Brett Halliday - Win Some, Lose Some

“More than willing,” Pam said.

“And would I be getting this involved if I didn’t think it was sure-fire? It’s made to order. These dozens of big machines, plenty of places of concealment. If they do what I want them to, they’ll come in separately from opposite directions. If they’re going to be looking at maps or specs, they’ll go in one of the trailers. They shouldn’t be having this conversation so they’re going to be easy to spook. Say while they’re inside, we do something to Canada’s car, cut the ignition cable. Are you picturing this? Gold is appointed. The Governor can cut off that appointment on ten seconds’ notice. So he’ll be carrying a very strong charge. At the first sign of trouble, he’ll be out in his car so fucking fast. And Canada will feel awful lonely. No driver, no watchman.”

“No gun?” Werner said.

“Did I say that? Larry Canada wouldn’t want to be picked up on a gun violation, but tonight could be the exception. Three guns to one. What somebody like Canada does when he’s outnumbered, nine times out of ten, he surrenders. They talk tough, but they have the balls of a rabbit. We don’t have to move in on him until he gets in the car. He’s a big heavy man. He has to cramp himself in and out. No, hang on, even better. Werner-that’s a big four-door, a Caddy. You can be down out of sight in the back seat. You’ll know when he gets in because that car is going to shake and settle down on the shocks. Rear up with the chloroform. The steering column will be pinning him in.”

“We’ll move him in his car?” Pam said.

“Have to. Give it a jump start. With a gun at the back of his head, he’ll remember what happened to Eddie Maye. Larry’s rough-housing days are long in the past, but let’s not take chances trying to get him to change cars under his own power. I don’t want to have to shoot this one. Give him the shot right away and manhandle him. How does it sound?”

He wanted approval, and Werner said grudgingly, “Frankly, I can’t see anything wrong with it.”

“Wrong with it, it’s sensational,” Pam said. “I can smell money from here.”

Downey nodded. “Then let’s get the hell out there and set up.”

Gold, in his state car, came south on Interstate 75. He was over the limit, and at one point a highway patrolman chased him for a short way before noticing the low-number official marker. Frieda Field, behind him, had driven this highway frequently. Most of the time, she hung far enough back to keep her lights out of his mirror, closing with him only as he was approaching an exit. When he committed himself to the turnpike, she knew he was going all the way. She picked up the Orlando mobile operator and had her put through a call to Shayne.

Shayne met them at Palm Beach. He was parked at the foot of the West Palm ramp, hunched over the wheel, rearranging the pieces of the story they had been told by Chris Maye. He was trying to see some connection between her dead husband, Eddie, the small-time loan shark, and Larry Canada’s multi-million-dollar highway deals. They were on different levels, like the intersecting traffic here. The woman herself interested him. It had seemed to Shayne, listening quietly, that there was something she was holding back.

Frieda’s van sailed serenely past. It was a big Dodge Sportsman, somewhat top-heavy on secondary roads, but powered with a Mercedes engine, capable of staying with all but the hottest cars on the Interstate. Her headlights flicked, and Shayne moved smoothly into the entry lane. It was ten-thirty. There was still considerable traffic.

The Miami mobile operator connected the two cars and then backed out of the conversation.

“He may be running a bit late,” Frieda said. “It’s a dark blue Chrysler, a seal on the door and state plates. How do we proceed?”

“You stay back and I’ll pass him. Watch for me at Lake Worth. How are you, Freida?”

“Glad to hear a friendly voice. He’s a dull man, and I’ve been having a dull time.”

“There’s a deadline coming up, and we may be seeing some action. He drove down instead of flying. That may mean he’s meeting somebody he’s not supposed to know, like Larry Canada.”

“And wouldn’t that be nice?”

“We haven’t developed much at our end. Tim’s in one of his gloomy moods. Sometimes that’s when things begin to happen.”

“About time, in my opinion.”

Shayne pulled out to pass. The van clearly belonged to a vacationer, not a private detective. A bicycle was strapped to the back door. The bumpers were plastered with ads for various tourist traps between Miami and Chicago. She was using Illinois plates. Coming abreast, he held steady for a moment. Frieda was wearing a brief halter and a long-billed fisherman’s cap. She gave him a mocking salute, which he returned with a smile.

He zoomed past.

He ran up swiftly on the blue Chrysler. As he went past, he had a sideward glimpse of a gray-haired man, clean-shaven, wearing a bureaucrat’s steel-rimmed glasses and a look of generalized anxiety. He was gripping the wheel hard, and Shayne had the impression that he was going faster than he would usually think was safe.

At the next exit, Shayne dropped off, paid the small toll, and waited for the appearance of the Chrysler. It passed without slackening speed. The mobile operator had his connection ready, and Shayne told Frieda that their man was still on the highway. He picked up a new ticket and rejoined the pursuit. It was a system they had used before, and as long as the phones stayed open, it was almost impossible for even the most experienced dodger to lose them.

They continued south. The Chrysler followed arrows into the long bypass around Miami. This was newly laid highway, and most of the traffic dropped off at the Miami exits. Now the van, with the pretty young woman at the wheel, became more conspicuous. Gold began driving more slowly, perhaps pacing himself to arrive somewhere at a precise moment. Shayne waited to pass until he was partially screened by a truck, then sped ahead to the next-to-the-last exit. This was construction country, with occasional one-way stretches, long lines of flaring smoke pots and blinkers.

He was watching for the Chrysler, and saw the van first. He signaled for Frieda to pull over.

“The big construction five miles back,” Shayne said. “That has to be it. Let’s go back and take a look.”

The median strip, a wide buffer separating northbound and southbound traffic, had just been planted with grass. Signs warned them to keep off the shoulders, as there weren’t any, and they continued south to the next truck crossing, made the U-turn, and headed back toward the smoke-pot fires through an unfriendly environment that might have been blasted by B-52’s. A succession of increasingly urgent warnings alerted northbound cars to be prepared to shift into a one-way pattern that would continue for the next eight miles. It was a bottle neck during the day, but less serious at this time of night. Shayne pulled up as the turnoff approached.

“It’s passable,” he said when the van stopped alongside. “The Highway Commissioner doesn’t have to pay attention to his own signs. But we’d better walk in. They’ll be watching for headlights.”

Getting out, he moved some of the flaring pots so they could drive through. They parked the vehicles out of sight of the highway. Before leaving the car, Shayne pressed a recessed spring in the door panel and a Smith and Wesson. 357 dropped into his hand.

“It’s going to be like that, do you think?” Frieda said.

“There’s a huge amount of money involved.”

The gun went inside his shirt. He unlocked the trunk and from a well-organized built-in cabinet took a tiny camera and a pair of night-vision binoculars.