James Chase: A Can of Worms

Bertha shrugged.

“Maybe. So where do you come in?”

“I’m working on that, babe. What I need is a little capital.”

“How much?”

I could see she was interested. I was going to put the bite on for fifty dollars, but decided not to stint myself.

“Let’s say three hundred, and...”

“Three hundred!” she practically screamed. “You need your head examined.”

“Okay, forget it, babe. I’ll find someone else. This is a loan, not a gift. I know dozens of guys and dolls who’ll loan me a lousy three hundred at twenty percent for ten days.”

“You are a liar. No one except me would loan you five dollars. Okay, Bart.” She opened her bag and took out her purse. “A hundred and fifty, repaid in ten days at twenty percent.”

I peered into her purse. It seemed stuffed with the green.

“Have you been robbing a bank?”

She thrust the two bills at me and snapped her purse shut.

“If you do get your hands on a big slice of money, I expect a rake-off. Understood?”

“You’ll get it when I get it.” I put the two bills in my wallet, feeling rich again.

“Now we’ll have a drink. Come on, drive me to Caesar’s. I’m thirsty.”

I hesitated. A champagne cocktail at Caesar’s bar cost ten dollars. I didn’t hesitate for more than a couple of seconds. I was rich again. What’s money for except to spend?

I started the engine and headed for Caesar’s bar.

I arrived at the pirates’ islands a little after 06.30. It had been a hell of a struggle to get myself awake by 04.30, but with the aid of an alarm clock and three cups of strong coffee, I more or less made it.

As Bertha had had a date, after drinking two champagne cocktails, and asking more questions which didn’t get her anywhere, she had left me. I had returned to my apartment and made preparations for the morning. I dug out my jungle uniform I practically lived in when in Vietnam. The camouflage blouse, the tuck-in drill trousers, the jungle boots, plus a hunting knife, I packed in a holdall. I added a floppy hat, insect repellent and a thermos of iced Scotch and water.

On my way down to the quay, I bought a pack of beef sandwiches from an all-night café. I found the boat waiting for me.

When I was in sight of the islands, I cut the outboard engine and changed into the jungle uniform. It felt odd to be wearing those clothes again, but from the look of the dense vegetation of the islands, they were the clothes to wear.

After smearing my face and arms with the insect repellent, knowing the mosquitoes were man-eaters, I headed for the wide creek where Nancy’s yacht had disappeared.

I took it slowly: the outboard engine just ticking over and almost soundless. I steered the boat under the canopy of Spanish moss and vines. After the dazzle of the sun, it was as if I was moving into a hot, steamy tunnel. Swarms of mosquitoes buzzed around my head, but the repellent kept them at bay. Ahead of me, I saw the sunlight, and in a few moments, I edged the boat into a tiny lagoon. I cut the engine and let the boat drift to the near bank. I saw a well-worn path leading into the jungle. There was a stout post, driven into the bank, and I guessed this was used to moor the yacht. I made my boat fast to the post, then slinging the holdall over my shoulder, I set off cautiously along the path, my eyes alert for snakes, my hunting knife in my hand. I walked for about a quarter of a mile. Ivory billed woodpeckers and blue jays scattered into the overhead foliage at my approach. The heat was oppressive and sweat ran off me. Ahead of me, I saw the path took a sharp turn, and from the increased light, I guessed, around the corner, was a clearing.

All my jungle training came back to me. I crept forward, avoiding the creepers, making no sound until I reached the massive trunk of a dead tree. From behind its shelter, I was able to see the clearing.

Pitched in the shade was a green canvas jungle tent. It was the kind of tent I used to live in in Vietnam: big enough to accommodate four men comfortably. The entrance to the tent was laced up. To the side of the tent was a portable barbeque and two canvas folding chairs. The grass and weeds around the site were trampled flat.

This scene puzzled me. Surely, I wondered, this couldn’t be a love nest? I found it hard to believe that Nancy came here to meet a lover. It must be like an oven inside that tent.

I remained, still, wondering if anyone was inside the tent. The fact that the entrance was laced shut suggested no one was. I looked around, chose a big flowering shrub some yards from the path and moving silently, I squatted down behind the shrub, out of sight, but with a good view of the tent.

Mosquitoes buzzed around me. Apart from bird noises, the jungle was silent. I wiped my face, opened the holdall and took a drink from the thermos. I wanted a cigarette, but decided that the smoke might give me away. I settled down to wait. It was a long, sweltering wait. I kept looking at my watch. When the hands crawled to 08.45, I heard a sound that made me flatten out on the ground: the sound of a man, whistling. Then came the sound of the crackling of dead leaves and the swish of vines as they were impatiently pushed aside. Whoever was approaching was confident of being alone. He was taking no precautions.

Peering through the leaves of the shrub, I saw a man come out of the jungle on the far side of the clearing. He was of medium height, broad shouldered and muscular. At a guess he was around twenty-five or six years of age. His black hair was long and unkempt. His bushy beard concealed most of his features. He was wearing a long-sleeved dark green shirt and black trousers, tucked into Mexican boots. In one hand he carried a fishing rod, and in the other, two fair sized Black Crappie, already gutted and cleaned.

As he set about igniting the barbeque, I lay motionless, puzzled. Could this tough looking hippy be Waldo Carmichael? I thought not, but it was just possible that he was. Watching his deft movements, seeing the muscles rippling under his sweat-soaked shirt, I thought it was possible a girl like Nancy might fall for him.

With the fish sizzling on the grill, he unlaced the entrance to the tent and went inside. He returned into the open after a few minutes, carrying a tin plate and a knife and fork. I watched him eat. When he had finished the meal and was burying the debris, I decided to take action. Moving silently, I made a wide sweep and got back on the path again. I started off towards the clearing, deliberately making a noise, by scuffling up dead leaves, and as I reached the corner of the path, leading to the clearing, I began to whistle. I wanted to warn him of my approach. I had an instinctive feeling that it would be bad tactics to sneak up on him.

As I moved into the clearing, I saw him standing by the tent. He was holding a .22 rifle, and it was pointing in my direction.

I stopped short and gave him my friendly smile.

“Hi, there! Excuse me. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I had this island to myself.”

He lowered the barrel of the rifle so that it pointed now at my feet, but I could see he was tense and jumpy.

“Who are you?” His voice was low and husky.

I could see I had given him a hell of a scare.

“Bart Anderson. All right for me to approach? That rifle looks kind of unfriendly.” I smiled again. “It might go off.”

He remained as watchful as a cornered cat.

“Stay where you are. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Blackbeard’s cave,” I said. “Would you know where it is?”

“There’s no cave on this island. Beat it!”

“Are you sure? There was a guy at the Neptune bar who told me for sure it’s here.”

“I said beat it!”

“Are you a hermit or something?” Still smiling, I began to edge forward.