Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

“Someday I’m going to take that away from you and you know what I’m going to do with it?”

“Tell me, Morgan.”

I let out a low laugh. “Nah,” I said, “I don’t think that’s physically possible either.” Instead of the expected cold flooding her eyes again, there was that little twinkle and I said, “Get dressed. I’d like to make an appearance downstairs.”

“Wouldn’t that be strange for a honeymooning couple?”

“There’s been time enough to do what we were going to do. They’ll think it’s a ten-minute break.”

“Male pride,” she said scornfully.

“Masculine surety, kid,” I told her. “On me it sticks out all over.”

The gaming rooms of the hotel casino weren’t as crowded as usual. Conversation seemed to be smothered by an unseen haze and the play at the tables was almost lackadaisical. Winning streaks generated only a polite show of interest and more people were at the several bars than had been previously. A crowd was grouped around the desk checking out, another making airline reservations back to the mainland and when I asked a bellboy about the situation he merely shrugged and said the weather had something to do with it.

Angelo was a little more specific. He indicated some of the maintenance crew lugging four-by-eight sections of half-inch plywood to the front of the building and told me that the weather advisory reports positioned the hurricane five hundred miles out and moving toward the island faster than expected. There was a possibility of it swinging northwest, but a lot of the guests weren’t taking any chances. They were leaving while there was still time.

You could smell it even inside. It was all there. Everything piling up at once. That moving finger was preselecting its targets, lining them up, then withdrawing to deliver the full impact of a lethal punch.

I split with Kim, leaving her to play out a streak at the roulette wheel while I roamed between the aisles looking for the action. I stopped at the crap table, the only place that had a crowd and edged myself in when a player left in disgust. I threw a brace of chips on the field numbers and the dark-haired guy with the lopsided grin who was rolling the dice looked up at me with a challenging glance, spun the dice out, then grimaced when I picked up my winnings. Everybody but me was playing the lines so he simply smiled, said, “Lucky,” and tossed the cubes out again. This time he made his point.

The next two rolls I lost on the field, made part of it back while the shooter was still trying for his six, then held back while he made it and raked in his chips.

He looked up with another of those crooked grins and said, “You ought to play on my side, feller.”

“I’m a lousy gambler,” I told him.

“Not from what I seen,” he laughed. “I was there when you stopped the table the last time, remember?” He picked up the dice, shook them and threw his roll with a practiced toss and came up a three. The next pass he sevened out and said, “Well, you can’t win ‘em all,” and crinkled his face in a laugh that threw his features out of shape. “Easy come, easy go. You going to roll ’em tonight?”

I shook my head. “I know when I’ve had it,” I told him. I stepped back and let the sequin-gowned fat dame beside me take the dice.

“It’s the weather,” the guy told me and stuck out his hand. “Marty Steele, in case you forgot.”

“From Yonkers,” I answered, remembering him.

He offered me a cigarette and when I turned it down stuck one in his mouth and lit it. “You cutting out with the rest?”

“I don’t know. It’s a hell of a way to wreck a honeymoon.”

“Yeah. I saw your bride. Quite a woman, that one. You sure got the luck. Me, I always wind up with some twist who cleans me out and takes off.” He shrugged and grinned again. “Maybe I’m better off at that.”

He tried to keep his tone light, but there was a reserved growl behind it and the remnants of the grin had lost its humor to an expression of near hate that lasted a split second before it came under control. Whatever bugged this guy was going to explode someday if he couldn’t keep a lid on himself. He yanked the cigarette from his mouth with a peculiar arm motion, grimaced, then looked at me again. “Guess this damn storm coming in got everybody edgy.”

“The planes are still leaving,” I suggested.

“I’m not that edgy. Let the tourists blow. The big money boys are sticking it out and I plan to make a little loot at the tables. I waited a long time to see some of this action I’ve been hearing about and no damn storm is going to blow it on me.”

“Well,” I said, “hope you make out.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I walked off toward the roulette wheel where Kim was losing her chips one at a time, saw her frown of annoyance when she missed by one number and the grim determination of the amateur gambler when she placed another chip on the same digit.

With the crowd thinned out the security personnel were even more noticeable. The tension had touched them too and they stood in small groups eyeing the guests nervously. The sight of money leaving Nuevo Cádiz was going to leave a lot of tempers short.

I angled over toward the bar, ordered a cold beer and had it halfway down when I spotted Lisa Gordot down at the other end. She sat on a stool against the wall, her fingers curled around the glass so tightly her knuckles showed white and every few seconds her shoulders would tighten with some pent-up emotion. She raised her head a moment and I saw her eyes, filmed and red-rimmed from crying.

Carrying the beer, I walked around the bunch at the bar and came up behind her. “Why the gloom, kitten?”

There was no warmth in her smile; despair had wiped it out. “Morgan,” she said hoarsely, “I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”

“You were happy when I left you, girl. What’s got you down?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you’d be leaving.” I finished the beer and slid the glass on the bar top. “You could lose yourself in the rush.”

She answered with a dismal shake of her head. “No use, Morgan. My fat little protector thought of everything.”

“Russo Sabin?”

“My protector,” she nodded slowly. “He has my passport.”

“Money can buy another one. Hell, you can get political asylum in some other country.”

“You touched the sensitive nerve, Morgan. Money. He knew about my winnings. He had it confiscated under a dubious pretext of me being held at the request of another government until my legal status has been cleared. I’m a damn prisoner in this stinking hellhole.”

“Suppose you had a ticket out?”

She picked up her glass, studied it a moment and drained the drink without pause. When she put the glass down she shook her head again. “What good would that do? You think his men aren’t at the airport? They have their orders.”

“There’s got to be some way.”

“I’m afraid not, Morgan. Not until Sabin is finished with me. It isn’t a very pleasant thought at all. I have heard of others who came under his… paternal protection.”

“But if there is a way? Would you take it?”

A glimmer of hope came into her eyes, faded, then brightened again. “Is there?”

“Let me think it out.”

Her hand came out and lay on top of mine. “Why, Morgan?”

“Because I’d like to see that fat little bastard take a fall.”

“Not just for me then?”

“For you too.”

“I pay back my debts, Morgan.”

“No payment expected, Lisa.”

“I’ll insist on it. I can be very persistent. There are things I know that come only to the most fortunate of women and…”

I grinned at her. “Don’t tempt me. Go to your room and stay there until I contact you. If I call I’ll ring once, hang up, wait a minute, then ring again. Make it look like you’re sulking. At least Sabin will understand that. Meanwhile with this hurricane playing around and all the suckers evacuating, there will be plenty to keep him busy.”