Read Online 1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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moment a big black came sliding out of the shadows and blocked our further entrance. He looked big enough and powerful enough to knock over a bull.
‘Can’t you guys read?’ he demanded in a harsh, loud voice.
‘Move over, black boy,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Hank.’
His bloodshot eyes flickered.
‘No white trash in here!’
‘Can you read?’ I said, and shoved my professional card at him.
The card made an impression on him. He stared at it, and I saw his thick lips move as he read.
‘You a cop?’ he asked, his voice less harsh.
‘Look, black boy,’ I barked, ‘take that card to Hank and tell him I want to talk to him. Get moving!’
He hesitated, then shambled away, walking across the dance floor to a door he opened, then disappeared from sight.
The dozen or so blacks were watching all this. None of them moved nor spoke. I guess they thought we were cops.
I wasn’t going to let my advantage rest.
‘Come on,’ I said to Bill and walked across the dance floor, pushed open the door through which the black had disappeared and found myself in a dimly lit corridor which led to another door. As I walked down the corridor, followed by Bill, the far end door jerked open.
I was confronted by Hank Smedley.
Bill had described him, but I didn’t realise until I was facing him just how big he was. He wasn’t big: he was enormous, standing some six feet seven inches high, with shoulders as wide as a barn door. Bill had said he had a small head: this was correct. Hank had a tiny head, ugly, flat broad nose, leathery-looking lips and glittering bloodshot eyes. He was the perfect model for a horror movie.
‘What do you want?’ he rasped, blocking the doorway. He had fists like hams, and they were clenched at his sides.
In a mild voice I said, ‘Mr. Hank Smedley?’
This seemed to throw him. Probably no white man had called him ‘mister’ before. His fists unclenched.
‘Yeah. What you want?’
‘I am from the Acme Detective Agency, Mr. Smedley,’ I said, still keeping the mild tone. ‘I’m hoping you can help me.’
He stared suspiciously at me. I could almost hear what brain he had creaking.
‘Help?’ he finally snarled. ‘I don’t help white men. On your way. You stink up my place.’
‘Let’s cut out the black man, white man shit,’ I said. ‘My name is Wallace. So I call you Hank, and you call me Wallace. That way we might be able to have a civilised talk.’
This approach wasn’t his scene. I could see him, hesitating. He was trying to make up his moronic mind whether to hit me or just stand there.
He stood there.
‘I’m looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, slowly and distinctly as if speaking to a child.
That got a reaction. He leaned forward, glaring at me. Right at that moment he made King Kong look like a powder-puff.
‘What do you want with him?’ he demanded.
I looked beyond him to where the black I had first spoken to was lurking and listening.
‘Tell that boy to get the hell out,’ I said. ‘This is confidential.’
I was deliberately trying to impose my will on this ape.
It worked.
He turned around.
‘Beat it!’ he snarled.
The black shoved by me and went back into the main room.
‘I’m trying to find Terry,’ I said, ‘because someone has left him a heap of jack. Unless I find him, the loot will remain in the bank.’
A spark of intelligence lit up his bloodshot eyes.
‘How much?’
‘Could be a hundred thousand. I don’t know for sure.’
‘A hundred thousand!’ he exclaimed, staring at me. I could see money would always make an impact on him.
‘That’s what I understand. I won’t swear to the amount: it could be more. Where do I find him?’
Blue-black veins stood out on his forehead as he thought.
Finally, he said, ‘So what happens if you do find him?’
‘No problem. I take him to the bank, he signs a few forms, and the money is his. It’s as simple as that.’
He scratched his head while he continued to batter his
‘Can’t you guys read?’ he demanded in a harsh, loud voice.
‘Move over, black boy,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Hank.’
His bloodshot eyes flickered.
‘No white trash in here!’
‘Can you read?’ I said, and shoved my professional card at him.
The card made an impression on him. He stared at it, and I saw his thick lips move as he read.
‘You a cop?’ he asked, his voice less harsh.
‘Look, black boy,’ I barked, ‘take that card to Hank and tell him I want to talk to him. Get moving!’
He hesitated, then shambled away, walking across the dance floor to a door he opened, then disappeared from sight.
The dozen or so blacks were watching all this. None of them moved nor spoke. I guess they thought we were cops.
I wasn’t going to let my advantage rest.
‘Come on,’ I said to Bill and walked across the dance floor, pushed open the door through which the black had disappeared and found myself in a dimly lit corridor which led to another door. As I walked down the corridor, followed by Bill, the far end door jerked open.
I was confronted by Hank Smedley.
Bill had described him, but I didn’t realise until I was facing him just how big he was. He wasn’t big: he was enormous, standing some six feet seven inches high, with shoulders as wide as a barn door. Bill had said he had a small head: this was correct. Hank had a tiny head, ugly, flat broad nose, leathery-looking lips and glittering bloodshot eyes. He was the perfect model for a horror movie.
‘What do you want?’ he rasped, blocking the doorway. He had fists like hams, and they were clenched at his sides.
In a mild voice I said, ‘Mr. Hank Smedley?’
This seemed to throw him. Probably no white man had called him ‘mister’ before. His fists unclenched.
‘Yeah. What you want?’
‘I am from the Acme Detective Agency, Mr. Smedley,’ I said, still keeping the mild tone. ‘I’m hoping you can help me.’
He stared suspiciously at me. I could almost hear what brain he had creaking.
‘Help?’ he finally snarled. ‘I don’t help white men. On your way. You stink up my place.’
‘Let’s cut out the black man, white man shit,’ I said. ‘My name is Wallace. So I call you Hank, and you call me Wallace. That way we might be able to have a civilised talk.’
This approach wasn’t his scene. I could see him, hesitating. He was trying to make up his moronic mind whether to hit me or just stand there.
He stood there.
‘I’m looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, slowly and distinctly as if speaking to a child.
That got a reaction. He leaned forward, glaring at me. Right at that moment he made King Kong look like a powder-puff.
‘What do you want with him?’ he demanded.
I looked beyond him to where the black I had first spoken to was lurking and listening.
‘Tell that boy to get the hell out,’ I said. ‘This is confidential.’
I was deliberately trying to impose my will on this ape.
It worked.
He turned around.
‘Beat it!’ he snarled.
The black shoved by me and went back into the main room.
‘I’m trying to find Terry,’ I said, ‘because someone has left him a heap of jack. Unless I find him, the loot will remain in the bank.’
A spark of intelligence lit up his bloodshot eyes.
‘How much?’
‘Could be a hundred thousand. I don’t know for sure.’
‘A hundred thousand!’ he exclaimed, staring at me. I could see money would always make an impact on him.
‘That’s what I understand. I won’t swear to the amount: it could be more. Where do I find him?’
Blue-black veins stood out on his forehead as he thought.
Finally, he said, ‘So what happens if you do find him?’
‘No problem. I take him to the bank, he signs a few forms, and the money is his. It’s as simple as that.’
He scratched his head while he continued to batter his
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