Brett Halliday - Win Some, Lose Some

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. Frieda 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.

Now there were various ways they could do this. Using the outside booth near the office, he called the nearest barracks, who wanted to know who was calling so they could write it down. He told them to forget that, he didn’t want to end up in the bay with his feet in concrete. What he had for them was this. Certain people at the Leisure City trailer park had picked up a shipment of high-quality Venezuelan brown in Key West. They had already disposed of much of it, but there was enough left to make a nice seizure for somebody. If they were willing to invest the time, he was willing to give them names and the license plate of their camper because he had been stiffed out of his share of what should have been a lucrative deal.