Brett Halliday - At the Point of a. 38

“Let’s don’t fuck around collecting ransom,” he said. “Kill them all.”

“They’re terrorists. One of the things terrorists do is kill people.”

“That was their first idea,” Gold went on, speaking slowly. “Wait till the chairman called the committee to order and walk in and turn the tommy guns loose. But then what? They’d be wiped out themselves. I wondered about Rashid sometimes, but the rest of them definitely didn’t want to die. And I made it clear to them that I wouldn’t go along with anything like that.”

“But you would go along with a kidnapping for ransom. So they worked up one plan for your benefit, and a real plan. They’ll keep the hostages alive as long as they have some value, and kill them in the plane.”

“Maybe,” Gold said tightly, drinking again.

“You’ve done a lousy thing here, Murray, and if they get away with it, people are going to say some unfriendly things about you.”

“Why should he care?” Helen said.

“He cares. He’s been careful with his reputation all these years, and all of a sudden he’s smuggling shit and helping a bunch of fanatics to kidnap some of the country’s top Jews. If the bombs work, fine. Good old Murray Gold. Crooked as they come, but what a conniver. The heroin won’t be mentioned-I’m being well paid to forget about that. The story would be that he heard about the plan in prison, and swindled his way in so he could blow them up at the last minute. Who knows, Murray? The government might even withdraw some of those contempt charges so you can come back and die in your home town.”

“I’m not ready to die yet,” Gold said. “Do you know what I’m starting to think? That before they went anywhere, the bastards looked under the hood and found the bombs. You’ve got a phone. Call the airport. Tell them who’s on the way.”

“And how many lives would that save? The minute the shooting starts, the hostages will get it in the head. No, let’s do some more guessing. Do they have anybody who can fly an airplane?”

Gold looked up quickly. “Goddamn it, yes. He was in on the break with us. Pilot in the Syrian air force.”

“So they won’t hijack a plane. They can steal one. At Miami International they’d have a hard time getting off the ground. Did Rashid and Sergeant Tibbett know each other?”

Gold said, “No,” but Helen contradicted him. “Yes, they did, Murray. He didn’t drive off right away that night. He waited till Marian left and they went someplace. Now there. I contributed something. Can we please get this conversation over with?”

“How much would Tibbett charge to let them into Homestead?” Shayne said.

“About three dollars and fifty cents.”

“He wasn’t as trashy as all that,” Helen said. “All he wanted was a chance at some illegal bread, and you’re in no position to criticize, Mr. Murray Gold.”

Shayne, abstractedly, had been stacking the packages of money as they rained down on the seat beside him. Now he picked out one of the hundred dollar bills and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. With an abrupt change of manner, he looked at it more closely.

“Shayne?” Gold said, watching.

“Maybe I made this deal too fast,” Shayne said. He took a genuine hundred from his wallet and looked at the two bills together, showing more and more concern. Gold leaned forward. The girl caught the sudden tension and looked from one to the other. Shayne grunted.

“You’ve been taken, Murray. These are rags.” Gold snatched the bills out of Shayne’s hands. “Impossible.”

He put on his close-range glasses and compared them, moving his head in quick birdlike pecks. “I don’t see anything wrong. I know a queer bill when I see one.”

“Look at Ben Franklin’s collar.”

Using a pencil, Shayne pointed out the small imperfection Coddington had shown him. Gold picked it up at once. Swearing, he crumpled the counterfeit in his fist.

“Daddy!” Helen cried. “Is it true? After all this?”

“That’s what happens when you do business with crooks,” Shayne said. “They aren’t worrying about keeping your good will. You’ll be in Uruguay.”

“I haven’t left yet,” Gold said in a low voice.

Helen plunged into the open satchel and pulled her hands out filled with money. “It’s no good? It’s counterfeit? Murray, you goddamn old fart, couldn’t you check?”

“So our deal’s off,” Shayne said. “I could probably get five or ten thousand for my share, but that’s too much risk for too little money. Sorry, Murray. I’ll have to take you in.”

“But it’s weird!” Helen said. “Artie’s dead. Marian’s dead, I guess. All those poor Jews. And we get paid off in funny money.”

After a moment, Gold gave one of his small shrugs. “I don’t like to be conned, but at least I’m out of that goddamn prison. I’ve had some excitement and a little sex. I knew the odds.” He changed glasses. “Now what are we going to do about these Black September bastards?”

“From here, there isn’t much we can do.”

“I can’t do anything,” Gold said briskly. “I’m old and slow. You’ll have to beat them to Homestead and knock them off, one at a time.”

“Seven Arabs, armed with GI issue submachine guns.”

“Did I say it would be easy?” Gold said.

There was a sudden flurry of action further along the beach. Gold turned his head sharply. Shayne followed the look, and saw a man and a woman in a silent struggle at the edge of the water. The man was trying to break her grip on a long-barrelled pistol. It was Coddington.

There was a bright dancing haze behind them, and until they staggered further up on the sand Shayne didn’t recognize the woman.

“Esther Landau,” he said.

“Who?” Gold said sharply. “Who?”

Shayne had turned away from the struggling pair to look at Gold, and the old man’s tone told him one more thing he wanted to know: that the woman who had been calling herself Esther Landau was actually somebody else.

“That’s the one,” Shayne said. “All the way from Israel, looking for you, Murray.”

He slid out of the Buick and moved toward the water. There were muscles concealed under Coddington’s fat, and he was usually able to disarm a slightly built woman, even when she didn’t fight entirely fair. Her gun came around, and Shayne dodged. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the sand.

She brought her knee up hard. Coddington, though hurt, managed to hang on. An instant later the gun went flying. She lowered her head and butted him under the jaw. He fell away from her into the water.

She scrambled away, to get to the gun before Shayne arrived. She was wearing only one shoe, and the heel sank in the sand. Coddington caught her ankle and pulled her down beside him.

On his knees, he cuffed her twice, to set her up for the punch. She kicked him with her pointed toe, and the punch was never delivered. Grappling, they rolled down the incline. A breaking wave carried them out into less shallow water. Coddington, finally, managed to drive his fist into her face. But she seemed very strong.

Shayne decided that with only one usable arm, he would just get in the way. He watched for a moment, scraping his chin with his thumbnail, and went to retrieve the pistol. Her purse was further up the beach, in loose sand. He picked it up. He looked back, but the two people in the water were fully engaged with each other. He found a spare clip in the purse and chucked out the top round, finding, as he suspected, that the clip was loaded with blanks. He cleared the chamber and switched clips.

The man and the woman were still rolling, unable to break each other’s hold. It seemed to be a standoff. Coddington, blowing, got her face down in the wet sand, but his hands slipped and she wriggled free.