Toni felt sweat beads suddenly on his forehead.
"So that's fixed, huh?" Ernie said, enjoying himself. "We shoot first and talk after, huh?"
Toni didn't say anything. He was aware of a tight ball of fear in his guts. He drove in silence for ten miles, then aware that Ernie was dozing off, he said. "Do you think Johnny really took all that bread?"
"Why not?" Ernie shook himself awake and lit a cigarette. "Boy! Could I use money like that! You know something, Toni? Johnny has more guts than you or me."
"Maybe, but he can't get away with it. If we don't find him, the Big Man will. The bastard's stupid."
"Maybe, but he's tried and that's more than you and me would have done. There's always a chance he just might get away with it."
Toni glanced at his fat companion.
"You're nuts! No one has ever beaten the organization and no one ever will. If it takes years, they'll find him, if we don't."
"But think of what he could do with all that bread even if he lasted only two years."
"To hell with the money! I'd rather stay alive!"
"There's the sign post," Ernie said. "Jackson five miles."
"I can read," Toni said and the knot of fear in his guts tightened.
Jackson turned out to be a tiny fruit-growing town with a Main street, a number of fruit-canning factories and out-lying farms. Toni drove down the Main street, passing a small, clean-looking hotel, the Post Office, a general store, a movie house and a cafe.
"What a goddamn hole," he said as he pulled up outside the cafe. "Let's have a beer. Maybe we can get a lead on Fuselli."
They were aware that the people on the street, mostly old women and older men were staring curiously at them. They went into the cafe, crossed to the bar and hoisted themselves up on stools.
There were a few old men sitting at tables, nursing glasses of beer, who gaped at them as if they were something out of a zoo.
The barman, fat, balding, with a friendly red face, came to them.
"Mornin' gents. What's your pleasure?"
"Beers," Ernie said.
"Nice to see strangers in our town," the barman went on as he drew beers, "Harry Dukes is the name. Welcome, gents."
In spite of his friendliness, Ernie could see Dukes was looking at them curiously as if trying to decide who and what they were. Toni's black-and-pink-flowered kipper tie seemed to be bothering him.
They drank, then Ernie said, "Nice little town you have here."
He always did the talking while Toni watched, listened and kept his mouth shut.
"Not so bad, and thank you. A bit quiet, but it could be worse. Lots of old people here, but in the evenings it livens up when the boys and girls come in from picking."
"Yeah." Ernie took out his wallet with a flourish and extracted a card he always carried around with him. The times this card had got him out of trouble and got him information were without number. He pushed the card across the counter.
"This for me?" Dukes asked startled.
"Just take a gander, friend."
Dukes went to the back of his bar and found a pair of spectacles. He put them on while Toni hissed softly under his breath; Ernie nudged him and Toni subsided.
Dukes read:
THE ALERT DETECTIVE AGENCY
SAN FRANCISCO
Presented by: Detective 1st Grade Jack Loosey
He looked up, removed his spectacles and gaped. "This you?" he asked, tapping the card.
"Yeah, and this is my assistant: Detective Morgan," Ernie said.
Dukes whistled softly. He was obviously impressed.
"You know something? I had an idea there was something special about you two gents," he said. "Detectives, huh?"
"Private," Ernie said gravely. "Maybe you can help us."
Dukes took a step back. He began to look worried.
"Nothing in this little town for you, gents. I assure you."
"Have a drink and give us another beer."
Dukes hesitated, then drew three beers and stood, waiting.
"We get all kinds of jobs," Ernie said. "You've no idea. Does the name Giovanni Fuselli mean anything to you?"
"Sure does." Then Dukes stiffened and his eyes turned hostile. "What's he to you?"
Ernie grinned slyly.
"Nothing to me, Mr. Dukes, but plenty to him. Does he live here?"
Dukes had now turned very hostile.
"If you want to know anything about Mr. Fuselli you go to the cops," he said. "Mr. Fuselli is a fine gentleman. You go to the cops: don't come here asking me questions."
Ernie sipped his beer and then laughed.
"You've got me all wrong, Mr. Dukes. Our job is to find Mr. Fuselli. We've been told what a fine man he is. We're trying to help him. Between you and me, a relative of his has left him some money: his aunt died last year and we're trying to clear up her estate."
Dukes hostility went away like a fist opening into a hand.
"Is that right? Mr. Fuselli has come into money?"
"He sure has. It's not my business to tell you how much," Ernie winked confidently, "but it's a nice slice . . . We've been told he lives around here, but we haven't his address. Like I said: we get all kinds of jobs. This is one of the nice ones."
Listening, Toni marvelled at Ernie's glib talk and envied him. He knew he could never talk as convincingly as this.
"Well, I'm glad. Mr. FuseIli is a good friend of mine," Dukes said. "Right now, he's away. What a shame! Left last week for a trip up north."
Ernie slopped some of his beer.
"Is that right? Do you know how long he'll be away?"
"No, sir. Mr. Fuselli goes north from time to time. Sometimes he comes back in a week . . . sometimes in a month, but he always comes back." Dukes grinned. "Just shuts up his little house and takes off."
"North? Where?"
Dukes shook his head.
"Mr. Fuselli never says. He'll come in here, have a beer, then he says to me, 'Well, Harry, I guess I'll go north for a while. See you when I get back.' Mr. Fuselli never talks about himself and I don't ask questions."
Ernie lit a cigarette while he thought.
"Doesn't someone look after his place while he's away?"
Dukes laughed.
"Not much of a place to look after. No, I guess no one goes near it. It's in a pretty lonely spot."
"Just where is it?"
"Out on Hampton's hill. You being a stranger here wouldn't know Hampton's hill, would you?"
Containing his impatience with an effort, Ernie agreed.
"Well, you go down Main street, take the dirt road to your left, drive up the hill for a couple of miles and pass Noddy Jenkin's farm. Then you go on for another mile and you'll see Mr. Fuselli's place on your right: a little clapboard house, but he keeps it nice."