Микки Спиллейн - Together We Kill

She made a wry face. “All right, I know what you’re after.”

“Tell me.”

“You want to know how Tucker Stacy died.”

I grinned at her. “I know that, sugar. I want to know why.”

“Go right ahead then. You’re doing fine. You’ll make a good story yourself if nothing comes of this one. It you have something more specific for me to do...”

“I have.”

“What?”

“Miami is loaded with anti-Castro people. You know any of them?”

“There are some who have appealed to our government. There’s their government-in-exile and...”

“Okay, try them. Get to the big ones and see what you can come up with on this bananas thing.”

Her eyes darted to my face.

“You got it from someplace. Where?”

She licked her lips, then: “A rumor. The person who mentioned it was killed before he could testify before a Congressional committee.”

“That Gonzales guy last week?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. He had come over in a small boat that had floundered halfway across and drifted for a week. He was near dead from exhaustion and exposure. I was there when they took him off the rescue boat. I heard him mention the word.”

“So he was hungry.”

“Could be.”

“Suppose you find out. Think you know the right people?” Lois nodded. “I can try. Shall we meet later?”

“There’s a Paramount Motel across from where we rented the car. I’ll stay there tonight.”

She started to smile.

“Two rooms,” I said.

The smile turned into a pout.

“Adjoining,” I added.

“I’d like that,” she said.

Rather than have DeWitt come out again, I went to the office and had him show me the editions of the paper that carried the account of Gonzales’ death. When he didn’t appear for the hearing, he was found choked to death in his roominghouse near Washington — even though a police officer guarded the building. Investigation showed that the killer had gained entry by climbing a tree in the backyard, forcing a second-floor window and making his exit the same way. It was assumed the killer was a Castro fanatic.

DeWitt said, “That wasn’t the first one of those.”

“Oh?”

“This town is loaded with people from both sides. Hell, it’s open warfare around here no matter whom you favor. Luckily for us, they keep it pretty much inside their own quarter, but the situation is going to blow someday. By the way, you know who this guy Gonzales was?”

“Nope.”

He thumbed through some later editions and pulled one out on its rack. The story was on page four, a resume of the rescue and subsequent murder of Gonzales. It said he was formerly employed by one of the ousted American industries in Havana.

After I finished, I said, “What about it?”

“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “Up until now they’d been playing the guy like he was a peasant climbing off the farm. Turns out he was a chemical engineer. What I’d like to know is what he wanted to spill to the Congressional committee.”

“I don’t think it would matter. They never seem to listen to anybody anyway.”

“That’s how it goes. Need anything else?”

“Where can I find that fisherman?”

“The one who picked up the plane wreckage?”

“Uh-huh.”

He told me to wait, dug into some other files until he found what he wanted and handed me a slip of paper with a name and address on it.

Peter Claude Watworthy was a dried-up little guy who had spent too many years in the sun. His face, neck and hands were withered and brown, but toughened to a leathery consistency. He sat on the back of his trailer puffing a pipe, staring into the sunset with obvious pleasures and let me speak my piece.

Finally, he put the pipe down and propped his feet up on a crate. “I been wondering about that, too, son. Up to now, nobody’s asked me — and I ain’t about to be traipsing off tellin’ what’s none of my business anyway.”

“Mind talking about it?”

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and started stumping in a fresh load. “Not at all, son. Like to talk, matter of fact. Don’t get much chance to any more, seems like. You want to know about that airplane, huh?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Well, I think the papers got it all wrong.”

“How’s that, Mr. Watworthy.”

“Peter Claude’s the name.”

“Sure.”

“I been out three days fishing when it happened. Now I ain’t saying I’m sure, y’hear? I’m saying what I think. ”

“That’s good enough.”

“The night of that storm... after it was all over... I seen this flash in the sky. Could’ve been a rocket a long way off, could’ve been anything else. Anyway, there was just that one flash. Around here, you get so you take things into consideration. Nothin’ I could do about it, and since nothin’ came over the radio I just forgot about it. It wasn’t until two days later I saw that there helicopter and went looking to see what the trouble was. That was when I found the stuff in the water and gave it to the government men when they come out.

“Peculiar thing was, if that plane went down in the storm, the stuff would’ve wound up on the shore by then. If it did come from the flash I seen, it was about in the right place.”

Impatiently, I sat and made nothing out of it.

“Later, I got to thinking about something else I found,” the old man went on. He eased off the seat and shuffled toward the cabin where he rummaged around in a box. When he came back he had the handle and part of a suitcase in his fingers.

I took it from him, examined the charred edges and the peculiar way the leather was shredded into its fibrous parts. One end of the handle broke loose and I saw where the brass clasp had been almost melted.

“Got that out a way, near where the flash was.” He paused. “Ever see anything like that before?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’ve seen bomb damage do things like this to leather.”

“Dynamite, son. I seen it happen, too. Now you know what I’ve been thinking?”

“I think you’re right, Peter Claude.” I handed the fragment back to him. “Hold on to this in case I need it.”

“Trouble, son?”

“There’s always trouble, Peter Claude.”

“How right you are, son.”

When I reached the Paramount Motel, I picked a Coke out of the machine and stuck my key in the lock. I closed the door, flipped the light on and the Coke stopped halfway to my mouth. “What the hell...”

“Come right in, Mr. Fallon,” Del Reed said. He pointed to the two sitting on opposite sides of the room, big men with bland faces that had the mark of government service stamped on them.

“Do you have a warrant, Reed?”

“Do we need one?”

“Okay, what do you want?” I glanced around the place. “How’d you find me here?”

“We’ve had a tail on you, friend. I’m glad you were truthful about your flight plan. We picked you up the minute you got here. You’ve been asking a lot of questions.”

“Your business?”

“We’re making it that. These gentlemen are federal agents. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Improbable names, but theirs nevertheless.”

“So what?”

“If you care to be inconvenienced, it can be done. It’s your choice now.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

Jones, the heavy one, spoke, scarcely moving his month. “We’ve run a pretty thorough check on you, Fallon. You have a few things in your immediate past that might not stand a good investigation.”

I put the Coke down and sat on the arm of a chair. “Kill it, buddies, I’ve had the con by the experts. This you’d do sure enough, except for one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Jones asked.