“No trouble. What about parts?”
“Trans-Florida Aviation over in Sarasota has a full stock of P-Fifty-One components. And since we have some loot in the bank, don’t go scrimping. My instrument panel is outdated, so get the King Radio catalogue and mount me up. I want new tires and canopy on the baby and find a reticule for the gunsight.”
“You got a K-fourteen on that thing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What for? You can bust your head if you...”
“I always wear the shoulder harness locked on landing, buddy. Besides, I might want to shoot somebody.”
“Oh,” he grinned, “a nostalgic.”
“There aren’t too many of us left,” I said. Then I remembered it was what Tuck had written. I tried to remember who Verdo and Cristy were. There was some reason why I should remember them, but the reason was twenty years old and only a hazy recollection now.
The kind of circles I traveled in made it no trouble to enlarge my contacts. One call to Slim Upgate in New York put me through to a lead man in Celada named George Clinton, and with a clearance like Upgate he was glad to give me a run down on Tucker Stacy. Briefly, he told me, Tuck was a wheeler-dealer who operated on a comparatively small scale, liked what he had in Celada and decided to stick around. Clinton hinted that Tuck had some outside interests, but speculated that they lay somewhere between a man’s normal attachments for girls and gambling. He didn’t think it was anything in the rackets.
When I mentioned the cops, Clinton shrugged, but Del Reed’s name brought a squint to his eyes and he made a couple of phone calls. After the last one he hung up, dragged on a cigar and told me Del Reed was the state man handling any of the operations involving the new Cuban setup, especially the anti-Cuban bunch in the Miami area.
“Where would Tuck fit into that picture?”
“I could guess,” Clinton said.
“Then guess.”
“He had planes, an airfield. Now you guess.”
“Smuggling?” Clinton made a vague gesture. “No, that’s not logical,” I continued. “He couldn’t get into Cuba to start with. Besides, they come out in bunches. They commandeer boats generally.”
“The big ones?”
“Aren’t most of the big ones already here?”
Clinton studied his cigar a moment. “Yes, I’d say so.” He looked up at me. “There’s still a bunch operating in the mountains like Castro did.”
“No dice, friend. Castro’s was an army of poorly trained malcontents who were glad to see Batista go. It’s not like that now. With Russian and Chinese Commies in there running things, whatever opposition shows its face will get smeared like a bug. The groups in the mountains are scattered little units. Any real opposition to Castro will come right out of the States.”
“You never know what the Commies are going to pull,” Clinton said. “Well, if there’s anything else you want any help with, let me know.”
“I will.”
“You want me to pull the local fuzz off your neck?”
“That’s a real power play, friend.”
Clinton made another small gesture with his hands. “I’m a heavy contributor to certain campaign funds. Little favors I can get.”
“Save them until we need them.”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
Out of habit, I checked the weather before I hit the pad. The latest out of Miami had a tropical disturbance building up. The weathermen had already named the hurricane Ingrid. It was enough to put a crimp in the traffic pattern even though the sky was clear and the wind a gentle five knots from the west.
Charlie Traub’s crew had already started tearing down the Mustang, and after a cursory look around, I walked back to the end unit of the motel that had been Tuck’s, stripped down, took a shower and flaked out on the bed.
For a while I lay there with my hands behind my head, trying to get inside Tuck’s mind. Damn, there wasn’t one reason in the world outside of sentiment that would have made him leave me all his goodies. Big wheelers just don’t have sentiment. I had known too many of them. If I had been an operator who could make a go out of what Tuck had built up, I could see a reason, but I wasn’t an operator.
So maybe it was sentiment, like that reflection back to Verdo and Cristy. I’d have to look them up, whoever they were. Maybe a couple of late replacements from a repple-depple in ’45. Tuck always did baby the new ones. Me, I watched out for me first.
Sentiment? No, there was another reason somewhere. Meanwhile, I had a half million bucks to play with and no sentiment involved. It was going to be a lot of fun. One big ball and to hell with everybody. When it was over and spent, I’d climb back in the rebuilt Mustang and find some more fresh sky to find a buck in.
That’s how I fell asleep.
And when I woke up she was standing there in the moonlight with a gun in her hand pointing it at my head. Not a little girl-type rod, but a fat black musket that was a .38 police positive with a four-inch barrel. In the pale yellow glow from outside I could see the dull grey of the slugs in the cylinder.
She was only smaller than average in height. The rest of her was all magnificent woman that slacks and a sweater couldn’t hide. Only the total black of her hair lightened her face by contrast. No sun-worshipper could have had a more luxurious tan.
She saw my eyes open. “Don’t move, señor” she said.
“I could use a sheet over me.”
“I’ve seen naked men before.”
“Drop dead,” I said, and flipped the sheet over myself.
“You almost did, Mr. Fallon. Don’t move again.”
I could see the expression on her face, a peculiar set to her eyes. She wasn’t fooling. Il had been close. Very slowly I settled back and folded my hands behind my head. Never trust a broad with a gun. If she could use it, that made it even worse.
“Your play, baby.”
“Quite, Mr. Fallon.” Her voice carried a soft Spanish inflection.
“Am I supposed to know you?”
I could see the tip of her tongue wet her lips indecisively. “Not necessarily. I am Sharon Ortiz.”
“Cuban?”
She didn’t hesitate. “My father was Spanish. We lived in Cuba. My mother was Irish.” Her mouth smiled over beautiful white teeth, but there was no humor there at all. “But I am Cuban, señor.”
“And what do you want with me?”
“Right now I am to decide whether you would be better dead or alive.”
“Great. How does it look?”
Her hand tightened around the .38. I hadn’t figured out yet how I was going to take it away from her. “Don’t be flippant, Mr. Fallon. This is not a toy.”
I gave her words back to her. “I’ve seen guns before.”
“Yes, I imagine you have.”
“Then either use it or tell me what the hell you want.”
Her eyes never wavered from mine. “You prefer to stay alive?”
“Sure.”
“Then you are to stay here, out of sight. You are to see no one, talk to no one. You will give us... one other person and myself... authorization to inspect all of Tucker Stacy’s personal belongings and this entire installation. Then you may live.”
“Thanks. Now what are you after?”
“It isn’t necessary for you to know.”
“Sorry, baby,” I said.
She was going to do it, damned if she wasn’t. She thumbed the hammer back for single-action release and took one step toward the bed to be certain of her target and that’s what happens when you send a girl out to do a man’s job. When you shoot somebody you do it then and from where you stand. You don’t take time to single-action a double-action gun or step into the target where a guy can kick the piece right out of your mitt with one foot and yank you into the sack with the other.