Donald Westlake - High Adventure

Or almost deserted. Three young deer, adolescent males, grazed around Cynthia’s nose, looking up without much interest when Kirby began to move around inside the plane, but then bounding off into the swamp when he opened his door.

A hot day already, and quite humid. The insect repellent he’d put on three and a half hours ago, when he’d landed here in darkness and set the alarm and tried to get caught up on some of his lost sleep, had faded by now, and he had a few nice fresh bites under his eyes and between his knuckles. Itchy, hungry, irritated, weary, aching all over, he clambered awkwardly out of the plane and down onto the faintly spongy ground, where he held one of Cynthia’s struts and did some not-so-very-deep knee bends to limber up.

The bog on the right side of the field was stagnant, but on the left ran a narrow course of moving cool water, in which Kirby washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth with his finger, soaked his hair, and gargled. With water running down his neck and under his shirt, feeling slightly better, he walked back to the plane and ate the food he’d brought along: an apple and a health-food carob candy bar. He was just finishing when he saw the car approach from the wide end of the pasture.

The right car: a white Cadillac Seville with Dade County plates. Nevertheless, Kirby felt the same tension he always did at this point. He was dealing in stolen goods, and in things of great value; at least, that was the perception. People in such occupations sometimes were killed by their partners or their customers. Kirby had tried to be careful in his choice of clients, but one could never be absolutely certain. Not absolutely certain.

There seemed to be one person alone in the car, which was the way it was supposed to be. The Cadillac approached, moving slowly on the soft uneven ground, and Kirby squinted as he looked through the windshield, at last recognizing the driver. His name was Mortmain, he was somewhere the wrong side of 70, and he was dapper and elegant, from his full head of carefully waved white hair over a broad-browed, deeply tanned face set off by humorous blue eyes, through the white ascot and navy blue blazer and white slacks and white shoes which were his habitual costume. He was “retired,” Kirby didn’t know from what, and he was the go-between for a customer of Kirby’s in Los Angeles, an artist/designer/interior decorator/antique dealer whose clients were mostly celebrities, people for whom smuggled Mayan statuary was not the only illegal material from Latin America to be of more than passing interest.

Kirby walked around to the right side of the Cadillac as it came to a stop. Glancing first into the rear seatwell to be certain no one was hiding there — an automatic reflex by now — he slid into the air conditioned interior. “Morning, Mister Mortmain,” he said.

“Good morning, Kirby.” Mortmain must have been quite a burly man in his prime, and was still pretty big, with a deep mellow voice and large-knuckled tanned hands on which the liver spots could almost have been youthful freckles. Reaching to his blazer’s inside pocket, bringing out a thick white envelope, he said, “Bobbi apologizes for the amount. He swears it was the best he could get. The recession and all that.”

“Mm-hm,” Kirby said, taking the envelope. As usual it contained, in addition to his share of the sales, in cash, Xeroxed copies of Bobbi’s customers checks to Bobbi (their famous names and signatures discreetly blacked out), so Kirby would know he was getting a full count. Of course, there was no reason for Bobbi not to ask his customers to pay him in two checks; he could mention some vague tax reason, for instance. But that was all right; Kirby assumed his clients would cheat a little, it was part of the game.

While Kirby opened the envelope, counted the cash and looked at the checks, Mortmain carefully backed and filled, turning the Cadillac around and backing it into Cynthia’s left armpit, where the car’s trunk would be nearest the pilot’s door.

“No,” Kirby said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mister Mortmain, but no.” This time, Bobbi had gone too far.

Mortmain looked mildly surprised, politely concerned. “Something wrong?”

“This is way too little,” Kirby said. “There’s another man I was talking to, he says he can get me a lot better prices.”

“People always make promises, Kirby,” Mortmain said.

“Maybe. Or maybe the recession didn’t hit as hard in Chicago.”

“Is that where your friend is?”

“I can’t give you this shipment,” Kirby said.

Now Mortmain was surprised. “You’ll fly it back with you?”

“No. I’ll leave it’with friends in Florida, and call the other guy.”

Mortmain sighed. “Well,” he said, “that’s up to you, of course. I know Bobbi will be very disappointed.”

Kirby didn’t know the precise relationship between Mortmain and Bobbi, whether Mortmain were merely a messenger, or somehow a partner, or possibly even the brains of the operation. It was hard to negotiate with somebody who might not even be present. Nevertheless, Kirby said, “Bobbi won’t be as disappointed as I am right now. I’ll tell you what I think, I think Bobbi’s getting second checks from people. I thought he was honest, but now I don’t know.”

Was Mortmain amused? Kirby’s occasional displays of naivete and stupidity were believed precisely because no one could imagine him deliberately painting himself in such colors. Mortmain nodded in perhaps exaggerated solemnity, considering what Kirby had said, and then said, “Kirby, I don’t think Bobbi would do a thing like that but, to be honest, I couldn’t swear to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Kirby said, and reached for the door handle. The air conditioning in here was very nice.

“Wait a minute,” Mortmain said. “I can’t let it end like this. Could you wait for me to go phone Bobbi?”

“I can’t,” Kirby said. “I still have to deliver that other stuff.”

“Of course.” Mortmain considered. “I’m going out on a limb here,” he said. “I can’t really speak for Bobbi, but I think I must. He’s done very well from your relationship.”

“He sure has,” Kirby said, sounding bitter.

“Well, so have you,” Mortmain pointed out. Gesturing at the envelope in Kirby’s hand, he said, “How much more do you think you should have had?”

“A thousand dollars would just begin to cover it.”

“Split the difference with me,” Mortmain said. “Don’t end the relationship now. I promise you I’ll talk with Bobbi, and I’ll tell him I guaranteed you another five hundred dollars from the last shipment. And I’ll tell him about your friend in Chicago, and say he’d better find some more generous customers from now on.”

Kirby would accept this offer, of course, there being no friend in Florida with whom to stash the goods, and the $500 being a bonus he hadn’t expected, but he let Mortmain watch him brood about it for a while. Mortmain could see his furrowed brow, could see him gradually overcoming his sense of grievance and deciding to take the offer. “All right,” he said at last.

“I’ll talk to Bobbi this afternoon,” Mortmain promised.

“Fine.” Kirby gave him a frank look: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mister Mortmain, I wish it was you I was dealing with.”

Mortmain gave a modest laugh, and Kirby got out of the car.

Prong said the Cadillac’s trunk, opening itself as Kirby came around; Mortmain had pushed the button in the glove compartment. Kirby unloaded all the parcels, stowing them carefully in the clean empty trunk of the Cadillac, aware of Mortmain’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. Finished, he slammed the lid and waved to Mortmain through the rear window. Mortmain waved back and the Cadillac rolled slowly away.