Not My Thing

‘This Viet left about an hour later and went marketing. I followed him,’ Lepski went on. ‘He bought a chicken and various herbs and a pack of rice, then he returned to the whore-house. So it’s my bet that Mrs Jamison is there.’

‘You don’t know she’s there. Okay, it looks good, but neither of us know she’s there, do we, Tom?’

Lepski made a noise like a circular saw hitting a knot of wood.

‘So what? We get a warrant and raid the place. We find Mrs Jamison! Or we don’t... so what?’

‘Tom, you are a good cop,’ Terrell said, ‘but you don’t know a thing about the politics of this city. There are three judges here who could sign a warrant, but they won’t for the simple fact they are Loveheart’s weekly clients. The Mayor is also her client. We can not, repeat can not, raid Loveheart’s whore-house. I’m not saying you are wrong, but if Mrs Jamison isn’t there you and I will be retired. Make no mistake about that. Lucy has too much clout going for her. So forget it! We wait until the ransom is paid and Mrs Jamison is safe, then we’ll grab Lucan, this tough and the Viet, but we stay still until then.’

With a grunt of disgust, Lepski got to his feet and stamped out of Terrell’s office.

***

Having had a three-pill sleep, Lucan came awake, and his thoughts immediately turned to the lush girl next door. He shaved, showered and put on swim-shorts. He decided he would invite her to have a swim, then take her to lunch, then soften her up with sweet talk, and by the evening she should be a push-over.

Flexing his muscles, he left his cabin and rapped on Beryl’s cabin door. There was a pause, then the door opened and, to Lucan’s startled dismay, he found himself confronted by a tall, powerfully built man who gave him a wide, friendly smile.

‘I’m Jack Shaddock,’ Howard Jackson said, and reaching out, grabbed Lucan’s hand in a vice-like grip and shook it. I guess you’re Julian Lucan.’ He released Lucan’s half paralysed hand. ‘My little wife tells me you were good enough to feed her last night. Thanks a million. My wife likes to eat.’ Jackson gave a booming laugh. ‘I’ve just arrived. Some place, huh?’

All Lucan’s erotic thoughts about getting Beryl into his bed faded. He forced a smile.

‘Just being neighbourly. I thought as she was on her own, she’d like a swim. Well, that’s okay. I guess I’ll take off.’

‘Yeah,’ Jackson said. ‘We won’t be staying long. I’ve a big deal on.’ The two men stared at each other. Jackson’s smile was less friendly. ‘See you around,’ he went on, and closed the door.

As Lucan, feeling utterly frustrated, walked down to the sea, he experienced an odd uneasiness. He shrugged this off, telling himself it was due to his frustration. As he waded into the sea, he tried to cheer himself up by thinking there were still lots of women around.

It wasn’t until he was stretched out under the shade of a palm tree that this odd feeling of uneasiness returned. Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down his back.

When he had been confronted by this man who called himself Jack Shaddock, something at the back of his mind told Lucan he had seen this man before.

Lucan had a photographic memory for faces: this was part of his way of life. As he lay on the sand, a picture came into his mind of a big, powerfully built man striding down a street in Miami. Lucan had been talking to a black man who was trying to persuade him to help him handle his string of hustlers.

The black man nudged Lucan.

‘See that fink?’ he had said in a whisper. ‘Remember him. That’s Howard Jackson, the FBI agent in this town. You run up against him, and you run into trouble.’

That had been three years ago.

Lucan sat up, cold sweat oozing out of him.

Yes!

Jack Shaddock was Howard Jackson, an FBI agent!

His mind in utter panic, Lucan stared at the sea. It took him several minutes to get his panic under control. Beryl must be an FBI plant! This could only mean that the FBI suspected that he had something to do with the kidnapping, and they were watching him!

He got unsteadily to his feet and walked back to his cabin.

With the cabin door shut, Lucan went to the liquor-cabinet and poured himself a triple Scotch. Then he sat down. He drank and moaned to himself.

The FBI!

He moaned again. How could he have been so crazy as to have got himself involved with a man like Kling?

Greed, of course!

He had been mesmerized by the thought of owning five hundred thousand dollars.

What was a sum like that compared to his freedom? He knew if there was a slip-up, and with the FBI watching him, he could go behind bars for at least ten years!

He must leave at once! He would return to New York! He would find another old, fat woman who would keep him in luxury. Yes! He must leave at once!

Finishing his drink, he jumped to his feet and rushed into the bedroom. He dressed. Then it took him only half an hour to pack his many clothes in two suitcases.

To hell with five hundred thousand dollars! he kept telling himself.

Out! Out! Out!