1971 - Want to Stay Alive (17 page)

“What have you done with it?”

“Turned the lot over to Jack Hatchet.”

Terrell squinted at Beigler through his pipe smoke.

“That’s a bright idea, Joe.”

“I get them from time to time,” Beigler said not without a touch of smugness. “If Jack can’t make sense out of these reports no one can.”

Jack Hatchce was the only Seminole Indian on the City’s police force. He worked in Records and he was elderly and known for a long memory.

“See if he’s got anything yet.”

Beigler shook his head.

“He’ll tell us, Chief. He’s got a ton of paper to wade through and he’s not anyone you can hurry. Best leave him alone. I told him it was urgent.”

Terrell sucked at his pipe. He thought for a long moment, then pawed through the reports on his desk until he came up with two sheets of paper.

He studied them while Beigler lit a cigarette.

“We’ll wait to see if Jack comes up with something,” he said finally. “I’m sure if we give out we’re after Toholo a smoke screen will come down and we won’t find him.” He tapped the report he was holding with the stem of his pipe. “But we have these other two: Mr. and Mrs. Jack Allen. We know Poke had someone working with him. According to this Mrs. Harris, a man and a woman arrived with Poke at the motel. It’s a safe bet these two are the ones helping Poke. We have descriptions of them and a description of their car. So, Joe, we go after them. When we pick them up, they’ll lead us to Poke. Get the boys working on it.” He handed the two sheets of paper to Beigler. “They’ll be staying somewhere. Check every cheap hotel, rooming house and look for the Buick. Once we’ve found them. we’ll find Poke.”

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Terrell flicked down a switch.

“Chief?”

It was Sergeant Tanner.

“What is it, Charlie?”

“I have a lady here . . . says she wants to talk to you. Mrs. Matilda Dobey. I told her you were busy but she says she is too and its important.”

“Did you ask what it’s about?”

“Yeah . . . she says it’s not my business,” Tanner said, his voice sour.

Terrell hesitated, then shrugged.

“Okay . . . send her up.”

He looked at Beigler.

“Does Mrs. Matilda Dobey mean anything to you, Joe?”

“If it did, I wouldn’t admit it,” Beigler said and got to his feet. “I’ll get the boys working.”

He left the office and made for the Detectives’ room.

A few minutes later, Sergeant Tanner knocked on Terrell’s door, then looked in.

“Mrs. Dobey, Chief.”

Terrell pushed aside the pile of papers on his desk and said in a resigned voice, “Show her in, Charlie.”

Mrs. Matilda Dobey was a tiny woman in her late seventies. She was dressed neatly but shabbily in black. She had snow white hair and very alert blue eyes.

“Are you Chief of Police?” she demanded, coming to rest before Terrell’s desk.

Terrell got to his feet and gave her his warm, friendly smile. “That’s right, Mrs. Dobey.”

He came around his desk to null up a chair.

Mrs. Dobey regarded him with approval.

“Thank you. I’m not as young as I used to be, but I don’t consider myself yet as old.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Dobey?” Terrell asked as he went back to his chair and sat down.

“No, thank you. I have things to do. I may tell you I’ve come a long way out of my way. I’m due back to get Mr. Dobey his dinner. He’ll be worrying about me.”

“What’s the trouble?” Terrell asked, laying his big hands on the mass of papers on his desk.

“I have just come from the airport. I was seeing my grandson off. I wanted to telephone my daughter to tell her Jerry . . . that’s my grandson . . . had got off all right.” Mrs. Dobey paused. “I don’t want you to imagine I’m talking for the sake of talking, but I know when one talks to police officers one has to give facts . . . that’s right, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Terrell said. His virtue was patience and this was one of the reasons why he was a good Chief of Police. “My daughter has a job in an office. My sister who lives in Miami is taking care of Jerry . . . but, that won’t interest you. I agreed to see Jerry off because my daughter was tied up with this office . . . that’s what grandmas are for, aren’t they?”

Terrell sucked at his pipe and nodded.

“I guess that’s right, Mrs. Dobey.”

“My daughter takes it for granted, but young people do take things for granted. I don’t mind. Don’t think I’m complaining.” Terrell tapped ashes out of his pipe.

“You telephoned your daughter?” he said as he began to refill his pipe.

“Yes. I went into one of the booths at the airport. I happened to drop my purse.” She looked at Terrell, her alert eyes quizzing. “Call it old age if you like, but it could have happened to anyone.”

“Yes, I guess so,” Terrell said. “I’m always dropping things myself.”

Mrs. Dobey looked at him suspiciously.

“You don’t have to say that to be polite.”

“You dropped your purse?”

She smiled; it was a nice understanding smile.

“The trouble with me, Chief, is I talk too much. Excuse me.” She settled herself more comfortably in her chair, then went on. “When I bent to pick up my purse I saw this envelope under the coin box . . . stuck there with tape.” She opened her large, shabby handbag and took out an envelope.

“Now that, I thought, is a very funny place for an envelope to be.” She looked directly at Terrell. “I’ve probably done wrong, but I opened it. But if I hadn’t opened it, how would I know what was inside? Perhaps I should have gone to the first police officer I saw and given it to him without opening it. Should I have done that?”

“What’s inside the envelope?” Terrell asked, avoiding the question.

“A lot of money . . . a lot of money.” She regarded him. “As soon as I looked inside and saw all this money I knew I shouldn’t have opened it. I knew I had to come to you and not give it to any police officer. So much money offers a temptation and police officers aren’t millionaires.”

Terrell cleared his throat.

“May I have the envelope, Mrs. Dobey? I’ll give you a receipt for it.”

“I don’t want a receipt,” she said, handing over the envelope. “I just want to get home so I can get Mr. Dobey his dinner.”

SEVEN

P
oke Toholo dropped the half-eaten orange on the floor and kicked it under the bed. He wiped his fingers on his hipsters, then held out his hand.

“How much did you get?” he asked.

Chuck came into the room as if he knew the floor was full of dry rot and would cave in under his weight.

His mind was paralysed at the sight of the Indian sitting on the bed. Ten seconds ago, he was imagining himself in the car with Meg at his side, with two thousand dollars in his pocket. This sudden spin of the coin sealed his reflexes as if the nerve cells in his brain had been cut.

“How much did you get?” Poke repeated.

Chuck pulled himself together and part of his brain began to function.

Did this crazy Indian suspect anything? he asked himself.

He looked at Poke, seeing the expressionless brown face and the glittering black eyes, but there was nothing to tell him that Poke suspected he had been about to be betrayed.

“One of them didn’t pay up,” Chuck said huskily.

He became aware that Meg was behind him so he moved further into the room so she could come in.

She went over to the window, not looking at Poke and sat down on the only upright chair, lifting her hair off her shoulders and letting it drop back in an indifferent movement that made Chuck want to hit her. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the window ledge and stared down at the busy quay.

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Poke asked, staring at Chuck.

Chuck moistened his lips with his tongue.

“Ask her . . . she collected the envelopes.”

“I’m asking you,” Poke said.

Slowly and reluctantly Chuck took the four envelopes from inside his shirt.

They were damp with his sweat and he tossed them on the bed.

“One of them didn’t pay up . . . the one at the airport: I sent her back. She checked every booth.”

“The airport!” Poke’s face relaxed. “Hansen . . . yes . . . I go along with that. Hansen wouldn’t pay, but he will.”

Chuck didn’t know what he was talking about. He leaned against the wall, trying to make himself relax. He watched Poke open the envelopes and count the money. Poke flicked six one hundred dollar bills in Chuck’s direction.

“Five more tomorrow,” Poke said. He produced a slip of paper which he dropped on the bed. “Like milking a cow, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Chuck watched the Indian put the rest of the money in his pocket.

“That’s it . . . yeah.”

Poke got to his feet and moved past Chuck to the door.

“They may not all pay, but most of them will.” His black eyes stared fixedly at Chuck. “They’re scared. When people get scared they do what they’re told,” and he was gone.

There was a long pause, then Meg said without looking around, “Do you want me to pack?”

“Didn’t you hear what he said, you dumb bitch?” Chuck snarled. “We do it again tomorrow.”

“Do we?”

There was a note in her voice that made him look sharply at her. She still continued to look out of the window. Her hair hid her face, hut the note in her voice made him uneasy. He suddenly realised he would never have the nerve to go to those booths and pick up the money. He could never bring himself to do it. It was a goddamn trap. The thought of the cops descending on him as he took the envelope from its hiding place made him sweat.

He picked up the piece of paper Poke had left and read what was written there:

Airport Booth B.

Greyhound Bus. Booth 4.

Railroad station. Booth 1.

Excelsior Booth 2.

Adlon Booth 6.

Okay, he thought, suppose only three of them jelled: fifteen hundred dollars plus the six hundred Poke had given him! But this time he wouldn’t return to this dump. As soon as they picked up the last envelope they would go. He had been crazy to have come back this time to pick up their things.

“Listen,” he said, “tomorrow, we get the money and we go. This time we don’t come back. That’s where I went wrong. Tomorrow, as soon as we’ve got the money, we drive off. He won’t know about it until we’re miles away.”

She turned and looked at him.

“You aren’t much, are you, Chuck?” she said quietly. “I thought you were somebody. I guess I’m stupid. I’ve got nothing now. I’ve got less than nothing.”

“You’re going to share two thousand dollars with me, you dope! Is that less than nothing?” Chuck demanded angrily. “Tomorrow, we’ll be in the clear. You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

She turned and looked out of the window. The sponge boats were coming in. Three men were struggling with a hundred pound turtle. The Indians were waving oranges and yelling at indifferent buyers.

Chuck got to his feet and went over to her. He pulled her away from the window. His hot, sweaty hands gripped her arms and he shook her.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” he demanded.

“I’ll do it,” she said and the lost look in her eves made Chuck release her.

“Why should I care, you gold plated meal ticket?”

While she was speaking, Poke had come to rest before the desk of the fat, smiling Indian who owned the rooming house.

This Indian’s name was Ocida. His fat, simple face hid a criminal mind. The rooming house was a cover for his many activities. He was a man of considerable substance. He had a Swiss bank account. He was the head of a L.S.D. smuggling ring. He controlled twenty-six Indian prostitutes who paid him a quarter of their earnings. He had a 2% cut on all the fruit sold in the markets because he had made a deal with a Mafia Union man. He had a 1% cut on the turtle soup industry because a number of Indians worked in the turtle factories and he controlled most of the Indian labour. He had a 3% cut on all parking fees on the quay because, until he got his cut, cars got pushed into the harbour.

Ocida was the hidden man behind most of the rackets on the quay and he was smart enough to keep hidden.

He was happy to sit behind the desk in this shabby rooming house, smiling, picking his teeth and making sums in his head. People worked for him. Money flowed in. Why should he worry? Money moved from Paradise City to Berne, Switzerland. Money to him was like a Picasso painting to an art lover. You had it, you kept it, you admired it and you were happy.

Ocida liked Poke Toholo. He knew he was dangerous, but if you were going to make a living out of this stupid, sloppy world, you had to be dangerous.

He knew Poke was the Executioner as he knew everything criminal in the City. He considered this idea to get even with the rich whites was inventive.

He admired any form of invention. He knew too that Poke was a little sick in the head. Well, lots of people did important things who were sick in the head. Any man, sick or not, who could dream up an idea to scare the rich whites and make money out of it, had Ocida’s approval.

So when Poke came to rest before Ocida’s desk, Ocida turned on his widest smile.

“I want a gun,” Poke said softly.

Ocida leaned forward and selected a quill toothpick from a box on the far side of his desk. He inserted the quill between two of his gold capped molars while he regarded Poke.

“What kind of gun?” he asked.

“A good one . . . .38, automatic and accurate,” Poke told him. Ocida removed the quill, wiped what was on it on his shirtsleeve, then put the quill hack in the box.

“Guns cost money, Poke. Have you money?”

“I’ll pay a hundred dollars.”

Ocida admired men who didn’t fear him. Poke was one of the very few.

“Wait.”

He left his desk and heaved his bulk into the back room. Some ten minutes later, he returned with a parcel done up in brown paper and tied with string. He put the parcel on his desk. As Poke felt in his hip pocket, Ocida shook his head.

“It cost me nothing . . . so why should it cost you anything?”

Poke put a one hundred dollar bill on the desk and picked up the parcel.