Deal with the Dead
Deal with the Dead
A John Deal Mystery
Les Standiford
www.les-standiford.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2009 by Les Standiford
First Trade Paperback Edition 2009
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2009924198
ISBN-13 Print: 978-1-59058-683-9 Trade Paperback
ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-61595-310-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to my father,
Ross Alan Standiford.
You go, Pee-Wee.
And let’s not forget that first, wonderfully
generous Guernsey County librarian,
Ms. Helen Sunnafrank,
who opened the doors to adventure.
Contents
Dedication
Memo
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
More from this Author
Contact Us
Memo
From the Desk of:
Barton Deal
Miami News December 4, 1960
Quicksilver Cay, October 12, 1952
The bastards got lucky
Acknowledgments
Though I love South Florida just as it really and truly is, this is a work of fiction and I have taken certain liberties with geography and place names. May they please the innocent and the guilty alike.
Deal and I would like to thank Captain Robin Smith, Bill “Eagle Eye” Beesting, Rhoda Kurzweil, and Jimbo Hall for all their help in the preparation of this book.
Epigraph
Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Prologue
Palm Beach, Florida
February 1962
Dracken leaned on his forearms, staring out over the rail of the Polynesia as a dark sedan approached on the dock below, its yellow headlights winding crazily through the maze of stacked cargo, crated machine parts, boats in dry dock, mounded lobster traps—all the who-knows-what of an aging, deserted boatyard jammed along the waterside beneath him. He liked this view, the sense of security it gave him—being the only Indian in the fort, as it were—watching Mr. High-and-Mighty Rhodes having to work his way through the mess to find Butch Dracken.
He smiled at the thought and reached to toss away the cigarette he’d been smoking. The butt twirled lazily down the wedge of cool night air separating Grant Rhodes’ refitted gambling ship from the dockside where she’d been impounded by Dracken’s boss—who happened, these days, to be the sheriff of Palm Beach County.
Dracken, of course, had lived other lives, as had the ship he now stood upon. He’d been a merchant sailor for a time, and while he had never served in that capacity on this vessel, the Polynesia herself had once had a German name and a tramp steamer’s existence: loading coal in Norfolk, to be traded for Norwegian ore in Bergen, that given over for fish oil in Kobe, across to the States again, grain on the West Coast, through the Canal and back up for the coal on the East Coast, around and around we go, until the ship had gotten too small to be profitable.
Dracken knew about nautical matters, sure enough, and his familiarity led naturally to such assignments as this: “Go sit on that frigging boat, Dracken.”
Though the truth was that Dracken had come to detest boats and everything about them. What had once seemed exotic and enticing in his youth now struck him as troublesome and doomed to disappoint. What he had set his sights on these days had a lot to do with staying in one place.
Just like Grant Rhodes had picked the Polynesia out of the scrap yard and given her a second life, that’s what Dracken had in mind. A little horse farm up around Ocala, maybe, a place in the center of Florida that was as far from the water and the snowbirds as it was possible to get and still stay warm most of the year. He would like that, he nodded. All he needed was a stake, and his association with Grant Rhodes was about to provide him with that.
What was left of the cigarette struck the side of the canvas-sided companionway and burst in a shower of sparks above the oily water. Fireworks, Dracken thought, as the sedan pulled up to the dockside below. Fireworks was one bit of liveliness he could still abide.
***
“Mr. Dracken.” Rhodes’ voice rose through the cool air and up the gangplank toward him.
“I’d pipe you aboard, Lucky,” Dracken called down, “but my pipin’ whistle’s broke.”
Rhodes gave him a tolerant smile as he stepped onto the deck. Dracken knew Rhodes didn’t especially favor the nickname, but circumstances being what they were, what did it matter?
“All the others are gone, then, are they?” Rhodes asked.
Dracken nodded. There’d been three of them assigned to the Polynesia: himself and two deputies who Dracken had known would be easy to get rid of. Whyn’t you boys take the rest of the evening off? You can return the favor another night. Their heels had cleared dockside before he’d even finished his sentence.
“Just us chickens,” Dracken said, waving toward the empty decks.
Rhodes gave a sign to the driver who’d accompanied him onto the ship, and the big man walked to the stern of the Polynesia. The big man—some kind of Samoan, he looked like—produced a six-cell flashlight from under his coat and snapped it on. Dracken saw the powerful beam shoot out into the dark harbor. The light blinked a few times and then went out. Soon after, he heard the distant rumble of diesel engines start up.
The big Samoan moved away from the taffrail and came back toward them with his light tucked under his arm. “Go on, now, Julian,” Rhodes said. The big man gave his boss a questioning glance, but Rhodes motioned him on toward the gangway. “I’ll leave in the small boat along with the others,” he said. The big man shrugged and went back down the steps.
Dracken walked to the opposite rail, where one of the Polynesia’s searchlights was mounted, a
nd snapped it on. He ran the bright spot over the surrounding waters until he found the approaching vessel, a medium-sized cabin cruiser that had already cut its engines and was swinging about parallel to his own. Miss Miami Priss was the name painted in gold and black across the stern. Dracken turned to Rhodes.
“Must be a comedown for you, riding a stinkpot like that,” he said.
Rhodes regarded him neutrally. “It’s Barton Deal’s boat, in fact.”
“Your builder friend?” Dracken glanced down at the idling cabin cruiser. “This ain’t amateur night, for chrissakes—”
“Relax, Dracken,” Rhodes said. “I borrowed the boat. It’s just my men down there.”
Dracken nodded, somewhat reassured. Finally, he snapped off the searchlight beam.
“How much time do we have?” Rhodes asked. The engines of the Priss had died away beneath them, leaving the slop of waves against the Polynesia’s hull.
“Long as you need,” Dracken said, glancing at his watch. “The Feds are supposed to take over tomorrow about nine, sheriff says.”
“We’ll be finished long before that,” Rhodes assured him.
You bet your life you will, Dracken nearly said, but managed to hold his tongue.
***
It all took until just after midnight, as it turned out. First, there was the tying off of the Miss Miami Priss and the boarding of the two men of Rhodes’ who piloted her, along with their heavy equipment, a process made all the more difficult by the fact that it had been a while since the Polynesia’s cargo boom and winch had been pressed into service.
Then, after Dracken had discovered that they’d be working below-decks in the forepeak, there had been a bit of a problem starting the generator that fed power to that seldom-used section of the ship. Finally, they were in readiness. though, the four of them moving down a stuffy passageway, Rhodes leading the way, followed by Dracken and the two uncommunicative assistants, dragging their welder’s torches and tanks on dollies.
“In here,” Rhodes said finally, stopping to gesture at a bulkhead door.
Dracken stopped and glanced at the watertight door, then at the water-streaked ceiling above. They were under the Polynesia’s forward decks, he calculated, right about where the forecastle hatch would be. All of his assumptions had proven right so far.
He leaned into the heavy wheel handle until it gave, then cranked it open, loosing an ancient smell of fish parts mixed with crushed coal and ocean damp into the narrow passage. He found the lights and switched them on, then stood aside as Rhodes joined him in a spacious, empty compartment.
Dracken glanced up at the hatchway set in the high ceiling above them, then around at the blank walls as the two helpers dragged their torches inside. “Who would ever know?” he said to Rhodes, by way of compliment. Not himself, that much was certain. He’d already combed the ship from stem to stern. No other way to find what he was after than this, not in the little bit of time there was left.
Rhodes gave him a nod of acknowledgment. He walked to the blank wall opposite and reached to a riveted strip that seemed to join two steel sections of bulkhead. The strip flipped up at Rhodes’ touch, becoming a handle that he used to slide the hidden panel back.
There it was, Dracken saw, set solidly into the real wall of the bulk-head, the ship’s safe, the thing he’d been searching for from the very moment that Rhodes had called about the job. Rhodes’ treasure trove. The mother lode. Dracken’s stake.
“Who would’ve thought?” Dracken repeated.
“Isn’t that the point?” Rhodes said, and something in his tone dug at Dracken, though he could afford to disregard it now.
The two of them stepped aside as the cylinders were set up, the torches were arranged and popped into life. The assistants—one a cadaverous rail-thin man, the other a stocky sort who looked fresh off the farm—donned their heavy masks and set to work cutting the safe out of the wall.
“Couldn’t you just open the damn thing right here?” Dracken said to Rhodes at one point.
“It doesn’t suit my plans,” Rhodes told him. That same you-don’t-understand-shit tone in his voice. But Dracken simply nodded.
“You’re the boss,” he said.
Rhodes nodded and moved forward to say something to the tall man, who’d paused to flip up his mask and wipe sweat from his streaming face.
Now, thought Dracken, who backed swiftly out the bulkhead door and slammed it closed behind him. He set the outer lock in place, then hurried off down the hallway and made his way through the twisting passageways to the midships cabin where he’d stashed what he needed.
He selected the department-issue Remington pump and his own Browning automatic, a weapon he favored for use in hunting deer. His friends liked to shoot deer and eat them. Dracken preferred to vaporize them. He’d even taken the BAR along on a fishing trip to the Keys once, had used it to bag—if that was the right word—a tarpon rolling a few feet off the end of a dock where they’d put up. Cornered deer and rolling tarpon, three men-fish in a bulkhead barrel, it was all the same to him.
Dracken draped a loaded belt of shells for the Remington over his shoulder—double-oh buckshot—then picked up two extra magazines for the Browning. He was moving quickly, but not carelessly. The three men he’d left behind might manage to cut their way through the bulkhead, given a few hours, but no way they’d be able to manage in the little time they had. He thought about taking along the .45 he usually carried in his duty belt, but decided against it. If he couldn’t finish three trapped men with the two weapons he was carrying, then he ought to turn in his spurs.
He made his way up the crew ladder to the foredeck, his weapons cradled in one arm, stopping below the bridge to make sure all was quiet up top. Sure enough, the car that Rhodes had come in was gone, the boatyard back to its graveyard quiet, the surrounding backwaters empty. To the north, the distant lights of West Palm Beach sent a soft boreal glow into the sky, and to the east, a mile or so across the broad intracoastal channel, he saw a few winking lights from the place where the millionaires gathered.
Most of them were greedy, cutthroat robber barons, Dracken thought, and the realization gave him fresh resolve. He was not greedy—he aspired to no mansion nor to any exalted status in this life—and he was not so much a robber as a man who was about to relieve a true robber—gambling man Rhodes—of his burden.
Dracken smiled and moved quickly over the foredeck to the hatch cover he’d been looking up at just a few minutes before. No need to go to the trouble of moving the whole cumbersome thing. There were a couple of ventilation ports the size of bathroom windows he could open and use, and that would provide better cover anyway…just in case someone had been carrying a pistol he hadn’t spotted.
He bent down and removed the pin from one of the covers and flipped it back, careful to stay out of the line of fire. But there was nothing but silence from down below, that and one thin beam of light arrowed up into the night above the tethered ship. He got on his knees and shouldered the BAR. He edged carefully toward the opening—just far enough to get a quick peek, now—then stopped.
Why would they be dumb enough to leave the lights on? he asked himself. He edged a little closer toward the open hatch and thrust his head up and back, quick as a mongoose strike, just enough time to see, just enough for a glance that chilled him. Two tanks, two idle torches, one closed door, and no men anywhere…
How could that be…, he was thinking, and was about to move forward for another quick glance, just to be sure…
When the heavy flashlight barrel hooked under his chin at the same instant that something—a knee as heavy as a cypress trunk—struck him in the small of his back. Dracken arched up in reflex, a movement that only made the job in progress that much easier. He caught sight of the Samoan’s face, heard the sharp snap echo off the bulwarks on either side of him. He realized, at the same instant that everything went numb: It was the sound of his own spine breaking that he’d heard.
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He willed himself to squeeze the trigger of the Browning, even though he had no idea where his aim might lie. The important thing was to go down fighting, he told himself. Die, but take the bastards with you.
He squeezed and squeezed again, or thought he had…but there was only silence in response. And soon there was the darkness, too.
Chapter One
Near Kusadisi, Turkey
Late August, the Present Day
“Flamethrower—!”
The amplified voice, accentless, ahuman, rolled from the many banks of speakers stationed around the darkened open-air arena, washing over the crowd like a pronouncement of the gods.
The darkness, as well as the answering murmur from the crowd—noise enough to precede a rock star’s entrance onto stage—made convenient cover for Halliday and his men. In such a melee as this, the three had approached the makeshift viewing stand without incident, had dealt efficiently with the guards at the bottom of the tucked-away steps, had made their way up before either of the men on the platform had noticed.
By now, Halliday and his companions sported all the proper passes, each in its little plastic pouch, each dangling from its own springy lanyard. The mustachioed Turk stationed near the top of the steps examined their credentials by the wavering glow of outdoor torches ringing the platform, then gave a respectful nod to what he had certified was a media entourage, stepping back to allow the three of them on board.
Ferol Babescu, a fabled international broker who had dealt in every illicit item to cross the black market since Mussolini came seeking arms, was sitting forward on the platform, ensconced by himself in a wicker sultan’s chair that seemed to shudder under the man’s great weight. Or perhaps it was just the growing roar of the crowd that vibrated the stand.
Halliday ignored the sounds behind him, the soft scuffing of the Turkish guard’s sneakers as he left the platform. He stared out in the direction of Babescu’s transfixed gaze—the fat man still unaware—and shook his head at the sight. Something significant seemed to have happened to the world during the time he’d been away, and Halliday was not sure if he understood quite all of it. He had come here for one simple reason, but there had been certain delays, hadn’t there, and now Babescu’s lunatic “festival”—some kind of Woodstock for the new millennium, if Halliday understood properly—was already under way.
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