“I got some talking to do.”
“Not with me, you haven’t.”
The smile disappeared from his face and he puffed quickly on the stub of his cigar. The smoke and the smell combined to raise my temper and bring back memories. Jocko and I had teamed up on a few cases; it was something I wanted to forget.
“I’m busy, Jocko. Beat it!”
“With Claire Harding?”
I looked at him for a long moment, wondering how he knew my client’s name.
“Don’t try to kid me, Johnny,” he said. “I got the straight dope and I got to talk to you. It’s worth the effort.”
Effort, with Jocko Quinn, was a valuable thing. He didn’t like to move his fat little body unless it was absolutely necessary.
“For pete’s sake,” I said. “Throw away that cigar! It stinks to high heaven.”
He assumed a hurt look, closed his eyes and opened them again. He took a last drag on the cigar, looked at it fondly, then dropped it out the window.
“What are you after, Jocko? What’s your angle?”
His laugh was short. “You’re a distrustful bastard, Johnny. I’ve got no angle, no angle at all. I just want to cut you in on something. Something big.”
“Come on, come on, my time’s valuable.”
“Sure it is. I know that.” The little fat hands moved across the big fat stomach. He took a deep sigh. “Let’s take a ride.”
“We can talk here.”
He seemed to think that over. His head moved forward, trying to look out. We couldn’t see the street from where we were parked. He was sweating and I was beginning to smell him; little rivers ran down his forehead, lining his face and features.
“Johnny,” he said, “this is big. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever tried. I wouldn’t cut you in, but—” his eyes searched my face for some sign of understanding—“but it’s too big for me alone. You’re the kind of guy that can handle it.” He paused. The little fat hands moved again. “I tailed you from the Harding place.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Never mind that.”
“I want to know.”
“It’s not important, Johnny.”
I let that ride. The sun ricocheted off the windshield, stinging my eyes. I lit a cigarette. It was almost as bad as the pipe. Damn the heat.
“Believe me, Johnny, when I say this is big.”
“Okay, so I believe you.”
I didn’t though. You couldn’t believe Jocko Quinn, not and expect to know the truth.
He said, “A cool quarter-million bucks. Does that interest you, Johnny? Does it?”
I didn’t answer. I watched a blonde climb into a Mercury convertible. She had nice legs.
“I can’t handle it alone,” he said. “Dammit, I wish I could! But I can’t.”
“You said that before.”
“Yeah, so I did. Listen, Johnny, listen to me real close. I’m not bulling you. There’s two hundred and fifty grand bouncing around here. Two hundred and fifty.” The way he said the amount sent chills down my back. “That’s a lot of money. It’s all tax-free, if we play our cards right.”
“We?”
“Sure, Johnny. You and me. I’m going to cut you in. Just like old times, Johnny. We’ll be working together again. Just like old times.”
He was too nervous, The hands continued to move and he continued to sweat and the smell grew stronger.
“What’s the pitch?”
“There’s no pitch. This dough’s just lying around, just waiting to be picked up.”
It was a lot of money for a punk like Jocko Quinn to be worrying about; it was a lot of money for me, too. His eyes danced around in his face and I could see him forming the amount with his lips. I felt a little sick.
“You meet me tonight,” he said. “Ten o’clock sharp. At Fairfax and Wiltshire.”
“Why there? Why not my place?”
“I think I’m being tailed. I’m not sure.”
“What’s this got to do with Claire Harding?”
The little red veins tightened on his cheeks again.
“Not with her, Johnny, not with her.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“I told you it wasn’t important. Goddamn it, Johnny, do you want in on this or not?”
“All right,” I said.
“You’ll meet me tonight? Promise?”
I nodded.
I watched his little fat form waddle out of the parking lot. Jocko Quinn was getting in the big time. I still felt a little sick.
2
THE TELEPHONE WAS RINGING WHEN I got to my apartment. I left the door open and picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” I said.
“Mr. Phelan?”
I recognized the voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Claire—”
“I know.”
A man and a woman walked by my open door. I heard them laugh and then their footsteps going down the carpeted stairs.
“No results yet,” I said.
“Really, Mr. Phelan, I didn’t expect any.”
“Uh-huh. Miss Harding, do you know a Jocko Quinn?”
The telephone was silent. I tried to picture her in the sunsuit—my watch said 5:30, though, and she was probably dressed by now.
“I don’t think so,” she said, after a while. “There was a Jocko something-or-other in a picture I did about two years ago. An Englishman, I think. A real bore, if I remember correctly.”
“Wrong man,” I said.
She laughed suddenly, saying something to someone on her end of the line. I couldn’t hear what she said,
