Contraband

53

Max stepped into the interrogation room where Al Dix sat, glumly scratching himself.

“Well, Dixie,” Max said, sighing. “Here we are again. Who’d a thunk it.”

“Did somebody call my lawyer?”

“Do you have one on retainer these days?”

“Yes, but I can’t remember his name.”

“Well, if you called the guy who pays you, he could probably help you with that.”

Dix brightened for a moment, then resumed his previous mien. “Nah.”

“Then I take it you do not wish to have an attorney present at this little tête-à-tête?”

“Nah.”

Max pushed a form across the table. “Then read and sign this statement to that effect, and I’m all yours for the duration.”

Dix cut her a sly glance. “I wish.” He signed the form without glancing at it.

“Now,” Max said, “I have some life-changing news for you.”

Dix’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Yeah?”

“Let me elucidate: not life-changing for the better.”

Dix thought about that, then looked glum again.

“The whole thing is busted up.”

“What’s busted up?”

“The smuggling ring that has kept you in booze these many weeks is being dismantled. Your airplane has been seized by the feds, the shrimper is being towed into Naples, its skipper and crew are under arrest and the cargo will be impounded on arrival at the dock. The FBI is chatting with the boat’s owner as we speak.”

“Two things: It’s not my airplane, so who gives a fuck? And if you’re doing so great, what do you need me for?”

“Did I mention that we’ve turned over your current apartment and found your safe? Your cash has been seized as ill-gotten gains. And, as I’m sure you know, the FAA frowns on felony arrests among its certified pilots.”

Dix rested his forehead on the cool, steel tabletop. “Jeez,” he said.

“Exactly. Now, how would you like to hang on to your freedom and the cash?”

Dix lifted his head and gazed at her questioningly. “Can that be done?”

“All that is my gift,” Max said. “A whisper into the shell-like ear of the D.A. and you’re back on your barstool at the Lame Duck, maybe even with a valid pilot’s license.”

“Who do I have to kill?”

“A few mosquitoes,” Max replied.

“How do I do that?”

“You tell me how you got involved in this ring. You start at the moment you were recruited, and you give me every name you heard from day one to the present, leaving out nothing and no one.”

“I walk?”

“Just as soon as I’m convinced you aren’t lying to me or holding anything back.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know. How fast can you talk?”

“Okay, deal,” Dix said, holding out his hand to shake.

“When I’m convinced,” Max said. “So start talking, and don’t leave anything — anything — out, especially names.”

Dix took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, I’m sitting on that barstool you mentioned, having a breakfast beer, and a guy sits down a couple of stools away, and—”

“Describe him.”

“Taller than me, but almost everybody is. Six feet or better, black hair, slicked back, clothes that were probably expensive but looked cheap — oh, and blue alligator shoes.”

“‘Blue alligator shoes’? C’mon.”

“I shit you not. Lace-ups.”

“Go on.”

“He says to me, ‘I hear you fly light aircraft.’ I says, ‘I fly all kinds of aircraft; if it’s flyable, I can fly it.’”

“No bragging, Dix.”

“You want a blow-by-blow here?”

“All right, go on.”

“He says, ‘How’d you like some regular work?’

“I says, ‘How regular?’

“He says, ‘Two, maybe three times a week.’

“I says, ‘Do you speak money?’

“He says, ‘Five hundred a day.’

“I says, ‘I get two hundred an hour.’

“He says, ‘A thousand a day, and that’s it. All cash, though. No taxes to pay.’

“I says, ‘Where do I fly and with who?’

“He says, ‘A round-trip with two landings.’

“I says, ‘Landings where?’

“He says, ‘On water, then back to land.’

“I says, ‘In what?’

“He says, ‘In a nice, fairly new Cessna.’”

“What was his name?” Max asked.

“Chico.”

“Chico what?”

“Chico Who Cares. He gave me a grand in cash.”

“How did you contact him?”

“Cell. Throwaway, buy ’em at Publix. He gave me one with his number in it.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. I made twelve, fourteen flights, then I damaged a pontoon and dumped it into the water. I think that’s where you came in, right?”

“Then what?”

“A few days later, I’ve got a new Cessna, nicer than the one before. We continue.”

“Tell me about the boats you met at sea.”

“First stop was an old cabin cruiser, but fixed up, you know? Cubans are good at fixing up old cars and boats.”

“The crew was Cuban?”

“Oh, yeah; choppy English. Maybe twenty-five miles off Havana.”

“And at the other end?”

“A shrimper, Lucy Ann, always the same one. American.”

“Names?”

“The skipper was Carl. I heard the crew call him that. The owner was aboard once.”

“His name?”

“Mister, ah, mister something.”

“‘Something’ doesn’t cut it, Dixie.”

“Williams — no, McWilliam.”

“Why was he aboard?”

“I think he just wanted to see how it all worked.”

“Tell me more names.”

“I heard him mention two: Hedger and...”

“C’mon, Dixie.”

“I’m thinking. No, it’s gone. It was a famous name, like an artist’s.”

“Am I supposed to guess?”

“It’ll come to me.”

“Make it come to you faster.”

“Who makes them little floating things?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, them little floating things that folks hang over kids’ cradles to keep ’em quiet, you know?”

“Mobiles?”

“That’s right!”

“The name was Mobile?”

“Naw. I saw one in an art gallery once, with the artist’s name on a card in the window. It was fucking expensive, too.”

“Alexander Calder?”

“That’s it! Not the first one, the second one.”

“Just ‘Calder’?”

“That was the name Mr. McWilliam used.”