Miami Heist

by Van Allen Plexico

  The junior Lansdale was very different from his dad. He neglected the business interests he had inherited and slowly their profitability faded. He didn’t much care; he was far more interested in enjoying the wealth he’d inherited than in creating more of it. Immediately upon moving into the mansion on Ruby Island, he sought to integrate and ingratiate himself into Miami’s high society. He did this by renovating the entire island estate and converting a substantial portion of it into a private casino and resort—but only for the best of the best; the very cream of south Florida hoi polloi.

  Against all predictions and expectations, the move had paid off tremendously. Aristocrats descended on Ruby Island, flocking to the fashionable beaches during the day and taking the ferry out to Lansdale’s casino resort in the evening. By 1965 Thurston Jr. was raking in even more cash as a casino operator than his remaining business interests were paying. It was as if he couldn’t help but make money, no matter how hard he tried to fail.

  Salsa had learned all this shortly after relocating to Miami himself, in the days after he and Harper had succeeded in pulling off a robbery of not one but two major casinos in Las Vegas, back at the beginning of the year. He had gotten the story in bits and pieces from various new acquaintances, careful never to appear to be too terribly interested—just in case, at some point in the future, some sort of shocking and terrible robbery should occur there.

  One other bit of information about Ruby Island had come to him during his careful investigations. It seemed far-fetched and he hadn’t been able to confirm it yet, but rumors insisted that some sort of treasure had ended up there, back during the war, and that the elder Lansdale had hidden it away.

  “You’re not gonna believe it,” one source had whispered to Salsa over drinks on the beach, “but some people say it’s gold. Lots and lots of gold.”

  “But how could that be?” Salsa had asked. “Why take a bunch of gold out to that little island?”

  “Apparently it wasn’t by choice,” the source had said. “It just ended up there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Salsa had asked, still entirely skeptical.

  The source had shrugged. “Things happen. Ships wreck. Submarines, too. And it was wartime.”

  Submarines? Wartime? Gold? At that point, against all his common sense and better judgment, Salsa had been hooked.

  This trip with Harper, therefore, was essentially a fact-finding mission. And the facts Salsa wanted to know were: Is there in fact treasure on Ruby Island? What is it and where is it being kept? And most importantly, Why can’t it be mine?

  Together the four of them strode up the red stone walkway, winding through palm trees and unoccupied benches, until they topped the rise and were staring at the big house dead ahead.

  It was quite an impressive mansion, three floors showing above ground, with lots of angles and side-rooms and conical projections and the like, and presently it was lit up like a Christmas tree. Wealthy visitors in fine clothing and jewelry milled about outside, and the sounds of many more wafted out from inside.

  Salsa leaned in to Harper. “We could make out pretty well just relieving some of these people of their surplus evening wear.”

  “I didn’t come here to steal a few necklaces and watches,” Harper said. “We need a real score to come out of this, just in case we can’t recover what we lost.”

  Salsa grimaced at that reminder. “Very true. And I’m aware you’ve become accustomed to being a man of means,” he said. “As have I. If we can’t get our money from you-know-where back, we should bag as much from this place as possible.”

  “I’d prefer both,” Harper noted.

  “Amen,” Salsa said. “After all, there’s no law says we can’t be wealthier.”

  “There is, actually,” the blonde—Lois Funderburk—interjected, speaking very softly. “It’s called ‘the law.’ I’m pretty sure it includes robbery, and the authorities tend to frown upon it.”

  “Harper and I have never let technicalities like that stand in our way,” Salsa replied with a wink.

  Harper was moving, having as little patience as ever for conversation. He made his way through the crowd and through the open French doors and into the main hall, the others hurrying along behind him. They stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

  The big room ahead of them was filled with rows of small square tables. Around each of them sat sets of four people, playing cards in hand. The low murmur of many conversations filled the space. Waiters and waitresses moved easily among the tables, carrying trays of drinks. A number of crystal chandeliers hung low over the tables, illuminating the area in spots surrounded by relative darkness.

  “So this is what a bridge tournament looks like,” Salsa observed.

  The brunette leaned in and whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, “Wouldn’t you do better with a poker tournament or something?” She was frowning. “They don’t even seem to be betting.”

  “You don’t generally bet on bridge,” Salsa replied. “This is more about the competition. They’re gearing up to host the world championships here in a few months. Word is our host, Thurston Junior, wants to be involved, and this is his way of making an impression on the local committee or whoever.”

  The brunette, Connie Perrigen, made an “Oh” face and nodded. Then she frowned again. In a slightly louder voice she said, “But—if you’re not interested in what these people brought with them—jewelry and cash—and there’s no money in the card games, what exactly are we—”

  Salsa raised a hand to cut her off before she blurted out anything that might be overheard and might prove awkward. He turned to address Harper but the big man was already striding forward again, moving with purpose through the center of the hall. The other three hurried along behind him.

  By the time they caught up to him, Harper was at a sort of registration table, smiling at the two older women who sat behind it in floral dresses, asking about signing up. The ladies directed him to a clipboard on the table and handed him a very expensive fountain pen. Harper thanked them and passed the pen on to Salsa.

  “Thanks,” Salsa said, starting to fill out the paperwork.

  Harper lit a cigarette and continued to casually survey the room.

  “Table eleven,” Salsa reported when he was finished and had handed the clipboard back to the ladies with a wink and a winning smile. “A round just started so it will be at least an hour before we’re up.”

  “Perfect,” Harper said.

  Salsa turned to Connie and Lois. “Go and mingle. Meet us back here in an hour.”

  “Note how many cops or security guards you see, and where they’re stationed,” Harper added.

  “That, too,” Salsa said.

  Somewhat nervously, the two women nodded before melting into the wealthy crowd.

  Once they were gone, Harper motioned for Salsa to follow him as he headed in the opposite direction, strolling very casually but deliberately toward the interior of the mansion.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  3

  Harper moved with the lithe grace of a panther—a very big, muscular panther. He slid among shadows through the mostly unlit back rooms of the Lansdale mansion, Salsa trailing along a short distance behind him.

  “Good heavens,” Salsa muttered, clearly offended by what he was seeing. The decor was a hodgepodge of various styles, from an antique grandfather clock to expensive-looking porcelain to odd modern art paintings and sculptures, all combining to convey no other theme or message than that of great wealth.

  “You see anything really jumps out as valuable?” Harper asked. “Something you’d pay a lot of money for?”

  “I don't see anything I would take for free,” Salsa replied, shaking his head.

  “That’s sort of what I had in mind,” Harper pointed out.

  ‘Oh. Yeah,” Salsa said. “Well, no.”

  They continued on through another long hallway.

  “This is ridiculous,” Harper mutter
ed. Then, slightly louder, “We should’ve thought this out better. We don’t even know exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “I guess I didn’t consider how big this place would be,” Salsa said as they rounded a corner and came to an open stairway leading down. Just across from them, the door to what looked like the library stood open. The entire area remained deserted; the guests that evening were not there to read books. Harper and Salsa had passed through some half-dozen rooms already and had come no closer to finding anything that registered on their radars as super-valuable; certainly nothing that screamed “big pile of gold.”

  “What we’re looking for would presumably take up a lot of space,” Harper said softly. “It’s going to be in a storage room, probably.”

  “All I ever got from my sources was that it was probably downstairs,” Salsa replied.

  “Downstairs from what? From this floor? A basement of some kind?”

  Salsa shrugged.

  “Not a lot of help,” Harper growled. He moved around another corner, looked around and spotted a narrow back stairway going down. It looked like something the servants would be expected to use. “Let’s try that,” he said, gesturing.

  Salsa nodded and started forward, but then froze as movement through the open doorway caught his eye. Someone was inside the library and was coming their way now. Salsa coughed and angled his head that way.

  Instantly Harper in his black suit melted into the shadows as Salsa easily slipped into his drunk routine.

  “Where the hell’d they put the bathroom?” he grumbled, stumbling slightly before turning to face the figure emerging from the library. From the corner of his eye he could tell it was a man, big and beefy. “Can’t find the—”

  He stopped as he turned and was staring directly into the face of the other guy. He blinked, then frowned.

  “Bigelow? Big Bob?”

  The other guy stared back at him, then went through the same routine of recognition.

  “Salzman? What the—?”

  Salsa dropped the drunk act and stepped back a pace, studying the man, reassuring himself of who it was. “What are you doing here?”

  When the other man didn’t reply immediately, a voice came from the darkness off to his right: “He’s part of the catering staff. See the outfit?”

  Bigelow jumped as he heard the voice. He whirled and gaped at Harper. “Jeez—you’re gonna cost a guy twenty years of his life doin’ that,” he said, holding one hand to his chest.

  “You’re gonna get more years than that if they figure out who you really are,” Harper told him.

  “Catering staff?” Salsa was saying, as much to himself as anyone. “You?” He paused, thinking. “Oh! I get it.” He gave Harper a knowing look, but Harper was already well beyond that point. Shrugging, Salsa leaned in toward the third man. “What you got cooking?”

  Bigelow was still recovering from the scare Harper had put into him. He was a big guy, with very pale white skin almost the color of paper and red veins showing in his nose and cheeks. His light brown hairline had receded, leaving only sparse remnants above his forehead, and he wore a diamond earring in one ear. His husky form was crammed into a cream-colored caterer’s uniform with “Danelo’s” embroidered in fancy script on the left breast. He looked from one of them to the other and back, agitated, then settled down a bit. He motioned vaguely with one hand. “Look around,” he said. “What do ya think we got cookin’? This place is crammed full of valuables.”

  At this Salsa moved his hand in a “sort of” gesture.

  “Plus whatever the visitors in the front area brought with them for the card tournament, right?” Harper asked.

  Bigelow nodded. “Yeah—a’course. That too.” He grinned. “It’s a fat target, and don’t seem too heavily guarded.”

  Harper nodded knowingly.

  “Say,” Bigelow said, starting to think more clearly, “that’s why you two fellas are here, too—right?” He snorted. “Guess I shoulda known we wouldn’t be the only ones that’d see a good opportunity here.” He regarded them, taking in how they were dressed. “Looks like you two came undercover as card players.” He chuckled. “We couldn’t have pulled that angle off.” Then he frowned. “You boys bring dates?” He smiled. “I’ll bet ya did. Tell ya what. We won’t take any of your stuff. Call it—” He stuck out his bottom lip, thinking. “Call it professional courtesy. Yeah.”

  Harper didn’t respond to this and didn’t bother to answer either of Bigelow’s questions. Instead he offered one of his own. “You said ‘we’. How many others do you have with you on this?”

  Bigelow seemed reluctant to answer at first, then shrugged. “Three other fellas. Four of us, all told,” he added, saving them the difficult math problem. “We whatchacall infiltrated the caterers a while back, looking for this chance.” He appeared proud of himself for using a word he clearly didn’t drop into ordinary conversation.

  Harper glanced at Salsa, then looked back at Bigelow. He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Bob,” he said in a level tone. “You and your boys need to finish up here and go. And I mean finish up catering, not robbing.”

  Bigelow looked affronted. His lower lip stuck out again, further than before.

  “Finish up and go?” He spoke the words as if they were utterly foreign to him and he hadn’t the foggiest clue what they might mean.

  “Yeah,” Salsa said. “Go. And don’t cause a fuss when you do it.”

  Now Bigelow was starting to grow angry. “Why would we do somethin’ like that?”

  Harper raised a placating hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there will be a bigger return for you and your guys this way.”

  It was Salsa’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Harper. “There will?”

  Harper nodded slowly. “We have something cooking here, Bob,” he said in a soothing voice. “Something bigger than just cash on hand and a little artwork.” He smiled a wry smile at the bigger man. “And we’ll bring you and your boys in on it.”

  “We will?” Salsa said, again surprised.

  “You will?” Bigelow said, already enchanted by Harper’s spell.

  Harper nodded faster now. “Yes.” He looked at Salsa. “We’ll need manpower anyway. Bob and his crew are here, now, and they have access if we have to come back later, too. This saves us all kinds of time and trouble.” He turned to Bigelow. “And we know each other, Bob. Don’t we?”

  Dollar signs were practically sparkling in the bigger man’s eyes. “We do indeed, Harper.”

  Harper nodded one last time, in a sort of “sealing the deal” way. “Okay. Good.”

  Salsa sighed but also nodded. “Fine,” he said.

  “So what do we gotta do, then?” Bigelow asked. “And, say—what’s the prize we’re angling for here?”

  Harper looked at Salsa.

  “We’re not precisely sure yet,” Salsa said with a little shrug.

  Bigelow’s eyes widened. “You mean you don’t even know what you’re after here?”

  “Not precisely,” Salsa repeated. “But—if it’s here—it should be big and heavy and extremely valuable.”

  “And the big and heavy part is what we’ll be needing help with,” Harper said. “And possibly some crowd control.”

  Bigelow considered this, his eyes sparkling even more. Then he quickly frowned. “Wait—wait a minute,” he said. “It’s not the Nazi gold, is it?”

  Salsa blinked. He glanced over at Harper, who appeared equally nonplussed. “Nazi what?”

  Bigelow sighed. “You fellas ain’t from around here, so you probably don’t know. But there’s this old story that a Nazi sub wrecked right off this island during the war. It was supposedly loaded full of gold that Hitler or one of his men was moving to a secret location. I guess in case they lost the war and had to hide out or somethin’. Anyway, the story goes that the wrecked sub was found, but not the gold.” He shrugged. “So there’s always been a story that the gold is hidden som
ewhere on the island. Maybe old man Lansdale himself found it and stashed it away.”

  Harper and Salsa exchanged blank expressions.

  “Ah, jeez, fellas,” Bigelow said, “I really hope that’s not what brought you down here. Cause that’s all just a fairy tale. It’s gotta be. Nobody’s ever seen hide nor hair of that gold in all these years.”

  Harper ran a hand over his chin and glanced at Salsa again.

  Salsa nodded once.

  “Well, Bob,” Harper said, “we don’t know for sure if that’s what it is. But one thing we do know—we don’t want to leave here without at least taking a look. You know?”

  Bigelow didn’t appear thrilled by any of this now.

  “Look, fellas,” he said. “Instead of some kinda pie-in-the-sky gold fantasy, why don’t we just work together to rob the folks in the front of this pile and call it a day?”

  “Because we didn’t go to all this trouble and risk everything we already have for a third of the take from a two-bit house robbery,” Salsa growled.

  “Yeah,” Bigelow said, taking a sidelong look at Salsa now. “I heard you two were on easy street after some job out west.”

  “We’re doing okay,” Salsa said quickly. “But more is better.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Harper said. “How about we hire your squad for tonight?”

  Bigelow’s eyes practically crossed. “Hire us? For what?”

  Harper shrugged. “What you’re doing now. Keep up your cover, make a good impression so they’ll bring you in again as caterers. Make mental notes of anything interesting you see—security guards, locations of valuables, whatever. And maybe keep anyone from bothering us while we look around a bit downstairs.”