“Do you have anything more to tell us about Scotch?”
“You call him that too, do you? Plenty! He kept running off to Miami on his motorbike. I have my spies, don’t you know, and whenever he came back was when he was able to make those little purchases — long-playing record albums and the like. Parts for his motorcycle. A pair of boots costing well over forty dollars.”
“You’re saying there’s no legitimate way for him to afford an expensive pair of boots?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying. His mother doesn’t allot him one penny. The only answer I’ve been able to come up with is marijuana.”
“What kind of friends did he have?”
“Scruffy. Guitar players, so on and so forth. Marijuana smokers all of them, not a doubt in the world.”
“Girls?”
“One in particular, and she happens to be my daughter, and that’s why I take such a special interest in what sort of a boyfriend she’s getting herself mixed up in. She’ll be heartbroken when she hears about it, a lot more so than me — not that I’m gloating. I personally thought he was more likely to go in one of those motorcycle skids. I still don’t think much of that suicide theory. Suicide? He was too egotistic. The reason I’m calling to strike in a claim for a piece of that money, and I know you’re going to be fair about that, Mr. Shayne, is that he’s been telling a lot of stories about how money was not a problem. He suggested to my daughter that they do some traveling together in Europe and so on. That was some time ago now, a matter of let’s say a couple of weeks. Lately he’s been very short-tempered. Disappearing and showing up and disappearing. My personal opinion, I think he was deep in the drug traffic, and that time he went down to Mexico was to line up a source of supply, which would naturally enter this country through the Port of Miami. It’s been giving me a bad case of insomnia, which is why I’m listening to the radio this late. My advice to you, Mr. Shayne, is to stop chasing around the countryside after pieces of masks. That’s not it. In my considered opinion, it’s marijuana. Marijuana,” she insisted.
The next call surprised everybody. A man’s voice: “Mike, are you by any chance a concealed homosexual?”
Shayne laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Because if you are,” the voice continued, “I hope you’ll come out of the closet and join us. You have the image we need. You could be highly effective in our struggle for recognition.”
Chapter 16
“This is García,” a strong accented voice announced next.
Sandy decided to drink one more glass of wine and listen to one more call. She hadn’t gleaned much from the Fort Myers lady, although from the way he had put his questions, Shayne had seemed to think she was saying some interesting things. The wine had started a slight buzzing. She had made a close study of her own reactions, and she knew if she laid much more wine in on top of everything else, the buzzing would swell in volume and intensity until she would be able to hear nothing else, and it would keep her from considering her problem. That problem was no longer whether or not she would call — she had decided she had to — but what name she would tell them. It had to be authentic, so they could send her some of the money.
García: “I do not trust you, Shayne. I am not one of those people who open their mouths and everything spills out. Tonight I have done a few crimes, perhaps. I am tall, I am easy for the finger to be pointed to. To disappear into the Spanish-speaking community is not so simple for me. So I want your friendship. I want money, because I have received nothing but pennies so far for all I have done. An acquaintance tells me you have questions. I didn’t shoot Scotch. Understand that. I would have no reason except annoyance.”
“Which one of you did the organizing?”
“He. Of course. Except in height, I am small man. Very much unimportant. But I have feelings.”
“When did he call you?”
“Yesterday.”
“Come on, don’t drip it out with an eye-dropper. What was your deal?”
“To bring two other guys, reliable, and meet in Seminole Beach. A car. No danger, no complications, that was his promise. No danger! No complications!”
“Did he pay in advance?”
“A small sum. Because of your interference, there has been no second payment. And I can tell you I have bills. The phone company, the gas company.”
“I left Scotch on Holloway’s front porch. Did you see him again?”
“We were to meet at a certain place if anything was wrong, if we were separated. I went, but nobody.”
“You had to be a little sore about what happened.”
García said uneasily, “I am refugee, not as yet citizen. It is not wise for me to be angry.”
“How long have you known him?”
“I was with them to Mexico, Holloway and the others. Only to translate. I am not archeologist. To carry things, to put up the tents.”
“Were you there when the Mexican was shot?”
“Indian,” García corrected. “Yes, the professor did that. Should I tell you? Would it interest you? He was a robber, he wanted to rob the professor of his watch, his American Express checks. There was a trail between the camp and the bathroom. The professor was careless, he should not have gone out alone. This raggedy man came up to him with a knife. Out came the professor’s gun. Down fell the Indian.”
“How did the local people react to that?”
“There are so few in the jungle. In the camp, some people said it was the usual gringo craziness, done out of fear. For my part, if it had been me on that path, I would take the knife away from him. Or give him the checks and the watch, and get them back through the rural police, who know everybody in the district. What does an ignorant chicle gatherer know about traveler’s checks? But the professor was nervous, from much looking, little finding. I worried, you know, that evening. The way people looked at him; whispered. But in the morning, the mask was found and everybody was happy after so long, excited. We all knew it would be famous. The professor was lucky. You need much luck in the jungle, among so many trees. You saw it after it was clean, repaired. When it came out of the earth it was not so splendid. But piece by piece. A finished mask, everybody said it was very rare.”
“What place did Scotch have in the expedition?”
“Always with painful ankles, weak bowels. Excuse after excuse. Little work.”
Shayne’s patient questioning continued. Sandy, looking down into her glass and turning it this way and that, almost stopped listening. A conscious step was to be taken, and she didn’t take so many of those that she could do it without working herself up. Would they believe her? Psychologically speaking, she was a mess, with a memory that stood on its head sometimes and did somersaults. She remembered things that hadn’t happened yet, for heaven’s sake, which was definitely not normal.
“Tim Rourke again,” Rourke’s voice said from the radio. “We’re rolling along, in one of the wooliest episodes in the recent history of nighttime radio. I’ve just been told that we’ve been joined by Biscayne Fats and his minuscule audience. Welcome, Fats and friends. Here’s that phone number again. If you know anything about hitchhiking murders or Toltec masks, call us. If you’re hesitating, pick up the phone and dial.”
That was the push Sandy needed. She dialed the number as Rourke said it slowly. She was sure she had done it wrong, and was immensely relieved when a man’s voice answered.
“KMW. Hello.”
“I thought I’d — I wanted to—”
“Sweetheart? Do you have something for Shayne?”
“About Bruno, the Mad Doctor.”