Max Collins - Target Lancer

Nothing.

“So you’re from Miami.”

A nod.

“A businessman.”

A nod.

“The Bonneville was loaned to you by a friend?”

A nod.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Luis Garcia. I told the other two.”

“Where does Luis live?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you get the car from him?”

“He had it waiting at the airport for us.”

“Luis doesn’t seem to have a phone, Victor.”

A shrug.

“Who were those two white fellas you were talking to at the Good Eats restaurant yesterday?”

“I told Agent Motto. I told Agent Stocks.”

“Tell me.”

“They are real estate agents.”

“Do they have names?”

“Johnson and Smith.”

Sergeant Shoppa had been close, at that, with Smith and Jones.

“You’re interested in property?”

“Yes. We hear there are the investment opportunities in Chicago for Cubans.”

“You’re Cuban?”

“Yes.”

“Exiles.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do in Cuba?”

“We were businessmen. The Communists, they took our businesses. We start over in Florida.”

“Your landlady says you had rifles in your flat.”

“She is crazy. A busybody. She does not like the color of our skin.”

“Well, she liked the color of your money. Enough to rent you a room, anyway. The rifles had sniper scopes, she said.”

“These rifles have nothing because they do not exist.”

I had a 5-by-7 of Vallee in my inside suit-coat pocket and I got it out and shoved it across the rough tabletop. “You ever see this guy?”

Did something flicker in those sleepy eyes?

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Gringos, they all look alike to me.”

The conversation in the other interview room went no better. The droopy-mustached Rodriguez was more openly surly, due to our altercation.

“Ramon, what is your opinion of President Kennedy?”

“Better than Nixon. Much more better than Castro. I have no argument with Kennedy.”

“Did I say you did?”

He shrugged.

“You handed off those rifles to the two ‘real estate agents’-that’s why you were standing in back of that Pontiac with the trunk lid up. Did they buy the guns?”

“I have no guns in the trunk.”

“Then why were you back there? What were you looking for? You didn’t have a flat tire.”

“The afternoon was getting colder. I thought I had another jacket in there. I was wrong.”

“You weren’t selling weapons, you were delivering them, right? Are the two white guys the shooters? I would think three shooters is more like it, especially if you’re planning for that warehouse district on Jackson. Triangulation would be the best bet.”

“I don’t know anything about any of what you speak.”

“Are you the third shooter, Ramon, or just the driver? Probably just the driver. Big clumsy guy like you, probably not that good with weapons.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t repeat yourself, Ramon. You’re better than that.” I pushed Vallee’s photo across to him. “Is he the third shooter, and you and Victor strictly transport?”

“Fuck you.”

“Probably strictly transport. You wouldn’t want to entrust a couple of hatchet throwers with anything really important.”

His big hands made big fists. The knuckles were scraped where I batted them with the nine-mil yesterday.

“You know, if there are two or three shooters out there, ready to pull this thing off? That leaves you and Victor in custody, ready to take the brunt. You really will fry, Ramon. And it won’t be on the third rail.”

He folded his arms, his scowl made comically sour by the Yosemite Sam mustache.

“Give those white boys up now, and it might go easy on you. Lead us to them, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you walked out of here, later today.”

Nothing.

Outside the booth, I found Martineau heading my way, climbing into a raincoat.

“Anything?” he asked, pausing to talk.

“Just their cover stories. Where are you headed?”

“Out to O’Hare to meet the President’s plane.”

“What’s the score on Vallee?”

“He’s been under twenty-four-hour surveillance by the Chicago PD-two teams on twelve-hour shifts. Shoppa and Gross are back on him this morning.”

“Listen, what about that printing facility where Vallee works?”

“They’re a six-day-a-week operation. All hundred-some employees will be on the job this morning, including Vallee, presumably.”

“You scoped the building out.”

He frowned at me. “Of course we did. Vallee works on the third floor, Nate, with another thirty-some employees. You think he could go over to the window and take a potshot at the President under those conditions?”

“What about the rooftop?”

“My understanding is Shoppa or Gross will secure that. And the eighth floor is strictly warehouse, which is another possibility, and one of them will handle that, too. Once they’ve followed this hero to work, anyway.” He checked his watch. “They’re probably already there now.”

“Are you in contact with Shoppa and Gross?”

“They’ll be on foot, not in their unmarked with the radio handy. Why, are you figuring to blow another surveillance with radio chatter?”

Actually, Martineau himself had blown it, but I didn’t point that out.

“Marty, when the President goes by, people will rush to the windows-they may go to lower floors to get a better look. Vallee could snag an opportunity to get a shot off. Who was it checked out that site?”

He frowned, mildly irritated. “I went over there myself with two agents. It does provide, especially from upper floors, a good view where the limo makes its slow turn onto West Jackson. But so do another half dozen or more other buildings.”

“Vallee doesn’t work in those other buildings.”

“He’s covered, Heller. The Chicago PD has him. We’re stretched thin. Look. If you want to walk over there and see for yourself, you have my blessing.”

He went out.

Back in my office, frustrated as hell, I just sat at my desk looking for options. The only thing that occurred to me was taking Martineau up on it and hoofing over to IPP Litho-Plate. Only six blocks.…

The phone rang. I pushed the Line Two button and answered it.

“This is Mrs. Peters.”

Vallee’s landlady.

“Hello, Mrs. Peters. You have something for me?”

“Possibly. Possibly it is unimportant. But Mr. Vallee goes out this morning. Half an hour ago.”

“Is that unusual? He does work on Saturdays, right?”

“Usually. They work him very hard at the printing plant. But they are closed today.”

“Our understanding is they’re open.”

“They decide yesterday that they would close. I hear Mr. Vallee on the hall phone talking to someone about it. He said to this person that his work was shutting down because of the … he said ‘goddamn President’ coming to town. His bosses, they say that the crowds and the parking will be bad, so they give the day off.”

This had perked me up. “When Mr. Vallee went out this morning, was he carrying anything?”

“You mean his guns? No. But they will be in his car.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, where else could they be? They are not in his room now. I check there before I call you.”

“You are a rare gem, Mrs. Peters.” Hitler Youth or no Hitler Youth.

She reminded me of her open invitation for me to stop by for tea, and we exchanged good-byes.

Looking like hell, Motto and Stocks were discussing whether or not to transfer the two uncooperative subjects to Federal Building holding cells. I came up and shared what I’d learned about Vallee and his place of business, and asked them to get hold of Martineau ASAP, and tell him.