James Chase - A Can of Worms

“Tell me about Pofferi’s wife? Let me get you another drink.”

“No, thanks. I’ve still work to do. His wife? Yeah, I’m interested in her too. I’ve wired Washington for a mug shot. I’ll let you see it. Getting around the way you do, you might spot her and you still might spot him.”

“Have you a file on her?”

“It’s almost nothing. She called herself Lucia Lambretti before she married Pofferi. The Italian cops have checked out her name, but it’s an alias. She emerged from nowhere about eighteen months ago, and ganged up with Pofferi. The Italian cops caught her when she and Pofferi were trying to rob a bank. He got away. She was held long enough to get her prints and a mug shot, then she escaped. Someone smuggled a gun into her cell and away she went, killing two guards.” He looked at his watch. “I’m off. See you,” and he left.

There didn’t seem much else to do except go to bed. It was now too late to see Bertha. I ate the beef sandwiches, thought about Pete Lewinski and wondered if Josh Jones had shot him.

I liked Pete, and I felt depressed, so I gave myself another drink, then went into my bedroom. The bed looked lonely. I wondered if Bertha would come over and share it with me, but decided it was too late. Still, it might be worth a try. I returned to the living room and was reaching for the telephone when there was a gentle ping on the front door bell.

The time was just after midnight. I walked to the front door, slipped on the chain and opened the door a few inches without showing myself. My highrise had had a couple of muggers causing trouble the previous month, and my neighbour was still in hospital.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I’m Pete’s boy.” The soft accent told me he was an Indian.

I pushed the door shut, slipped off the chain and opened up.

A thin boy of around thirteen with a shock of thick black hair, dressed in dirty white drill, slid around me, and into the lobby.

I closed the door and motioned him into the living room. He stared around. His breathing came in quick gasps, and there was sweat on his face.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked, and walked over to a chair and sat down.

Still staring around, he began to chew his lower lip, then his black eyes shifted to me.

“Joey. I work for Pete.”

“You heard what happened to Pete?”

He nodded, gulped, and his dirty hands turned into fists.

“That was tough,” I said. “Sit down.”

He hesitated, then sat on the edge of a chair, facing mine.

“Why are you here Joey?”

“Tom and me are brothers.”

“Was Tom the one. .?”

He gulped again, then nodded.

“Joey, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

His face tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

“That doesn’t help,” he said, his voice husky. “Being sorry.”

“I guess not. Why have you come here, Joey?”

He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“You paid Pete twenty bucks to have Josh Jones watched, didn’t you?”

I began to feel uneasy.

“So?”

“Pete told Tom and me to watch Jones. Pete said you would pay more when we had some info. Pete was square. He said we’d split the twenty three ways.”

“Do you know who did the shooting?”

“One of the three. I don’t know which one.”

“What do you know?”

He leaned forward, his black eyes glittering.

“I know where those two are right now. Tom went to tell Pete. That’s when he got killed.”

I began to sweat.

“Have you told the cops, Joey?”

“After what they did to my dad, I don’t talk to cops.” His black eyes turned vicious.

“What happened to your dad, Joey?”

“They put him away for ten years. He has another five years to go.”

I began to relax.

“So? Where are those two right now, Joey?”

He studied me for a long moment, then he said, “What’s it worth to you, Mr. Anderson?”

I took out my limp wallet and checked its contents without letting Joey see. I thumbed out a $10 bill and held it up.

He shook his head.

“I could get killed like Tom.”

“Not if you are careful, Joey.”

“I could get killed,” he said quietly.

Reluctantly, I added another $10 bill.

“That’s it, Joey. I’m short.”

He hesitated, then reaching forward, took the two bills.

“They are at the Alameda bar.”

I gaped at him.

“That I don’t believe.”

“This morning at five o’clock, Jones and the other two left Jones’ place and went to the Alameda bar,” Joey said. “They went in by the back way, and then Jones returned to his place. My brother, Jimbo, is there now, watching.”

“You have another brother, Joey?”

“Yes. He worked for Pete too.”

“Keep watching. I’ll pay you more later. I want to know if they move, and be careful.”

He got to his feet, tucked the two bills into his hip pocket, nodded and made for the door.

“Hold it, Joey. Where can I find you?”

“Lobster Court. It’s right by Crab Court. № 2. Top floor. My brothers and I have a room.”

“How about your mother?”

“She killed herself when they took dad,” Joey said, his face wooden. “There’s only Jimbo and me now.”

“Watch out, Joey,” I said.

I saw him to the front door, then walked back to the lounging chair and sat down.

I did some thinking. Pofferi and his wife had been hiding on the pirates’ island. Nancy had visited them and had taken them ort the yacht back to the harbour. Josh Jones then had taken them to his room, and later to the Alameda bar. Why had he taken them there? It seemed to me that Jones, through Gloria Cort, had done a deal with Diaz to hide these two: a much safer hiding place than keeping them in his (Jones’) room. He had gone to Gloria because, as Hamel’s ex-wife, she knew him, crewman of the yacht. So far, this made sense, but what didn’t make sense was why a nice girl like Nancy should be helping a couple of dangerous terrorists. Had she met them in Rome? That seemed likely. Had they some hold on her?

I stubbed out my cigarette impatiently. So what should I do? I knew what I ought to do. I ought to call the police and tell them where Pofferi and his wife were hiding, but if I did that, what was in it for me? Nothing that I could see except trouble. Lepski would want to know how I had found out that the Pofferis were at the Alameda. Even if I dreamed up a convincing lie, I would still be left with nothing. No one was going to give me a reward.

It suddenly occurred to me the time was ripe to talk to Nancy Hamel. Would she be prepared to buy my silence?

I grimaced. This would have to be handled carefully.

The last thing I needed was to be charged with blackmail.

Blackmail?

I had dealt with a number of blackmailers since I had joined the Agency. I had been the means of sending them to jail. Up to this moment, I had considered blackmail to be the lowest form of crime.

But was this blackmail? All I was going to do was to have a confidential talk with Nancy Hamel. I would tell her I knew of her connection with Pofferi and I knew where he and his wife were hiding. I would explain that a shamus didn’t make much of a living. I would give her my sincere smile. Of course if we could come to some financial arrangement, then I would forget the whole thing and everyone would be happy. It was, of course, up to her to decide.

Was that blackmail?

A business arrangement, yes. Blackmail, no.

I am pretty smart at kidding people, but I am in a class of my own when I begin to kid myself.

The following morning, around 09.00, I walked into Glenda’s office to find her sorting the mail.