Bill sipped his coffee.
‘The Mafia, huh?’
‘That’s it.’
He nodded.
‘I wondered about the acid job. It smelt to me of the Mafia. Fine. Together we take them. Just tell me what you want me to do.’
‘You really mean this, Bill? We both could finish up dead. You realise this?’
For a long moment, Bill looked thoughtful, then he grinned at me and shrugged.
‘So what? You can only die once. Together, we’ll take them. What’s the first move?’
‘As we’ll be working together, it would be a good idea for you to move into my spare room. Shut up your pad, and we’ll be together. OK?’
Bill nodded.
‘Fine with me.’
‘Right. Go pack whatever you want and move in.’ I put the keys of my apartment on the table. ‘I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘I’ll tell you later. You move in. I’ll be seeing you.’
I shook hands with Lucino, thanked him for the dinner, then went out into the humid night air. Getting into my car, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence. As I had hoped, the place was in darkness, except for a light showing in Josh Smedley’s room.
I parked the car outside the gates and walked up the drive. I had to tug the front door bell chain three times before the door was opened, and Josh gazed at me with drink-glazed eyes.
‘It’s Mr Wallace?’ he said, peering. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wallace, Mrs Thorsen isn’t in. She’s at the opera. So sorry.’
I shoved my way in, sending him staggering back.
‘It’s you I want to see, Josh,’ I said. ‘It’s time we talked.’
He looked defeated as only a man full of Scotch can look when faced with trouble.
‘I don’t think...’ he began to mumble, but I caught his arm and steered him down the corridor and into his room. There was a bottle of Scotch and a glass on the table. Josh seemed thankful to flop into his easy chair.
I sloshed more Scotch into his glass, then sat down, facing him.
‘Josh, it’s time you faced up to the facts,’ I said, giving him my cop stare. ‘Your son, Hank, is in real trouble.’
With a trembling hand, he picked up his glass, but didn’t drink.
‘I guess that’s right, Mr Wallace.’
‘Do you know he’s mixed up with the Mafia?’
He made a soft moaning noise, then nodded.
‘Yes, Mr Wallace. I’ve known it for some time. I’ve talked to him, but Hank is difficult. He just laughs at me. Yes, I know. He’s heading for trouble.’
‘No, Josh, he is not heading for trouble; he is in trouble. Do you know Angie is also mixed up with the Mafia?’
‘Miss Thorsen?’ He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘I guess so from what I hear. She’s just one of Hank’s customers. I know that.’
‘Blackmail customers?’
He shivered, then nodded.
‘I guess that’s right, but make no mistake about this, Mr Wallace no one messes with the Mafia.’
‘Why are they blackmailing Miss Thorsen?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’
‘Hank knows?’
‘I don’t know. He’s just a collector.’
‘Mrs Thorsen hired me to find out who was blackmailing her daughter. Now, she has stopped the investigation. Do you know why?’
He took a long gulp at his drink, and for some minutes he remained still, staring with almost sightless eyes at me.
‘Why?’ I asked again, raising my voice.
He hesitated, then said, ‘A man threatened her, Mr Wallace. I have an extension on the telephone. I heard him tell her that if she didn’t call off the investigation, he would burn down her house — this house, Mr Wallace, this beautiful house.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Who else? The Mafia. A voice. He had that kind of voice that scares people. Mrs Thorsen listened, then hung up. I don’t know anything more.’
‘But you do know that Hank is heading for a fifteen-year stretch in the slammer as a blackmail collector, don’t you?’ I said it quietly and slowly so my words would sink in.
He flinched.
‘Fifteen years?’
‘That’s it, Josh. Fifteen years.’ Looking at this wreck of a man, I felt sorry for him.
‘I’ve warned him,’ he said, after minutes. ‘He just laughs at me. What do I do, Mr Wallace? I love my son.’
‘You really have no idea why Miss Thorsen is being blackmailed?’
‘I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know.’
‘Have you any news of Terry Thorsen?’
I had to repeat the question three times before he reacted, but it was a negative reaction.
‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’
There was no further point in staying in this sad, depressing room. I got to my feet.
‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, Josh.’
I left him, staring almost sightlessly at his half-finished drink.
In my racket you pick up all kinds of useful information.
Getting into my car, I drove down to the shabbier quarters of the waterfront where there were stalls, seedy boutiques and junk on trestle tables.
I parked and walked to a stall run by an Arab or maybe a Palestinian. I wouldn’t know the difference. His name was Ali Hassan, and he sold junk to the tourists.
I found him smoking a reefer behind a stall of utter junk. By his side, sitting on the ground, was his wife who looked like an inflated balloon about to take off.
Hassan was short, fat and wearing Arab robes with a headdress. He looked the answer to any tourist’s prayer.
‘Mr Hassan,’ I said, pausing before him. ‘My name is Doe. I have some private business with you involving money. Can we go someplace where we can talk?’
He regarded me, his little eyes like wet black olives, then he got to his feet, muttered something to his wife who shrugged her fat shoulders, then he joined me.
‘Anything to do with money interests me,’ he said. ‘So where do we go?’
I led him to my car and got him settled in the passenger’s seat. His body smell was a little overpowering and I opened all the windows. This helped, but not much.
‘Mr Hassan,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to waste your time, nor mine. I have information that you are a bomb expert. I need a bomb for which I will pay good money. Are you in the market?’
He drew on his reefer without moving his steady gaze.
‘Who gave you this information?’
‘Do you care? I want a bomb. If you can’t deliver, just say so, and I’ll shop elsewhere.’
‘What kind of bomb?’
‘Something small that will do a lot of damage, but won’t start a fire.’
He sat silent, like a coiled fat snake, staring now at the busy waterfront, then he nodded.
‘It’s possible. Yes, I could arrange that, but what will you pay?’
‘What’s your usual charge?’
‘For a small bomb, without causing fire, that is safe for an amateur to handle and will cause a lot of damage, my price would be three thousand dollars.’
He expected to haggle, and I didn’t disappoint him. I spent nearly thirty minutes haggling with him. I was in no hurry. Finally, we settled for one thousand and three hundred.
‘OK, Mr Doe,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow night at this time, you come to my stall and I’ll deliver. No problems. A nice little job, plenty of noise, plenty of damage and no fire. OK?’
I took out my wallet and gave him five hundred. As he stowed the money away in his voluminous robes, I said, ‘Mr Hassan, I know you have a good reputation. Make sure you live up to it. I could make your life a misery.’
He grinned uneasily.
‘No problems, Mr Doe.’
He climbed out of my car and went waddling through the stream of tourists to his junk stall.
I set the air conditioner working to clear his smell, then closed the windows and headed for home.