James Chase - A Can of Worms

“What was that?”

“I’ll be breaking into my vacation so I will be working again. I don’t work for nothing.”

He gave a soft moan.

“Do I have to do this through Miss Kerry?”

“Send me a personal cheque for a hundred dollars, Mr. Palmer, and there’s no problem.”

“Very well. Can I tell Mr. Hamel to expect you?”

“You can bet your sweet life you can,” I said, and hung up.

Man! I thought, the green is rolling in. I dialled Bertha’s number. When she answered, I said, “Hi, gorgeous! Guess who’s calling?”

“Oh, you! Where’s the money I lent you?”

“Is that all you think about... money?”

“Where is it?”

“Honey, relax. We’re going to celebrate tonight. Hold onto your bra straps. I’m going to take you to the Spanish Bay Grill. How’s that?”

“Are you drunk?” Bertha demanded.

“Not yet, but we will be, and another thing, baby, I’ve been looking at my big double bed. It looks lonely.”

She giggled.

“Just tell me, Bart, have you got my money?”

“I’ve got it, baby. How about filling the second pillow?”

“The Spanish Bay Grill?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you know what they charge for a dinner I’m going to eat?”

“I know.”

“This I can’t believe. Have you robbed a bank?”

“I’ll give you one hour. If you’re not here in one hour, I’m calling another dolly bird.”

“Those pattering feet you are hearing running down the corridor to your door are mine,” and she hung up.

I replaced the receiver and cried Yip-hee!

Man! I said. Isn’t money beautiful!

After four champagne cocktails, I was reckless enough to confide in Bertha. We were sitting in the super-duper restaurant of the Spanish Bay Grill, and we had ordered a meal that made even Bertha’s eyes pop.

“How are you going to pay for it, Bart?” she asked. I believed she was anticipating the cops being called after we had eaten.

So I told her. I didn’t go into the small print, but I told her part of the story.

“The fact is, baby, Nancy Hamel hasn’t been behaving herself. By following her around I have opened a can of worms.”

Bertha stared.

“That prissy? What’s she been doing?”

“Never mind. I chatted her up. I produced the evidence. She didn’t hesitate. She said she would buy the evidence and for me to forget it. What could I do? I obliged the lady.”

Bertha patted my hand.

“I always knew that one day, kiddo, you would get smart. How much?”

“Fifty thousand bucks.”

The moment I said it, I regretted it, but the last cocktail was enough to push me over the edge of caution.

Bertha released a squeal that made everyone in the grillroom turn and stare.

“For God’s sake!” I said feverishly. “Remember where you are.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” she hissed, leaning forward to gape at me.

“Yep!”

The waiter came forward to serve the caviar.

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Bertha repeated as soon as the waiter had gone. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

“You and I are going on vacation, baby. It’s time we relaxed. I’m thinking of hiring a yacht and drifting in the sun. Want to come?”

“Try and stop me! Honey, leave this to me. I have gentlemen friends. I know a fink with a gorgeous yacht, and I can talk him into letting us have it for practically nothing. Four crew, a French chef, a butler and the food!” She rolled her eyes. “For how long?”

“Now wait a minute. That sounds expensive.”

“How long?”

“Four weeks: no more.”

“I know he’s chartered that yacht for twenty thousand a week,” Bertha said. “I’ll bet my panties I can get it for twenty thousand for four weeks. Imagine!”

I stared suspiciously at her.

“How do you do that?”

“He’s a kink. All I have to do is toss off my clothes and dance around his apartment while he sits and drools.”

“For that he’ll let us have his yacht for four weeks for twenty thousand?”

“Well, he’ll expect a few extras, but it’s all sex by remote control. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Okay. It’s a deal. When do we take off?”

The salmon in aspic arrived.

“I’ll see him tomorrow and fix it.”

“Are you sure you can?”

She winked at me.

“Want to bet?”

“I may be rich, but I’m not stupid,” I said.

At 09.45 the following morning, feeling jaded, I pulled up before the pole barrier that guarded the Paradise Largo estates. The guard came out of his thatched roof cabin and walked majestically towards me.

I regarded him as he came: a big, red-faced Mick, around fifty, with weight lifting shoulders and a belly on him that a Japanese wrestler might envy. There was something familiar about him, then I recognized him: Mike O’Flagherty, who once worked as one of Parnell’s operators. He had retired a month after I had joined the outfit.

“For Pete’s sake, Mike,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Bart Anderson!” He shoved a big hairy hand through the open window and nearly dislocated my fingers. “How’s the boy?”

“What the hell are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?”

He grinned.

“Big deal, Bart. When I quit the Agency, I got myself a real softie. I’m one of the guards here. Nothing to do except make people’s lives miserable. I lean with my weight, make with the importance, and get paid for it.”

“When my time comes, sounds the job for me. Is there a waiting list?”

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t suit you, pal. This is strictly snob-land. What brings you here?”

“Mr. Russ Hamel. I have a date with him at ten.”

O’Flagherty’s eyes popped.

“Is that right? Mr. Hamel is one of our most important clients. Stick around, Bart. I’ll check.”

“What’s with the checking? Lift the pole and let me in.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll tell you something. This largo is the safest most secure spot in the whole of Florida. No one — repeat no one — goes past that pole without being checked, and without an appointment. No kidnapping, no break and entry, no nothing for the mugs. I’d lose my job if I didn’t check you out even though I know who and what you are.”

“Don’t tell me you check in and out the residents?”

“That would lose me my job.” He spat. “Man! The creeps and the bitches who live here turn my stomach! I know every one of them, know their car numbers. When I see them, up goes the pole. If I keep them waiting, they yell at me, but strangers... no!”

“Nice to be that rich.”

He grunted, and went back into the guardhouse. After a few minutes, he lifted the pole.

“Go ahead. First Avenue to your left. Third gate to your right. There’s a T. V. scanner at the gate. Get out of your car, hold up your driving licence, press the red button and wait. After you’ve waited until some goddamn butler has buttoned his pants, you’ll get in.”

“Some security,” I said as I set the Maser in motion.

O’Flagherty spat.

“You can say that again.”

I followed his directions and pulled up outside fifteen foot high, solid oak, nail encrusted gates. Getting out of the car, I pressed the red button on the gate post, held up my driving licence and waited. After a minute or so, the gates swung open: an impressive piece of security. Anyone planning to burglarize the Hamel residence would end in bitter frustration.

I drove up the sand covered drive, shaded by citrus trees, and to a deluxe ranch style house where a black man in tropical whites stood before the open front door.

I parked the Maser beside a Ford station wagon, got out and walked up the three steps.