James Chase - A Can of Worms

She had thick hair, dyed the colour of mashed carrots.

She had good features, a lush body, showed to advantage by white, skin tight trousers, and a green halter that just kept her breasts under control, but only just. She paused at my table and smiled. Her white teeth were too regular to be her own.

“Enjoying it?” she asked.

I guessed she was Gloria Cort.

I gave her my sexy smile.

“A lot better now you have arrived.”

She laughed.

“Lonely?”

I noticed the three tourists were staring with disapproval. I half got up and eased out of the chair.

“Have a drink with me.”

She signalled and the waiter came across like a grey-hound out of the trap.

“Scotch,” she said, and sat down. “You’re a stranger here,” she went on. “I’m good at remembering faces.”

I stared hard at her breasts.

“I would remember if I had seen you before.”

Again she laughed.

“I see you’re reading one of my ex’s books.”

I put on a surprised expression.

“Come again. Did you say your husband’s book?”

“We parted last year.”

“Well, what do you know!” I pushed my plate aside. “Tell me something: what’s it like to be married to a bestselling author?”

She grimaced.

“I wouldn’t know about other authors, but Russ was just a pain in the ass. His books are loaded with sex. Have you read that thing yet?”

“I just bought it. I haven’t read his stuff. Knowing he lives here, I thought I’d take a look.”

“You think a guy who could write that stuff would be good in bed, wouldn’t you?” She leaned forward, her head on one side. “Was I conned? He’s as useful to a woman as boiled spaghetti.”

“It happens,” I said. “Tough on the woman.”

“You can say that again.”

The waiter came over and cleared the dishes. I said I’d take coffee.

“He’s married again, hasn’t he?”

“She’s welcome. I’ve seen her: strictly for the birds. There are some girls who don’t mind.” She gave me a long, sexy smile. “I do.”

The waiter brought the coffee.

“Do you like it here?” I said. “You do an act, don’t you?”

“Only Saturdays when we get busy. It’s all right.” She got to her feet. “See you around,” and with a smile, she walked over to the three tourists who were being served with the special. She had a word with them, then went back behind the curtain.

I lit a cigarette and sipped the coffee. I had a little information. Russ Hamel could be impotent. I thought of Nancy, seeing her in my mind’s eye. If she wasn’t getting it from Hamel, maybe a tough hippy would find her an easy mark.

I began reading Hamel’s book. It started off with a seduction scene that gave me a hard-on. He certainly could produce a vivid scene.

After a couple of chapters, the waiter came over with the check. I paid, tipped him, then wandered out into the darkness. I had still some hours to kill. I wasn’t interested in Hamel’s heroine. I would have liked to have met her in the flesh, but on paper, she was too remote. I dropped the book into a trashcan, then wandered back along the quay, passing Hamel’s yacht.

There was light enough for me to see Josh Jones was still sitting on guard. I gave him a quick glance and kept moving. The tourists had returned to their hotels, but fishermen still moved around or stood in groups, talking. I saw Al Barney still sitting hopefully on his bollard. I kept well clear of him. I was now looking for a place where I could watch the Hamel yacht, and not be seen. I had two hours before midnight. A big moon had come up, making the sea glitter and casting the quay into deep shadows. A small café-bar was shutting for the night. A tired looking waiter pulled down the shutters, then he went inside, closing the door. There was a wooden bench, close to the wall of the café, and under a shabby awning. I went over to it and sat down. I could see the Hamel yacht, about a hundred yards from me. I was sure Jones couldn’t see me.

I waited. The life of a shamus consists of waiting, and I am good at it. I watched one group of fishermen after another break up. These men would be out to sea at dawn, and they began reluctantly to make for their homes.

Around 23.00, Al Barney tossed his empty beer can into the harbour and getting heavily to his feet, waddled off into the darkness. By now the quay was almost deserted.

A few night-watchmen, guarding the more swank yachts, stood in a group. A cop went by. Two thin cats appeared. One of them came over and sniffed at my trousers cuff. I gave it a sharp nudge with my foot, and it slid away.

I now concentrated on Hamel’s yacht. It was just as well that I did for I suddenly realized that Josh Jones was no longer sitting in his chair.

I got to my feet, alert.

Minutes passed, then I saw three shadowy figures on deck and I heard the gang plank run out. Almost immediately the three figures were on the quay. They paused to look in the direction of the night watchmen who had their backs turned to them, then they started off away from them.

Keeping in the shadows, I moved after them. As they passed under an overhead light, I saw the taller of the three was Jones. The other, by his shock of black hair, would be my hippy. The third member of the party was a woman. She was slightly built, and wearing a scarf over her head. I guessed she was the one who had shared the tent with my hippy on the pirates’ island.

They didn’t go far. They turned down a narrow alley. Stepping silently from dark doorway to dark doorway, I followed them.

I saw Jones pause, then beckoning to his companions, he disappeared through an archway.

Cautiously, I peered around the arch, and was in time to see Jones open a door and move out of sight, followed by the other two. Remembering Al Barney had told me Josh Jones had a room off the waterfront, I guessed Jones had reached home.

I moved into the shadows and waited.

A light went on in a third floor window. I saw Jones come to the window and look out, then he moved out of sight.

I waited.

After an hour, the light went out.

Still I waited.

Nothing happened, then as dawn began to lift the shadows, I gave up and went home.

Some fifteen years ago, Pete Lewinski was considered to be the best and nicest cop on the waterfront. He had patrolled the waterfront from his rookie days, and even the drug-pushers, the smugglers and the young dropouts agreed they always got a square deal from Pete.

Then one day, Pete bought his wife Carrie, a dishwasher. Everyone on the waterfront knew Pete adored his wife. She was a fat, jolly Swede who liked her liquor, and she, in turn, thought everything of Pete. So on her forty-second birthday, Pete bought her this dishwasher. Carrie was a good cook, but the clearing up depressed her. The dishwasher was the nicest present, she told everyone on the waterfront, she had ever had, and the fishermen, their wives, the riff-raff, the fruit and shellfish vendors, and even the drug-pushers, were pleased for her.

It wasn’t clear what happened, but three years after the dishwasher had been installed, Pete, returning from a spell of duty, found Carrie dead, beside the machine.

It was thought something had-gone wrong with the machine and Carrie, with a load on, had fiddled and got electrocuted.

From that dreadful moment when Pete walked into the small kitchen and found Carrie, like a stranded whale, lying on the floor, he went to pieces. His many waterfront friends, worried by his dazed expression, insisted that he should take a little of the hard stuff to bolster up his morale. Pete had always been a mild drinker, and never took a drink when on duty. Finding Scotch blurred the edges of his grief, he began to drink heavily. Chief of Police Terrell who doted on his own wife, was understanding. He talked to Pete, but he could have saved his breath.