Alan Cook - Run into Trouble

Drake looked around to see if anyone was in sight. The motel parking lot was deserted. He knocked on the door.

In about ten seconds they heard a male voice. “Who is it?”

Sterling was being cautious. They had prepared for this. Melody imitated an American accent when she spoke.

“It’s the maid. I need to check your towels.”

A click warned them that the door was being opened. As it came ajar, Melody moved aside enough so that Drake could shove one of his size twelves through the gap. He smelled the acrid odor of cigarette smoke. Sterling had a cigarette dangling from his lips. He also had a look of surprise on his face and tried to shut the door, but Drake’s foot stopped it. Drake shoved the door all the way open and walked inside, pushing Sterling backward.

The bed was right behind Sterling, so Drake gave him an extra shove and sent him sprawling onto his back on top of the blanket. As he bounced, Sterling’s look changed to anger.

“What the hell is going on here? I’m going to call the police.”

“If you do, the FBI will be right behind them.”

That shut him up. The cigarette had come out of his mouth and was threatening to light the sheet on fire. Melody closed the door and moved to the other side of the bed. Blade’s description of Sterling had been accurate. He was a paunchy, middle-aged man, and Drake thought he looked more like an academic than a crook. His gray hair stuck out at odd angles and needed to be cut. He was dressed in boxer shorts and an undershirt. Drake saw some bones on a small table and smelled chicken from the local KFC.

“Were you planning to seduce the maid?”

Sterling didn’t answer. Melody looked as if she were suppressing a laugh. Drake moved close to the bed.

“You know who we are. You’ve been tracking us since the start of the race. Put out that cigarette.”

“Fred hired me to do that.”

Sterling ignored the cigarette. The sheet under it was changing to a brown color.

“Did Fred hire you to write threatening letters?”

Sterling didn’t answer. Melody had been looking around the room.

“There’s a typewriter on the table.”

Drake saw the gray, modernistic cover of an Olympia portable.

“Open it up.”

Melody lifted the cover revealing the sleek machine underneath. Drake turned back to Sterling, who had assumed a more dignified sitting position on the edge of the bed. He picked up the cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray on the bed table.

“Where’s the typewriter paper?”

“It’s in my suitcase.” Sterling indicated the piece of luggage sitting on the floor beside the bed.

“Give a sheet to Melody.”

Sterling slid along the bed and opened the suitcase. He reached his hand inside. Drake’s view was momentarily blocked, and he realized he’d made a mistake. Melody whistled four quick notes and dove across the bed. Drake was closer and got to Sterling first. He grabbed Sterling in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides, and threw him onto the bed for the second time.

Melody pulled the gun out of the suitcase.

Sterling rolled over, and, back on his back, stared from one of them to the other. “Fred didn’t tell me you two were professionals.”

Drake laughed sourly. “You didn’t have a need to know-until now.” He turned to Melody. “Type the same sentence in small letters and then in all caps. ‘The quick young fox jumps over the lazy brown dog.’”

Melody retrieved a piece of paper from the suitcase and set out to do that. Drake sat beside Sterling on the bed. Sterling apparently decided he was safer lying on his back. He didn’t try to get up. Drake looked down at him.

“Tell me about the betting operation.”

Sterling didn’t speak for a few seconds. The dialog of a TV movie droned in the background, punctuated by the click of typewriter keys.

Drake said, “Do I have to call my friend Slick? I bet he could get you to talk.”

Sterling appeared to be examining his alternatives. He came to a decision. “It’s run in Las Vegas.”

“Did you contact them or did they contact you?”

“I contacted them. It was after the race started. I was already working for Fred, but just to see that the runners obeyed the rules.”

“So you got the bright idea of a bet on the race. You contacted your buddies in Vegas and wrote the first letter. Why, for God’s sake, did you bet on us? I was barely moving then.”

“It wasn’t quite like that. The first letter came before the bet.”

“Huh?”

“Fred asked me to write it. He said he needed to make sure you two stayed in the race. He figured a threat against her mother would do it.”

He motioned toward Melody, who had finished typing and was listening intently.

“So Fred told you to put in the part about my mum.”

Sterling nodded. “I don’t know your mother from Winston Churchill. Fred wrote the letter. I just copied it.”

Drake said, “What typewriter did you use?”

“I borrowed one from the hotel I was staying at. I didn’t want to use my own.”

“But you used your own for the second letter.”

Sterling looked wily. “You tell me. You’ve been gathering the evidence.”

“Never mind that. When did you initiate the bet?”

“The first letter got me thinking. I called a friend in Vegas and told him the situation. He did some checking and said they could get terrific odds betting on you two. He cut Fred and me into the action.”

“You have to admit that it still looks like a horrible bet.”

“Not at all. All you have to do is stay in the race. The boys from Vegas will take care of the rest.”

“You can’t tell me that the Malibu incident was caused by Las Vegas hoods.”

“That? No, that was an act of God. Or maybe the Soviet Union. But it’s a long race. If necessary, accidents will happen to the other teams.”

Drake and Melody stared at him. They hadn’t expected anything this sinister. Drake took hold of the soft tissue at the top of Sterling’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Ouch. You’re hurting me.”

“Give me a name.”

“What?”

“Give me a name in Vegas.”

“I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

He was clearly terrified.

Drake contemplated. “If you give me a name, I’ll make sure you have at least a twenty-four hour start before anybody in Vegas gets wind of anything. Your name will be kept out of it. If you don’t cooperate, I can get your name plastered all over the front pages, because the race is getting lots of press. Then who’ll be the long shot? If you like, I’ll get you into the witness protection program.”

“I’ll…take my chances on my own. Okay. Give me a sheet of paper.”

He wouldn’t say the name out loud. It was as if he were afraid the room was bugged, although common sense said it wasn’t. He wrote it down. Drake read it. The name looked vaguely familiar. At least it was a real person. Sterling wouldn’t lie by giving a name of a real person who wasn’t involved. That would be too risky.

Drake nodded to Sterling. “All right, you can start packing.”

Sterling jumped off the bed and started fumbling with his pants and shirt. Melody joined Drake by the door, holding the piece of typewriter paper and the gun.

Drake put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Your reflexes are as good as ever. I’m glad you remembered our signal.”

“As you said, it was reflex. The notes C, F, G, A, meaning ‘He’s got a gun.’”

“We never contemplated using it when such quick action was required.”

“No. Your reflexes aren’t so bad either.”

Sterling scowled at them from the other side of the room where he was throwing clothes into his suitcase. “Are you going to give me back my gun? I may need it.”