Win Some, Lose Some ms-69

by Brett Halliday

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what you were doing out there?”

  “Soupy, some of this it would be healthier not to know. You might be tempted to sell it, and that could get complicated.”

  “And unhealthy,” Simpson agreed. “What kind of values are we talking about?”

  “To you, a couple of thousand at the most. We want you to put it in the pipeline so we can see where it goes.”

  “Like an X-ray,” Rourke explained, “where you inject something and take a series of pictures. Soupy, time’s going by.”

  “It can’t wait till morning?”

  “It was stolen tonight,” Shayne said. “We want to peddle it tonight.”

  “They’re going to wonder why I don’t get rid of it direct.”

  “Because you want to keep the connection, keep them satisfied. Cut down the risk. You don’t want to be driving the truck and get stopped for a faulty tail-light.”

  Simpson considered. “They might go for that. How would this be? I’ve got the key to an empty storefront. You can unload it there. I’ll call the guys to come pick it up. That’s a round trip of about an hour. Would that fit your schedule?”

  “Fine.”

  And where did Jack Downey fit into this? Simpson had a fleeting impulse to tell Shayne that somebody else was interested in those two guys, Benjamin and Vaughan. He suppressed it. He had to think of himself, and this was turbulent water.

  “You were talking about odds,” he said. “If I do it, what are the odds I’ll get hurt?”

  “Four to one.”

  That jolted a laugh out of Simpson. “Anybody else would say a hundred, and I wouldn’t believe it. O.K., I’ll do it. Let’s see what you have.”

  Chapter 11

  To Lou DeLuca, Canada’s ambition to make it big in legitimate business was like a whore’s dream of a little house in the suburbs, with a pastel door and a swimming pool. It wasn’t a practical thing. To be practical, the only security was to work with the cops, providing the services the public wanted and needed, and to stay the hell out of the headlines. Dope, bets, women-this was nickel-and-dime stuff to Canada. Sure, but how those nickels and dimes added up!

  Canada was always in evidence. When he went anywhere, he was noticed. He gave too many big flashy parties. It tickled him when officers of the medical and bar associations and Chamber of Commerce came on his boat. But at the first sign of bad weather, DeLuca had told him again and again, those would be just the people who wouldn’t be returning his phone calls. They had their own ass to look after.

  So Canada had to go. But it had to be done right. An old-fashioned bang-bang would hurt everybody. What most people wanted was peace and tranquillity, no heat, no hassle, an atmosphere in which they could continue to make a modest living without letting the IRS know the details. There were always a few soreheads around, and DeLuca had been working on them. But as for people who would go all the way, he had only a handful. Canada, too, had been neglecting this side of it. Times had changed, he kept saying. Horse-shit. Sometimes there was only one thing to do, when you came down to it-stop talking and shoot.

  And Eddie Maye had been shot. That had been faked to look like a kidnapping, but Canada must have learned that Eddie was conspiring to get rid of him, and he had moved first. DeLuca had to assume that Eddie had talked freely before taking that shot in the head. So DeLuca was staying close, and he had imported two professional shooters from New York.

  That committed him to the action. Canada had connections in New York, and sooner or later he would hear about it. The trouble was, nothing was ready. Eddie Maye had promised to set it up, delivering Canada to some certain spot at a certain time. Now that Eddie was no longer around, DeLuca had to think of some other way.

  He liked to get off to an early start in the morning, and he liked his eight hours. Nobody called him at night unless it was really important. So when the phone rang after midnight, he came awake in a hurry and grabbed it.

  It was Canada’s wife, Molly. She wasn’t as massive as her husband, but she ate much of the same cooking, and she showed it, especially between the knees and waist. Now and then, she had given DeLuca a certain look, to the effect that she might be willing to go upstairs with somebody who made regular trips to the gym and kept himself in good shape. He hadn’t followed it up, though it remained in the back of his mind.

  “Lou, something scary has happened. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Sure, Molly.” He felt for the. 38-caliber bullet he always carried as a good luck piece, a nice reassuring shape. A fatal accident to Canada right now would solve most of his problems, as well as save the hitmen’s fees. “Tell me.”

  “I took a pill, my head’s just going around. What was he doing out there, anyway, this late at night?”

  “Molly, can you sort of grab hold of yourself? What was this, a phone call?”

  “From Homestead. They had a robbery at the site, lots of things taken. And the first thing the police saw when they got there was Larry’s car all smashed up.”

  DeLuca took a half second to drain the eagerness out of his voice. “Was Larry in it?”

  “No, that’s the thing. It was all bashed in, a total wreck, and no sign of Larry at all! Vanished! Lou, what do you think? Whoever it was talking, some lieutenant, thought maybe Larry got wind of the robbery-but does that sound like him? To go out there all by himself? You know it doesn’t.”

  “When did you see him, for supper?”

  “Yes, he ate here, silent as usual, and then he got in the car and went. He’s so busy I hardly ever see him at night these days. He’s been upset about something. I know, because when he’s worried he eats like a real pig. Have you heard anything?” Her voice caught. “Do you think he’s been killed?”

  “Now what makes you say that? Of course he hasn’t been killed, or he’d be there in the car. Hauling Larry around would be no joke, believe me. Put it out of your mind.”

  “Or kidnapped? That’s one of the things I’ve been terrified of, those stories in the papers. He’s so secretive about money. They found a rag soaked in chloroform.”

  “That’s it, then,” DeLuca said, already beginning to think what he could do with this. “That isn’t too bad. Got him out there on some pretext. Can you stay awake now, do you think?”

  “My God, after this do you think I could sleep?”

  “Drink lots of coffee. They may want to get in touch right away. Let’s definitely figure a kidnapping. It won’t be anything long-drawn-out, a matter of days. In and out fast is the idea. I’m going out there now and see what I can pick up. If you get anything more, call my answering service.”

  He didn’t want her to notify anybody else until he found out what was what. “Keep the line open for incoming calls. I’ll keep you up to date, trust me. Molly, I’ll tell you this. You’re one brave woman.”

  Greco and Nick had never worked together before. Nick was an old face from the neighborhood, and they had no trouble getting along. They enjoyed the same things and kept the same hours. They were being paid for their time, and the client wouldn’t like it if he was ready to go and one of them couldn’t be reached. So they did everything in pairs, in no hurry for the wait to come to an end. This was the vacation capital of America, they were staying in the Doral at the client’s expense, and Greco had the names of a couple of ho’s. Theoretically they were supposed to stay razor-sharp at all times, but tonight when the girls finished work they dropped in with a bit of cocaine.

  “No-o,” Greco said. “In case we get called out, you know, Nick?”

  But they laughed him out of it.

  Nick was something of a goof-off, and he kept the girls laughing. He was six-three, with a long skinny neck and an Adam’s apple that ran up and down. This was his first time out of New York, except to the Catskills. The Doral wowed him. Greco liked that. He was two years older. He had been to Miami twice, once with an older woman, once with a man.

  DeLuca called from the lobby. Nick was near
est the phone, but he was busy just then, and Greco answered. He knew at once, from the abruptness, that they were about to start earning their money.

  “Be right there.” He hung up. “Nick, this is for us.”

  Nick claimed he would only take another minute, but Greco made him get up in spite of complaints from the girls. He took one backward step and sat down on the floor.

  “Talk about dizzy.”

  “You’ve got about one minute to stop being dizzy,” Greco told him sternly. “We’re going to be driving a car.”

  “Oh, put me in a car and point me, I’ll be O.K.”

  But before he could get in a car, he had to get off the floor and into the bathroom, where Greco let him stand under a stinging cold shower for a minute or two. Greco himself was weaving ever so slightly. If he relaxed his concentration for an instant, everything ran together like a punctured egg. He wasn’t afraid of action. The momentum would keep him going. But if he had to sit waiting for somebody, it would be hell staying awake.

  Nick wandered out of the bathroom still wet. The girls thought he was trying to entertain them by the way he kept getting his arms in the wrong sleeves and doing up the buttons in the wrong order. As soon as he was more or less dressed, Greco took the small airlines bag to the bathroom.

  “Nick, got something for you.”

  Nick was trying, Greco would say that for him. He stuck the gun in his waistband under his loose Mexican shirt. As he went back to the bedroom, the gun popped out and dropped to the carpet.

  The girls became serious all at once. One of them said, “Uh-oh.” The other, named Linda, bounced out of bed and ran to Greco. “I want to come. I never saw one. I won’t get in the way. I’ll just be, you know, part of the wallpaper.”

  “Don’t be dumb.”

  “I mean it. I can get dressed in a hurry. Let me! I’ll drive.”

  “We’ve already got one driver,” Nick said, “so shut up before I clout you.”

  “Nick-y.”

  She kept begging them as they tried to finish, and Nick had to give her a backhand, which sent her tumbling. The gun popped out again.

  “We’ll be back,” Greco told the girls. “Stay wet.”

  Nick walked to the elevator with the help of one wall. “I’ll tell you this, I’ve felt better.”

  “You’ll be O.K.,” Greco assured him.

  In the elevator, Nick straightened to his full height and gave him a good smile. But the elevator went down much too fast and put Nick out on the garage level with everything sagging. He wanted to drive to prove it was possible, but Greco refused to commit suicide. He made the turns carefully. With a gun in his pocket, he was stopping for red lights, although there was little cross traffic. DeLuca was parked on Collins near Fortieth. He got out of his own car and into theirs. He was wearing dark glasses, which Greco considered an affectation at this time of night. He was totally sober. Good God, was he sober! Nick kept staring straight ahead, rocking against the seat belt. He might have been sleeping. A little sleep would do him good, as long as he had the common sense not to snore.

  DeLuca’s directions took them across a long causeway into Miami proper. A little later, they drew up in front of a bowling alley in a cheap neighborhood.

  “The guy’s name is Soupy Simpson,” DeLuca said. “He’s going to give you some information. A couple of names, and where you can find them. Tell him Homestead. Tell him construction shit, tools and like that. Who’s been taking? You may have to slap it out of him. That’s all right, too. Nick, are you listening?”

  “He just dropped off for a minute,” Greco said, giving his friend a hard push. “Wake up, stupid.”

  Downey explained it again on the way to the trailer park.

  “I don’t know this particular place, but I know the way they’re set up. There’ll be a transient section for campers and vans. You can come in your own trailer or rent one of theirs. I have a good reason to be out here asking questions. I’m an eager cop, chasing a lead before it cools out. So I’m going in with everything up front and show them the badge.”

  Werner’s shoulder was bandaged. He was babying that arm, not saying much. Pam had surprised Downey by instantly agreeing that they had no choice. They had to check it out. They had committed some crimes to get this far. They had changed their whole personalities. Then somebody else, who had made no investment at all, had walked off with the prize. Total amateurs, a couple of petty thieves. Without a payloader to play with, they couldn’t be dangerous. She only had one question. If these thieves really had Canada, would they take him to a trailer park where vehicles were parked elbow to elbow and everybody must know each other?

  Downey had made up his mind that that was just where they’d take him. They had nothing prepared. And this was a going arrangement, so Canada could be handled as one more piece of stolen property, more valuable than most. He would be tied up and gagged, with his head in a sack. The lack of privacy was all to the good. It was a huge place. Vehicles came and went. Rents were paid in advance so transients could leave before daybreak. Motors would start, lights would come on. No one would notice or remember.

  They passed through Leisure City, following signs. The park was an eighth of a mile from the highway. Huge, it certainly was. This was the picking season, and one section had been reserved for migrants. The semipermanent trailers were set on blocks, with a parking space between them for a single car. It was impressive, if only as an efficient use of every inch of available space.

  The office was closed. Downey hammered on the door. When a cross old man came out to see what he wanted, Downey showed his Miami badge and was allowed a look at the register.

  Then they penetrated the encampment, found the cross street they wanted, and looked for the number. A trailer was there, but not the pickup that went with it.

  “I guess they haven’t got back yet,” Downey said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. If they didn’t bring him, we’ll hang them up by their feet and shake it out of them.”

  A rig turned in from the highway a few minutes later, a pickup pulling a house trailer.

  “Let’s get parked,” Downey said. “A pickup-that could be them.”

  They were motionless, and consequently, Downey hoped, fairly invisible, when the pickup and trailer combination lumbered on in. There were two men in the cab, one with red hair. They turned into a different street, moving almost to the end of the line before dropping the trailer. Then, instead of parking there, they returned to the berth that had been rented by Benjamin and Vaughan.

  “Our guys,” Downey said. “If Canada’s in that trailer, this is going to be easy.”

  “If,” Werner said from the back seat, his first word in some time.

  In Homestead and along the county roads to the south and east, the fiddlers and pickers had put their instruments away for the night. The last drinkers were returning to the park for a few hours sleep before stumbling off to another day in the fields and on the machines. When Shayne saw the pickup and trailer come in from the highway, he shook Rourke awake.

  “Mike?” Rourke said, sitting up. “Went to sleep for a minute. Did you say something?”

  “They’re back with the stuff Soupy sold them. Do you remember what we’re doing out here?”

  “I think so,” Rourke said, scratching. “We’re after the guys who were trying to snatch Canada, only you and Frieda snatched him instead. And they think you’re really two other guys-wait, I’ll get it in a minute.”

  “That’s close enough. The two other guys who have the rip-off concession at the site, and here they come.”

  “Except that Canada-”

  “Is here with us, sound asleep, instead of in the trailer where the kidnappers think he is. You’ve got it. Can you stay awake?”

  “If that’s coffee I smell.”

  “Just made,” Frieda said.

  “Mike, tell me again what you want me to do, so I’ll be sure I have it straight.”

  “You’re the back-up man. Fri
eda and I are going to be in the trailer. We’ll set it up to fit the story. If I’m wrong about all this, or if I’m right and they don’t fall for it, or if something happens to scare them off, we’ll waste the night. On the other hand, if it works, it ought to work all the way. They’ll come in one at a time, and we can handle up to three. If you see more than three, let’s get some cops. Don’t go back to sleep.”

  “Have I ever gone to sleep when I was supposed to stay awake? Well, once or twice maybe, but never in anything this important.”

  Keeping low, Shayne and Frieda zigzagged cautiously across the chessboard of parked cars. She had pulled on a loose sweater, which hid the shoulder holster. She still wore her perky fisherman’s cap. Shayne worked on the door with his picking equipment and small light. When he had it open, she joined him inside.

  The huge payloader wheel occupied much of the floor-to-ceiling space in the main room. The rest of the loot from the Homestead robbery had been neatly stowed in closets and under beds. Using only the pencil flash and being careful with that, they set the scene. Frieda had brought a sleeping bag from the van. They stuffed it with pillows to give the illusion of Canada’s bulk and roped it to one of the beds. Shayne raised the blind in that bedroom just enough so someone outside could look in and see something on the bed that looked like the prisoner, doped up and helpless.

  Then they settled down for the wait.

  After the first letdown, which had lasted a couple of hours, Downey was feeling lucky again. He liked it when he followed a hunch and the hunch paid off. He had interpreted that scene at the construction site with a professional eye. He had gone straight to the one man in Miami who could tell him what he wanted to know, the identity of the officially sanctioned thieves. He was now one hundred percent certain that Larry Canada, with a million-dollar price tag tied to his big toe, was parked inside that trailer, a valuable piece of property waiting to be hijacked back. He had to be there. No other possibility fitted the facts. But because the two people in his party were still somewhat skeptical, he made one final reconnaissance. The amateurs they were up against had made a typically amateurish mistake, leaving one of the slatted blinds in the trailer only partially drawn. He looked in carefully. It was Canada, all right, zipped up in a mummy bag. Those contours were unmistakable.