A Deadly Shade of Gold

by John D. MacDonald

  "What was it about the pair of boots?"

  "Raoul and I were specialists. We called ourselves the ordnance supply corps. We had a group of ten. We'd raid small army posts. Homemade bombs. Lots of fire power. Sneakers, blackface, absolute discipline. Hit hard, grab weapons and high tail it the hell out. Raoui was very proud of a pair of paratrooper boots he had. I said one guard area was clear, and Raoul went in, but I missed one of them. The son of a gun must have been asleep behind a bush. He cut loose with a weapon on full automatic, and as Raoul dived for cover, one slug tore the heels off both boots and stung his feet so badly he thought he'd been hit. From then on he wore sneakers like everybody else on our little team."

  We had measured each other. I liked the way he had explained the boots. He had the look. I can't explain what it is. Raoul has it, in smaller measure. Sam Taggart had it, also in lesser degree. This Paul Dominguez was so slender as to look almost frail, but no sane man who'd had a good long look at him would try pushing him around. It isn't class. It isn't a special style. It isn't anything in his eyes. Perhaps you can call it the smell of a man who lives by absolutes. If you take him on, you have to be prepared to kill him, because there is no other way of winning. I realized that Felicia Novaro had that flavor too-and his eyelashes were as long as hers.

  "Raoul says you used to play those games too," he said.

  "In a different war. You didn't go on the picnic?"

  He shrugged. "I went over there to a training area. Man, I didn't like the way it was shaping up. First, it was too soon. The big sell was still working. Full bellies and new schools. In the second place, it was too holy grail. A nice clean mission against the infidel, banners waving. Like the Children's Crusade. In the third place, too many different people were promising too many different things. And there were dog fights between the groups going in, with no guarantee of any decent communication between the invasion and the working underground. I'll go back. I'll go back when it is going to be bloody and professional and smart, like forty simultaneous landings of small infiltration groups coordinated with massive sabotage from within. I'll go in when we accept the fact it will take a year to make a good dent in the worker's paradise, land of peace and freedom. Nobody is going to have to trade me for four cases of headache remedies. I'll trade myself for about two dozen red hot reds. Big talk, huh? In the meanwhile, McGee, I sell sports cars. If there is anything I can help you with, let me know."

  I started it. I had intended to let him in on bits of it, the pertinent little parts of it. But doing it that way made me sound like a bystander buzzard, watching death, waiting for the tidbits. And I found myself wanting his approval, even though I didn't have very much self-approval in this thing. He had that way about him, to make you seek his understanding. So I backed up and started again. It took a long time. When I got to the end of Nora, it uncorked a little more emotional involvement than I had intended to show, hoarsening my voice.

  When I had finished, he got up without a word and brought two more bottles of beer back to the table. "My youngest kid," he said, "the other day he fell off a chair. He jumped up and gave that chair such a hell of a kick, he nearly broke his toes."

  I saw what he meant. "It isn't like that, Paul. Tomberlin had something to do with it. He took Mineros down there. He lit the fuse."

  "It was already an unstable situation. Carlos Menterez was too sociable. Sooner or later somebody who wanted him dead was going to find him. Once he had to leave Cuba, Menterez was an embarrassment to everybody, even to the little wolf pack of crypto-fascist exiles in Mexico City who think they can rebuild a Batista-type regime in Cuba when a power vacuum occurs after a successful invasion. God knows they funneled enough money out to finance it, but they don't realize how fast the world is changing. Those boys you talked about, in the white car. Luis and Tomas. They would be with that group. And those people know that their crazy dream would need the goodwill of families like the Mineros. So they would have to get the word back that what happened was all Menterez's doing. They would have to disavow Menterez, and explain how it had happened. If they could have found your friend Taggart and killed him, it would have been a goodwill gesture."

  "To whom? Who is left, for God's sake?"

  "Senora Mineros, the matriarch. In Cuba she lost a son, a daughter-in-law and a grandson to Menterez. In Mexico she loses the other son and another grandson. There are left I think, two more grandsons, the younger sons of Rafael. They are about fifteen and sixteen. And the other daughter-in-law, Rafael's widow. Remnants, and tradition, and a hell of a lot of money. The family still exists. There would be property claims in Havana, a basis for cooperation. Oh yes, and there is another one too. Her brother. Esteban Mineros. An old man."

  "So you can assume word got back to the family about Taggart."

  "Yes, word that he would get in touch with Tomberlin to sell him what he had taken from Menterez, the statuettes Tomberlin wanted. Then it would be necessary to make some arrangement with Tomberlin so they could get their hands on Taggart. From what you say they got the gold, all but one piece of it, and missed the man."

  "When I talked to Sam, he at first wanted me to help him get the gold back. Then he decided to sell the one piece he had left. He seemed to think he was in a good bargaining position. He said something about being able to raise political hell."

  "All kinds of hell, man. Figure it out. The Mineros mystery. The Menterez collection in Tomberlin's possession. An anonymous letter to any good reporter out here could create an international incident. The Castro propaganda machine could have a lot of fun with it."

  "So who killed Sam?"

  "Rhetorical question? If he'd died easy, I could make up a list of names. But it sounds like a very personal execution. There were three young Talaveras. Two died on that boat. Maria and her brother, Manuel. There is a third brother, a little older. Ramon. Not only Maria's brother, but a very good friend of Enrique Mineros. It surprises me he was not with them."

  "He would use a knife?"

  "He is a very intense man. And he would consider it an obligation."

  "You know all these people?"

  "I used to know them well. Just as Raoul used to know them well. Upper class Havana was a small community, McGee. But now there is... a considerable financial difference between us. Raoul and I came out later. It is the Castro equation, my friend. The later you left, the cleaner you were plucked. So we no longer travel in the same circles."

  "What does Ramon Talavera look like?"

  "Slender. Dark hair. Medium height. Pale. A quiet man. Unmarried. Do you think he should be punished-if he is the one? Do you see these things in such a cloudy way, my friend?"

  "No. But if he did, he was pretty damned coldblooded about it."

  "Somebody, for hire, kills his brother, his sister and his best friend with a knife. Man, you can expect a certain amount of indignation."

  "It all comes down to Tomberlin."

  "The way my kid kicked the chair."

  "But he does have the gold."

  "It isn't his. Okay. Is it yours?"

  "I'll ask you a question. Maybe it was Ramon Talavera who decided it wasn't just that Sam should keep on living. Is it just that Tomberlin should be the only one who winds up ahead?"

  "Greed or justice?"

  "A little of both. Plus curiosity."

  He smiled. "That's an answer I like."

  "Do you know the man?"

  "I met him once. At a banquet at a big hotel. One of the rare times when the latino guest list is so big, it includes Pablo Dominguez. He is a grotesque. He likes the Spanish-Americans. I think it is a taste for our women. Apparently he can be depended upon to give money to certain causes. I think he is tolerated. I think he is a man who would have to buy his way into any kind of group."

  "How do I get close to him?"

  Dominguez leaned back and ran his hand over his bald brown pate. "It's an interesting problem. He is suspicious of strangers, I understand. I heard some gossip about him. His
personal habits are not very nice. He buys his way out of trouble from time to time. He has a look of corruption. A rancid man, I think. And a very acquisitive man. A collector. Let me think about this, McGee. I must ask a few careful questions. I think if you try to make contact carelessly, you'll spoil any future chance. Can you meet me here tomorrow night at the same time?"

  "Of course."

  Seventeen

  AGAIN I managed to get lost and again I was a little late. Paul Dominguez was sitting in the same booth, dressed much as before. He stood up and introduced the woman. She was attractive in a flamboyant way. She was big. Big shoulders, big hands, a big and expressive wealth of mouth and eyes. She was swarthy, with heavy black brows. Her hair was expertly bleached to a cap of soft silver curls. Her eyes were a pale yellow-green, feline, mocking and aware. Her voice was a baritone drawl, with an edge of Spanish accent. He introduced her as Connie Melgar. And he gave my name as John Smith.

  Her hand was warm, dry and strong. Dominguez hesitated, then slid in beside her and pulled his drink over. I sat facing them.

  "Constancia is Venezuelan," he said. "Very rich and very difficult."

  Her laugh was vital and explosive. "Difficult! For whom? For you, Pablo, with all that machismo?" She winked at me. "I throw myself at his head, and he calls me difficult."

  Dominguez smiled. "I told her the problem," he said.

  "Your problem, Mr. Smith-certainly that cannot be your name-is to find a way to approach Calvin Tomberlin. I can arrange that, of course. Certain groups always have access to that gentleman. But I think it would be very pleasant if I could be assured that you will not waste the opportunity Mr. Smith."

  "In what way?"

  "If you can do him some great harm, I will be delighted."

  "If things work out, I hope to make him reasonably unhappy Mrs. Melgar."

  She looked at me for five long seconds, her head tilting, then exhaled and patted Paul on the hand and said, "Thank you, dear. Mr. Smith and I can get along very nicely."

  Paul looked at me in interrogation. I nodded. He stood up and said, "When you see our friends, give them my best wishes."

  "Thank you for the help."

  He nodded and bowed to Connie Melgar.

  After he had left, she said, "He is such a very cautious man. But a very good man. Do you know that?"

  "I met him through a friend. I like him."

  "He has asked me this favor, Mr. Smith. I owe him several favors. He told me not to ask you questions. That is a terrible burden for me, not to ask questions. And this is not a simpatico place to talk in any case. There is an animal at the bar who leers. You have a car here? Why don't you follow me?"

  She drove a Mercedes 300 SL, battleship grey, with great dash and competence. I had to keep Francine's little car at a full gallop to keep her taillights in view. She stopped on a dark street and I pulled in behind her and parked. She had me get into her car, and we went another half block and down into the parking garage under a new high rise apartment house. She left it for the attendant to put away, and led me back to a passenger elevator, punched the button for ten. In her high heels she stood a vivid and husky six feet.

  She smiled and said, "You are damn well a big fellow, Mr. John Smith. You make me feel almost girlish and dainty. That is a rare thing for me. But not so rare in California as other places."

  Her apartment was 10 B. It was huge, with dark paneling, massive dark carved furniture, ponderous tables, low ornate lamps with opaque shades. As she opened the door, a little maid came on the run to take her wrap. Constancia rattled off a long spate of Spanish which seemed to be half query and half instruction. The maid bobbed and nodded and gave small answers and went away. An older, heavier woman, also in uniform, made an appearance, and stood stolidly while more orders were given.

  Connie Melgar led me to the far end of the room, on a higher level, to a grouping of giant chairs and couches.

  She said, "The way it was here, it was like trying to live in a doll house. I had it all torn out and paneled in honest wood, and had the furniture shipped up from my house in Caracas, then I had to have walls changed to make two apartments into one. But still I feel cramped here. I like the ranch much better. I have a nice ranch in Arizona."

  "This is very nice here, Mrs. Melgar."

  She fitted a cigarette into a holder. "I own the building," she said. "As Pablo said, I'm filthy rich. I've been riding the winds of change by slowly liquidating at home and reinvesting here. I don't like what's going on at home. It scares me. Could you fix us some drinks, please? That thing there is a bar when you open the door. Dark rum on ice for me, please."

  As I fixed drinks I said, "Apparently you don't feel friendly toward Tomberlin."

  "I don't like the man. I have no idea why I keep seeing him. Perhaps it's some manner of challenge to me. I have one horse at the ranch I should get rid of. His name is Lagarto. Lizard. Hammerheaded thing with a mean eye. He is very docile, right up to the point where he sees a good chance to run me into a low limb or toss me into an arroyo. He may kill me one day."

  I took her the drink, and as she started to raise it to her lips, I said, "Maybe I want you to get me close enough to Tomberlin so I can kill him."

  The drink stopped an inch short of her lips. The yellow eyes watched me, and then the drink moved the rest of the way. She sipped and lowered it. "Was I supposed to scream?"

  "I don't know you well enough to make any guesses."

  She studied me. "If that's what you want, I would assume you have a reason. If you want to do it, you will do it in some way which will not implicate me. But he is not that kind of a nuisance."

  "How do you mean?"

  "He's just a rich, sick, silly man. He might be killed by some other silly man. But a serious man would know he is not worth so much risk. He is an insect."

  I sat at the other end of the gigantic couch, facing her. "What sort of insect?"

  "You don't know him at all? He is a political dilettante. He supports strange causes. Each one is going to save the world, of course. He gives money to ugly little fringe groups and makes them important, and then he loses interest. He collects exotic things, and many of them are quite nasty. Antique torture instruments. Dirty books and films and pictures. Sickening books. Shocking bits of sculpture. He's impotent, apparently, and he is a voyeur. Bugged bedrooms, and two-way mirrors and group orgy, that sort of boyish amusement. A sad and tiresome case, really. Sometimes he can be quite charming.

  "Many people who get too closely mixed up with him seem to get into very sticky trouble. But Cal goes on forever. There is something mildly dangerous about him. Perhaps it's a sense of mischief. I don't really know. He is an intuitive blackmailer. He generally gets exactly what he wants out of people. He gets indignant when he can't have his own way. He loves to find some way of pressuring people to make them do things they had no intention of doing. It is an almost feminine taste for intrigue. He loves to make dark hints about all kinds of conspiracy going on, all kinds of nastiness. His latest cause is that Doctor Face."

  "Who?"

  "Doctor Girdon Face, and his American Crusade. Oh, it's very big lately. Lectures and tent shows and local television and so on. And special phone numbers to call any time of day or night. The liberal-socialist-commy- conspiracy that is gutting all the old time virtues. It has a kind of phonied-up religious fervor about it. And it is about ten degrees to the right of the Birchers. The president is selling the country down the river with the help of the Supreme Court. Agree with us or you are a marked traitor. You know the sort of thing, all that tiresome pea-brained nonsense that attracts those people who are so dim-witted that the only way they can understand the world is to believe that it is all some kind of conspiracy.

  "The most amusing thing about it is the way Dr. Face keeps plugging for virtue and morality. He wants to burn everything since Tom Swift, and he is not too certain about Tom. He wants a big crack down on movies, books, plays, song lyrics, public dancing. And he wants
to be the one to weed out the evil. If he ever was turned loose in the west wing of Cal's house up there at Stone Canyon, he would have a stroke. Cal keeps his various fields of interest quite well compartmented. It is a little frightening though, to think how quickly his little Dr. Face has established a huge eager following."

  "I heard Tomberlin gives money to Latin American projects too."

  "They tap him every chance they get. But he is most generous with the militant right, the savage little groups who want to buy arms and smash the peons right back to where they belong. He's not a moderate, my friend. What should I call you? I want you to call me Connie."