A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  5

  Saturday. Morley was up early and had a leisurely swim in the heated pool before cooking and eating a light breakfast. He'd decided to leave for Miami about nine-thirty, as he had a number of things to take care of before the one P.M. deadline, things connected with the quick and inconspicuous departure he planned on making once he'd picked up the package. Maybe all these precautions were unnecessary, but if they weren't and he hadn't taken them, he'd be a long time dead.

  He was rinsing the dishes when the nine o'clock news came on. One of the lead stories reported that Ernie Pro had died during the night at a Washington hospital. Morley felt sad. It didn't seem like long ago that Ernie Pro and he were having breakfast at the IHOP in North Palm. She was a nice person. He wondered if they'd gotten to her before she died. Surely they had a guard on her room - and the news item gave no indication of foul play. Well, there just wasn't any way to find out right now. There was one thing: with both Dan and Ernie Pro dead, they sure as hell had narrowed the field of people who knew Santa's identity. Dan had trusted Ernie to the hilt, and he was sure Dan was right. But who knows what she might have been conned out of on her deathbed - especially if she thought she was talking to a "friend"? This whole thing was getting stickier by the minute, and Morley almost had second thoughts about the deal, but some logic and a spurt of adrenalin kept him in line. The logic was that Dan's killers didn't know about the pickup from Ernie or anybody else, be­ cause neither she nor anybody else available to them knew. The adrenalin came from the challenge, and it told him he was living again, and he loved it. He set out for Miami.

  About the time Morley was parking his car in the long-term lot at West Palm Beach Airport and putting on one of his light disguises, Banducci and Conners were stepping out of a cab in front of the Delta terminal at O'Hare Airport in Chicago.

  Morley, traveling as Alfred Barron of Fort Pierce, Florida, was already in Miami Airport and had enjoyed a leisurely early lunch by the time the two Chicago travelers had arrived in Atlanta for a plane change.

  A few minutes past noon Morley, whose closest friend wouldn't have recognized him, was seated in a waiting area near the Eastern Airlines station, shielded from the front by a newspaper, but with a clear side view of the whole area. For a long time nothing of interest to him occurred. He saw a few possibles, but none of them did anything appropriate or passed anything to any of the Eastern desk clerks. Then, at about quarter to one, a small, dark man, neatly dressed in a light­ colored suit, white shirt, and tie, approached the Eastern counter slowly, looking from side to side as if he were expecting someone. He waited while a young woman attendant took care of an old lady's ticket problem, then he began talking to the girl. She listened attentively, nodded, and the man handed her a small envelope, smiled, and walked away. Morley got up and strolled slowly to the corridor exit nearest him. Once through the exit he moved quickly toward the one where the little man had gone out. He was gone. Morley walked on through to the outside corridor just in time to see the little man reach the taxi stand. There was a cab waiting and he got in. It took off and Morley's attention spread to the area around the cabstand. Nobody hurried out to get a cab; no cars pulled out to follow the little man's cab or to pick up someone who might have been watching him. Morley concluded after a few minutes that the man was clean - or that he was being tailed by some superstar pros, in which case it didn't matter what Morley did; he was already finished.

  Morley retraced his steps slowly, decided there was no way to go but straight ahead, and walked in a manner he hoped was casual back to the area where he'd been seated for most of the last hour. He sat down and gave the place the same kind of casing he'd given the taxi stand. Satisfied, he waited another two minutes and then got up and walked to the Eastern counter. He was careful to choose a clerk other than the one who'd taken the envelope - it was too soon, and she might think it was odd. He waited until a young man at the other end of the counter was free. "Hello. I was supposed to pick up my ticket here. My cousin left it. Carradine-Earl Carradine." He spelled it for him.

  "Just a minute, sir." He went to the center of the counter and started shuffling through a tray of papers. He came back with empty hands and a puzzled look. 'Tm sorry, Mr. Carradine, there's nothing there in your name. Maybe your cousin hasn't left it yet."

  Morley's mind raced. He knew he couldn't afford to get the clerk either curious or upset; these things had to be handled in a routine way so that the ID of the picker-upper never came under scrutiny. Still he knew it was there. Or did he? Hell, all he'd seen was a man he thought might be the courier, at the right place at the right time, with an envelope of the right size. Then it dawned on him. The man, the little dark man, looked like an eastern Mediterranean, and possibly, just possibly, he'd substituted a K for the C. Morley decided to risk it. "You don't suppose he used the old spelling?" He smiled at the clerk. "Sometimes my cousin's side of the family uses the old spelling of our name, with the K instead of the C. Would you check again, please, under the K's?"

  "Sure." The clerk went back to that box of papers, shuffled again, then smiled triumphantly. Holding an envelope high, returned to Morley and handed it to him. Morley thanked him, and then politely brushed aside the man's offer of assistance on any ticket or reservation problems. Luckily, it was busy and the clerk's attention was quickly absorbed by another customer as Morley left. He walked casually to the nearest men's room, went into a pay booth, dropped his pants, and sat down. He opened the envelope, tearing the misspelled name, and took out an Eastern ticket from Miami to New York, also in the name of "Karradine." There was also a folded sheet of paper with a key taped to it. There was only one word on the paper, printed in small but clear letters. It read "lawu," which told Morley where the key would fit. He pocketed the key, tore the note and the ticket into small pieces, dropped them into the bowl, and with a flick of the wrist consigned them to the care of the Miami Sanitation District. He headed for the United area on the west concourse where the locker would be.

  The locker was against the far wall, and as he sat quietly watching, nobody seemed to be paying any attention to it. He cased the place for fifteen minutes before he made his move. It looked good, and he figured he'd never be any surer, so he jumped. The key fit and the door popped open. There was a large briefcase in the locker. Nothing else. Morley slid it out and, steeling himself to walk casually, crossed the area and went out the door. He kept walking, now more briskly, until at last he was out in the sunshine. He was as certain as he could be that the pickup had been clean, but whether he needed it or not, he prepared to begin the intricate series of maneuvers he'd designed to make himself disappear.

  West Palm Airport was crowded - too damn crowded - with bustling, noisy, happy winter-weekend people. Dennis Conners, looking like a successful young executive, and Mario Banducci, looking like a thug trying to look like a successful young executive, with Sal Krupa helping, had set up their coverage around the United desk area shortly after three P.M. It was almost five, and they were getting more worried by the moment. Matthewson had received and passed on to them the procedures and recognition signals and had canceled the participation of the original bagman from New York.

  On the click of five P.M. Conners approached the United ticket counter, identified himself to a wide-eyed, attentive young woman as "Mr. Merle Sandstone," and asked if his tickets had been left at their "will call" station. The girl went through the appropriate box slowly and carefully, but she came back shaking her head. Conners told her he'd check again in a little while and walked out of sight to the side of the United desk, where Banducci was waiting. "No dice, Mario. No envelope, no message, no nothing."

  "Holy shit, if we don't get that package and that fucking Santa, Jammy will have our dongs in the meat grinder."

  "We can't get what isn't here, dammit."

  "Yeah. You know that, and I know that, but Jammy-he dunno that."

  "Well, hang on. Maybe the guy's just late. You know this package comes from a long way o
ff."

  "Yeah, I know, but Jammy says that part's finished already. What we're waiting for is this asshole Santa, who Jammy figures picked the stuff up earlier today or maybe yesterday. Y'see, that's what worries me. Maybe this asshole gets smart and figures now Dante's dead, he'll skip with the dough. You don't suppose, Dennis, that little prick has run off leavin' us holdin' the bag?"

  "I hate to say it, but that's just what I was thinking."

  "Oh no! If we lose him and the package I can't go home."

  "Mario, dammit, we can't lose what we never had. Maybe that broad didn't really know anything. Maybe the whole package deal aborted when Dante died, and there never was any pickup by Santa. Yeah, and maybe the word just hasn't got here yet. Huh?"

  "And maybe the sky's a big fucking blue balloon. Thanks, Dennis, but if we don't get'em both Jammy's gonna pin the whole business on me for that stupid quack wasting the broad before she could tell. I never told Jammy, but the doc admitted he lost his temper and the broad really did get pissed off and wouldn't even tell Doc the time of day. She was about to call the nurse when Doc gave her the joy juice. I think he did the right thing, but Jammy'd never see it that way."

  Conners nodded sympathetically. He was amused and elated, but careful not to show either. The simple shit had really dug his own grave this time. Uncle or not, Jammy could not sit still or cover for Mario's stupidity much longer. Mario was right. Jammy would pin the whole business on him.

  While the two Chicago "businessmen" and their local representative waited for Santa to show for the delivery, they in turn were being watched by an elderly gray-haired fellow with horn-rimmed glasses and a gray mustache, dressed in slacks and a sports shirt. The old man was on the mezzanine, seated so that he had an oblique but uncluttered view of the whole United ticket area. He'd been able to pick out the two Chicagoans rather quickly, although he admitted to himself that the blond one might have fooled him if he hadn't had frequent conferences with the more obvious dark one who was looking around worriedly all the time. The third man was even tougher to spot. Nice looking, like a young professional athlete, he stayed seated unobtrusively off to the side, dressed casually in a nicely coordinated conservative sports outfit. The old man had considered the third one a remote possibility only because he had been sitting there too long, until the blond guy, obviously the leader of the detail, had gone over and had a chat with him. The attention and deference the third man had given to the blond one stamped him as lower echelon, but with his smooth appearance and movements he had to be a comer.

  The old man watched the threesome only long enough to sketch their faces on his memory, then he got up slowly and walked to the far stairway down and out into the late afternoon sun. He crossed the perimeter road and the parking area to his car. Once outside the airport grounds, he breathed a long sigh and relaxed. Watching closely for following cars, he turned left on Belvedere then right on Congress. He made a U turn and parked, watching. Nothing suspicious. He waited, counting slowly, timing his entry into traffic to be the last car through the left-turn light back onto Belvedere. Nobody rushed or cheated to follow him. This time he continued to the 1-95 ramp and headed north. He got off at the Blue Heron exit and, following a circuitous route, stopped at a little fish market on the mainland side of the lake. He bought two good-sized groupers, unwrapped them after getting into his car, and put them in a pail on the back floor next to his pole and tackle box. Off came the wig and mustache, and combing his hair with his hands, Morley proceeded over the bridge, the "fisherman" home from a successful foray on the deep.

  When he got up to his floor, Morley knocked on his neighbor's door. The wife answered and he offered her one of the fish. She accepted gladly. He'd known she would - they were declared fish fanciers.

  Whew! Morley sat on his balcony holding a very large and dry martini, relaxing for the first time that day. One more big item to take care of and stage one would be over, apparently successfully: the storage of whatever it was - money, he assumed - in the briefcase resting in the trunk of his car. He hadn't even looked at it yet. He'd just put it there quickly and left it, planning to wait until well after dark to bring it into the building. He didn't want his neighbors to remember him walking in from his "fishing trip" with a briefcase. He could not do anything about safe storage until the banks opened on Monday, but he'd feel a lot better with it up here than sitting in that parking area with just a thin steel trunk lid between it and disaster. By this time he was convinced that Dan's killers really didn't know who or where he was.

  Morley was glad now that he'd taken the chance and made the stakeout at the delivery point. At first the added risk had been against his better judgment, but he knew his disguise was good - that had always been one of his strengths - and he figured that if they knew who he was, he was finished anyway the minute he didn't show for the delivery. His idea was that since this was, in Dan's terms, an unusually valuable package, there'd be a "first team" effort on the part of the old man's killers to get it. Presumably, he now knew three of them on sight, which gave him a small but significant advantage; he needed all he could get. He was also pleased that his basic assumptions concerning Dan and the syndicate seemed to be valid. This helped convince him that his longer range planning was pretty solid too. Sunday he intended to devote to convincing neighbors and friends that everything was routine and normal; Monday he’d go to work in earnest.

  6

  Jammy was surprisingly calm when Mario reported by phone from Florida that Santa and the money were still missing. It was as if he'd known all along that this was how it would turn out. When he didn't even want to see them until Monday morning, Mario began to believe he'd lucked out again. He couldn't have been farther from the truth.

  Mario was quite jolly in his ignorance as one of his men, who'd picked them up at O'Hare, dropped Conners at his North Side flat. They drove off with Mario waving and telling Conners he'd see him on Monday. Wrong again.

  When Conners let himself into the locked lobby of his apartment building, a man who'd been sitting quietly in one of the overstuffed chairs got up and came toward him. Conners recognized him as one of Matthewson's leg men, but he didn't know his name.

  "Mr. Conners?"

  "Yes."

  ''I'm Paul Agrico from Mr. Matthewson's office."

  "Yes. How are you?"

  "Okay. Mr. Matthewson would like to see you. Now."

  Conners didn't hesitate or look at his watch. He just said, "Okay, let's go."

  Fifteen minutes later, at almost midnight, he was seated in Matthewson's office. Agrico had remained outside with that pleasant but rather dull receptionist. Matthewson was pacing back and forth from desk to window, obviously concentrating and agitated. Finally he stopped, sat on the corner of his desk, and looked at Conners like he was seeing him for the first time. "Dennis, I'm glad you could come tonight."

  Conners nodded, waiting silently.

  "We gotta problem that won't quit and I need your help."

  "Yes sir."

  "Just between us, Dennis, I don't think this is Mario's kinda job, so I'm sending him back East for a month or so." Matthewson was all serious business in a concentrated way that Conners hadn't seen for months. "I want you to handle this Santa business, Dennis."

  Conners again nodded silently. Matthewson got off the desk and started to pace. "I gotta have that motherfucker, Dennis. I gotta have him bad. The dough's important but that little bastard has some notebooks that are dynamite. We gotta get'em. The sonofabitch is standing between me and some damn big deals, and if you help me on this one I'll remember it for a long time."

  ''I'll do my best."

  "I know you will - that's why I'm asking you. Now this Santa, he's got over two million in fresh, top rate, clean green and those books, and we don't even know who he is, much less where he is. Mr. Henry seems to find this pretty fuckin' hard to understand. We gotta do something and do it fast. I think this is your kinda job - you got the kind of experience we need for finding this l
ittle shit. I don't even know where to start. I'll be honest with you, Dennis, I dunno where the hell to start looking. You got any ideas at all?"

  "Yes sir. I do. I've been thinking about it."

  "Good. Lemme hear about it."

  "Well, I think Santa is a local Florida man Mr. Cappacino picked up as a bagman. How he got the books I have no idea ­ yet - but the money's easy. When he learned Cappacino's dead, he just picked it up and went to ground with it.''

  "Why you think he's local?"

  "A bagman who'd be unknown to other parties, be able to blend with the scenery, all that. He'd best be a local man."

  "Makes sense, I guess. But what the fuck is he up to? Supposin' he's just halfway smart, how's he figure he's gonna rip off our green an' live to spend it?"

  "Yeah, that point bothered me too. I figure he has to be smart, so then he has to think he can get away with it or he wouldn't have tried. To me this means Santa is a guy with some kind of background or experience in our business. I mean he's gotta know something about heists, getaways, passports, money changers, and all that or he wouldn't have started on this caper."