“Bigelow,” Harper hissed.
The alleged waiter nearly dropped his tray. He froze, then looked to his left and saw Harper there, half-melted into the shadows.
“Jeezus, Harper, you gotta watch that,” he said. “I coulda dropped this thing and attracted all kinds of attention.”
Harper ignored the protest. “Are you good?” he asked. “Your whole crew here?”
Bigelow nodded. “All four of us are here and ready.”
“Four?”
“Yeah—?”
Harper frowned at him. “You didn’t get Weiskopf?”
Big Bob’s mouth became a tight line and he shook his head. “We weren’t able to get ahold of him,” he said. “I hate it like hell, Harper, but we should be fine with what we have.”
Harper was growing angrier by the minute. He doubted Bigelow had made the slightest effort to contact Weiskopf. It was another red flag. Wasn’t this strike three? Shouldn’t he call the whole thing off?
As if reading his mind, Bigelow flashed a smile. “But we’re good to go, otherwise,” he said. “Mike and Danny can control the crowd just fine. Trust me on that.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Harper said. “But Connie will be in there with them, too. She’ll help keep things cool.”
Bigelow seemed to frown at this momentarily, but recovered quickly. “That’s right,” he said. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
“And you have a man taking care of the western guard?” Harper asked.
“Oscar’s out there now.”
“Good. You’ve got the knife for me?”
Bigelow blinked, then nodded and produced a short-bladed, very sharp kitchen knife. Harper palmed it.
“Give it another ninety minutes or so and then have Goggans and Wilson do their thing,” he said. “Then meet me at the landing.”
The heavyset man groaned. “Another hour and a half of playing waiter? Can’t we just get this over with?”
“Stick to the plan,” Harper growled. “And make sure Diaz has done his job.”
Bigelow looked like he wanted to object, or at least to say something smart back to Harper. But it passed, and he just nodded, turned about and headed back into the kitchen.
Harper’s frown deepened. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray at the end of the bar, took another quick look around, and returned to Connie’s side.
Soon. Very soon.
16
A little over half an hour later, to the west of Ruby Island, in the choppy waters surrounding the smaller Lummus Island, a large green houseboat chugged along. Its lights were on, music played from speakers on its deck, and at its controls stood a jovial-looking fellow with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a martini glass. Protected from the rain by an awning, he wore a white captain’s hat and a blue blazer and was by this point a relatively common sight in these waters. Had any other boats been present at that moment, about an hour after sunset, their owners likely would have scoffed at him, or ignored him entirely. Which was how he wanted it.
As the boat continued moving east and approached Ruby Island, however, the man at the controls set the martini glass aside and removed his hat. He peered through binoculars and the growing darkness at the shape of the island just ahead, looking for the spot he’d picked out previously. The rain made it harder to find than he’d expected, and he grew anxious for a few moments, but eventually he located it and angled the houseboat that way.
Normally the guard posted on that side of the island would have long since spotted him and likely would have reported that information to Lansdale’s security office: “A guy in a houseboat is pulling up on the shore.” Shouts, threats, and likely the brandishing of firearms would have followed, all to drive the interloper back into the sea and away from the retreat of the wealthy and powerful.
Fortunately for the man in the boat, said guard had been incapacitated, tied up and hidden away out of sight. Or at least that was the plan. He would find out for certain how said plan was unfolding any second now.
Salsa aimed the houseboat at the narrow, sandy slope down to the water that marked one of the very few spots anywhere on the shore that wasn’t blocked by huge rocks. The boat entered the shallower water and Salsa engaged the engine in reverse momentarily, killing most of the forward momentum, then shut it off. The big vessel skidded upwards onto the sand and came to a halt, and instantly Salsa was over the side, rope in hand. His legs were under water up to the knees, and it only took a few steps in the heavy rain before the rest of him became almost as soaked. He sloshed about twenty feet up the shore and tied the rope to a medium-sized tree, anchoring the boat. Then he turned and could just make out the shape of a man in a waiter’s uniform standing there, a little farther up the slope. He somehow kept from jumping.
“Right on time,” the waiter said. Thunder rumbled all around them.
“She moves pretty good,” Salsa replied easily, his demeanor belying his current heart rate. “At least, for a lumbering whale.”
The waiter shrugged. It was the heavy-set guy who wore his black hair in a long ponytail. Diaz. “I took care of the guard for ya,” he said. “He’ll sleep till way after we’re done.”
Salsa nodded. “Good work,” he said, as he made his way back down to the boat and climbed on deck. There he swapped out his blue blazer for a black tuxedo jacket, matching the black slacks he already wore. It was a nice jacket. A shame to get it wet. He took two closed canvas bags out of a locker—one of them was a bit heavier than the other—and then motioned to Diaz. “C’mere,” he said.
Salsa gestured toward two large piles of folded black cloth lying under cover on the boat’s deck and quickly explained what they needed to do. Soon enough he and Diaz had the heavy waterproof fabric laid out and anchored down over most of the boat. As the two of them moved away from the vessel and looked back at it, Salsa smiled proudly: between the fabric, the storm and the darkness, the big houseboat was now about as invisible as something of its size could be, hopefully both from land and from water.
“We don’t need to keep it hidden for too long,” he told the other man. “But there’s no sense in advertising it.”
“Right.”
Wiping rain from his eyes, Salsa gestured toward the hulking form of the main building, barely visible up at the top of the rise. “Alright then. I believe it’s time to make a withdrawal from this bank.” He nodded to Diaz. “After you, sir.”
They started up the slope to the mansion.
17
Harper set his hand of cards aside and looked at his watch. He’d been very disciplined about not checking it constantly, despite an almost overwhelming desire to do so. It always got this way, just before a job. That antsy feeling. But he didn’t want to raise any suspicions so he ignored the time until his internal clock told him he really should check.
Sure enough, it was about forty-five minutes until Bigelow’s men were supposed to start the diversion robbery of guests on this level. That meant it was time for Harper to get busy elsewhere.
They had been playing cards for a little while. Now Harper excused himself from Connie—she gave him a sly smile and a wink as he left—and made his way through the crowd toward the back entrance of the mansion.
Connie had taken to the operation like a natural. She’d pretty much always known what Harper did for a living, but he’d never included her in one of his jobs before. It made sense to bring her into it this time, though, first for the bridge-playing visits to scope things out, and now for this. She was sharp as a tack and a better actress than Lois, and she wanted in, so he’d agreed.
She knew what she had to do now. It was a job she had been expected to share with Lois, but Harper figured she could handle it alone, given that it shouldn’t take too terribly long. She was to mingle with the others and be right there in the midst of it all when the two supposed waiters robbed everyone. Her job was to offer encouragement to the others to just lie still and be quiet and hand over their valuables and stay alive. Of
course, Bigelow’s men had been shown pictures of the two “inside” ladies and knew to play along with their act—and definitely not to shoot them. Afterward, when everything was done and the authorities had finally come, Connie would make her way back to the city along with all the other innocent victims.
Feeling confident about that end of things, Harper moved between high society types crowding all around, offering a smile here, a wave there, until he passed through two massive double-doors and stepped out onto the broad, covered deck at the rear of the mansion. The sun was now well and truly gone and darkness had taken its place, descending along with the pelting rain like a shroud over Ruby Island. The Moon was only a tiny sliver, far off to the west, while storm clouds obscured the stars everywhere overhead and to the east. Fighting back against it all, lights in elaborate metal fixtures hung here and there, illuminating the semicircular lawn and the first few trees just beyond it, all the way around that side of the building. Only a handful of guests milled about on the enclosed deck. The few that had been on the lawn when it had briefly slacked up a bit now came scurrying up past Harper, and none of them were paying him any attention, the men pulling their jackets up over their heads or holding them over the women as they ran. The already-substantial rainfall seemed only to increase in intensity by the moment. Harper knew from his previous visits that people would have been crowding out there, sipping drinks and smoking and socializing, but for the storm. Instead they were all squeezed into the main hall for bridge or into the casino—and all of them well out of his way. All of which was excellent. Again he concluded Mother Nature was on their side tonight—the extra member of their string.
Through the exterior doors Harper went and down the stairs, almost immediately becoming drenched. He ignored the rain and moved into the shadows right up against the side of the mansion, and now no one was there to see him at all. In his black tuxedo and with the storm raging, it was unlikely anyone could have seen him if they’d been five feet away. He took out the knife Bigelow had given him and crept forward.
He thought back to his second visit, about three weeks earlier, when he’d last been able to casually check out the exterior of the big house. He’d noted the location of the telephone cables back then, and now he made his way around to them. They were harder to find this time, given the rain and growing darkness, but soon enough he was slicing through them.
Within a few seconds, and at least for the moment, Ruby Island was cut off from the rest of the world.
Nodding in satisfaction, Harper turned and moved, panther-like, out into the rain.
Harper peered down the slope and was relieved when he saw Salsa emerging from the downpour. He had bags slung over his shoulder and a crowbar in one hand. Soaked to the gills and looking like a survivor of a shipwreck, he was slowly and carefully trudging his way up the slope that angled down from the back of the mansion. Harper was gratified to see that he was trailing behind the other man—Diaz. Harper would have played things cautiously when working with a new crew under any circumstances, but he especially didn’t want any of his friends turning their backs on Bigelow’s people for a second after that mysterious phone call from the sister. She’d acted like it was just a come-on, an elicit invitation. But there had been something else going on under the surface. It was yet another red flag, and it made Harper wonder yet again why he hadn’t simply pulled the plug on this whole operation.
Not having done so, of course, meant that he had to make it work. One way or another.
“There you are,” Salsa called out in a voice he probably thought was restrained and quiet, but that Harper knew was far too loud. The security guards could be roaming anywhere, storm or no.
They drew up together, huddled there in the monsoon, the thunder rumbling louder and louder out of the east.
“Is the boat secure?” asked Harper.
Salsa grinned. “She’s safe and sound, thanks to my expert captaining.”
Harper didn’t smile back. “And you brought my…?”
Salsa blinked in the rain, then understood the question. He held up the two canvas bags, seemed to be measuring the weight of each, then opened one of them and reached inside. He pulled out a Colt Super .38 Auto, a pistol almost identical to one they’d used doing the Vegas job. Salsa considered it a good luck charm. Harper considered it a tool. He took it, looked it over once, and tucked it away.
Salsa closed the bag and started moving up the hill again. He looked very pleased with himself.
“Wait a second,” Harper said.
Salsa stopped and looked back at him, the rain-soaked grin still in place.
Harper pursed his lips, thinking, then said, “I need to tell you something. Before we go any further.”
Salsa’s grin slid just a bit toward puzzlement. “Yeah?”
Harper hesitated again. “It’s Lois,” he said.
The grin evaporated entirely. “Lois?” He took a step toward Harper. “What’s wrong with Lois?”
“She wasn’t at the rendezvous.”
Salsa’s brow furrowed. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“You came without her?”
“What else could we do?”
Salsa glowered for a moment, then reluctantly nodded once and looked away. When he met Harper’s eyes again, he appeared dazed. “It doesn’t make sense. That’s not like her, Harper. She’s very punctual. Very responsible. You know that.”
“I do,” he said, raising both palms up. “But she wasn’t there.”
“If she couldn’t get there,” Salsa said, “that would mean something detained her. Something… or someone.”
Harper nodded once. “That may be.”
He knew he had to be patient, at least for now, and let Salsa process this. But time was of the essence, and they had a schedule to keep. A thought struck him and he glanced over at Diaz, but the man had moved beneath the shelter of a tree and was staring off into the storm, generally ignoring them.
“We’ll turn all our attention to her,” Harper said after another minute went by, “as soon as we’re done here, away free and clear.”
Salsa looked at him, his normally happy-go-lucky expression gone, replaced by one as dark as Harper had ever seen it. Their eyes locked for a couple of heartbeats, and then Salsa nodded. “Damn right we will,” he said.
18
Don Garro sat back in a plush leather chair in Thurston Lansdale’s office, his feet crossed on a stool, a cigarette burning in one hand and a copy of the Miami Herald in the other. Occasionally he would lower the paper a bit and gaze the length of the room to where Lansdale still stood on the balcony, watching the crowds of people below.
“This is excellent, Don,” Lansdale called back to him, without turning. “A crowd like this—and on a night like this!” He laughed. “And I’ll just betcha one of those people down there is a scout for the Bermuda Bowl. If everything goes well, we’ll be invited to host it next year.”
“That would be fantastic, sir,” Garro replied, injecting the words with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. He very seriously doubted the overseers of the Bermuda Bowl—the world championships of Bridge—would hold their big event on Ruby Island. But you never knew. All it would mean to him, of course, would be a much bigger headache, in terms of providing security for millionaires, than he was having to deal with already.
He returned his attention to the sports page and saw an article about a college football game that would be played the next afternoon up in Gainesville, between the University of Florida and Auburn. Then he noticed the paper was dated the day before. Of course—it was Saturday. He checked his watch and realized the game was happening now—maybe even over already. Mildly interested now and bored, he sat up, reached for the radio that sat on a table off to his left and switched it on. The radio reminded him of how he had, more than once, requested that Lansdale buy a two-way radio capable of communicating with the ma
inland. “There’s no need, Don,” his boss had always answered. “We have perfectly good telephones!” Of course, the real answer was that Lansdale hated the thought of spending his money on practical things. There was always plenty of cash available when he wanted to decorate the casino or buy ten new suits. But a radio? “We can’t afford something like that right now, Don,” he’d be told. “Maybe next year.” And next year never seemed to come.
Putting such thoughts aside, Garro reached for the tuning knob on the office’s standard, one-way radio, but he hesitated as the static-filled voice coming out of the speaker revealed that he was on the correct station already. It was the Gators’ play-by-play man, announcing that the game was tied 27-27, going into its final few minutes.
Lansdale must have heard the sound of the radio. Drawn away from the balcony railing at last, he strode into his office. After listening for a moment, he looked at Garro. “Football? You have money on it?”
“A couple of bucks on the Gators, sure,” Garro replied, though he didn’t. He was simply a fan.
Lansdale nodded sagely. “You know, we have a couple of players from the new pro team here tonight. The Dolphins or whatever. The owner too, and the coach, I think.”
Garro nodded distractedly. “I saw that on the guest list, yeah.”
The announcer’s excitement drew them both in as he described the Gators lining up for what could be the winning kick. The guy was saying that instead of the usual kicker, the Florida quarterback and Heisman candidate, Steve Spurrier, was coming out onto the field to try the kick.
For a moment both men forgot about the crowd below and the storm outside and the money rolling in and focused all their attention on the ending of the football game. And then, just before the ball was snapped for the kick, a different voice broke in.
“This is a special report from the National Hurricane Center. As of three hours ago, Hurricane Inez has been reclassified as a Category Four storm and has reversed its course. The eye of the storm is expected to pass over Key West shortly. People of the greater Miami area are urged to seek shelter immediately.”
Miami Heist Page 8
