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.
Two vicious kids attempted to hold up one of the many waterfront bars. Pete, loaded, appeared on the scene and shot the kids to death. When he was sober enough to realize what he had done, he had wept. Chief of Police Terrell had no alternative but to retire him. The City’s administration officer refused Pete a pension. After spending his small savings, Pete became just another of the many riff-raff that haunt the waterfront, picking up a job here and there, living rough.
Through Al Barney who was a close friend of Pete, I got to know this big hulk of a man with his red-rimmed eyes and his close cropped white hair, and when I ran into him, I slid him a pack of cigarettes, knowing that but for the dishwasher, he would still be keeping law and order on the waterfront.
Around 09.00 the following morning after I had followed Josh Jones and his two companions back to Jones’ room, I went in search of Pete.
The sun was beginning to show some authority, and I was feeling jaded, after only a few hours’ sleep. I walked along the quay. It was too early for Al Barney to be on show. He only came out of his room when the tourists appeared, but I found Pete mending a fisherman’s net, sitting on an upturned box.
“Hi, Pete,” I said.
He looked up and smiled at me. His raddled face was heavily tanned and his blue eyes were watering.
“Hi, Bart,” he said. “You’re early.”
“I’m working on a job. Can you leave that net and have a coffee?”
He carefully arranged the net, then stood up.
“Sure. There’s no hurry. A coffee? Yeah, I could use a coffee.”
We walked over to the Neptune bar. I noticed Pete was dragging his feet. He moved slowly, like a sick elephant.
Sam beamed at me as Pete and I settled at a table.
“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” he said, coming over.and giving the table a polish with a dirty cloth What’ll it be?
“Two coffees, a bottle of Scotch, one glass and water,” I said, not looking at Pete.
“Right away, Mr. Anderson,” and Sam hurried back to the bar.
“Pete, I have a job for you,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It pays twenty bucks.”
Pete stared at me, his eyes popping.
“You can’t mean...” He stopped short as Sam put a jug of coffee, the Scotch, mugs and a glass on the table. When he had returned to the bar, Pete went on, “What’s the job, Bart? Could I use a twenty!” He was staring at the bottle of Scotch the way a kid looks at ice cream.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Take a shot.”
“I shouldn’t, but maybe just one. It’s early.”
With a trembling hand, he poured the Scotch into the glass until the glass was full. I looked away, hating to watch the further disintegration of a decent, nice man, but knowing he was hooked, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
I gave him a few moments, then said, “Do you know anything about Josh Jones?”
Pete wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drew in a long slow breath.
“Tosh Jones? There’s no one on the waterfront I don t know. He’s a no-good nigger. He works for this rich author, Mr. Hamel. He would sell his mother...”
“I know all that,” I broke in. “I’ve talked to Al Barney.”
Pete nodded. His hand strayed to the bottle. His hand paused.
“Go ahead, Pete. I know you need it.”
“I guess.” He poured another shot that would have had me walking across the ceiling.
“Pete, I want you to fix it that Jones is tailed. I want to know everything he is doing. He has two people in his room. I want to know when they leave, where they go: a man and a woman. Can you fix it?”
He poured the Scotch down his throat, sighed, stretched his big frame, then with a steady hand poured coffee for me and for himself.
“No problem, Bart. I have a bunch of kids who’ll stick with Jones like glue and these other two.”
“Then get it organized.” I sipped the coffee, then went on. “It’s important these three get no idea they are being watched. The man is medium height, black hair and beard. I didn’t get much of a look at the woman, but they are together.”
“It pays twenty?”
I looked across at the bar. Sam had his back turned, I slid a twenty to Pete.
“There will be more.” I took out my business card. “Call me if the man and the woman move. Okay?”
Pete nodded. He was now a cop. The Scotch had brought him back to the time when he had been a good cop.
“You can rely on me, Bart.”
“Take the Scotch with you. This is important to me.”
He grinned, showing black, rotten stumps.
“Okay, Bart. No problem.”
I left him, paid for the Scotch and the coffees, then went out into the sunshine.
It was the best I could do, I told myself. Not good, but better than nothing.
I walked to where I had left the Maser, got in and drove to the entrance to Paradise Largo. I sat in the car with Bob Dylan on tape to keep me company, and waited for Nancy Hamel to appear.
Chick Barley was fortifying himself with Scotch when I returned to the office.
With the money Bertha had loaned me, I had bought a bottle of Cutty Sark. As I unwrapped the bottle, Chick asked, “Whose ear did you bite?”
I sat at my desk, poured a shot and grinned at him.
“I have friends. What’s with it with you?”
He blew out his cheeks.
“Don’t even mention it. There are times when I hate this job. The Paradise Self-Service store has trouble. One of the staff is taking them to the cleaners. So I walk around the goddamn store, making threatening gestures. What a job! And you?”
“Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time and money.”
I had followed Nancy to the club, watched her play tennis with Penny Highbee, watched her lunch on a prawn salad, then followed her down to the waterfront. She didn’t use the yacht, but wandered around like someone killing time. She bought some oysters and a lobster, then she drove home: a lonely woman, apparently with nothing to do, but now I knew different. I was hoping she would have gone to Josh Jones’ place, but she didn’t. There was no sign of Jones either on the yacht or on the waterfront.
Having finished my drink, I went along to Glenda’s office. She told me the Colonel was tied up. I gave her the report I had churned out on the typewriter.
“Like I said... nothing.”
“Well, stay with it,” Glenda said. “Something might happen.”
“Like the end of the world? Which reminds me, Glenda, I’m due for my vacation.”
“When this job’s through.”
“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me,” and I returned to my office.
Chick was on his way out.
“You see, pal,” he said. “The old grindstone tomorrow, huh?”
“Great dialogue. Stay sober,” and when he had gone, I began to clear my desk. I decided I would see Bertha. I checked my wallet to see what I was worth. I had just under a hundred dollars and eight more days to go. Maybe I would find Bertha in a less extravagant mood, but I doubted it.
As I reached for the telephone, the telephone bell beat me to it.
“Yeah? Bart Anderson, Parnell Agency,” I said.
“This is Lu Coldwell. I need to see you. It’s urgent. Do I come to you or you come to me?”