He could feel his heart astounding his chest. He was sweating now, as he let the Luger fit into his palm, and gripped the cool butt, fingering cold steel.
“Who is it?” The voice was fat, hoarse, and deep, from inside the cottage.
Vincenti whapped the Luger’s sliding blue-steeled breech open with an oily click, and leaped between the glass doors.
Everything happened at once. The music. The jay screaming. Nemo Lucelli standing there like an elephant in a white terrycloth robe, belted around the enormous girth, a fat, manicured hand with a square-cut diamond, holding a martini glass, a woman’s voice:
“What is it – Nemo?”
Vincenti said, “Hello.”
Nemo Lucelli backed through an alcove into a sprawling, shadowed living room with huge hassocks and a fireplace. He paused against a glass cocktail table, his mouth working around unspoken words.
“They said you broke word,” Vincenti told Lucelli. “They said to waste you.”
“Wait—” Lucelli said.
His drink spilled on the thick gold rug.
Vincenti emptied the Luger. It made gasping sounds. Crimson blossoms appeared across Lucelli’s chest. He gave a tremendous leap backwards and crashed down on the glass-topped cocktail table, shattering the plate.
He was dead. His eyes were open.
The jay screamed. The music softly curtained the diminishing afternoon as Vincenti released the spent clip from the Luger and slapped a fresh one in its place.
“Nemo?”
The woman’s voice again, up and to the left, coming near.
She burst into the room, saw the hulk covered by terry cloth amid the jagged shards of broken glass, the blood. She put one hand to her mouth and bit knuckle. Then she flung coppery red hair out of one eye and stared at Vincenti.
“Hello and good-bye,” Vincenti said.
He lifted the Luger.
“You fool!” the girl who was more than mere woman said. She whirled and spat on the bloody body of Nemo Lucelli. “I wanted him dead! Don’t kill me – think, you fool!”
Vincenti frowned, staring at this girl.
She was beautiful, with long, flowing red hair. She wore a black swimsuit – a bikini – that was revealing enough to make a man hold his breath. Tall, she was, firm-breasted, long-thighed, with broad red lips, large blue eyes – a wish, a promise.
“Who are you?” Vincenti said.
“Not now – not here.” She spoke rapidly. “There’s no time. They’re coming back, don’t you see? Nemo sent them for some brandy.” She paused, put both hands to her cheeks. “You kill me, you’ll never get away – they’ll know somebody else did this. I know what to do – let me do it. I hated him! I was bought and paid for. Everybody knows it. They’ll think I did this. They know it’s been coming. Don’t you see – here – they’re here now!”
She pointed towards a front window. Beyond the sound of the music was the sound of a car’s wheels on gravel, and Vincenti saw gleams and glitters out there in the silky shade from the limo’s paint job.
The girl snatched up a red robe from a chair.
“Where’s your car, you idiot – hurry!”
Thinking how it had to be the weed, Vincenti grabbed her hand and turned running, dragging her – because truly it was good in this direction, too – this girl was his alibi.
If he made it.
“Where?” she gasped.
He said nothing, holstered the Luger, thinking how they would believe she had killed Lucelli. He grabbed the Luger from its holster again, thinking, You forgot, you fool! It’s that damned Acapulco Gold.
He flung the Luger into the pool with a splash that shattered the icy green, and they ran through the flower beds to the yellow-stone wall.
“Hey!”
It was a shout from back in the cottage.
“It’s them,” the girl whispered, cringing against Vincenti.
Vincenti did not hesitate. He grasped her around the smooth, plump thighs and lifted her quickly to the top of the wall.
“Drop down,” he said, scrambling after her.
There were shouts from inside the cottage.
Vincenti slipped over the wall just as somebody fired in his direction. Chips of shattered stone flew in the afternoon.
“Run for the street – my car,” he told the girl, thrusting her ahead.
“They climbed the wall!” a man shouted from behind.
They made the Continental.
“Let me drive,” the girl said. “There’s only one place to go – my plane at the St Petersburg-Clearwater Airport. This area’ll be crawling. It’s our only chance.”
“Get in,” Vincenti told her. “I’m driving.” He was also thinking fast. She was right. Word would go out. Soldatos would be everywhere, watching for her and whoever was with her. They would be at every entrance to the city, every highway would soon be covered. There was only the one chance: with her.
They were away fast, with the girl directing him on back routes. It was all Vincenti could do to hold the speed down, and there was a snarl of discouragement in his chest, but it began to lessen with each mile. This girl – this girl was something to consider – a beauty – and with quick brains, too.
Lucelli was dead. He would have plenty of money. This girl would have plenty, too – it was a fast deal and a good one.
Soon they were out of Tampa on the Courtney-Campbell Causeway, headed for Route 19. Vincenti began to relax a touch, but he did not let up on the accelerator. He knew anything could happen. Lucelli’s web could reach out . . .
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl, trying to think about more comforting things.
“Anette,” she said.
“Okay, Anette. Looks as if we’ll be together for a time. But where’ll we go?” He hesitated, then took a shot at it. “I’m from LA.”
“My money’s in Vero Beach – that’s where I live. I was just visiting Nemo at one of his castles, see? We’ll fly my Cessna to Vero – agreed?”
“Then where?”
“There’s only one where. Europe. We’ll head for Miami, and fly to England first. It’s the only way, and it can be damned thin. Nemo rules – ruled this state.” She slid closer to Vincenti. “What’s your name?”
He told her.
“But what’s your first name?”
“Harry.”
“Gee, I dig that – Harry.”
He allowed himself to comfort her somewhat by placing one hand on her knee, while visions danced in his head.
Sugar plums, he thought. Sweet sugar plums.
Presently they reached the St Pete-Clearwater Airport. In less than fifteen minutes they were seated in Anette’s four-seat Cessna; a beautiful ship, colored red, white, and yellow – sleek in the early twilight.
They came down the runway with Anette at the controls. She had asked him if he could fly.
“I leave that up to pilots.”
“Vero, here we come,” she said, and they were airborne.
Vincenti took his first clean breath of freedom. There was little chance of being caught now. He had done his job. Lucelli was dead. He would collect payment by cable in London. He had his passport with him. He was always ready for anything.
They winged above Tampa Bay. The waters, in the last of the sunlight, looked as if studded with diamonds. He saw the vast span of the Howard Frankland Bridge up ahead, cars like ants speeding along the whiteway.
He lit two joints and passed her one.
She smiled at him and took a big toke.
“Hey,” he said suddenly. “You’re going down – we’re flying pretty damned low.”
“Want to show you how pretty it can be. Then, after, we’ll get to know each other. There’s an automatic pilot, see? Nemo had it installed for me. I’m setting it now.”