record of Mitch Jackson getting married, but his son John Jackson's birth was registered by Stella Jackson. Could be the wife, but more likely not."
He handed over a photocopy of the birth certificate. It told me no more than what he had already told me.
Father: Mitch Jackson. Mother: Stella Jackson. Place-of birth: 22, Grove Lane, Miami.
"Well, thanks, Chick. Tell me did you ever come across Captain Harry Weatherspoon, an Army narcotic agent?"
"You still nosing into drugs?"
"Did you?"
"I met him once. He was researching the boys, sorting the goats from the sheep." Chick pulled a face. "I didn't take to him."
"Why was that?
Chick shrugged.
"Envy, I guess. He seemed to have too much money. One of these guys with rich parents. He threw his weight around. You either like a guy or you don't. I didn't."
"Chick, could you get another little job done for me? I want to get back to Searle. I'd like to get the background of a Mrs. Phyllis Stobart of 46, Broadhurst Boulevard."
He gaped at me.
"What's she to do with Johnny Jackson?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing, but I want to know about her just in case."
"Well, Terry hasn't a thing to do right now. I'll get him to dig. How deep?"
"As deep as he can dig."
"Well, okay. And you want it yesterday, of course."
"Tonight will do. I'll phone you from Searle. 21.00 at your place . . . right?"
"Not right. At that hour, I hope to be helping a very promising piece of goods out of her dress." He scribbled on a pad, tore off the sheet. "Call Terry. He's still too young to make dates."
"I'll call him." I left the office and dropped my expense account on Edwards's desk. He was talking on the telephone, so I gave him a cheerful wave and bolted for the elevator before he could ask awkward questions.
I got in my car and headed back to Searle.
As I parked outside The jumping Frog hotel, the church clock struck the half hour to 20.00. The drive and my thoughts had made me hungry. I climbed the steps and entered the hotel lobby, expecting to see Peggy at the reception desk, but it was deserted. I crossed the lobby and entered the restaurant. Only five commercials were eating and working.
Abraham, the old coloured waiter, beamed as he saw me and pulled out the chair at my table.
"Evening, Mr. Wallace," he said as I sat down. "I can recommend the steak stuffed with oysters."
"Sounds fine with me," I said, "and a double Scotch on the rocks." As he noted my order on his pad, I asked, "Where's Miss Peggy?"
He looked at me, his eyes sad.
"Miss Peggy ain't well. She's taking a little rest," and he shuffled off towards the kitchen.
I sat back, lit a cigarette and told my stomach to be patient.
After a ten minute wait. Abraham came shuffling out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. He placed the dish before me and the Scotch on the rocks.
"How's that, Mr. Wallace?"
"Looks good enough to eat."
I saw his expression change and look of fear come into his old eyes. I glanced around.
Harry Weatherspoon was standing in the doorway. We looked at each other, then I gave him a wide smile and a wave. He hesitated for a moment, then came over to my table.
"Hello there, Mr. Weatherspoon," I said. "Have dinner on me."
"Thanks, but I've eaten," he said and stared hard at Abraham who ducked his head in a bow and shuffled off.
"We’ll have a coffee." I said. "I wanted a word with you."
Again he hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat opposite me.
Abraham came shuffling back.
"Coffee and a brandy," Weatherspoon said curtly.
I ate some of the steak.
"Good food here," I said.
"Yes." He was regarding me thoughtfully, on the defensive.
"I hear you're buying the hotel when poor Wyatt passes on.
"There's nothing decided yet."
Abraham brought the coffee and the brandy.
"Put it on my check, Abraham," I said.
He nodded and shuffled away.
I ate some more while Weatherspoon sipped the brandy. He was still regarding me. I let him wait and I could see he was growing impatient.
"How's your investigation going?" he asked abruptly.
"Slow progress. I was talking to Colonel Jefferson Haverford." I looked up sharply, giving him my cop stare.
His eyes flickered, but his face remained expressionless.
"How's the colonel?" he asked.
"You did a snow job with me, didn't you, Mr. Weatherspoon? You told me you had never seen Mitch Jackson."
He suddenly relaxed and smiled.
"Well, you did a con job with me, didn't you? That makes us quits."
I reminded myself I was talking to an ex-narcotic agent. I would have to handle him with care if I was going to get worthwhile information from him.
“That's right." I returned his smile. "Colonel Haverford told me you got evidence that Jackson was a drug-pusher and you had a warrant for his arrest."
Weatherspoon, putting sugar in his coffee, shrugged.
"Correct. It was a delicate situation. I was just ready to arrest Jackson when he went into his hero's act. Colonel Haverford and I discussed what to do and he decided we should scrub the charge. We have kept this under the wraps for over six years, now you come along and dig it up."
"My job is to find Jackson's son. If I can find him without rattling Jackson's skeleton that's fine with me."
He stared at me, then nodded.
"The kid could be anywhere. I don't envy you your job."
"Your attorney is advertising. Could turn up something."
"I heard you talked to him."
"I'm talking to a lot of people, Mr. Weatherspoon. I don't have to tell you: an investigation like this takes time and talk."
He finished his coffee, then sipped the brandy.
"Seems a lot of work to find a kid."
"That's what I'm paid for. After all, you're interested, aren't you?"
"Not any longer, I did think of buying the frog-farm, but I've changed my mind." He gave me a shifty look. "I've told Benbolt. I don't want to be bothered and don't want to spend any more money."
"So finding Johnny Jackson now means nothing to you?" He finished his brandy.
"No." He got to his feet. "Well, I have to be getting along."
"A moment, Mr. Weatherspoon. Mitch Jackson must have made a lot of money, pushing drugs. Who supplied him?"
"I don't know."
His expression had now turned wooden. "How did you get onto him? What evidence did you collect to warrant an arrest?"
"I don't discuss Army business with a private eye," he said curtly. "Good-night," and he walked across the restaurant, out into the lobby and out of my sight.
I signalled to Abraham for coffee. I sat over the coffee for some time, my mind busy, then, leaving a tip for Abraham, I went to the lobby, where there was a call-box.
Bob Wyatt was dozing behind the reception desk. He blinked awake as he saw me.
"You can make your call from your bedroom, Mr. Wallace."
Bearing in mind that the call would go through the switchboard, I smiled at him and shut myself in the call booth.
I dialled the number Chick had given me. Terry O'Brien answered as if he had been sitting, waiting for the call.
O'Brien was one of the young leg-men Colonel employed. He rail errands, did research, hummed like a bee with energy and was so full of ambition he was like to burst.
"Terry? Wallace," I said. "What have you got for me?"
"Hi, Dirk." There were sounds of rustling paper. "Phyllis Stobart? Right?"
"Right," I said, containing my impatience. "What have you got?"
"I've spent the past two hours digging in the Herald's morgue. Fan was a big help, but I haven't come up with much."
Fanny Batley, the coloured night clerk in charge of The Paradise City Herald's morgue, was always helpful. If the Parnell operators wanted to know anything about the citizens of the city, they automatically consulted her.
"So what did you find?"
"Phyllis Stobart, wife of Herbert Stobart. She's around forty, he's around forty-six, give or take. He bought a villa on Broadhurst Boulevard: high class: around a quarter to half a million. This was a year ago. They arrived out of the blue. He claims to have been an import & export merchant in the Far East: Saigon. Sold out before the Viets took over and picked up a bundle of loot. He and she moved in the lower rich strata. From the photos I've seen, he looks a real tough. One of these tycoons who've come up from nothing and throws his money around. She's got more class. I'm judging from the photographs. Their home, and again I'm judging from the photographs, is class. Three cars: a Rolls, and a Jag for him. She has a TR7. Staff of four. He's retired: plays golf and poker. She bridge." He paused, then asked hopefully, "How's that?"
1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Page 10