Inside my head the pounding started again. Cramp spasms were starting up my neck and all sensation was gone in my fingers. “I don’t know what the hell he meant. Get off my back, will you?”
The knife touched me again. “Shall we try another way, señor?”
Marcel pulled the cigarette butt from the holder and dropped it into an ashtray. “No, not this time. I think our friend here is telling the truth. It is quite possible that he might learn something later. In that case we shall pay him another visit.” He stepped toward me and looked down at me, his eyes cold little slips of ice. “You are a smart man, Mr. Fallon?”
I didn’t answer him.
“If you are, you will say nothing about this. We have people around and if it is necessary to eliminate you I will be more than happy to accommodate. If you even become a nuisance, this will happen. You may, for instance, speculate on your friend Tucker Stacy.”
Before I could grasp his meaning, he made a motion to the one with the knife, the tape was slapped on my mouth, and with a smile of pure pleasure he swung the sap at my head and the world was all dark, pinpricked with a million lights that went out one by one.
Chapter 5
I didn’t realize I was awake until the beam of a light seared my eyes. I had been in a state of half consciousness when the flash beamed itself at my face, twisting a knife into my brain. A curiously lilting voice said, “Maybe this time I shall kill you, señor.”
Sharon Ortiz.
It won’t take much, I figured.
The light made a circuit of the moon, spotting the disorder and the strewn papers. “They found something,” she accused. Then the light hit my face again. “You will tell me.”
I was past the point of argument. I didn’t care one way or another. There was a lot I wanted to tell her that could be summed up in two distinct words, but something always made me play the angles.
She leaned forward and caught the tape over my mouth by a corner. I squinted my eyes against what was to come, but unlike the others, she worked it loose carefully. “What was it?” she hissed.
“Bananas,” I said. “That’s all those damn fools wanted to know about.”
Air whistled through her clenched teeth. “They know!”
“Nuts.”
“Mr. Fallon!” I was looking right down the barrel of the .38 again.
I said, “He left me a note. He told me not to choke on a banana. Now drop dead. I’m sick and tired of being caught in the middle of all this.”
Slowly, the gun dropped so that it pointed at the floor. The light bouncing off the tile threw a soft glow around her, making her hair shimmer like new coal. “Yes, I realize. You are typically American, señor. Nothing is of any importance to you except your dollar and yourself. You are making it so easy.”
Sharon Ortiz knelt beside me and I felt her fingers at the tape behind my back. She stripped it off with a harsh, tearing sound, not trying to be gentle. Then she stood up to watch me writhe helplessly as the blood flowed back into my arms and legs.
“I don’t think you are worth killing, señor. Maybe later, but not now.”
“That’s what everybody thinks.”
“I hope your friend gave you good advice. Don’t choke on a banana. If I were you I would not even look for one. Good night, señor.”
For a half hour I lay there rubbing myself back to normal. When I could walk, I found a bottle of Four Roses in the kitchenette and mixed a drink. Damn Tuck and whatever he was up to. Why did he leave me trouble? I had enough on my own. Damn every one of them. I was tired of being kicked around like a stray dog. Well, the Capital K was mine now and I was going to run it. Nobody else. Just me and my way. You get one chance in life to cut out of the ditch and this was mine.
By mid-morning, Charlie Traub had the Mustang ready. It was crouched in the hangar like the deadly, hungry thing it was, defanged now, but ready to scream back into the blue where it belonged. Charlie came over wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and when he looked at me his eyes narrowed.
He pointed out the hangar doors. “You going up? Wind’s pretty stiff.”
“Not enough to bother this bird.”
“Ingrid is cutting in on Jamaica. Looks like she’s coming this way. We ought to be tying down a lot of kites pretty soon.”
“Good. Look, am I gassed up?”
“Ready to roll.”
“Get her out on the ramp. I might want to take off in a hurry.”
“Sure, Cat. Thought you wanted that jump seat installed, though.”
“I’ll tell you when. You see Trusky and Reed around?”
“Sure. Since six A.M. they’ve been asking everybody questions. What do you think they’ll come up with?”
“What do you think, Charlie. You were closer to him than anyone else.” I paused and studied him. “Was he involved with the Cubans?”
For ten seconds he stared out the door, then came back to me. “Sure he was, Cat. He was the contact man between Miami and the ones in Cuba trying to oust the Commies.”
“How do you know, Charlie?”
“Like a maid who washes your clothes. She knows if you’re clean or dirty. Some things you can’t hide. Bullet holes in wing fabric, for instance. Sand in the fairings from beach landings. Certain fuel loadings and special harness rigs for cute drops and pickups. He had some good cover for what he was doing, but he didn’t fool me none.” He looked down at his hands and stuffed the rag in his back pocket.
“And whose side were you on, Charlie?”
His eyes bored into mine. “I hate that Commie bunch,” he said.
I held out my hand. “I’m with you.”
George Clinton was having lunch when I found him. He waved me over, put down his paper and offered me a cigar. He said, “I had a call from Slim Upgate to make sure you got what you needed. You got some big friends, buddy.”
“I did him a favor once.”
“Pays off. What can I do for you?”
“Any connections in Miami?”
“What kind?”
“Guns and ammo to the bunch in the mountains.”
“You can check that through surplus sales.”
“Not this time. The stuff would go through too many hands. Besides, a lot of arms dealers have held the stuff for years, waiting for something like this. It’ll be strictly black market for these shipments. Our State Department isn’t clearing anything through to Cuba the easy way.”
“I know. They do everything bas-ackwards. Now they got real trouble on their hands.”
“How about it?”
“Where can I reach you?”
“Suppose I call you. How long will it take?”
“Couple of hours.”
“Where can I reach you?”
He jotted down a number on the back of a matchbook and handed it to me. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
“Sure,” I said. “And find out if anyone knows a guy named Marcel.”
Clinton took the cigar out of his mouth slowly. “Andre Marcel?”
“Could be. Tall, thin guy with a mustache and an accent.”
“You’re asking for trouble, Fallon.”
“That’s all I been getting. Who is he?”
“If he were in the rackets, you’d call him an enforcer. He’s a troubleshooter for any country with money to spend. The last I heard of Marcel he was operating in Panama. He was responsible for re-routing the drug traffic that used to come into the States from Algiers up through Italy and Spain. He saw to it that only the stuff out of China got in.”