The Lonely Silver Rain

by John D. MacDonald

  “So am I,” Cigarette said. “Want we should go up there and take him?”

  “Forget it,” said the voice of command. “Too much can go wrong.”

  Sully said, “We were lucky nothing went wrong already, the way you followed so close.”

  “Knock it off, both of you. Cappy wants it done soon as we can. An accident. Shut up and wait.”

  I spent ten silent minutes wondering what the hell I was going to do next. Three of them, planning to give me a fatal accident. Let me count the ways. I had not spotted anyone following me. I am always on the watch for a tail. So the man was good. Maybe he had the car rigged for two sets of headlights. That would do it, at night.

  Sully made my mind up for me. “I’m going to get out and move around some.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He got out my side. It was a four-door sedan, and he opened the back door as I squirmed back away from him. If he headed toward the rear of the car, I was fine for the moment. But he came toward me and his knee hit my shoulder.

  As he grunted with surprise, I lunged up and grabbed him by the clothing and yanked him down, turning him as I brought him down, turning him away from the car, using leverage to drop him on his back. His head made a melony sound against the hardpan and he went loose. Somebody yelled, and as I got up, I drove my shoulder into the reopening door of the car, hammering it shut. But it didn’t slam. It bounced off something, and a man screamed so loudly I guessed that he had his hand on the doorframe to pull himself up out of the seat. I scooted around the back end of the sedan, looking hard and fast for Cigarette. Nowhere in sight. I froze and then, as I heard a grunt of effort behind me, I dropped with the top of my left shoulder ablaze, swung my legs around and kicked his legs out from under him. As he went down I saw the glint of the blade in his hand. I bounded up before he did, and kicked him in the face with the side of my shoe as he started up. He rolled all the way over and ended up on his hands and knees, and so I kicked him again. Hands can be fragile. Broken hands hurt like sin. He ended up on his back, knife tinkling away under one of the cars. I didn’t want to stay for names and serial numbers. I didn’t know how badly I was bleeding. I piled into the pickup, started it in a hurry and backed out in a big swing, turning my lights on as I started forward. The one I had thumped first came wobbling out from beyond the other car. He came right out in front of the pickup, then tried to turn and run, but he entangled his feet and fell. I swerved away from the major portion of him, but my right front wheel went over both his knees, making a sickening celery sound, accompanied by a high gargling scream.

  I kept checking myself on the fast ride back, listening to see if I felt faint or dizzy. My shirt was sopping wet in the shoulder area. I got aboard without incident, peeled the shirt off as soon as I was aboard and buttoned up.

  Then I checked myself with mirrors. It was such a tiny gouge I almost felt let down. I had ducked almost all the way beneath the thrust. It had sliced the very top ridge of the muscle, torn some nerves, opened some blood vessels, but could almost be covered by a Band-Aid. I held cold-water pads on it until the bleeding stopped, and then used a mild antiseptic and pulled the edges together with narrow strips of tape. It was awkward having to work using the mirror, and the final product looked clumsy, but it was a lot better than where he had wanted to plant the blade—right to the hilt, six inches lower. And how had they planned to make that look like an accident? Maybe they had planned an accident so totally messy nobody would notice a knife wound.

  I stretched out and unwound with a flagon of Boodles and ice. I had ruined one hand, one set of knees and the lower half of a face. Three men, one of whom was named Sully, taking orders from someone named Cappy. Reasonably competent professionals waiting for me in the dark, to inflict an accidental death. Maybe Jornalero had not moved quickly enough. Or had not believed me. At least I could give Jornalero a name now. And I could watch him closely to see what happened when I gave him the name.

  On Friday morning Jornalero saw me immediately. He said it was a beautiful morning. No dispute. Bright and cool. He said he had been up very early for a sunrise sail on his catamaran. He said that his resolution for the new year was to do more sailing and get in better shape. I said my resolution was to keep breathing.

  “Is there any reason to think you might not, Mr. McGee?”

  I told him my three reasons. I could not give good descriptions of the men, but I had noticed that it was a recent dark-colored, four-door Pontiac, license USL 901. And the three men discussed giving me an accidental death on the orders of one Cappy. The only other name I had was Sully, who would probably never walk really well again. The expression on his face showed dismay and concern.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” he said. “I was told there could have been a misunderstanding and I said that it would be wise to correct it, and I was told that it would be corrected right away. Would you please go back out to reception while I make a few phone calls.”

  It was a long fifteen minutes before he sent for me. He seemed depressed. “Sit down, Mr. McGee. Certain people found your performance last night impressive. I must say that I do too.”

  “I made a call last night to a friend to see if it was police business, but there was no sheet on it, so I guess they didn’t check into a Lauderdale hospital.”

  “They managed to drive to … a different city. They’re receiving medical attention.”

  “Why the foul-up?”

  “I’m very sorry, but I have been told not to discuss this with you any further.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “They want to settle for you. And close the books.”

  “Look, does anybody disagree that Billy didn’t order the killings and I didn’t do them?”

  “I think it’s understood.”

  “Then why, damn it?”

  “Let’s just say it cleans up a certain situation.”

  “There are men doing life in the slam because somebody wanted to clean up a certain situation.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you are not kidding me?”

  “I am telling you more than I should. I will even suggest to you that you take the money you received for recovering that yacht, and go away for a year or two.”

  “Can you introduce me to somebody I can talk to about this mess?”

  “Out of the question. Sorry I can’t be of any more help.” He stood up. My signal to go.

  “I have the funny feeling, Arturo, you would have helped if you could.”

  “Sometimes there are no choices,” he said.

  I kept hearing him say that as I drove through heavy traffic out of the city and north on the Interstate. I could eliminate my choices one by one. Go to the authorities? And what seems to be the trouble, sir? Well, some people want to kill me. Why is that? Because I located a boat with dead people on it. Did you kill them? No, sir. Oh, I see. They think you did? No, they know I didn’t. Then why do they want to kill you? I think because they have to kill somebody—just to show they’re on the job. Okay, who are these people? I haven’t any idea. How do you know they want to kill you? They keep trying. I see. Mr. McGee, I am going to arrange an appointment for you with a man whose job it is to listen to people’s troubles and problems.

  Or I could undo the umbilical cords that affix the Busted Flush to the slip, and head down around the peninsula and somewhere up the other side. Find a place where I could anchor out, and use the dighy for shoreside supplies, live small and careful. And longer.

  Or close up the Flush and fly to Cairns up there at the top end of Australia. Summer there, and the fishing is good. Walk over to the aquarium at feeding time and study the dwarf crocodiles and think about Jornalero’s associates. Sample the brawny Australian beach lassies who can windsurf all day without tiring a single muscle.

  Hang around and let them keep trying.

  When I walked out to the Flush I found a man sitting on the finger pier, legs dangling, staring at the Flush and ta
pping cigar ashes into the water. He looked fat, but from the way he came to his feet, all in one motion, I knew he was in better shape than he looked. He wore a blue work shirt and khaki pants, a Greek seaman’s cap and thick leather sandals. He was short and broad with a square jaw, no neck, a deep red sunburn, small brown eyes, deep-set, white eyebrows and lashes.

  I was a good ten inches taller than he. He tilted his head and looked up at me and said, barely moving his lips, “Three four nine one two three eight. In ten minutes. Now point to something over near the motel.”

  I did as asked. He thanked me, touched his cap and went trudging away. I called that number ten minutes later.

  “Hello?”

  “This is McGee.”

  “Trav, how the hell are you? Tommy T. told me to look you up when I got here.”

  “How is old Tom?”

  “He’s fine. You going to be aboard about eight? I want to just stop on by and say hello.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “Great! See you.”

  Whoever he was, he was careful.

  Even though my security system indicated nobody had been aboard, I checked the whole houseboat carefully. And when I was through I put on snorkel and fins and took the big underwater light and checked the hull and all the adjacent pilings. I came up shivering and took a hot shower. And then there was nothing to do but cook something and wait for the man in the Greek hat.

  Ten

  I left one dim fantail light on. He tapped at the door at three minutes past eight. Same careful fellow. Or maybe not careful enough. I opened the door and he said, “My name is Browder.”

  “McGee,” I said, and stuck my hand out. He took it and I pulled him in and held tight as Meyer slid in behind him, closed the door with one hand and jabbed him once in the back with the barrel of my Colt Diamondback and then moved back away from him to what I had told Meyer is a safe and appropriate distance.

  “Browder, the man behind you is not very familiar with firearms. The revolver is cocked. There is a shell in the chamber. His finger is on the trigger. If you do anything quick and funny, it might twitch.”

  “Nothing quick. Nothing funny. Believe me.”

  After I had tied him to a stanchion with a length of braided nylon line, Meyer was able to take a deep breath again. I emptied his pockets and put everything on the table. He had a silver money clip in the shape of a dollar sign, worn from long use, with four hundred and twenty dollars in it. He had some crumpled ones and some change in the same pocket as a Swiss Army knife with a cracked red handle. I patted him down and found an ankle holster with a little two-shot derringer in it, two rounds of .22 Magnum hollowpoints. He stood as patiently as a horse being groomed.

  “Going to do it with the derringer?” I asked him.

  “It wouldn’t look like an accident, would it?”

  “Why does it have to be an accident anyway?”

  “I’ll give you a number and you dial it and let me say something into it. They will get a voice-print, okay? Then they’ll clear me.”

  I had to retie him where the phone would reach. He said the phone was manned twenty-four hours a day. I wasn’t familiar with the area code. It was answered on the second ring by a male voice repeating the last four digits of the number I’d dialed. I held the phone to Browder’s face and he said, “Okay Browder for clearance. Give them a description.”

  “Hold,” the voice said.

  We all waited for a long ninety seconds and then the voice said, “Browder, Scott Ellis. Five foot seven, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, age thirty-eight, brown eyes, ruddy complexion, S-shaped scar inside of left forearm, first joint of little finger of left hand missing, hairy mole right shoulder, faded blue tattoo right forearm of anchor and five stars in a circle around it. Browder is on detached duty with the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  I said thank you to a dead line and untied him.

  “You don’t want to check the hairy mole?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “It isn’t all that hairy anyway.”

  “Just for luck, I’ll hang on to the derringer, though.”

  “Don’t let me leave without it.”

  “Mr. Scott Browder, this is Meyer.”

  They nodded at each other. He massaged his wrists and said, “I could guess you’d be careful. What I hoped was no whop on the skull first. Hits on the head make me throw up. After the bomb thing they really wondered if they should go after somebody with all that amount of luck.”

  “Sit down. Drink.”

  “Thanks. Scotch, no ice, little bit of water. You can guess why I wouldn’t carry an official ID.”

  “Infiltration?” I asked.

  “After Operation Southern Comfort a lot of our guys were made, so I’m one of the new batch.”

  “Operation what?”

  He looked disappointed. “It was big, like five tons of coke by plane, with a relay strip in the Bahamas. Anyway, I’m involved with the people who never see it or touch it or have a direct contact with anybody who does see it and touch it. I’m after the arrangers. Not like Jornalero. He just does money for them. Long ago he used to hire the mules for the Colombianos. He worked his way up and, because he’s smart, mostly out of it. They could get him for currency violations if they thought they could make it stick. But he covers his tracks good.”

  “Can you tell me who wants me killed?” I asked, giving him his drink.

  He sipped it, nodded approval and said, “What would you do if I gave you names?”

  “Pay visits.”

  He looked at me with disapproval. “McGee, I am not going to tell you how much I know about you. You are big and you are lucky and you have some good moves. If I wanted to get you killed quick, I’d give you some names. How can I impress you? We are talking about very big money and very smart people. Listen and believe. It would be like sending a twelve-year-old girl on a naked reverse against the Raiders. It is a class you will never be in.”

  “Who is Cappy?”

  “Short for the Capataz. That isn’t his name. It means the Foreman. He’s way down the list. He’s enforcement. You scrambled three of his people. Rick Sullivan is having his knees rebuilt. Louis LaLieu will spend a year with his dental surgeon. Dean Matan has four broken bones and some ripped tendons in his left hand. And Cappy is annoyed.”

  “Who did it to Billy?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t think Cappy knows, and I would guess that the man in Marseille Cappy contacted for a favor wouldn’t know either exactly who did it. Just like nobody really knows who put your bomb together or who mailed it. Incidentally, word went back to Marseille that the wire job was sloppy. They wanted it done so that it wouldn’t be picked up in an autopsy. They should have used a big injection of insulin.”

  “A bomb isn’t exactly accidental-looking.”

  “After that missed, they decided on accidents. Too many killings and you have a lot of official attention, and that is bad for business. The people in Peru would understand the accidents were arranged.”

  “What was my accident going to be?”

  “I couldn’t say exactly, but I think you were supposed to walk out into heavy traffic. Those three were standby talent, strictly second-class, McGee.”

  Meyer asked his first question. “Mr. Browder, if Mr. McGee stays here, what are his chances of staying alive?”

  Browder looked at Meyer with more interest. “Slim to none.”

  “And why is that so important to somebody?”

  “Friend Meyer, you ask the hard ones, don’t you? Something is stirring. What you’ve got in the Miami-Atlanta area is a loose amalgamation of two groups. They work very cozy together. It’s in their interest. Let’s call one the Old-timers. Some syndicate families, gambling interests, vice, narcotics. But not down on the nitty-gritty level. Making policy, suggesting arrangements, selecting the right people. Let’s call the other group the New Boys. Rednecks, Cubans, Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Guatemalan
s, Peruvians, Bolivians. Smuggling narcotics, peddling weapons, murder and arson for hire. And again you have a top layer of policy people, negotiators. For a while the Old-timers and the New Boys were killing each other off. Wiser heads prevailed. They have the same problems of product and cash flow. So they have been working together. Now there is trouble in paradise. It has something to do with you, McGee, and with Ingraham and his wife and Jornalero and that stolen boat and Gigi Reyes. I’ve discussed matters with my associates and my superiors, and the general feeling is that if we can find the right buttons and push them, there is going to be a full-scale war again. Crazy Marieleños running around in panel trucks full of automatic weapons and grenades. And some fruit may drop off the tree. We may get enough to build some tight cases.

  “Lately, it’s getting a little better. When we can’t build a solid criminal prosecution, we can bring a civil action and tell the clown to either show up on the stand and explain his income taxes for the past fifteen years, and how come he could buy a two-million-dollar home on the beach, or we take the house off his hands. It stings them pretty good. But I like the tight cases better.”

  “Which side wants me dead?”

  “The Old-timers, mostly.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know yet, McGee. First I want to know every detail about the boat. How you looked, where you located it. What you did aboard. The whole thing.”

  He made me go over the part about the boat coming over from Yucatan twice. And he wanted every detail about the interior of the Sundowner, known then as the Lazidays. The exact position and condition of each body. The placement of the roll of fifties, and the spare fifties around the head of Howard Cannon. The shape and placement of the bruises on the thighs of the Peruvian girl. The clothing on the others. I closed my eyes and rebuilt the scene. It came back so vividly I could hear the lazy buzzing of the carrion flies, feel the sodden weight of my sweat-soaked clothes.

  “I got to think,” Browder said.

  He was a pacer. He frowned and paced and, with fresh drink in hand, made little grunts, mumbles and hand gestures.