1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (11 page)

He nodded, found a rubber band and snapped it around a dozen or so letters.

"Anderson tells me that on the first of every month you delivered a letter to Fred Jackson. The delivery started soon after Mitch's death," I said. "Every month for six years . . . right?"

Again he nodded. So far he hadn't said a word.

"The letters came from Miami?"

Again he nodded.

"Now, no more letters?"

Again he nodded.

"I was told that you took Johnny Jackson when he first arrived in Searle in your mail-van to old Jackson's cabin?"

Again he nodded.

I contained my growing irritation with an effort.

"Did you talk to him when you drove him up to the cabin? Did you ask him where he had come from?"

With maddening slowness, he finished sorting the letters, puffed at his pipe, then, resting two big hands on the counter, he gave me a friendly grin.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wallace. I do one thing at a time. I've now done the mail, now I can give you my attention. You're asking about Johnny Jackson?"

I drew in a long slow breath, reminding myself that I was dealing with hick people in a hick town.

"Yes. When you drove him up to old Jackson's cabin, did you ask him where he came from?"

"I certainly did, but the kid just said it was a long way. I could see by his tired, white little face he didn't want to talk. Now, Mr. Wallace, I respect people's privacy. I don't gossip like other folks in this town do, so I shut up.”

"What happened when you took him to the cabin?"

"I didn't. I dropped him at the bottom of the lane. I told him the cabin was right up there and he couldn't miss it." He puffed at his pipe, then scratched his head. "Well, I guess I can tell you this, Mr. Wallace. I haven't told anyone else. It's a long time ago and I'd like to help find Johnny." He puffed at his pipe, hesitating.

"Tell me what?" I asked. "Look, Josh, Johnny is old Jackson's heir. You will be doing him a favour to help me find him."

"I guess that's right. Well, he got out of my truck and thanked me: he thanked me real nice. Then he took an envelope out of his pocket. This was some ten years ago, Mr. Wallace, but I can see his white anxious face now as he looked up at me. He said he hadn't the money to buy a postage-stamp. He asked me to mail the letter. He said it was important. I told him I would, and I did. The last I ever saw of him was him walking up the lane."

"You mean, when you delivered this envelope addressed to old Jackson each month for six years, you never saw the kid?"

"That's right. I never had the chance. My truck is noisy and Fred could hear me coming. He'd stump to the bend in the lane, take the envelope, grunt at me and that'd be that."

"Did you ever ask how Johnny was getting on?"

"I would have liked to, but Fred never had anything to say. He'd take the envelope and stump off. I was always on my rounds when the kid was at school so I never saw him. Fred didn't even say a thing when I delivered his son's medal. I knew by the way it was packed and the seals it was the medal. He just snatched it from me, signed and stumped off."

"This letter Johnny gave you. I know it was some ten years ago, but do you remember the address on the envelope?"

"Oh, yes. I was curious, you understand. Here was a kid out of the blue, looking for a man as dirty and as sour as old Fred: a kid around nine years of age, so naturally I was curious."

"I see that." I had to control myself not to shout. "What was the address?"

Josh found his pipe had gone out. He found a match struck it, puffed, while I clenched and unclenched my hands.

"The address? The name was Mrs. Stella Costa on Macey Street, Secomb. I think it was No. 7 or No. 9."

Had I struck gold? I asked myself. Was this the breakthrough?

"Mrs. Stella Costa, 7 or 9 Macey Street, Secomb?" He nodded.

"That's correct."

"Thanks. Josh," I said, "you've been a big help."

He grinned.

"I liked the kid. If old Fred left any money, I'd like to think the kid has it."

I shook his hand and hurried to my car.

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 he 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?"