at me with drink-glazed eyes.
‘It’s Mr. Wallace?’ he said, peering. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Thorsen isn’t in. She’s at the opera. So sorry.’
I shoved my way in, sending him staggering back.
‘It’s you I want to see, Josh,’ I said. ‘It’s time we talked.’
He looked defeated as only a man full of Scotch can look when faced with trouble.
‘I don’t think . . .’ he began to mumble, but I caught his arm and steered him down the corridor and into his room. There was a bottle of Scotch and a glass on the table. Josh seemed thankful to flop into his easy chair.
I sloshed more Scotch into his glass, then sat down, facing him.
‘Josh, it’s time you faced up to the facts,’ I said, giving him my cop stare. ‘Your son, Hank, is in real trouble.’
With a trembling hand, he picked up his glass, but didn’t drink.
‘I guess that’s right, Mr. Wallace.’
‘Do you know he’s mixed up with the Mafia?’
He made a soft moaning noise, then nodded.
‘Yes, Mr. Wallace. I’ve known it for some time. I’ve talked to him, but Hank is difficult. He just laughs at me. Yes, I know. He’s heading for trouble.’
‘No, Josh, he is not heading for trouble; he is in trouble. Do you know Angie is also mixed up with the Mafia?’
‘Miss Thorsen?’ He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘I guess so from what I hear. She’s just one of Hank’s customers. I know that.’
‘Blackmail customers?’
He shivered, then nodded.
‘I guess that’s right, but make no mistake about this, Mr. Wallace no one messes with the Mafia.’
‘Why are they blackmailing Miss Thorsen?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’
‘Hank knows?’
‘I don’t know. He’s just a collector.’
‘Mrs. Thorsen hired me to find out who was blackmailing her daughter. Now, she has stopped the investigation. Do you know why?’
He took a long gulp at his drink, and for some minutes he remained still, staring with almost sightless eyes at me.
‘Why?’ I asked again, raising my voice.
He hesitated, then said, ‘A man threatened her, Mr. Wallace. I have an extension on the telephone. I heard him tell her that if she didn’t call off the investigation, he would burn down her house—this house, Mr. Wallace, this beautiful house.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Who else? The Mafia. A voice. He had that kind of voice that scares people. Mrs. Thorsen listened, then hung up. I don’t know anything more.’
‘But you do know that Hank is heading for a fifteen-year stretch in the slammer as a blackmail collector, don’t you?’ I said it quietly and slowly so my words would sink in.
He flinched.
‘Fifteen years?’
‘That’s it, Josh. Fifteen years.’ Looking at this wreck of a man, I felt sorry for him.
‘I’ve warned him,’ he said, after minutes. ‘He just laughs at me. What do I do, Mr. Wallace? I love my son.’
‘You really have no idea why Miss Thorsen is being blackmailed?’
‘I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know.’
‘Have you any news of Terry Thorsen?’
I had to repeat the question three times before he reacted, but it was a negative reaction.
‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’
There was no further point in staying in this sad, depressing room. I got to my feet.
‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, Josh.’
I left him, staring almost sightlessly at his half-finished drink.
In my racket you pick up all kinds of useful information.
Getting into my car, I drove down to the shabbier quarters of the waterfront where there were stalls, seedy boutiques and junk on trestle tables.
I parked and walked to a stall run by an Arab or maybe a Palestinian. I wouldn’t know the difference. His name was Ali Hassan, and he sold junk to the tourists.
I found him smoking a reefer behind a stall of utter junk. By his side, sitting on the ground, was his wife who looked like an inflated balloon about to take off.
Hassan was short, fat and wearing Arab robes with a headdress. He looked the
‘It’s Mr. Wallace?’ he said, peering. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Thorsen isn’t in. She’s at the opera. So sorry.’
I shoved my way in, sending him staggering back.
‘It’s you I want to see, Josh,’ I said. ‘It’s time we talked.’
He looked defeated as only a man full of Scotch can look when faced with trouble.
‘I don’t think . . .’ he began to mumble, but I caught his arm and steered him down the corridor and into his room. There was a bottle of Scotch and a glass on the table. Josh seemed thankful to flop into his easy chair.
I sloshed more Scotch into his glass, then sat down, facing him.
‘Josh, it’s time you faced up to the facts,’ I said, giving him my cop stare. ‘Your son, Hank, is in real trouble.’
With a trembling hand, he picked up his glass, but didn’t drink.
‘I guess that’s right, Mr. Wallace.’
‘Do you know he’s mixed up with the Mafia?’
He made a soft moaning noise, then nodded.
‘Yes, Mr. Wallace. I’ve known it for some time. I’ve talked to him, but Hank is difficult. He just laughs at me. Yes, I know. He’s heading for trouble.’
‘No, Josh, he is not heading for trouble; he is in trouble. Do you know Angie is also mixed up with the Mafia?’
‘Miss Thorsen?’ He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘I guess so from what I hear. She’s just one of Hank’s customers. I know that.’
‘Blackmail customers?’
He shivered, then nodded.
‘I guess that’s right, but make no mistake about this, Mr. Wallace no one messes with the Mafia.’
‘Why are they blackmailing Miss Thorsen?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’
‘Hank knows?’
‘I don’t know. He’s just a collector.’
‘Mrs. Thorsen hired me to find out who was blackmailing her daughter. Now, she has stopped the investigation. Do you know why?’
He took a long gulp at his drink, and for some minutes he remained still, staring with almost sightless eyes at me.
‘Why?’ I asked again, raising my voice.
He hesitated, then said, ‘A man threatened her, Mr. Wallace. I have an extension on the telephone. I heard him tell her that if she didn’t call off the investigation, he would burn down her house—this house, Mr. Wallace, this beautiful house.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Who else? The Mafia. A voice. He had that kind of voice that scares people. Mrs. Thorsen listened, then hung up. I don’t know anything more.’
‘But you do know that Hank is heading for a fifteen-year stretch in the slammer as a blackmail collector, don’t you?’ I said it quietly and slowly so my words would sink in.
He flinched.
‘Fifteen years?’
‘That’s it, Josh. Fifteen years.’ Looking at this wreck of a man, I felt sorry for him.
‘I’ve warned him,’ he said, after minutes. ‘He just laughs at me. What do I do, Mr. Wallace? I love my son.’
‘You really have no idea why Miss Thorsen is being blackmailed?’
‘I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know.’
‘Have you any news of Terry Thorsen?’
I had to repeat the question three times before he reacted, but it was a negative reaction.
‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’
There was no further point in staying in this sad, depressing room. I got to my feet.
‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, Josh.’
I left him, staring almost sightlessly at his half-finished drink.
In my racket you pick up all kinds of useful information.
Getting into my car, I drove down to the shabbier quarters of the waterfront where there were stalls, seedy boutiques and junk on trestle tables.
I parked and walked to a stall run by an Arab or maybe a Palestinian. I wouldn’t know the difference. His name was Ali Hassan, and he sold junk to the tourists.
I found him smoking a reefer behind a stall of utter junk. By his side, sitting on the ground, was his wife who looked like an inflated balloon about to take off.
Hassan was short, fat and wearing Arab robes with a headdress. He looked the
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