1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (6 page)

"I remember him," he said, his voice suddenly cold and flat.

"I'm digging into his past, Hank. It's important. Whatever you say is in confidence. I just want to have your truthful opinion of him."

"Why should you want that?"

"His father died yesterday. There's an investigation. We think Mitch Jackson could be remotely hooked to his father's death."

"You want my truthful opinion?"

"Yes. I assure you if you have anything to tell me it goes no further than these four walls. You have my word."

He moved his big feet while he thought.

"I don't believe in speaking ill of the dead," he said finally. "Especially a Medal of Honor hero."

I sampled the Scotch again. It was still dreadful, but I found I was getting used to its kick.

"How did the men react to Mitch? How did you react?"

He hesitated, then shrugged

"He had a lot of favourites. That was the trouble. Maybe you don't know, but, when a Staff sergeant has favourites and runs the rest of the men into the ground, he ain't popular. That's what Jackson did. To some he was like a father. To others he was a real sonofabitch."

"How was he with you?"

"I had a real bad time with him: any dirty job, I got it, but it wasn't only me. More than half the battalion got the shitty end of the stick and the other half had it good."

"There must have been a reason."

"There was a reason all right. All those kids who went into that jungle before the bombers arrived were his favourites. That, and no other reason, made him drive after them. Not because he loved them. But because they were worth more than a thousand bucks a week to him, and he was so goddamn greedy he couldn't stand to ice his pay-roll being killed. If those kids had been his non-favourites, he wouldn't have moved an inch. That's how he won his medal: trying to save his weekly pay-roll."

"I don't get it, Hank. Why should those kids pay him a thousand bucks a week?"

Hank finished his drink while he eyes me.

"This is strictly off the record? I don't want to get involved in any mess."

"Strictly off the record."

"Mitch Jackson was a drug-pusher."

It was common knowledge that the Army, fighting in Vietnam, had a high percentage of drug-addicts, and a lot of youngsters were on reefers. All the same this was something I hadn't expected to "That's a serious accusation. Hank," I said. "If you knew, why didn't you report to Colonel Parnell?"

He gave a sour smile.

"Because I wanted to stay alive. I wasn't the only one who knew, but no report was made. I'll tell you something. A sergeant, working under Jackson, found out what Jackson was up to. Pie told Jackson to pack it in or he'd put in a report. The sergeant and Jackson went out together on a patrol. The sergeant didn't come back. Jackson reported he had been killed by a 'Nam sniper. A couple of kids, when Jackson propositioned them to buy his junk, refused. They also died by snipers' bullets, so the word got around to keep the mouth shut. Anyway, what good would I've done? I'd only have landed myself in trouble. A coloured man reporting a favourite Staff sergeant to a man like Colonel Parnell who thought Jackson was the tops? So I kept my mouth shut."

It looked now as if the citizens of Searle had been right about Mitch Jackson and Colonel Parnell had been wrong.

"Any idea how Jackson got hold of the drugs?"

"No, and I didn't want to know and I don't want to know now."

"He must have been picking up a lot of money."

"I told you: at least a thousand bucks a week. The kids were really hooked. Some of them had wealthy parents who sent them money. Others stole anything they could lay hands on in Saigon when they were pulled out of the line for a week's rest."

"What did he do with money like that? He couldn't have spent it."

Hank shrugged.

"I wouldn't know. Jackson wasn't the only pusher. There were a lot of them: he was the only one in our outfit, but there were pushers in every outfit. Maybe the pushers pooled the take and got it back home."

I thought that was likely.

"Does the name Syd Watkins mean anything to you?" Hank thought, then shook his head.

"No. he wasn't in our outfit."

At this moment, Mrs. Smith appeared in the doorway.

"You want to eat, Hank? The chicken will fall to bits if you don't."

Taking the hint, I got to my feet.

"Well, thanks, Hank." I shook his hand. "If there's anything else I think of, can I see you again?"

He nodded.

"So long as it's strictly off the record."

As I left, I gave Mrs. Smith' a friendly smile, but her expression was wooden. From her angle, I wouldn't be welcomed again.

I went down the path and to my car. Even in the darkness, I could feel hundreds of eyes watching As I got into my car, a big, coloured man, wearing a dark, open-neck shirt and dark cotton trousers, slouched out of the shadows. He had a pair of shoulders on him that All might have envied. He rested two enormous black hands on the window-sill of my car and leaned forward. I could smell gin on his breath.

"We don't like white men in this district," he said in a soft threatening voice. "Piss off, white man, and don't come back."

I started the engine and shifted to "Drive"

"Piss off yourself," I said, looking up at him, "and screw you, black boy." I trod down hard on the gas pedal and shot the car away. In the driving-mirror, I saw him move into the middle of the street, his fists clenched. He looked like a savage gorilla.

Well, I had learned something. I had learned Mitch Jackson wasn't a white-headed hero. I learned he was the lowest scum on earth. A sonofabitch who sells drugs to kids was just that. I had a lot to think about, but it occurred to me, as I headed back to Paradise City, that I was allowing myself to be side-tracked.

My job was to find Fred Jackson's grandson, yet I had a distinct hunch that Jackson's murder and Mitch Jackson's drug-pushing were somehow hooked up with the kid's disappearance. It was just a hunch, but I had confidence in my hunches: they had often paid off when I was working for my father.

It was now too late to drive to Searle, so I headed back to my two-room apartment.

I parked the car in the underground garage and took the elevator to my apartment on the sixth floor.

My mind was busy as I unlocked my door and this accounted for my not paying attention to the fact I had trouble in turning the lock. At any other time, when I wasn't thinking so hard, I would have been alerted.

As I moved into my small, comfortably furnished living-room and turned on the light I smelt them before I saw them. The stink of unwashed bodies hung in the room bringing me to instant alert.

They came out of my bedroom like two black shadows, evil-looking flick-knives in their black hands.

My neighbour below turned on his TV set and a voice began to boom out the news.

chapter three

T
he sight of these two black men really had me scared. They moved apart at my bedroom door: one moving to the right, the other to the left.

The one on the right was tall, emaciated with sugar-spun hair. He wore a filthy goatskin waistcoat hanging open, showing his skeleton-like chest. Ropes of cheap coloured beads flopped down to his navel.

His skin-tight scarlet trousers were stained at the crotch. The one on the left was shorter, but also emaciated. He wore a greasy black sombrero, a tattered leather jerkin and black leather trousers. Both of them were barefooted and their feet were filthy and stank.

All this I took in with one glance.

If it hadn't been for their smell, they would have had me, but when I walked into my room their body-smell saved me. The front door was still open.

As they came at me, I saw their pupilless eyes. They were higher than the moon.

I jumped back into the corridor, slammed the front door shut and darted to the elevator which was still standing on my floor. I was in it, thumbing the down button as they tore open my door. The elevator doors swished shut as they dived towards it.

I leaned against the wall of the cage as it sank, aware my breathing was coming in gasps. Man! Was I scared! Those two were the most vicious and lethal-looking muggers I had ever seen.

As the elevator slowly descended, I heard them pounding down the stairs after it. Their naked feet made thudding sounds as they jumped the stairs three at a time. I realized they would outrun the elevator and would be waiting as I came out.

I waited until I heard them thud past the descending elevator, then pressed the stop button. I had reached the 3rd floor. I pressed the button for the 6th floor.

'That'll fox you, you bastards,' I thought as the elevator began to climb. I thought longingly of the .38 revolver in my closet, but I wasn't taking the chance to get back into my apartment and get the gun.

They could catch me before I go it.

I felt safe in the elevator's cage.

As the elevator climbed, I heard thumping of bare feet. One of them was chasing the elevator while the other waited below.

That halved the odds, but I had no enthusiasm to grapple with a hopped-up mugger, armed with a flick-knife.

The elevator door swished open on the 6th floor. I was just in time to see Sombrero come tearing around the head of the stairs. I pressed the button to the 14th floor, the top floor. At the doors swished open, he arrived, glaring with murderous hate. He tried to insert his knife between the closing doors, but he was just too late.

Again the elevator began to ascend. I heard him thumping up the stairs. I looked longingly at the alarm button that set off a bell should someone get trapped, but I decided not to touch it. The janitor was elderly and I liked him. Those two thugs would cut him to pieces if he appeared on the scene Arriving on the 14th floor, the doors opened. I had my finger on the third-floor button. Although I could heal Sombrero coming up the stairs, I waited, listening to his gasp and snorts. He was obviously running out of gas. As he came staggering around the corner, I waved to him and pressed the button. The elevator began to descend.

Listening, I couldn't hear him running down the stairs, Thankfully, I decided he was blown.

But there was still Goatskin.

Facing the elevator on the third floor was a go neighbour of mine. If I could get into his apartment, lock the door and call the cops, I could still get out of this nightmare with a whole skin. But suppose he wasn't at home? Suppose he took time to answer my ring? I could get caught by Goatskin as I frantically rang the bell.

As the elevator slowly sank, I stripped of my jacket and bound it around my left arm. That would give me a small protection against a slashing knife.

The elevator doors swished open at the 3rd floor. I sprang out and towards my neighbour's front Goatskin was waiting. I had just time to throw up my jacket covered arm as he slashed. If it hadn't been for my wallet in my jacket pocket, I would have been cut.

Weaving to my right, I slammed my fist into the side of his face. He had no muscles nor bones. He went down and began making mewing noises, his knife dropping, his filthy hands covering his face.

Then I heard Sombrero coming pounding down the stairs. I snatched up Goatskin's knife and backed away as Sombrero rounded the bend of the stairs and came onto the landing.

His pal was still making mewing noises. Sombrero paused to gape at him, then he saw me.

I showed him the knife.

"Come on, black boy," I said. "I bet I'm better with a sticker than you."

It is never wise to challenge a punk floating high on heroin. He came at me like a charging bull. His knife stabbed at me, but I was already on the move. My Army combat training had taught me all the tricks of knife fighting. His knife missed me by inches and slammed into the concrete wall. The blade snapped off. Dropping the knife I was holding, I hit him with all my weight behind the punch to the side of his jaw. He went down and out like a blown candle-flame.

Goatskin was beginning to show signs of life. I went over to him and kicked him very hard on the side of his head. He stopped making mewing noises and gave a reasonable impersonation of a dead duck.

I picked up his knife, got into the elevator and rode up to the 6th floor. I entered my apartment and bolted the door.

Their awful smell hung in the room and I went over to the window and threw it open.

I stood there, breathing in the hot, clean humid air. I couldn't let those two thugs get away. I had to call the police but I hesitated, remembering I was on a job and wanted to be in Searle early tomorrow morning. I knew I would be held up by police questions and making a charge, but it had to be done.

As I was turning away from the open window, I paused.

A black car had just pulled up outside my apartment highrise. A man slid out. As he passed under the street lamp, I saw it was the huge black who had spoken to me when I was leaving Hank Smith's villa.

There was no mistaking the vast shoulders, the small head and the black clothes.

I turned and ran into my bedroom, snatched open my closet door, found my .38 police special, checked to see it was loaded, then ran back into the living-room and to the window.

The car was still there, but there was no sign of the gorilla. Was he coming up to my apartment? Was he working with those two thugs?

As I watched, I sweated, knowing I could call the cops, but still hesitating. The gun in my hand gave me a lot of confidence. Without the gun, I would already be yelling for patrol car.

Then I saw him, coming out onto the street. He was dragging the two thugs, one by his arm, the other by his hand. He tossed them into the back seat of his car as if they had been kittens, then he slid into the car arid took off.

I walked a little unsteadily to the liquor-cabinet poured Scotch into a glass and drank it, then I sat down abruptly. I had never been so scared in my life and it took some five minutes for the shock to wear off. With an unsteady hand I a cigarette, smoked it, got to my feet, then walked into my bedroom. I opened the window, letting out the foul smell then returned to the living-room and checked to see if any of my things were missing or had been disturbed. Nothing was missing: nothing disturbed. I went into the now ventilated bedroom and checked: nothing missing; nothing disturbed.