Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

‘Thanks.’

‘The guys I thought 1 could depend on, I can’t. The few I called hung up on me. The few I saw turned around and walked the other way. A few who would talk told me I’m poison. The word’s got around. The Corporation was very heavy on this: You help’Jack Donohue and you spend the rest of your life with busted kneecaps, pushing yourself along on a little platform on wheels. If you’re lucky. Listen, I don’t blame the guys; they’ve mostly got wives and kids. Or girlfriends anyway.’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Also the charter planes,’ he went on. ‘The outfits that will fly anyone anywhere for a price. The Corporation had tipped them, too. Jack Donohue goes nowhere. Ditto the fences. They won’t touch me. That Rossi had been one busy little boy. As far as Miami goes, I got leprosy.’

‘If we give back the Brandenberg jewels?’ I asked.

‘No go. The Corporation wants the Donohue jewels. My family jewels.’

‘How about the good news now? I think I could stand some.’

He halted and I stopped beside him. We took a few sips of our drinks, looking up at that sparkling night.

‘The good news is this: I unloaded about half those loose stones in jewelry shops. More than twenty grand.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said faintly.

‘So we’re not hurting for cash. But you know where I peddled most of the rocks? In the Cuban section. Miami is full of Spies. And not only Cubans, but from all over South America. A lot of loose money there. I figure the smart guys are getting out of those banana republics before they get stood up against a wall and shot. And, there’s a lot of cash around from the dope trade. They’re running gage and coke in every hour on the hour. All cash deals, of course.

But money like that is hard to spend or get to Switzerland, say. That’s why I was able to get top dollar for the loose rocks. You can go anywhere in the world with a diamond up your ass.’

I remembered what Antonio Rossi had told me when he was Noel Jarvis: how easy it was to take precious gemstones across a border.

‘But the best thing is this,’ Jack said. ‘The Spies have their own organization. They’re not under the thumb of the Corporation. Oh sure, I guess they make deals now and then, but the South Americans are running the drugs on their own. And they got their own lotteries, cathouses, loansharks, betting parlors, and so forth. They don’t need the Corporation.’

‘You think maybe we can make a deal with the Cubans?’ I asked.

‘I think maybe we can,’ he said slowly. ‘I got onto a guy named Manuel Garcia. That’s like John Smith, in American. I flashed that big necklace I was carrying and I saw his eyes light up. I told him what we needed: a plane out of the country, passports, and visas, complete new IDs, no hassle in the country we’re going to. He said maybe it could be arranged. He said he’d talk to his people.’

‘How much would they want? The big necklace?’

‘Oh hell no. More than that. He mentioned a hundred G’s, casual-like, before I told him it would be for the two of us. Then he said a quarter of a mil, knowing my woman was involved. I figure I can get it for less than that. Maybe two-hundred thou.’

‘You trust him? This Manuel Garcia?’

‘That’s the trouble with this business,’ he said fretfully. ‘You’ve got to trust someone to get what you want. No, I don’t trust that greaser. Jesus Christ, he wears perfume ! But right now he’s the only game in town.’

‘How did you leave it? What happens next?’

‘This Garcia is going to talk to his people, to see if they can deliver. I’ve got a Miami number to call. Every day at noon. I ask for Paco. If they’ve got no word for me yet, Paco will be out. When they’re ready to talk money and how the whole thing will be set up, Paco will tell me when to come back to Miami and where to meet.’ ‘Two hundred thousand is a lot of money,’ I said slowly.

‘Sure it is,’ Donohue agreed. ‘Until you remember we’ve got a couple of mil in those suitcases. At least. Also, it’s not all profit for them. They’ve got to pay the paper guys, the clerks in the consulate, the pilot of the plane, the guys on the other end. Everyone’s got to be oiled. So the two hundred G’s isn’t all that much. Not if it gets us out from under the Feds, Rossi, and the Corporation.’

Til drink to that,’ I said, draining my brandy.

Donohue finished his drink. Then he took the empty glass from my hand. With a wild, whirling motion, he threw both glasses as far out to sea as he could. I saw the glint in the moonlight. Then the faint splashes as the empty glasses hit the water and disappeared. Then there was only the dark, rolling ocean.

‘You think it’ll work?’ I said.

it’s got to work,’ he said fiercely. ‘ Got to!’

We went back to our daily routine — breakfast, beach, drinks, dinner, sex, sleep — except that each day at noon Donohue called the Miami phone number he had been given and asked for Paco. For five days Paco was out and hadn’t left any message. On the sixth day there was a different reply, and Jack motioned to me for a pad and pen, saying into the phone: ‘Yes. I’ve got it. Repeat that address. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh, I understand. Fine.’

He hung up and looked down at the scrawled notes he had made.

‘I go to Miami tomorrow. They claim they can deliver what we need.’

‘You want me to come with you?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘this is just to negotiate the deal. What they want, what we’ll pay, the timing, and so on.’

‘Are you going to take the loot with you?’

‘My God, no! I’ll leave it here with you.’

‘Just make sure you’re not followed back here.’

He looked at me disgustedly.

‘My pappy didn’t raise me to be an idiot.’

It started raining that night, and in the morning the TV weather forecaster spouted technical jargon about a stationary low-pressure area off the Florida coast. He remarked cheerfully that the rain would continue for at least another forty-eight hours, driving conditions were hazardous, small-craft warnings were in effect from the Palm Beaches south to the Keys. And of course he added: ‘Have a nice day!’

Jack Donohue took off for Miami in a heavy rainstorm whipped by a twenty-mile-an-hour wind that tore at palm fronds and rattled the motel windows. There was enough to eat and drink in our refrigerator; no way was I going to venture out until that crazy weather calmed.

After breakfast I started typing again, and just before noon finished transcribing my handwritten manuscript. Now I was up to date on Project X — 462 pages ready for posterity. I then tore up the pages written in longhand and dumped the pieces in the garbage. One copy of that damning manuscript was all I needed — or wanted.

I took time out for a sandwich and a can of beer, then got started on the luggage. I put aside all of Dick Fleming’s clothes and personal belongings, plus a few things we still had that belonged to Hymie Gore. There was a Salvation Army bin outside one of the local supermarkets, and I figured that would be a good place to dump what we didn’t want.

That left one suitcase for Jack, one for me, and a third for the Brandenberg loot. The guns went into two shoulder bags, wrapped in towels stolen from various motels along our escape route.

Then 1 tidied up, showered, washed my hair, did my nails. I was tempted to call Sol Faber, call Aldo Binder, call my sister. But their phones could be tapped — it was possible — and besides, what could I say — ‘It’s raining here; how is it there?’

All these activities, I told myself, were just a way of killing time until Jack Donohue returned. But there was more to it than that. I was preparing for departure; I felt it. The storm had hidden the sun and ended the days of mindless basking. We had caught our breath, rested, and let time dull the memories of what had happened. Now we had to move on.