Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

  I finished my typing for the day. Straightened up the pages, locked the ms. away in one of the suitcases. Then I poured myself a vodka over ice and settled down to wait for Jack Donohue.

  By 6:00 P.M. , I had started to think coldly of what I would do if he didn’t return. I would consolidate my personal belongings, trying to jam clothes, the Brandenberg stones, Project X, and the guns into two suitcases and maybe into one shoulder bag. Then I’d call a cab. I’d go to the Ft. Lauderdale airport and get a seat on a plane going anywhere. It really didn’t matter. I’d just go as far as I could. When the money ran out, I’d cut up more of the jewelry and peddle the stones. I’d change my name and try to change my appearance again. I’d start a new—

  There was a key in the lock. Jack Donohue walked in, looking drained. I burst into tears and flew to him. I almost knocked him over.

  “Jesus Christ, babe,” he said, “take it easy. I’m still in one piece.”

  He wouldn’t tell me what had happened in Miami until we had eaten, saying he hadn’t had a bite all day and was famished. So we went to a seafood joint on the Intracoastal and ordered red snapper amandine. I picked at my food, but Donohue gobbled and went to the salad bar three times. The place was too crowded and too noisy for a private conversation.

  Then we returned to Rip’s and mixed tall brandies with soda. We took our drinks out onto the beach. We went barefoot, Jack rolling up his cuffs. There were a few other beach strollers, but it seemed to me the sand and sea belonged to us alone.

  There wasn’t a full moon—that would have been too much—but we watched a silver scythe come out of the ocean, and that was as pretty as Donohue had promised. The surf was pounding. Black waves rolled in and then crashed into white foam. We could feel the spray on our skin, driven by a moaning wind. There were scudding clouds, hard stars, a sky that went on forever.

  There was a chill in the air, even in Florida, but the brandy helped, and the sand was still warm beneath our toes. It was such a natural scene: beach, ocean, sky, clouds, stars, moon, wind. It could have been perfect. But there were people.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” Jack Donohue said. “I’ll give you the bad first.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The guys I thought I could depend on, I can’t. The few I called hung up on me. The few I saw turned around and walked the other way. A few who would talk told me I’m poison. The word’s got around. The Corporation was very heavy on this: You help Jack Donohue and you spend the rest of your life with busted kneecaps, pushing yourself along on a little platform on wheels. If you’re lucky. Listen, I don’t blame the guys; they’ve mostly got wives and kids. Or girlfriends anyway.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Also the charter planes,” he went on. “The outfits that will fly anyone anywhere for a price. The Corporation has tipped them, too. Jack Donohue goes nowhere. Ditto the fences. They won’t touch me. That Rossi has been one busy little boy. As far as Miami goes, I got leprosy.”

  “If we give back the Brandenberg jewels?” I asked.

  “No go. The Corporation wants the Donohue jewels. My family jewels.”

  “How about the good news now? I think I could stand some.”

  He halted and I stopped beside him. We took a few sips of our drinks, looking up at that sparkling night.

  “The good news is this: I unloaded about half those loose stones in jewelry shops. More than twenty grand.”

  “That’s fine,” I said faintly.

  “So we’re not hurting for cash. But you know where I peddled most of the rocks? In the Cuban section. Miami is full of Spics. And not only Cubans, but from all over South America. A lot of loose money there. I figure the smart guys are getting out of those banana republics before they get stood up against a wall and shot. Also, there’s a lot of cash around from the dope trade. They’re running gage and coke in every hour on the hour. All cash deals, of course. But money like that is hard to spend or get to Switzerland, say. That’s why I was able to get top dollar for the loose rocks. You can go anywhere in the world with a diamond up your ass.”

  I remembered what Antonio Rossi had told me when he was Noel Jarvis: how easy it was to take precious gemstones across a border.

  “But the best thing is this,” Jack said. “The Spics have their own organization. They’re not under the thumb of the Corporation. Oh sure, I guess they make deals now and then, but the South Americans are running the drugs on their own. And they got their own lotteries, cathouses, loan-sharks, betting parlors, and so forth. They don’t need the Corporation.”

  “You think maybe we can make a deal with the Cubans?” I asked.

  “I think maybe we can,” he said slowly. “I got onto a guy named Manuel Garcia. That’s like John Smith, in American. I flashed that big necklace I was carrying and I saw his eyes light up. I told him what we needed: a plane out of the country, passports and visas, complete new IDs, no hassle in the country we’re going to. He said maybe it could be arranged. He said he’d talk to his people.”

  “How much would they want? The big necklace?”

  “Oh hell no. More than that. He mentioned a hundred G’s, casual-like, before I told him it would be for the two of us. Then he said a quarter of a mil, knowing my woman was involved. I figure I can get it for less than that. Maybe two-hundred thou.”

  “You trust him? This Manuel Garcia?”

  “That’s the trouble with this business,” he said fretfully. “You’ve got to trust someone to get what you want. No, I don’t trust that greaser. Jesus Christ, he wears perfume! But right now he’s the only game in town.”

  “How did you leave it? What happens next—”

  “This Garcia is going to talk to his people, to see if they can deliver. I’ve got a Miami number to call. Every day at noon. I ask for Paco. If they’ve got no word for me yet, Paco will be out. When they’re ready to talk money and how the whole thing will be set up, Paco will tell me when to come back to Miami and where to meet.”

  “Two hundred thousand is a lot of money,” I said slowly.

  “Sure it is,” Donohue agreed. “Until you remember we’ve got a couple of mil in those suitcases. At least. Also, it’s not all profit for them. They’ve got to pay the paper guys, the clerks in the consulate, the pilot of the plane, the guys on the other end. Everyone’s got to be oiled. So the two hundred G’s isn’t all that much. Not if it gets us out from under the Feds, Rossi, and the Corporation.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, draining my brandy.

  Donohue finished his drink. Then he took the empty glass from my hand. With a wild, whirling motion, he threw both glasses as far out to sea as he could. I saw the glint in the moonlight. Then the faint splashes as the empty glasses hit the water and disappeared. Then there was only the dark, rolling ocean.

  “You think it’ll work?” I said.

  “It’s got to work,” he said fiercely. “Got to!”

  We went back to our daily routine—breakfast, beach, drinks, dinner, sex, sleep—except that each day at noon Donohue called the Miami phone number he had been given and asked for Paco. For five days Paco was out and hadn’t left any message. On the sixth day there was a different reply, and Jack motioned to me for a pad and pen, saying into the phone: “Yes. I’ve got it. Repeat that address. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh, I understand. Fine.”

  He hung up and looked down at the scrawled notes he had made.

  “I go to Miami tomorrow. They claim they can deliver what we need.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “No,” he said, “this is just to negotiate the deal. What they want, what we’ll pay, the timing, and so on.”

  “Are you going to take the loot with you?”

  “My God, no! I’ll leave it here with you.”

  “Just make sure you’re not followed back here.”

  He looked at me disgustedly.

  “My pappy didn’t raise me to be an idiot.”

  It started raining that nig
ht, and in the morning the TV weather forecaster spouted technical jargon about a stationary low-pressure area off the Florida coast. He remarked cheerfully that the rain would continue for at least another forty-eight hours, driving conditions were hazardous, small-craft warnings were in effect from the Palm Beaches south to the Keys. And of course he added: “Have a nice day!”

  Jack Donohue took off for Miami in a heavy rainstorm whipped by a twenty-mile-an-hour wind that tore at palm fronds and rattled the motel windows. There was enough to eat and drink in our refrigerator; no way was I going to venture out until that crazy weather calmed.

  After breakfast I started typing again, and just before noon finished transcribing my handwritten manuscript. Now I was up to date on Project X—462 pages ready for posterity. I then tore up the pages written in longhand and dumped the pieces in the garbage. One copy of that damning manuscript was all I needed—or wanted.

  I took time out for a sandwich and a can of beer, then got started on the luggage. I put aside all of Dick Fleming’s clothes and personal belongings, plus a few things we still had that belonged to Hymie Gore. There was a Salvation Army bin outside one of the local supermarkets, and I figured that would be a good place to dump what we didn’t want.

  That left one suitcase for Jack, one for me, and a third for the Brandenberg loot. The guns went into two shoulder bags, wrapped in towels stolen from various motels along our escape route.

  Then I tidied up, showered, washed my hair, did my nails. I was tempted to call Sol Faber, call Aldo Binder, call my sister. But their phones could be tapped—it was possible—and besides, what could I say—“It’s raining here; how is it there?”

  All these activities, I told myself, were just a way of killing time until Jack Donohue returned. But there was more to it than that. I was preparing for departure; I felt it. The storm had hidden the sun and ended the days of mindless basking. We had caught our breath, rested, and let time dull the memories of what had happened. Now we had to move on.

  Antonio Rossi wasn’t lolling in the sun or walking the beach at night, and I knew the Feds sure as hell weren’t. They were all busy, every day and every night. Sooner or later, if we stayed where we were, they would zero in on us.

  It was as simple as that: We couldn’t hide; we had to run.

  Donohue returned about 4:30 P.M. He was soaked through, his face drawn, his teeth chattering. He peeled off his wet clothes and got under a hot shower. By the time he came out, I had a cup of hot black coffee and a big glass of brandy waiting for him. He gulped both greedily, cursing when the coffee scalded his tongue. He solved that problem by pouring brandy into his cup.

  We sat awhile without speaking, listening to the rain smashing against the windows. The wind was a low moan, like a child crying. Occasionally lightning flared over the ocean; thunder rumbled like distant guns.

  I looked at Jack. He had stopped shivering, but kept both hands wrapped around his coffee cup. His wet hair was plastered to his scalp. He had lost his color; his face was pale and shiny. His eyes showed tiredness and strain. He slumped at the table, shoulders bowed, head hanging. My hero.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked finally.

  He groaned. “I had lunch with those banditos. Chicken and rice, with a pepper sauce hot enough to bring the sweat popping. It didn’t seem to bother them, but it sure as hell did me in. I can still taste that crap.”

  “Where was this?”

  “A little grocery store on a rattrap street in the Cuban section. It had a small restaurant in back. Four booths. I think the grocery part was just a front. Lots of traffic, but no one bought any groceries that I could see. Might have been a betting drop, or maybe they were peddling happy dust. Anything is possible on that street.”

  “How did you make out?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said, sighing. “What they want is this: that necklace I showed Manuel Garcia the first time we met, plus another one of equal value.”

  “My God, Jack, that’s almost half a million!”

  “Retail value maybe,” he reminded me. “About thirty percent of that from a fence. And worth absolutely nothing wrapped up in a towel in our suitcase.”

  I couldn’t deny that, but it was hateful that others should profit from our suffering and fear.

  “What do we get out of it?”

  “Passports, visas, Social Security cards, drivers licenses—the works. For Arthur and Grace Reynolds, residents of Chicago. That’s us. Plus a plane ride, all expenses paid.”

  “Where to?”

  “How does Costa Rica grab you?”

  I thought a moment.

  “I’ve heard of it, of course, but I don’t know where it is, exactly.”

  “Central America. Between Nicaragua and Panama.”

  “And we can live there?”

  “With the right papers, which they’ll furnish. The permits will have to be renewed every so often, but they claim they’ve got some local officiates in their pocket and we’ll have no problem.”

  “We’re taking a lot on faith,” I said.

  “We got a choice?” he demanded.

  “You agreed to everything they asked for?”

  “Not all of it. We kicked it around for a while.” He showed his teeth in a cold grin that had no humor in it. “Those were hard boys, babe. There was this Manuel Garcia plus two other desperadoes who I would not care to meet in a dark alley. When the argument was going hot and heavy, one of them took out a shiv big enough to gut a hog and started cleaning his nails. He just kept staring at me with those black button eyes and using this sticker on his filthy nails. Nice, civilized people. Made me feel right at home.”

  “I hope you had your gun handy.”

  “Handy? In my lap, babe, in my lap! Under the tablecloth. One wrong move and there would have been three greasy clunks, believe me. I think this Garcia knew it, because he told the other guy to put his blade away.”

  “What were you arguing about?”

  “First of all they wanted both necklaces before they delivered the papers and we got on the plane. I said no way. One necklace before we left and the other handed over to their man in Costa Rica when we got there safely. Garcia finally agreed. Also, I insisted that at the final meet here, Garcia come alone with the passports and stuff. I figured that would cut down the possibilities of a cross. But he said we’d have to have passport photos made, and his paperman would have to be there to trim them, paste them in, and put the stamp on them. So I okayed the one guy but no one else. Garcia agreed to that. Finally we argued about where the final meet would be made. Garcia wanted it right there at midnight, after the grocery store closed. I wasn’t about to go into the back room of that place after dark. So they jabbered awhile in Spanish. I know a few words, but not enough to follow what they were saying. Finally Garcia suggested an old wreck of a hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. I think that they use it for a dope drop. It’s somewhere between Golden Shores and Sunny Isles.”

  “Golden Shores and Sunny Isles?” I said incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “What’s so funny? That’s what they’re called. So I said I’d look the place over this afternoon, and if it was okay I’d call him and the deal would be on.”

  Manuel Garcia had given Jack very exact directions on how to find the deserted hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. It was just east of North Miami Beach, less than ten miles from where they had met in the Cuban grocery store. But still, Jack got lost twice and it took him almost an hour to find the place.

  He had spent another hour driving around the area in the rain, reconnoitering approach routes and roads that could be used for an emergency escape. Then he had parked the car and inspected the wrecked hotel on foot, which was when he got soaked through.

  He said he figured the hotel had been built in the 1920s, during one of the first Florida booms. Originally it had been an ornate white clapboard structure with a lot of gingerbread trim. There was a main building with a pillared portico, and two wings. But one of the wings h
ad been destroyed by fire and was now just a mess of blackened timbers fallen into the basement. The rest of the hotel had been beaten gray by wind, sun, and rain.

  All the windows were broken, part of the roof of the main building had collapsed, and the outside doors hung crazily from rusted hinges. Donohue said the hotel grounds were separated from other buildings and lots in the area by a high chainlink fence with a padlocked gate. There were No Trespassing signs posted all over.

  But the fence had been cut through in several places, and Jack thought the grounds and falling-down building were used by local kids for picnics, pot parties and—from the number of discarded condoms he saw—for what he called “screwing bees.”

  He said the hotel was on about a four-acre plot, and back in the 1920s there must have been lawns, gardens, brick walks, palm trees, and tropical shrubbery. But at some time, maybe during a hurricane, the waters of the bay had risen, inundated the grounds, and lapped at the base of the hotel.

  “You can still see the high-water mark,” Jack said. “About halfway up to the second-floor windows.”

  Now the ruined building was in the center of a mud flat—nothing left but patches of scrub grass and a few ground creepers. The palm trees were all gone, and any other plants of value had died or been stolen. Even the bricks from the walks had been dug up and carted off. The grounds were dotted with piles of dog feces, so local residents were probably using the place to run their hounds.

  The front door had a faded legal notice tacked onto it, warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. It was closed with a chain and padlock, but that was silly since all the first-floor windows were broken and the French doors leading to the wide porch were swinging open.

  Jack went in and found more evidence of picnics, barbecues, and bottle parties. The place was littered with moldy garbage, burned and sodden mattresses, empty beer cans, and bird droppings. He saw birds flying in and out of the upper windows and heard them up there. He figured they were nesting. In the rain, the whole place smelled of corruption and death.