There’s a Hippie on the Highway

Chapter Six

As red streaks began to lighten the night sky, Harry Mitchell came cautiously out of his cabin. He had on swim trunks and was carrying Baldy Riccard’s suitcase. The only two things he had kept from the case was the Luger automatic pistol and the box of cartridges. These he had hidden under a loose board by his bed.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment. The time was 04.55. No lights showed. Nothing was to be heard except the rustling of palm leaves as the slight breeze stirred the hot air.

Satisfied he had the place to himself, he walked quickly and silently down to the beach and into the sea. He turned on his back, holding the suitcase on his chest, and with powerful leg movements, headed away from the shore. When he was above deep water, he twisted over, releasing the case. Then diving, he followed its slow descent until it settled on the ocean bed. He surfaced and peered down, but the suitcase was gone: only the inky water marked the spot where it was.

He swam slowly back to the beach, and as he began to walk across the sand to his cabin, he saw a light go up in Solo Dominico’s room.

He reached the cabin, shut himself in and dried himself off. Then he put on slacks, a short-sleeved shirt and rope soled shoes.

He had a little over twenty minutes before he had to join Solo. He sat on his bed and lit a cigarette. While he smoked, his mind went to the previous night. He felt hot blood move through his veins as he pictured again his explosive coupling with Nina. As a sexual experience, this had been unique. He thought of his dead wife, Joan, who had been afraid of sex, and with whom he finally was unable to live. The draft order, calling him to the Army, when he had almost made up his mind to leave her, had given him the welcomed excuse. So he had gone. He had realised when he got the news of her suicide that he had failed to conceal his eagerness to leave her. He hadn’t intentionally meant to hurt her, but because the two years he had lived with her had stifled him as nothing he could imagine could ever stifle a man, he had become indifferent to her feelings. If he had been more patient, he told himself, more understanding, if he had made an effort to help her, they might have ironed out their problems. Thinking about this and thinking honestly, he doubted it. Sex to him was the most natural thing: something to enjoy, not to brood about, not to make more important than anything else in his life. Sex was to have when the urge came and to wait for when the urge wasn’t there. Her complications and her fears had hurt him, then finally bored him.

There was a letter waiting for him when he left the ship at Saigon.

She said she was a mess. One of the things for which he had once loved her was her complete honesty. She said she should never have married, and she was sorry.

She concluded:

He had a telegram from his father saying she had been found in the bath with her wrists slashed and he had better apply for compassionate leave and come home.

But there was a battle about to begin, and Harry didn’t apply for leave. He went into battle, depressed and shocked and guilt ridden. By the time the battle was over, after he had seen the dead and the wounded, after he had dropped out of the hot sky through a hail of machine gun bullets, after he had spent two weeks in a foxhole, hating himself for his own awful body smell and after he had killed four little yellow men, Joan’s suicide was no longer important.

More important to him had been Nhan, the Vietnamese girl whom he had discovered on a street corner, stirring a delicious smelling soup made in a battered can that had once held a gallon of sweet-sour cucumbers. The whiff of cooking had made him stop, and he had squatted by her side, accepting the bowl of soup she had offered, and they had talked.

Nhan spoke fair English. She wore her long, black hair in a pigtail: that told him she was a virgin: only married Vietnamese women wore their hair up.

He had been on leave for two weeks. Every morning around 11.00, he had arrived at the street corner to drink Nhan’s soup. Then one day, he discovered he was in love with her. Later, she told him she had fallen in love with him the moment she had seen him.

They had begun an association which was to Harry the fulfillment of a dream: love with no complications.

He stubbed out his cigarette, wincing as he thought of that day when he had come back to Saigon after four weeks in the bullet torn paddy field and was told Nhan was dead. A bomb, viciously tossed into the market, had killed ten Vietnamese, including Nhan, plastering their bodies against a wall in a messy horror that had to be hosed away by the fire brigade.

Harry rubbed his temples with his fingers. Now last night and the beginning of something new. This was his first encounter with a woman who felt about sex as he did: utterly uninhibited, using him to satisfy her sexual demands. Thinking about this, Harry decided it was what he needed. He was sick of complications: so sick of women who gave themselves to him only to involve him, to shackle him, to stifle him in their web of possessiveness.

Nina, with her sensual beauty, had been a devastating surprise of the unexpected. Now, she promised to give him what he had been seeking.

He remembered Randy’s warning: She’s for nobody, unless you want to tangle with Solo.

Solo didn’t worry him. He was sure that if it came to a real fight, he could take Solo, but that wasn’t the problem. Solo was Nina’s father.

He rubbed his temples, frowning. She had come to him. She had thrown herself at him. Could Solo complain? His chattel, she had said. What right had any father to regard his daughter as his chattel?

Complications... problems... complications... problems.

Impatiently, Harry got to his feet and left the cabin. He went along to the kitchen where he found Solo sipping steaming coffee, a cigar between his thick fingers as he sat at the table, the overhead light casting his enormous shadow half on the table and half on the floor.

‘Hi, Harry!’ Solo grinned. ‘I tried to tell you last night. I won’t need you this morning. I want you to get on with the high dive board. I talked to Hammerson. He is sending the timber this morning.’ Solo’s little eyes screwed up as he regarded Harry. ‘I came to your cabin late to tell you, but you weren’t there.’ He leaned forward, his eyes quizzing. ‘Did you find a little girl to spread on the sand?’

His face wooden, Harry said, ‘That’s my business, Solo.’

Solo finished his coffee at a gulp.

‘I don’t care if you stick it into them, Harry, but no pups. I don’t want trouble around my beautiful restaurant.’

‘I am an adult,’ Harry said impatiently. ‘I’m not one of your hired kids... relax.’

‘Yeah... I was forgetting. Excuse me.’ Solo crossed the kitchen and picked up four big wicker baskets. ‘You get on with the high dive board, hey?’ He started for the door, then paused, his head on one side as he peered at Harry. ‘What did you say you were?’

‘An adult... a grown up person.’ Harry felt a warning prickle of danger.

‘Is that right? A grown up person, hey?’ Solo suddenly released a harsh bellow of laughter. ‘Excuse me. That’s what we’re all supposed to be... hey?’

‘That’s the theory,’ Harry said quietly.

‘But some are more than others, hey?’ Solo’s little eyes turned misty. ‘I bet you think you’re a little more grown up than me, hey?’

‘Did I say so, Solo?’

‘Oh no, but then you say very little, Harry, and that makes you a very smart boy.’ Solo opened the door. ‘I’ll be back around ten.’ He went out into the half-light and Harry, standing motionless, waited for some minutes. It wasn’t until he heard the Buick start up and drive away that he relaxed. He looked at his wristwatch. The time was 05.40. He crossed to the stove, took off the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

Something wrong, he thought. Could Solo have become suspicious already? He sipped the hot, black coffee, uneasy and puzzled. Something wrong, he told himself again.

‘Harry?’

The soft whisper made him turn sharply, slopping his coffee.

Nina stood in the doorway. She had on a shortie, see-through nightdress, her silky hair in disorder. She looked as if she had just rolled out of bed.

Harry felt a rush of blood through his body at the sight of her. He put down the cup and crossed towards her. She retreated, beckoning to him. Following her down the passage, he came to her room.

He was too aware of her to register much of the room except it seemed to fit her personality. It was bright, gay, big and neat and a blaze of colours.

He stood by the door which he had closed and watched her slip out of her nightdress. Then naked, she faced him, her arms thrown wide, her lips parted in a fixed smile of desire, her dark nipples erect and hard.

Again Harry felt the prickle of danger.

I am an adult, he had said to Solo. Was this true? Was this blatant sexual offering something a thinking adult could possibly accept? Wasn’t he really acting like one of those goddamn adolescents like Randy?

She moved to the bed and lowered herself onto it, looking at him.

‘Come to me.’

He longed to throw off his clothes and join her, but there was this warning bell ringing in his mind. He must not let any woman dominate him: even a woman who apparently was demanding nothing in return.

He remained by the door.

‘Put on your swimsuit, Nina,’ he said, his voice unsteady. ‘Let’s swim.’

‘Later... come to me.’

She leaned back on her elbows, her knees slightly apart: there was naked desire in her eyes that hammered at his determination.

‘I’ll wait,’ he said and went from the room. He walked slowly back to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. He saw his hands were shaking. He spooned sugar into the cup, spilling sugar on the floor. He sipped the coffee, staring out of the window at the lightening sky. He heard her come down the passage and he turned, his heart thumping.

She was wearing a scarlet bikini, a towel in her hand. She smiled at him.

‘So let’s swim.’

He stopped at his cabin to put on his wet swim trunks while she walked on slowly across the sand. When he reached the beach, she was swimming well and strongly, and with a racing dive, he went after her. When he caught up with her, she trod water and smiled at him.

‘You are an odd ball, Harry. Couldn’t you have given me a little pleasure?’ She flicked water into his face and then dropped on her back, still smiling at him.

‘I had been talking to Solo,’ Harry said. ‘He was too close. I keep remembering he is your father.’

‘Phooey! In another hour, everyone will be up. Let’s swim back. You can’t be this stupid! I want to be loved!’

‘It’s too dangerous. Even this is dangerous. Do you want me to have trouble with your father?’

‘Are you frightened of him?’

‘No, but I am frightened of what could happen. I could kill him... I might have to kill him.’ He peered at her in the half-light. ‘Would you want that?’

She grimaced. ‘You are so serious. Can’t you take what I’m offering without all this fuss?’

Harry started back. After a moment, she joined him, saying nothing until they reached the shore. As they walked up the slope that led to dry sand, she said, ‘So when do we make love again?’

‘Is there any chance of me going with you to Sheldon Island on Sunday?’

She stopped abruptly.

‘Who told you about Sheldon Island?’

‘Randy... he said you went there to be alone.’

She smiled.

‘That’s a marvellous idea... there we can be alone for hours and hours. My father sleeps most of Sunday. The restaurant is closed. He lets me have the boat. Yes... then Sunday.’

‘Okay. The day after tomorrow. Keep away from me until then, Nina. I’ll meet you at the boat station at six o’clock.’

‘Yes... I’ll bring food.’

He left her and reentered the sea, swimming with swift strong strokes towards the coral reef where he planned to build the high dive board.

Lieutenant Alan Lacey of the Miami Homicide Squad was a little man with a hatchet-shaped face, thin lips and small eyes that were as animated as sea washed pebbles. He was a man disliked by the Force, by criminals and even by his wife. He liked being disliked. He felt he was achieving something by making people afraid of him. He was a man of cunning rather than brains. At the age of fifty-seven, he was very conscious that he now would remain a Lieutenant and further promotion was out of his reach. This soured him. Any smart cop, any ambitious, eager young recruit was immediately submitted to his sadistic, razor-sharp tongue. If there was anything Lieutenant Lacey hated more than anything else, it was an ambitious cop.

He arrived outside The Lobster & Crab in his immaculate Jaguar, bought with his wife’s money, accompanied by Sergeant Pete Weidman: fat, fast and stupid who only held his position as Sergeant because he was Lacey’s stooge, whipping boy and yes-man.

As these two police officers arrived, an ambulance came to rest outside the restaurant and two interns hurried in. There were four mobile cops standing around with bored expressions and Lepski was standing near them, looking hot and uncomfortable. Lepski knew he shouldn’t be here: that he was off his territory. He also knew all about Lieutenant Lacey and what to expect. There was a good chance now that Lacey would file a report against him that could blow his ambitions to become Detective 1st Grade sky high.

While waiting for Lacey to arrive, Lepski decided, when Lacey interrogated him, to say as little as possible and to act as dumb as possible, then if the going got too hot, to pass the buck to Captain Terrell who most certainly would handle Lieutenant Lacey whereas Lepski as Detective 2nd Grade was in a hopeless tactical position.

Lepski, sweating, watched Lacey, followed by Weidman, get out of the Jaguar Lacey surveyed the crowd surrounding the entrance to the restaurant with cold, stony eyes. He told the four mobile cops to get them moving. He walked by Lepski as if he didn’t see him and went to view the bodies. He surveyed Do-Do’s mountainous body with a disgusted curl of his lip. He climbed the stairs and surveyed Mai Langley’s body with considerably more interest. He was glad that her head had been damaged and not her body. He allowed his eyes to dwell on her half nakedness until he became aware that Weidman too was staring with fascinated interest.

Lacey snarled: ‘What the hell are you staring at?’

Weidman blinked, dragged his eyes away and looked stupidly at the Lieutenant.

‘Sir?’

‘Haven’t you seen a dead woman before?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, stop behaving like a goddamn tourist!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Lacey took off his hat, smoothed down his hair and replaced his hat.

‘Did I see a creep from Paradise City’s headquarters out there?’

Weidman blinked. ‘I didn’t see anyone, sir.’

‘But then you never see anything, do you?’ Lacey looked around, saw a chair that looked reasonably comfortable and went over and sat in it. He took a sealskin cigar case from his pocket which his wife had given him for a Christmas present, selected a cigar and put it between his small, sharp teeth. ‘Bring him up!’

Weidman lumbered away. Five minutes later, he returned with Lepski. Knowing he was in dead trouble, Lepski stood at attention, his eyes fixed on the wall above the Lieutenant’s head.

‘Who is this man, Sergeant?’ Lacey asked as he lit his cigar.

‘Detective 2nd Grade Lepski, Paradise,’ Weidman said. He had checked as he had come up the stairs with Lepski.

Lacey shook his head.

‘I don’t believe it. No detective from Paradise would dream of coming onto my territory without permission.’ His bleak eyes surveyed Lepski who moved uneasily. ‘Or would he?’

‘Lieutenant, I was following up a tip,’ Lepski said, his expression wooden. ‘It was nothing important otherwise I would have reported to you first.’

‘Nothing important... just two stiffs. What do you call important... a goddamn massacre?’

‘It developed into this, Lieutenant. I was talking to this woman.’ Lepski paused to nod to Mai Langley’s body, then went on, ‘A man burst in and killed her.’

‘A man? Where is he?’ Lacey regarded his cigar to make sure it was burning evenly.

‘He got away.’

‘In my territory, a second grade Detective always calls a Lieutenant sir.’

‘He got away, sir.’

‘He got away?’ The exaggerated amazement in Lacey’s voice made Lepski wince. Lacey turned to Weidman. ‘Did you hear that, Sergeant? A vicious gunman came here, killed this woman and then killed another woman and then walked out while one of Paradise City’s so-called officers was right here on the spot.’

Weidman contorted his face to express outrage, but succeeded only in looking like a sow in labour.

Lacey turned back to Lepski.

‘How did he get away?’

‘In a car, sir.’

Lacey smiled: a frosty smile, but a smile.

‘Well, at least, that is something. Give Sergeant Weidman the number of the car and we will trace it. Weidman write down the number.’

Lepski controlled the urge to shuffle his feet.

‘I didn’t get the number, sir. By the time...’

‘Okay, okay, you don’t have to paint a picture. Wonderful! This gunman walks in here, kills two women and you let him drive away and don’t even take the number of the car. That’s really something. That’s really something for the record. Did you say you were Third or Second Grade, Lepski?’

‘Second Grade, sir.’

‘Still more wonderful. I always suspected that Paradise City had the worst cops on the coast, now I’m sure of it. Maybe you can give me a description of the man?’

‘He was around five foot five, squat, heavily built, around 160 lbs., masked. He was wearing a peppermint stripe suit, panama hat and carrying a Walther 7.65 automatic,’ Lepski said a little breathlessly. ‘He was wearing a handkerchief as a mask.’

‘You truly amaze me,’ Lacey sneered. ‘Where were you when you observed all this... lying on the floor?’

‘Yes, sir. He came in...’

‘When I want you to flap with your mouth I’ll ask you,’ Lacey snarled. He paused to draw on his cigar, savoured the smoke that rolled out of his mean little mouth, then he pointed the cigar at Mai Langley’s body. ‘What was she to you?’

‘I’m working on the Baldy Riccard case, sir. She was his girlfriend.’

Lacey flicked ash onto the threadbare carpet.

‘Who the hell cares about Baldy Riccard?’

‘There’s a report that he’s been knocked off. Captain Terrell ordered me to check,’ Lepski said, hoping he was playing a King to a Queen. By the sudden flicker that crossed Lacey’s face, he decided he had.

‘How is Captain Terrell?’ Lacey asked. He remembered that Terrell was a close friend of his own Chief. He also remembered his Chief had said only a week or so ago that Lacey was dragging his feet, and when his Chief passed a remark like that, red lights began flashing. Maybe, he thought, he had better go easy with this slob or there might be a boomerang in it. Lacey never placed himself in the path of any boomerang: one of the reasons why he still survived as Lieutenant Homicide.

‘He’s fine, sir.’

‘I’m surprised he could be fine with a poop like you working for him.’

Lepski swallowed the insult and said nothing.

‘So what did this woman have to tell you. Detective 2nd Grade Lepski?’ Lacey asked, rolling smoke around in his mouth before releasing it in Lepski’s direction.

This was something Lepski was determined not to impart. Had Lacey been cooperative, Lepski would have given him all the information he had, but he was now determined to give him nothing after this treatment.

‘I was just asking her, sir, where Baldy could be when this gunman arrived and killed her,’

‘So you learned nothing?’

Lepski shuffled his feet, looked hangdog and said nothing. He wasn’t going to be caught in a deliberate lie.

Lacey regarded him with distaste.

‘Go away, you horrible creep,’ he said. ‘If ever I find you on my territory without permission again, I’ll put you through my special wringer. I am going to put in a report about you, Lepski. It is my urgent hope and prayer that it will break you and one of these days when I visit your City, I will come across you, pounding a beat. Get the hell out of my sight!’

Lepski left. He went down the stairs, shoved his way through the crowd that still surged around the entrance to the restaurant, muttering profanities under his breath. He finally reached his car, got in and slammed the door. He sat for several minutes, trying to control his surging rage. Then as he started the engine, a dirty, ragged little boy with long, black hair and almond shaped eyes stuck his head through the open car window.

‘You Lepski?’ the boy asked, his worldly eyes searching Lepski’s face.

‘So I’m Lepski! So, what?’

‘She said you’d give me a buck when I gave you her message.’ The boy squinted at Lepski thoughtfully. ‘Do you have a buck?’

Lepski’s fingers like claws tapped on the steering wheel as he fought to control his temper. ‘Who said?’

‘You gotta buck?’

‘What the hell do you think I am... a goddamn vagrant?’

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’ The boy allowed a sneer to run over his dirty face. ‘Cops never have any money.’

Lepski was so struck by this home truth that he hastily took out his wallet to make sure he had a dollar. When he found he had thirty dollars, his rage made his head swim.

‘I’ve got a dollar, you little sonofabitch! Who said and what message?’

The boy had already noted the contents of the wallet. He now appeared to be more relaxed in mind.

‘Goldie White wants to talk to you. Gimme a buck and I’ll give you her address.’

‘What makes you think I want to walk to Goldie White whoever the hell she is?’ Lepski demanded.

The boy became bored. He sank one dirty finger into his right nostril and began to explore.

‘She’s Mai Langley’s buddy,’ he said while exploring. ‘Are you giving me the buck or aren’t you?’

Lepski looked hurriedly over to the Lobster & Crab. There was no sign yet of Lacey. He plucked a dollar bill from his wallet, then holding onto the bill, he regarded the boy suspiciously.

‘Where is she?’

‘Gimme the buck.’

‘You’ll get it. Where is she?’

The boy stopped exploring his right nostril and transferred his attention to his left nostril.

‘My dad warned me never to trust a cop. Gimme the buck or the deal’s off.’

In his present state of mind, Lepski longed to strangle this dirty brat, but he controlled himself. He handed over the dollar, but as the boy’s fingers closed on the bill, Lepski’s fingers closed on the boy’s wrist.

‘Where is she?’ Lepski snarled, ‘or do I tear your goddamn arm off?’

‘23a, Turtle Crawl: third floor,’ the boy told him, wrenching his wrist free. He paused long enough to make a fantastically loud and rude noise with his lips, then he was gone.

Lepski had no idea where Turtle Crawl Street was. He could have been sold a pup. He became aware that the four mobile cops were now watching him suspiciously. He started the car and drove along the crowded waterfront. When he was far enough out of sight, he stopped by a woman selling turtles and asked where he could find the street.

‘Second left,’ she told him. ‘How about taking your kids home a turtle, mister?’

‘Who the hell wants a turtle and who the hell would want a kid?’ Lepski snarled and drove on.

He parked his car among the trucks collecting lobsters from a boat that had just docked and walked down the narrow street until he found 23a. He realised if Lieutenant Lacey discovered he was still investigating he was in for a lapful of trouble, but by now Lepski was in such a belligerent mood he didn’t care.

He climbed to the third floor of the building that gave off smells of perfume and rich cooking. As he climbed, he decided he was in one of those blocks given up exclusively to prostitution and which, Lepski decided, must have police protection.

He finally arrived before a door which carried a card, reading:

Lepski blew out his cheeks, shaking his head. The nerve of it, he thought. He rang the bell. There was a little delay, then the door swung open.

Blocking the entrance was a tall, thin man, his face narrow, his chin receding, his black dyed hair also receding, his mouth thin and his eyes shifty. He wore an immaculate cream lightweight suit, a pale blue shirt and a black tie. He looked as prosperous as only a successful pimp can look, and he smelt as gorgeous as only a successful pimp can smell.

He regarded Lepski, then revealed plastic teeth in a welcoming smile.

‘Come in, Mr. Lepski,’ he said, standing aside. ‘Goldie was hoping you would drop in. I’m Jack Thomas, her business manager.’

Lepski moved into the room, comfortably furnished with four lounging chairs, a TV set, a white wool rug and girlie prints of disturbing frankness on the walls.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded. The sight of any pimp sent his blood pressure up, and as his blood pressure had already risen alarmingly after his interview with Lacey, he was now close to flash point.

‘She’ll be along,’ Thomas said airily. He was so occupied with his own charm that he failed to register Lepski’s homicidal state of mind. ‘Sit down, Mr. Lepski. What’ll you drink?’

Lepski breathed heavily, his fingers curling.

‘Where is she?’

‘No drink?’ Thomas sank languidly into a chair. ‘Of course... line of duty. I understand. Take a chair, Mr. Lepski. She wanted me to talk to you. I...’

‘Get out of that goddamn chair!’ Lepski bellowed. ‘No pimp sits when I’m standing!’

His tone of voice and his expression made Thomas leave the chair as if he had been kicked out of it. He gaped at Lepski, his face paling and he backed away.

‘Get your whore!’ Lepski snarled, ‘and then get out! One more minute of your stinking company will make me throw up!’

As Thomas turned wildly to the door of an inner room, the door opened and a girl came out. She paused in the doorway while she looked at Lepski and then at Thomas.

‘Okay, Jack, beat it. I’ll handle it,’ she said.

Goldie White was a nicely stacked blonde with cold good looks that would attract most men if they were drunk enough to be reckless. She was certainly corrupt and looked confident enough to handle anything in trousers from a man to an ape. She was wearing an orange coloured sweater that revealed her medically inflated mammary equipment and a mini skirt that showed off her thighs. Her eyes were interesting: they could grow hot, cold, steely, greedy, seductive and dumb with the acrobatic agility of a kaleidoscope.

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 know?’

‘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.