“I gave them other two ten names, but I figured since that two of them been around town for over two months,” the man said.
“Eight is enough,” I said.
I looked at the eight names. Somehow I had to cut down the hour and forty minutes lead. It could be the first name or the last. If it was the first name, Jo-Jo Olsen could be already dead. I read the names: Diego Juarez, George Hanner, Max Jones, Ted John, Andy Di Sica, Dan Black, Mario Tucci, Tom Addams.
I looked at the names, and you could take your choice. It could be any of them, or none. In a way I prayed it was none, at least the killers wouldn’t find him. I could take them from the front, and hope to be faster than the two hoods, or take them from the back and hope Jo-Jo was one at the end.
It was bad either way. If I took it from the front, and Jo-Jo was Tom Addams, then I lost a good chance to beat them to him. If I took it from the back, and Jo-Jo was Diego Juarez, then I lost any chance of reaching him second but maybe in time.
If I started at random, it was pure chance. It was pure chance most of the way: I didn’t know the town, the addresses meant nothing so I couldn’t map the best route. What I needed was a short cut — some way to go straight to Jo-Jo Olsen. I needed to crack the alias right here and now.
I ruled out Diego Juarez with a sigh of relief — too unusual for a tall blond boy, it had to be a real name, it would have drawn attention. I ruled out Max Jones and Ted John for the opposite reason — too common as aliases. Jo-Jo was a smart boy, Petey Vitanza said. George Planner could be, it sounded a little like Honda which was the name of a motorcycle. Andy Di Sica and Mario Tucci were both good bets — Jo-Jo grew up with a lot of Italians, and he dreamed of Ferrari in Italy. Tom Addams was far out, but it sounded a little phony, and Addams is an historical name.
That left Dan Black, and I had it!!
I remembered what Packy Wilson had told me about Jo-Jo and the Vikings. I remembered what the experts said about an alias always being connected to a man. I hoped they were right, and that I knew enough. Dan Black. The name of a great Viking King, the first of the Norwegian Kings, and one of the names Packy Wilson had mentioned, was — Halfdan The Black! Dan Black.
“Call the police,” I said to the small man behind the desk, “and get them out to Dan Black’s room. What is the address, a motel?”
The man looked at the address and nodded. “A cheap motel about two miles from here. How do I know you...”
“Just call them, and tell them to make it quick. My name is Patrick Kelly, from New York, take my license number.”
He took my license number, and I was gone. I was probably in the taxi and half way to the motel before the guy made up his mind he better call the police after all. It didn’t matter. What I needed now was luck, not police.
So many cases, so many things in life, turn on luck, fortune, chance. I needed the luck that they had not reached Dan Black yet. I needed the luck that Dan Black was Jo-Jo. I needed luck to go against those two hoodlums, amateurs or not. I needed the luck that Jo-Jo was home. And I would need luck to hold on before the police did arrive.
I got some of the luck right away. The luck I didn’t have was something I had not thought about. Jo-Jo Olsen was Dan Black, all right. And he was there. He was in the third cabin of the very cheap motel. The motel had shacks not cabins, the john was outside in a big central building with the showers, and the driveway was dirt.
I was the first one there, because all was quiet and yet normal, and Jo-Jo opened the door. That was all good luck. The bad luck was in his hand. A large .45 automatic aimed at my heart.
It had not occurred to me that Jo-Jo Olsen, alias Dan Black, might not want to be rescued.
He was tall, blond and good-looking. He was neat and clean and there was a bright look in his eyes. But the automatic was neither neat nor clean-looking, and he did not want help.
“Who asked you, Kelly? Yeh, I know you. Who asked you to butt-in? Who asked Pete?”
I didn’t answer because I had no answer. Who had asked me and Petey Vitanza?
“How did you find me so easy?” Jo-Jo asked.
He was seated on the single brass bed in the room. The room was as cheap as the motel itself. The walls were paper thin. I could hear every sound outside, every car on the street. I was listening. I expected company any minute.
“Dan Black,” I said. “Halfdan The Black. You got a yen for Vikings and history.”
I told him what Packy Wilson had told me, and about what the experts say. He seemed interested.
I told him about the two boys Roth had sent after him, and about Schmidt being dead, and Petey beaten.
“Roth wouldn’t do that,” the boy said. “He’s my father’s cousin.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said. “Roth would kill his mother if he had to.”
“I left town. Dad told him we wouldn’t talk,” Jo-Jo said.
Then I heard his voice clear. Like his father, Swede Olsen, he was talking to himself. Only in his case there was a difference. He wasn’t really trying to convince himself that Jake Roth would lay off him, he was telling himself that it did not matter. He was telling himself that this was the way it had to be. I had to be sure.
“All you have to do is talk, and you’re safe as a church,” I said. “If the cops don’t protect you, Andy Pappas will. Talk, and Roth is through, and you don’t have a worry. Nobody is going to back a beaten Jake Roth against a live Andy Pappas.”
“I’ll be okay anyway,” Jo-Jo said.
“To protect Jake Roth?” I said. “You’re a good kid, you’ve got ambitions, dreams. And you’ll risk your life to save a known killer, a punk?”
“We don’t rat,” Jo-Jo said, and it sounded dirty when he said it. It is dirty, that code of the underworld.
“But not for Jake Roth,” I said. “It’s for your father. You want Roth to still do them favors, the favors they live on, your father and mother.”
Jo-Jo looked at me steadily. “I owe them that. Dad can’t go back to the docks. I can take care of myself.”
“He’ll be back on the docks anyway when I tell the police what I know,” I said.
“You won’t tell,” Jo-Jo said, the automatic coming up.
“You’ll kill me?” I said. “You’ll commit murder to save Jake Roth?”
The tall, blond boy flushed, shouted. “NO! Not for Roth, for my family! They depend on him. I owe them. I...”
I lighted a cigarette. When I had it going I leaned back in my sagging old chair. I listened all the time. They would be here sooner or later, and the boy did not have to kill me. He just had to leave me for them.
“What about yourself?” I said. “What about what you owe yourself? You really think your father and mother thought you’d be safe?”
“They did! They do,” Jo-Jo cried out, the pistol up again.
“No,” I said. “Maybe at first they could fool themselves, but they can’t even do that now. If I hadn’t chased them down, they’d be sitting up there doing nothing while Roth’s boys gun you. They’re worrying about themselves!”
“They don’t know,” Jo-Jo said. “They believe Roth. And so do I.”
“Then why did you keep the ticket?” I said.
The automatic wavered in his hand. It was a good hand, strong and clean. His face reddened again, and then became calm. Very calm and set as he looked at me.
“That ticket is insurance,” I went on. “You’re a good kid, but even good kids learn that kind of play in our neighborhood, right? You’ve got it stashed, probably. Addressed envelope and all that? You never trusted Roth from the start.”