Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

Her smile had a hard edge to it. “Then explain away the three five-hundred-dollar bills in your possession.”

“I told you. Casino winnings. This would be a perfect spot to unload that hot money. Ortega tried his best to make a deal with me to take care of it, so I know the outlet is available. Anybody could have brought it in. Hell, I was tagged for the job, so what did somebody else have to worry about? They’ll check bills downstairs for counterfeit, but they aren’t trying to match up serial numbers with stolen bills. Why should they? All they had to do was put it back in circulation again and they wouldn’t be out a buck.”

“Then Ortega knows you have it?”

“He thinks he knows it, baby.”

She frowned again. “Somebody shot at you. Somebody tried to frame you for Rosa’s death.” She paused, then added, “Somebody else thinks you have it too.”

“Do they?” I asked softly.

Kim looked at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just an idea I have.” I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to six. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so I’ll lay the program out now. Think you can go it alone?”

Kim nodded hesitantly.

“Angelo has it arranged for Lisa to go out of here dressed as a maid. He’ll make sure she gets to the plane. What I want you to do is get down to her room and see if you can imitate her voice and the general tone of her conversation in case Sabin should call. After the takeoff time for her flight you get back up here and stay with Joey here until I get back. Clear?”

Joey said, “What about me, Morgan?” His voice was barely audible.

“You stay here. Keep the door closed unless you’re sure it’s one of us.”

“Morg… you’re positive about Whitey Tass?”

“If he knows you’re here he knows you can’t hurt him and he won’t be dumb enough to come after you until after the storm anyway.” I got up from the edge of the tub and turned off the shower.

When I turned around Kim was standing there, her eyes full of confusion, staring at me as if she were looking through a microscope. “You still don’t believe me, do you?” I asked her.

Her lovely face reflected the turmoil of her mind. “Why should I?”

“No reason to,” I told her and walked outside.

As I reached the door I heard her quick steps behind me and her voice say, “Morgan.”

I stopped and turned around. “What?”

She couldn’t seem to say what she wanted to say. Instead, she simply shrugged. “Nothing.”

I grinned at her, went into a drunk-trying-to-sober-up act and opened the door.

Juan Fucilla entered the bar promptly at six. I timed my unsteady path across the lobby to intercept him and as I passed him, said, “Men’s room.” He was too shrewd to miss the implication or give any indication that he had heard me and continued on to the bar while I went into the john at the far end of the room. The guy in the tight tuxedo who had followed me made sure of where I was going, then went back to his original position beside the desk, scrutinizing the departing guests.

Five minutes later Fucilla joined me at the washbasins, waited until we were alone, then took the packet I had handed him. His analysis was simple but thorough, feeling the consistency of the heroin, tasting it, and inspecting it under the light through a tiny but high-powered glass. When he finished he slipped the packet in his pocket and said, “Excellent quality, señor.”

“The best,” I agreed.

His little eyes squinted at me. “My immediate superiors you will deal with directly think it will be a pleasure to do business with you.”

“How many of them?”

“Merely two, señor. Both are very reliable officers.” He coughed apologetically and fidgeted nervously with the buttons on his coat. “They, ah… approve of your direct methods.”

“What methods?”

“Elimination of someone of no consequence who might possibly, er, hamper our business relationship with the slip of the tongue.”

I didn’t let it show on my face, but I knew what he meant. The little bastard thought I had knocked off Rosa Lee to cut her out of the picture altogether! For a moment the greed in his face was tempered by respect. I didn’t bother to deny his assumption. At least it made him a little less difficult to deal with, thinking of what retribution he could expect if he crossed me. And he cleared up one more detail for me. If he thought I had killed Rosa, then he couldn’t have done it himself.

The thread holding the chain of events jerked tighter and the probables grew closer to the possibles.

I said, “You have a car?”

“Sí. A new Volvo. It is outside in the parking lot.”

“Go wait for me in it. It will be better if we are not seen together.”

Fucilla nodded his agreement, dried his hands on some paper towels and left. I gave him a couple of minutes, waited until the two men who came in to relieve themselves had gone, then pried open the single frosted-glass window that opened on the rear courtyard, hoisted myself through it, closed it carefully, then walked down the alley that led to the street.

They had built the Rose Castle of native rock on the fingertip of the island, a strategic point overlooking the natural harbor entrance whose gun emplacements could command the entire area. The dull black snouts of the cannon were still visible, curios now, but reminders of the days when this simple little island represented an almost invulnerable power.

The facing of the ten-foot-thick wall rose up sixty feet, its sheer, smooth surface barely pockmarked with the ravages of time, the imprint of old cannon shot from ships standing offshore like little dimples in its face. The primary purpose of the bastion had been to repel an attack from the sea, so except for ventilation slits, there were no openings in the sides. The cannons had been fired from the top of the wall, giving them the advantage in sighting and trajectory in long-range gunnery, the reefs surrounding the position making a landing by small boats so hazardous it was virtually impossible.

A new two-lane coquina roadbed led up to the main gate of the Rose Castle, splitting into a half-moon a fenced-off promenade that allowed visitors an excellent view of the structure. But beyond, the road narrowed to a single-lane graveled drive through a wrought-iron gate guarded by a sentry in an ornate booth.

I didn’t have to see it. The briefing Carter and Rice had given me along with recent photographs of the place imprinted the picture vividly in my mind. Nor did inanimate objects raise any problem. The only thing that could negate the situation was the security arrangement.

Juan Fucilla beeped his horn at the guard and was admitted without question, the man not even bothering to scrutinize me. Evidently the money tree had pretty long roots and they were watered right down to their very ends.

From the guard post to the walls was another two hundred yards and before we reached the gate I heard someone sneeze in the darkness and knew the grounds were patrolled.

Next to me, Fucilla said, “Ordinarily the Castle is lit with floodlights, señor. For the benefit of the visitors of course. It is quite a beautiful sight.”

“Why is it blanked out now?”

“The approaching storm, my friend. The wiring has a fault. The last time it happened a short circuit blacked out all of Nuevo Cádiz. In emergencies the Castle operates its own generator to supply immediate power.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Ah, yes. Señor Carlos Ortega has thoroughly modernized our country.”

The headlights of the car swung through a turn, then threw their beams against the vast expanse of the dismal gray structure. Unlike the other three sides that flanked the ocean, this one was not devoted to military functional-ism. No attack could be expected from this end, and the gaping mouth of the entrance and the large rectangular windows were decorated with ornate carvings and stone images of long-dead heroes set into niches in the granite. Every window was covered with iron gratings set into the rock, the main gate protected by a wrist-thick grillework that seemed impregnable.