I told Bill.
‘You stick around,’ I said. ‘I’m off.’
‘Hold it,’ Bill said, a snap in his voice. ‘I’m sick of sticking around. I’m coming with you. I’ll stick around in the car if I’m going to stick around anywhere.’
So, leaving the breakfast debris on the table, we went down to the garage and I drove to the Neptune Tavern.
Leaving Bill in the car, I crossed the waterfront and entered the tavern. I found Al Barney seated at his special corner table, wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread.
I sat in a chair opposite him. He regarded me, then nodded.
‘You want breakfast, Mr Wallace?’ he asked.
I said I’d already had breakfast and did he want a beer?
‘I never say no to a beer, Mr Wallace.’ He signalled to Sam who came racing over with a beer and a plateful of the lethal sausages.
After he had swallowed half the beer, he set down the mug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, threw into his shark-like mouth three of the sausages, then relaxed back in his chair.
‘Mr Wallace, I am a man with his ear to the ground. I don’t ask questions. I listen. So OK. You told me you were interested in Terry Zeigler. So I listen. You still interested?’
‘Yes, Al,’ I said.
He threw three more sausages into his mouth, chewed, grunted, then leaned forward, his peppery breath fanning my face.
‘The man you want to talk to is Chuck Solski. He was a drug pusher before the Mafia took over. From what I hear Zeigler was a close pal of his. Solski needs money. If you spread some dollars in front of him, he’ll tell you what happened to Zeigler. You’ll find Solski at 1 °Clam Alley, top floor. That’s the best I can do. OK?’
‘Thanks, Al.’ I took out my wallet, but he waved it away.
‘We’re friends, Mr Wallace. I don’t take money from friends.’
I shook his clammy hand.
‘Thanks again, Al.’
I returned to my car where Bill was waiting I told him what Al Barney had said.
‘I’ll see if this guy is home.’
‘Clam Alley? That’s at the far end of the waterfront. It’s a condemned slum. I’ll be surprised if anyone is living there. The few apartment blocks are going to be torn down.’
‘How do you know?’
Bill gave a sly smile.
‘Barney isn’t the only one who keeps his ear to the ground. No point in walking. We’ll drive.’
With Bill at the wheel, we drove slowly along the waterfront, now packed with tourists. Finally, he pulled into a parking slot.
‘Clam Alley is just ahead.’
‘You certainly know this district,’ I said as I got out of the car.
He walked with me.
‘I’ll stick around, Dirk,’ he said. ‘That’s number 10 facing us.’
Clam Alley was the worst slum I have ever seen. There were four five-storey blocks. Every window in these blocks was smashed.
The door to number 10 hung drunkenly open on one hinge. I edged into the filthy, stinking lobby, littered with rubbish. Bill followed me.
‘For God’s sake!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely no one lives in this cesspit.’
Facing me were stairs.
‘Al told me he’s on the top floor,’ I went on.
‘Watch it, Dirk,’ Bill said. ‘Those stairs look rotten. You could break a leg.’
I started up the stairs that creaked as I climbed. The door to the first apartment hung open. It was empty and filthy. I climbed to the second floor. The same empty apartment. The third floor was the same. Whoever had lived in these hovels had gone. Finally, with Bill behind me, I reached the top floor. The stink of the place was stomach turning. Facing me was a door that was closed: the only door in this ghastly building that was closed.
I rapped on the door and was greeted with silence. I rapped again, still silence. I tried the door handle and the door creaked open, I moved cautiously into a small attic room. Bill remained outside, looking through the open doorway.
I’ve seen slums in the Negro quarters in West Miami, but nothing like this dreadful little room. It contained a packing case to serve for a table, two stools and a bed. The litter of past meals, newspapers, and other muck covered the floor. The room was a hellhole of squalor.
Lying on the bed was a man. He lay on sheets that hadn’t been washed in years. The man and the bedding matched the awful squalor of this room.
I moved towards him, paused by his side and stared down at him. He was wearing a pair of filthy, tattered jeans. He was as thin as a skeleton. His matted black hair fell to his shoulders. His beard hid most of his face. At a guess, I thought he was around 35 years of age. He gave off the body stink of a man who hadn’t washed in months.
He seemed to be sleeping.
I hated to touch him, but I took hold of his arm and gave him a violent shake.
‘Hey! Chuck!’ I bawled in my cop voice. ‘Wake up!’
His eyes snapped open and he stared at me, then he swung his spindly legs off the bed onto the floor.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, his voice husky. He was now sitting upright.
‘I’m a guy with money to spend,’ I said, stepping away from him. ‘I want information from you.’ I took out my wallet and produced two one-hundred dollar bills. ‘These interest you?’
He stared at the bills as if I was showing him all the gold in Fort Knox.
He ran his fingers through his matted hair. I kept well away. I didn’t want to collect any of his lice.
‘Jesus! I want money!’ he muttered. ‘I need money!’
‘I need information, Chuck. We can do a deal.’
‘What information?’
‘Are you OK? You don’t look it. Can you think straight?’
He sat there for several minutes, staring down at the filthy floor. I could see he was pulling himself together. Then, finally, he looked up and nodded.
‘I sleep a lot,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing for me to do but sleep. When I sleep, I hope I won’t wake up, but I still do. I always wake up and find myself in this goddamn hole. I haven’t the guts to jump into the harbour. At the end of the week, they are coming to knock this rat hole down. I don’t know where I am going. I’ve come to the end of my line, but the goddamn line won’t finish.’
‘Chuck, I want information from you, and I’ll pay two hundred dollars for it.’
‘What do you want to know?’ He regarded me. ‘You ain’t a cop, are you?’
‘No. I want to find Terry Zeigler.’
He sat there, scratching his awful mop of hair while he continued to stare at me.
‘Why?’ he finally asked.
‘That’s not your business, Chuck. I’m offering you two hundred dollars to tell me all you know about Zeigler and where I can find him.’
He grimaced.
‘Is that right? Suppose when I tell you, you spit in my face and walk out with the money?’
I tossed a hundred-dollar bill into his lap.
‘You’ll get it, Chuck, so start talking.’
He fondled the bill.
‘Jesus! I need this,’ he muttered. ‘Know something? I haven’t eaten for three days.’
‘Start talking about Zeigler,’ I barked. ‘Come on, Chuck. The stink in this room is killing me.’
So he started to talk.
I sat on the packing case that served as a table and listened.
He told me he had met Terry at the Dead End Club. They became friends. As he was on the needle himself, he realised that Terry was also hooked. This made a bond between them. Chuck was trying to promote a moneymaking drug business. He could get the stuff, but he failed in pushing it. He talked to Terry about this who said he was willing to try. During the afternoons, Terry would go out and sell the stuff. He was a big success. He had many contacts with the kids. They all loved his piano playing. Between them, Chuck and Terry, they worked up a flourishing business. Chuck got his supplies from an old Chinese, Terry sold the stuff.