Joe Gores - Interface

“It just gassed up a few minutes ago at the Standard station on Tenth Street.”

“Which station? Tenth and Folsom?”

“That’s the one. Left the station heading south for the freeway on-ramp—”

“You get a look at the driver?”

“Big blond fellow with glasses. Hornrims, like. Long hair like he was one of them TV stars or something. ’Cept’n he had a limp he sorta tried to hide...”

“Did he have an attaché case with him?” demanded Hariss.

If the oldster noticed this was not Neil Fargo’s voice, he apparently didn’t care.

“Was one down behind the front seat, like. I noticed it when he got in the car. Y’know, he hadda open the door and—”

Neil Fargo cut in, “We don’t need your life history, old man. He say anything about where he was headed?”

“Asked which off-ramp he took to San Francisco International Airport.”

“Come by the office tomorrow, your envelope’ll be there,” said Neil Fargo, and hung up.

“The airport!” exclaimed Hariss. “He’s finally trying to skip.” There was a tinge of relief in his voice. “We can...”

He ran down because Neil Fargo had jerked the snubbynose .38 policeman’s special from its belt holster, had flipped out the cylinder with a practiced jerk of his wrist so he could check the chambers. All were full; the detective apparently did not carry one empty under the hammer for safety. He looked up, caught the importer’s eye.

“You can reach Kolinski’s people covering the airport?”

“Yes, but—”

“How many are there?”

He thought a moment. “Four.”

“Good. All right, one in a stalled car on the airport turnoff overpass, so he can check that Docker actually enters the airport grounds. And a yellow Montego won’t be hard to spot from up there if Docker was bullshitting and just keeps going south. One man at the head of the escalators in both the North and South terminals. They can also watch the street entry doors in case he just dumps the car in a loading zone and leaves it there. That leaves a man free to coordinate between terminals.”

Hariss considered for a moment. “Yes, I see that. But—”

Neil Fargo had snapped the gun shut. “But, shit! Nobody tries to take him.” He shoved the gun back into its holster. His voice was filled with contempt. “Your fucking people have gone up against him three times today, if we count Bryant Street, and he’s wiped their asses for them each time. Just have them keep tabs on him until I get there.”

“And what if he happens to get on an airplane before you get there?” demanded Hariss acidly.

“He won’t. It’s the middle of the rush hour, he’s on an unfamiliar freeway — he won’t be making much time. Besides, he’s not getting on any airplane with that attaché case. He wouldn’t be able to get it by the anti-hijack security guards.”

The detective departed without waiting for an answer, but then swerved across the garage to Hariss’ waiting Fleetwood. The driver’s window was down, and Neil Fargo leaned on the frame.

He said to Rizzato, “You’re a dead man tomorrow morning if you’re still in San Francisco. Remember that.”

Rizzato said nothing, but spat deliberately against the side of the Fairlane as it went by him and out into the traffic-jammed lanes of Bush Street. In the office, Walt Hariss had relayed Neil Fargo’s plan to his airport contact; but there had been significant changes in the instructions. He sat for a full minute behind the desk, eyes hooded, as if reviewing his battle plan.

Then he arose abruptly, went to the door to signal Rizzato. He was rotating a fresh cigar in his lighter flame when the chauffeur appeared in the doorway. Hariss outlined it all for him: the arrest of Kolinski, the telephone call from Neil Fargo’s informant, the detective’s instructions for the men at the airport and his abrupt departure there.

“I want you to get down there as quick as you can, Gus. On the white courtesy telephone page a man named Nolan Avery. He will tell you whether Docker has arrived, where he is, what he’s doing.”

Gus Rizzato showed his yellowish teeth in a grin. “Instead of telling Fargo. Beautiful!”

“Most important, Avery will tell you where Docker parked. Wait for him at his car, take the attaché case away from him. You ought to be able to manage it, he’s never laid eyes on you. He’ll park in the garage directly across from the terminal, I’m sure.”

“But if he gets on a plane, Mr Hariss...”

“Docker isn’t going to check that attaché case, and he will also be unable to carry it aboard any plane without having it opened and searched by the security guards. Once he realizes that, he will have to return to his car.”

“And that’s when I get the attaché case.” Rizzato’s eyes had brightened at the prospect.

“Be careful of him, Gus. From everything we’ve heard, he’s fast and ruthless.”

“He’s a gimp, right. Mr Hariss?”

“A fast gimp, Gus. Believe me, he—”

Rizzato repeated the single blazingly fast movement behind his neck to have the commando knife lying in his hand, as he had done in front of Pamela Gardner earlier that day. His lips pursed in silent laughter.

“He’ll never see it coming, Mr Hariss.”

Walter Hariss nodded. “Into my hands, Gus, that attaché case. My hands only.”

Rizzato reversed his lightning movement, and the knife was back in its neck sheath. He paused in the doorway.

“What about Neil Fargo, Mr Hariss?”

“Yes, he’s a problem, isn’t he? Apparently he’s fond of that secretary of his.” He thought for a moment; then his eyes cleared. He chuckled. “We’re forgetting. Fargo must account for a large sum of money he will be unable to account for — to someone whom he fears. That means someone who is tougher than Fargo himself. By tomorrow morning his major concern will be staying alive, not avenging what you did in his office.”

Rizzato grinned. He rolled his shoulders to make the padded suitcoat sit better on his narrow sinewy frame. “Fair enough, Mr Hariss.”

After he was gone, Walter Hariss went to the door, peered out. He waited until he saw the overweight Rock Hudson named Blaney, and crooked a finger at him. Blaney, whose regular job was running the night crew, appeared in the doorway wearing a white knee-length smock. Outside, the three car-parkers were bringing down a steady stream of commuter cars for their homeward-bound owners.

“I have some bad news, Blaney.” He gestured the big man into a chair across the desk. “Cigar?”

“Don’t mind if I do, Mr Hariss.”

“Alex Kolinski is in jail. He was arrested this afternoon in the act of giving an overdose of heroin to a girl in a Tenderloin hotel.”

Blaney was shocked. He dropped the cigar, had to root around on the unswept floor to find it again. He came erect. “Alex? Busted?”

“They have him cold, according to my information. Now, I know you have always worked for Alex, and I’m sure you hold him in the same sort of esteem that I do. On the other hand, business must continue.” He paused as if inviting comment from the big man across the desk. None was forthcoming. Hariss nodded. “I’m sure that you were sufficiently in Alex’s confidence to know that I have a discreet financial interest in this garage.”

“Sure. Half-owner.”

“There you are,” said Hariss delightedly. “I want to assure you, Blaney, that the situation here at the garage will remain stable while Alex is... away.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr Hariss.”

Hariss leaned forward, bringing his heavy ruddy features into the circle of light cast by the desk lamp. “I would like to feel that in the eventuality of Alex’s permanent... absence, I could count on your primary loyalties lying with the... um, partnership instead of with Alex himself. Who, after all, created the trouble in which he now finds himself.”