by James Burke
Dan, of course, had been fully aware of Morley's surprise, but he pretended he wasn't. Sitting back in a lounge chair and still looking a bit groggy, he had asked Morley to do him a favor - to pick up a "package of business papers" from a "friend in Palm Beach." Dan had explained convincingly that because of certain problems (not further defined) surrounding a very large and touchy land deal (not further described), his friend (not further identified) would simply leave the package at the checkroom of a certain hotel. For all the same reasons, Morley would have to use another name when picking it up, and then instead of bringing it to Dan, would check it in turn at the West Palm bus station and bring the key to Dan later that night. Morley had agreed to do it.
It proved to be a piece of cake, and of course the next time Dan went out of town he had a similar "favor" to ask. It had grown more frequent and usually more complicated, and finally he got his coded instructions from the Chicago Tribune when Dan wasn't there. Each time he performed this favor even after the first one - Dan had insisted on his receiving a "stipend." Morley took it, and it was useful, though not sufficiently generous to change his lifestyle or make him beholden to Dan. The buildup was gradual but relentless; Morley, who'd used the same techniques successfully himself, recognized the pattern clearly and soon. He realized Dan was leading him down the garden path, but it was kind of exciting and definitely interesting. And despite Dan's repeated assurances to the contrary, probably illegal. To Morley, who'd been bored and languishing, the combination was irresistible. Like an old fire horse smelling the smoke, he couldn't hold himself back.
Morley found it fascinating to watch the system at work. Dan was a very efficient and professional man. The pickups and deliveries were often tightly scheduled and always fairly complicated, and Dan had furnished him with several sets of documentation and corresponding disguises to protect his identity. Morley never saw any of the other parties, never talked to them, and never got mail from anybody in the system. He never got phone calls from anybody except Dan and Ernie Pro, and he knew they always called him from a pay phone.
He only questioned Dan when there was something in the "form" of the pickup or delivery that he didn't understand; he never inquired about the "substance." Once he did ask Dan if the "hijack checks" at the airports caused him any problem. Dan had given him a funny look, and Morley thought he wasn't going to answer. Then Dan had laughed and said, no, they hadn't bothered him very much. Surprisingly, he had gone on to say that "people with legitimate reasons for carrying things" never have to worry about the "contents of their bags." Morley was impressed. What the old man seemed to be telling him was that his couriers had documentation and "arrangements" that eliminated problems if airport checks required them to open their bags. Morley was smart enough, and by now experienced enough, to realize that Dan had told him about an important aspect of his system. He interpreted this as meaning that the old man trusted him.
By the time Dan had settled in for the winter, arriving "permanently" with Ernie Pro and announcing that this year he would not make so many trips North, Morley's relationship with him had evolved into a routine. Jobs were spaced erratically, but they averaged about two each month, and by then Morley was handling them all. (He had no idea who had handled them before.) The old man had begun to rely on him more and more, even discussing possible modifications in the procedures with him or asking his advice on certain problems that arose. They became good friends, but conversely they began to see less of each other; the lakeside meetings were rare, held only when something had to be discussed face to face. Morley came to like the old man a great deal. It was funny. Whenever he thought about that it had made him sad. He guessed that now he could at last figure out why: it had been one of those strange premonitions.
And then there was Ernie Pro. It had been obvious to Morley that she was a hell of a lot more than a secretary. Companion? Friend? Mistress? Yes, and more. She was Dan's alter ego, his social conscience, his solicitous mate, and his doting mother. Morley had learned a good bit about her one morning when they'd had a long breakfast and driven to Miami. Dorothy Ernestine Prohaska. Chicago's West Side, small parochial girls' high school, secretarial school, marriage to a well-meaning, charming drunk who gave her a beautiful daughter and then took it all away one night on a rain-slick road ten miles from home. The daughter lingered for three weeks before dying, mercifully, of massive brain damage. Ernie had gone back into the job market, rusty, cynical, hard, and smart. She met middle-aged businessman Dan Casper and climbed the ladder with him, never to be separated again. Love and marriage? Yes, and no. Yes, she undoubtedly loved him, but Dan was a religious enigma: like Ernie Pro he had been raised a Catholic, and though he hadn't been to church since he was fourteen (and even then under protest), he would not divorce his wife, even though she'd been in a private mental institution for more than two decades. So he and Ernie Pro made the best of their situation, more like husband and wife than many husbands and wives-except when they were in Chicago. Ernie's old country, peasant-poor, strait-laced parents had watched their daughter's progress through life sadly at first, later with understanding, and finally with pride. They stayed warm in their split-level in a northwest suburb, never knowing or wanting to know where Ernestine got all that money, or what, if anything, her good friend and boss, Mr. Cappacino, had to do with it; nevertheless, they would never have accepted a union unblessed by religious trappings. So in Chicago Ernie Pro and Dan maintained separate households. In their Florida home it was quite different. There was no subterfuge, and they were content to let the neighbors - with whom they sought no contact - assume that they were man and wife. Dan first introduced Ernie Pro to Morley as his "secretary" and never deigned to correct or elaborate on this description. Morley realized early on that this was a true, if understated, depiction. Ernie Pro indeed ran Dan's "office."
Morley’s fevered mind went back to Dan’s "business," clicking off the facts, as he knew them. From the start he had made two assumptions: Dan was running some kind of illicit courier system, and at least one of the parties involved was the syndicate. The packages he handled had to be money, stocks, bonds, documents - paper of some kind; the weight, size, and obvious value dictated as much. The paper had to be illicit or they'd have sent it by normal means. And who played those kinds of games with that kind of paper? Only the syndicate.
Later, he figured out some of the refinements. There had to be two basic clients, one domestic (the syndicate) and one foreign (a similar, or maybe related but independent outfit). Dan had to be running a service operation, and running it from his hip pocket. It was a truly private deal he wasn't sharing with anybody, and one that was making him a very handsome income. This was where Morley came into the picture. He figured his role was that of clean, anonymous middleman, or "cutout," who kept the two clients from ever meeting each other and who was clean as far as the law was concerned, and therefore able to handle the critical in-country transfers with a high degree of safety. Morley thought Dan was probably technically truthful when he said that Morley's role in the procedures was not illegal, since he always had a good cover story and never personally traveled between countries or even between states. Nevertheless, he'd have hated to try and convince some mean-eyed district attorney that he was just an innocent victim being used by those "dirty, unscrupulous wolves."
Putting all this together, it made sense to Morley that Dan would have gone to considerable lengths to hide Morley's identity from all parties concerned. Morley would have done the same to protect his own system from theft or takeover. On the other hand, assuming that the parties who had killed Dan had done so with the objective of taking over his courier system, it made little sense to kill the old man before they had all his secrets. But then, maybe that wasn't the reason for the hit. Was it just coincidence that Dan had been killed in Washington, the home of all those investigating committees, not to mention the FBI, the IRS, the DEA, the ATU, and assorted other alphabetically configured tentacles of the federal bureaucracy
? Maybe, but maybe not.
Back to the current problem. Could he assume that Dan had died without divulging the secret of his system? Probably not, although the timing and method of the hit spoke more of frustration than tidying up. Could he assume Dan had died without divulging the identity of his bagman? Then he remembered, and his fear subsided somewhat. Just three days ago Dan had told him that only three people knew all the procedures for the latest pickup, and that the "other two" - who had to be the foreign courier and his principal - did not know who he, Morley, was. He had to assume that Dan's domestic clients - the syndicate - had had him killed, and he felt he could conclude that they hadn't known him or the pickup details three days ago. From what he knew about Dan's habits and style, he doubted that they had learned in the interim.
So logic said his secret was safe, and now he could consider how to go after that package. But wait - Ernie Pro was alive, and she knew his name. Yeah, but she didn't know the pickup details. Besides, she had to be under guard in the hospital, so that even if she were conscious she'd be unavailable to syndicate hoods. That seemed to make sense.
There were two other positive angles. Even if the syndicate had his name and description, he'd be in disguise, and he would take all kinds of evasive actions on the way to Miami. More importantly, even if they caught him making the pickup he would only be doing his bagman job. How could they object to that, or see anything sinister in it?
But if he made the pickup clean and nobody hassled him, picked him up, or tailed him, what then? Hell, he'd be home free. Why not? What if they were waiting for him at home? Unlikely. It damn well better be, because once he made the pickup and then didn't show for the delivery, the syndicate would be like a horde of locusts over South Florida.
Damn it. He decided to give it a try. So it might be suicide for him to drive within five miles of Miami Airport tomorrow! But what the hell, nothing ventured... The odds were acceptable. The foreign courier, undoubtedly on his way already, would probably just continue on and do what he was supposed to do. "Merle Sandstone," whoever he was, would just have to sit at West Palm and wonder.
Once he'd made up his mind, Morley began to move and think at a pace and with an intensity he hadn't achieved for too many years. He was surprised how good it felt to be stimulated and challenged again, to have his future, maybe even his life, hanging on his ability to outthink and outmaneuver a tough and talented adversary. Damn good.
2
Morley guessed that once he made the pickup and failed to show for the delivery he'd have four days of grace, maybe five at the most, before the vultures moved into the area in earnest. Best to get started. He went to a nearby motel phone booth and called a Miami number. A soft, sexy voice informed him that he had reached the offices of Rourke Associates. He told the voice who he was and asked to speak to Mr. Rourke. A couple of clicks and a pause later, a deep, non-sexy bass came on. "Patrick, my boy, good to hear from you. And how's everything up there on the Gold Coast?"
"Not bad, Terry, not bad at all."
"So? Then to what do I owe this honor?"
"C'mon, Terry. I don't call you only when I have problems - it just seems that way. Besides, you and Barbara owe me a visit. When the hell are you coming up for that fishing weekend?"
Rourke laughed heartily. "Same old Morley - best defense is a good offense. All right, you win. We'll have to do it soon. I promise. Meanwhile, what the hell is the problem?"
Morley's voice got serious. "Terry, I need a bit of professional help, and at the moment I can't give you all the background. You'll have to take me on trust."
"So what else is new? You sound just like the rest of my clients, though you I’m inclined to trust more than most. What’s up?"
"First off, it's not illegal. Honest. But it is important."
"Okay. I gotcha. Give me the bad news."
"Right. I need some disguise materials- first-class stuff, two sets - ID and pocket litter to go with them."
"That's all? I thought you had a big problem."
"Well, I may need some other stuff, like passports, later, but the disguises, those I need yesterday."
"I won't ask why, will I?"
"No, you won't, old pal."
"All right. Give me the names and tell me what you want to look like and I'll have the kits ready by, say, noon tomorrow. Okay?"
''I'm sorry, Ter, but I need 'em before that. Tonight? Or before nine tomorrow morning?"
"With friends like you, Patrick . . . Okay, we can do it. My man will bring the package tonight. Before ten, your place. What's your number again?"
"Fourteen C."
"Got it. He'll be there. Anything else? How about some complicated investigations in Alaska or maybe Rangoon - reports to be in by sundown?"
Morley laughed, and Rourke joined him. "Okay, Patrick, you win. I won't give it another thought."
"Thanks, Terry. I knew I could count on you. Incidentally, I just might need some investigations run in the next few weeks; could you handle 'em for me?"
"Why not? It's how I put the bread in the kids' mouths, not to mention in Barbara's purse. Sure. Sure. Just give me some lead-time. It's not like disguise kits, you know."
"Yeah, I understand. Speaking of Barbara and those kids, it has been too long. My God! I'll bet Fred is bigger than you are. And Dolly? Dates and boys?"
Rourke made no effort to conceal the pride and pleasure in his voice. "Fred is six-one, one eighty-five, and lettered in both football and basketball. You'd like him, Patrick. He's our kinda kid. Dolly - whoa, I mean Dolores, no more of that undignified, childish 'Dolly' stuff - she's prettier than her mother and almost as smart. You'll have to see 'em, Patrick. It has been too damn long.''
''I know, Terry, I know. Where the hell does the time go? I promise, we will get together soon. It's not as if we lived a long way apart."
"Yeah, let's do it. Meanwhile, I'd better get on with this crazy job of yours. Now tell me exactly what you want; spare no details, my boy."
Morley began to itemize his request. Rourke listened carefully, injecting an occasional question; until they were both satisfied they understood each other. They rang off with reiterated promises to get together soon.
Morley left the booth, got his car, and drove toward Palm Beach. Good old Terry. It was a real break having him and his facilities available - but then, Morley wouldn't have considered trying to pull this deal off without "a little help from his friends," even though it meant spreading the knowledge of his intentions around more than he'd have liked. Terello Michael Rourke had what he himself termed a first-class investigative service. It was too big and too successful to be called a private eye outfit. About six years ago he had become bored with his reasonably lucrative but routine legal practice and decided to take a fling at P.I. work. He was a native Floridian, and since his mother was Cuban he'd been raised bi lingual; when he hung out his shingle, he had gotten his start with the local Latin business. Then he had begun working the Caribbean and on down into South America. Finally, established as a fast-rising enterprise, he had nailed down a good piece of stateside business through an affiliation with a nationwide outfit.
Terry was a big, dark, good-looking man, combining his father's heavy Hibernian frame with his mother's olive complexion and Latin features. He and Morley had met in the army when they shared a barracks room, and they had been good friends ever since. They'd kept in touch, mostly through Christmas cards over recent years, and Morley had spent a weekend at the Rourke's beautiful Coral Gables home a couple of years ago when he first arrived in Florida. Terry had always told Morley to holler when he needed something, but this was the first time he'd needed to do so. He was pleased with the response, and certain there'd be a few more hollers before he finished this job.
Morley crossed the bridge onto the island of Palm Beach and turned into a tony shopping center, parked, and walked toward a tony looking office sporting the legend HURST GLOBAL TRAVEL. Friend number two. Roger Hurst was Morley's age and had been a c
ollege classmate, but the resemblance ended there. He was a born extrovert, as ebullient as he was efficient in the business world and he carried the same qualities into his personal life. Roger's clothes, hairstyle, and other accouterments were those of a generation half his age; he liked flashy cars and flashier women and was in almost every way the opposite of the kind of person one would expect to find as Morley's friend. But friends they were and had been since that first week of freshman year up in Evanston. Despite career paths as different as their personalities and a meager ration of contacts, they had maintained a flourishing friendship.
Like Terry, Roger was Florida-born and couldn't understand why anybody would want to live anywhere else. He had parlayed his family name, a small piece of family dough, and some good airline and hotel contacts into a thriving travel service. Roger had been delighted when Morley arrived, more or less permanently, in the area, and he had continually tried to entice Morley into working for him. In accord with the plan he was now forming, Morley believed that the time had come to take Roger up on his offer.
Roger was at the door saying good-bye to one of his dowager clients when Morley arrived. Roger patted her shoulder as he walked her onto the sidewalk, and then turned to Morley with a deep, affected bow. "And you, Señor, can we be of assistance to you?"
Morley played along, amused as always with Roger's histrionics - Roger seldom talked in his own voice or acted in his own character. "I am only a humble laborer seeking employment, sir."
Suddenly Roger became Roger. "Patrick, you're serious! Aren't you?''
"Very much, my friend. Any openings?"
Smiling widely, arm around Morley's shoulder, Roger led him toward his private office. Once inside, door shut, he turned to Morley seriously. "Okay, what's the gag?"
