Win Some, Lose Some ms-69

by Brett Halliday

  The room was absolutely still.

  “It appears that B. and B. is low bidder,” Gold announced, peering over his glasses. “Am I correct, gentlemen? I therefore award B. and B. the contract. Congratulations. I hope this leads to a long and fruitful association.”

  The unopened envelopes were cleverly slipped back in his attache case, and the lid snapped shut. Canada leaped to his feet, nearly purple.

  “You double-crossing fink! You bastard! You cheap kike! You think you’re going to get away-”

  His hand came up. There was a gun in it.

  Shayne caught the arm and forced it down. “No, Larry. Not today.”

  Canada threw himself from side to side. A vein like a rope was beating in his temple. Others sprang to help, but Shayne had the fat man under control. Gold had dropped out of view as abruptly as if he had actually been shot. Frieda reached across for the attache case, containing the evidence of the fraudulent bidding. When the gun dropped, Canada’s fierceness and fury went with it. His free hand came up to claw at his chest. He gurgled unpleasantly and slumped to the floor like an emptying grain sack.

  A dirty youth in work jeans pushed through the crowd. “Are you Mike Shayne? Can you come quick?”

  Shayne signaled to Rourke. Frieda’s van was nearest, and they went in that.

  “I was beginning to worry about you,” Rourke said, getting in. “Because this has been one of your sloppiest efforts, you know that? Not that I’m complaining. Canada gave me some marvelous stuff, and I think those shenanigans with the bids may kill the Everglades link-put it off, anyway. So the paper’s going to be more friendly when I go in to negotiate my next raise. However-”

  “However what? You didn’t really expect we’d put Canada in jail?”

  “No, I guess not. A heart attack’s almost as good. You stage-managed that nicely. How did you know Gold was planning to dump him?”

  “Canada’s hot this morning. And we know Gold-he was bound to try to make money out of it and close a deal with somebody else. A heart attack? I had my hand on his chest, and his heart beat seemed pretty good. But when he gets up off the floor, he’s going to be hungry. He ate too much for breakfast, but it’s almost time for a midmorning stack. He eats under pressure, and the pressure is going to be steady from now on. It’s a stretched-out version of capital punishment. Now what else is bothering you?”

  “You know what is bothering me. The money. That’s going to be the most expensive mile in Interstate history. When I saw that cooler go in-You’ve never been that careless before, Mike. I admit, I wouldn’t have done it any better, but I’ve come to expect a little more efficiency from you.”

  Frieda, at the wheel, was smiling. “Thirsty, Tim? Have a beer.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m under pressure, too, but I don’t drink beer under pressure. I’m more inclined to drink whiskey.”

  “Wouldn’t a cold beer taste good right now? It’s Miller’s in cans. There’s a cooler back of your seat.” Rourke’s mouth opened. He looked from Frieda to Shayne. They were both laughing.

  “No,” Rourke said firmly. “Goddamn it, no. I saw that box go up the belt with my own eyes. “Wallace for President,’ without the W. That Goddamn stoned dolphin.”

  He waved in disgust. “All right, all right. You fooled me completely, but I wasn’t the only one. When did you do it?”

  “No problem,” Shayne said. “We had most of the day, while you were talking to Canada. Those coolers are pretty standard. We weren’t looking for any particular sticker, so long as we got them in pairs. Side by side, they weren’t exactly identical, but nobody made the comparison. We put phone books in one, and that was the one that went into the asphalt. Benjamin made the switch in the parking lot when he came back from the rest area.”

  Rourke had twisted in his seat and unclamped the lid of the Styrofoam box. He lifted out the shallow compartment with its three cans of beer.

  “My, my,” he said. “Isn’t it lovely?” He picked out several packages of hundreds, and let them spill slowly back. “A king’s ransom. What are you going to do with it? Do I get a chance to vote? Keep it, Mike! Hell,” he said in growing excitement, “you’ve been knocking your head against walls so long-Who does it belong to? A bunch of hoodlums! Turn it in, it’ll disappear in the general fund the way those phone books disappeared in the asphalt. You deserve it. Nobody’ll ever know. They all think it went in the Goddamn road.”

  “It’s a lot of money,” Shayne said. “We’re thinking of setting up a foundation.”

  “The Mike Shayne Foundation,” Rourke said promptly, “Mike Shayne, chief beneficiary. I’m for that.”

  Shayne shook his head. “Funded by the organized criminals of Miami. I want to set up a system of benefits for the victims. The people who get shot in the stick-ups. Hospital bills for people who get mugged. Reimbursement for thefts.”

  “I see it,” Rourke said sadly, replacing the lid. “It’s a nice idea, very poetic. And I can’t even print the story. But it reassures me. I really did think you were slipping.”

  “What other loose ends are you worrying about?”

  “The Eddie Maye thing. Money there, too. I missed your briefing, but you did say, didn’t you, that Eddie was out collecting money the night he was killed? What happened to it? And there’s one major character still unaccounted for. Mike, this isn’t a criticism, you know that. Two groups of people, and you certainly disposed of the big majority. But you said at one point that Eddie Maye was being followed by a cop, and as I understand it, you were aiming at a cop in a couple of those moves. Well, he’s still walking around with a gun and a badge, and I admit it bothers me.”

  Frieda started to speak, but Rourke rode her down.

  “And I’m willing to swear that somebody put a bullet in that kid before he dropped off that belt. You didn’t see it from up above in the payloader. I saw him jerk. That was a bullet,” he insisted. “I suppose he’s too mangled up now to be sure, but I’m going on claiming he was shot. There were all kinds of cops out there, all of them with guns. Our cop didn’t want the kid to be taken, the only one left who could nail him for kidnapping and murder.”

  “I have a list of every police officer on the scene at the time,” Shayne said. “Believe it or not, there were sixteen. All right, which one? That’s why I leaned so hard on the money Eddie Maye was collecting for DeLuca. I said it could go as high as a hundred thousand. I pulled that figure out of the air. We have no way of knowing. But people who are in the business of making illegal loans need some system for carrying money so they won’t be hit before they can get it to the bank. Eddie had an old Volkswagen. He went on driving it long after you’d expect him to trade it in. Maybe that was because he’d had some custom body work done on the car.”

  Rourke said slowly, “I think I’m beginning to see-”

  “Like an extra compartment across the back of the trunk. In a bug, that’s under the dashboard. A concealed opening from the driver’s side so he could slip in packages of bills. And if he was making the rounds that night, putting the arm on people for the DeLuca campaign, that’s where it would go. Eddie’s body turned up a day later, but where’s the car? That’s the question I left open when I was explaining this stuff to the cops. Maybe the kidnappers were seen in that car, and they decided they had to get rid of it.”

  “Then it’s at the end of some swamp road somewhere.”

  “If so, it won’t help us tie off the last loose end. A better place would be a junkyard. One of those standard VW’s is cannibalized in a matter of weeks. Engine, rear end, transmission-pretty soon nothing’s left but the frame, and they scrap that. The point is-”

  “I see the point,” Rourke said. “Finally. Nobody knows where that VW is except the guy who put it there.”

  “And he hasn’t cleared anything out of this so far. He knows I was guessing about the hundred thousand, but wouldn’t he want to check? I called all the main junkyards and said if anybody came in to look at stripped
VW’s, to notify me at the courthouse, and every sighting was worth fifty bucks.”

  They had crossed the Miami River and now they were moving north on the drive. Where it dead-ended, they circled on side streets, coming back under the expressway to the largest of the riverside junkyards. The youth who had come for Shayne was waiting at the gate. He pointed. They drove down a wide alley between junked cars toward a man who was examining a VW without headlights or front bumper. Shayne picked a gun off the floor.

  Frieda stopped the van, and Shayne stepped down. The man turned.

  “Downey,” Shayne said, “I had an idea it might turn out to be you.”

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