I Come to Kill You

16

At the door, his back to the others, Shayne pulled off the stocking mask and tossed it aside.

Leaving the hotel, he walked past the waiting Imperial and continued to Collins. At the first intersection, he stopped to let the big car come abreast.

“All taken care of. Tell the Don.”

He left his exposed film at a photo finishers on the mall. He was known here, and for an additional ten dollars they agreed to start work on it right away. This was a process that couldn’t be hurried, and he took a cab to the Collins Avenue garage, where he picked up his own car.

Before leaving the garage he took a cigar and a small receiving set from the locked box in the back seat. He attached the receiving set to his telephone antenna, and tied it into the tape-recorder unit under the dashboard. He examined the cigar carefully and put it in his breast pocket. The only one of its kind, it contained a miniaturized microphone and transmitter, encased in a metal cylinder and professionally wrapped with the best leaf tobacco. It had been custom-built for Shayne by Hugh MacDougall’s Justicia Foundation, at considerable expense. In tryouts, it had worked perfectly at a distance of three quarters of a mile. In practice, as Shayne knew, these miniaturized devices had a tendency to go bad when they were most needed, and he used them as seldom as possible.

Finding an outside booth, he called MacDougall’s number.

“Well, Mike,” MacDougall said briskly, “I thought you’d want to know that we found the bundle you left for us. We needed a helicopter, but Gentry waved them off as soon as they spotted the stain.”

“Has he agreed to keep it quiet?”

“Until six tonight.”

“Six is too early.”

“Well, that’s his deadline, Mike, and I had to talk myself blue to get him to agree to that. Your name came into the conversation, unfortunately, and he isn’t entirely rational on the subject of renegade private detectives. He choked and sputtered. And he didn’t like the insinuation that De Blasio has a pipeline into his office.”

Shayne swore. “If he releases that story at six, I stand a good chance of getting killed.”

“That’s what I told him, and got a very nasty laugh for an answer. The body’s locked in his car. It comes out at six, and gets the regular homicide treatment.”

“Hugh, six o’clock would be the worst possible time. You’ll have to tell him a little more. Have you got a copy of that contract we signed?”

“Yes, do you want me to show it to him?”

Shayne said reluctantly, “He’ll think he’s been made a fool of so I can draw down a big fee. You’ll have to persuade him to put his personal feelings aside. This could be the hottest homicide of his career. Here’s a way you can get his interest — the body in that tarp isn’t run-of-the-mill. It’s the Don’s consigliere. Musso Siracusa. And the point to make is that if he holds off till I give him the go-ahead, he can nail Carl De Blasio for the killing.”

“The son?”

“Yeah, and this time there’s an eyewitness. But if Gentry or anybody else fouls it up, the eyewitness will be too dead to testify.”

“Put it like that, and he’ll have to agree.”

“If he listens. He may not feel like listening. He can be a mule.”

“Leave it to me,” MacDougall said. “If you can handle these hoodlums, I should be able to handle one overweight police chief. He gave me a small piece of news — a minor strongarm at the St. Albans casino has been killed. He’s a De Blasio second cousin, a little retarded.”

“I’ve been expecting something to happen down there. That’s where they’re vulnerable. I’ll get back to you before six.”

Hanging up, he returned to the photo shop. His pictures weren’t ready, but as an old customer he was allowed into the second-floor lab to wait. A dark gum-chewing girl was processing his order. She checked one of the negatives on the viewer, and nearly swallowed her gum.

“You’re a technician,” Shayne said. “A picture’s a picture.”

“We can’t print this kind of negative! It got us in trouble last year.”

Shayne showed her his private detective’s license. “It’s a skin-flick operation. The lady’s brother hired me to put them out of business before they’re raided, and with these pictures I think I can do it.”

“What a liar. All right, Mr. Shayne. Keep an eye out, and let me know if you see any plainclothes-men.”

Shayne chose the negatives he wanted enlarged, and watched the scenes re-create themselves in the pan under the enlarger. He became impatient quickly, and left before some of the prints were dry.

He drove north and crossed onto Normandy Isle at Seventy-first Street. The condominium that Bobby Burns had taken over was a new Moorish-style building around a central court with a swimming pool. Shayne parked, blocking the driveway, leaving his motor running.

He saw an unshaven face at a front window. After a moment a burly man with a recent sunburn came down the front walk and unlocked the narrow gate. His face was unfamiliar to Shayne, but it was a familiar type.

“You’re sitting in our driveway,” he pointed out.

“I’m looking for an angle guy named Burns. Some friends of mine in Jersey told me he was down here, and I’ve got some pictures to sell him.”

“You’ve got some pictures to sell him?”

“I’ve got some pictures to sell him,” Shayne agreed. “But I don’t want to talk about it out here on the street. And I know you don’t want to let me in until you’re sure he wants you to let me in. So I’ll show you a sample. You haven’t heard about this yet.”

He selected one of the still-damp prints. It showed Marcello Marti, in undershirt and high socks, facing the wall with a gun at the back of his neck. The man gulped audibly and put out a hand for the picture, but Shayne moved it away.

“Tell Bobby what I’ve got.”

“He’s going to want to see these.”

He told Shayne to park. Shayne backed into an open space on the other side of the street, switched on his little radio receiver, and locked the car carefully. He took out the cigar, bit off the end, and lit it as he entered the building.

Three men were waiting in the entrance lobby. One was Valenti, the security man from the St. Albans casino.

“I see you’ve been traded,” Shayne commented.

“No percentage in sticking with a loser. Put your arms out, Shayne.”

He was relieved of the pictures, and Valenti took them into a downstairs apartment. Shayne had left his gun and knife in the car. The other men made a small pile of everything else he was carrying. Then he was told to take off his clothes.

“Come on. Let’s not overdo this.”

“Bobby had a bad experience with the FBI once. The goddamn agent had a mike taped to his belly button.”

“They’re bastards,” Shayne agreed.

The cigar in his mouth, he undressed. Everything came off, including his socks, so they could look between his toes. Valenti came back.

“He’s clean,” one of the men reported.

“Snap it up, Shayne. Bobby wants to know where those pictures come from.”

“I shot them myself. What does he think, I hired actors?”

He dressed quickly and finished buttoning his shirt as Valenti took him into the living room of the ground-floor apartment. It was clearly a bachelor encampment. There were several mattresses in the room, three or four chairs, a card table, bottles, cigarette butts, the remains of TV dinners.

Bobby Burns was short, no more than five-six, even with lifts in his heels, but very muscular. His frizzy black hair stood out around his head as though it carried an electrical charge. He was bare from the waist up, with several tattoos. “Born to Raise Hell,” said a message on his arm.

Shayne’s photographs were laid out in sequence, starting with the one-sided lovemaking and ending with Marti on the floor, clearly dead. Burns motioned to the photograph showing Skeets about to fire.

“Who’s the shooter?”

“One of the Don’s boys. Skeets, they call him. A kid.”

“What’s this, a hotel room or where?”

“A hotel room. It won’t be reported right away. They ditched the body, but I don’t know where. I wasn’t in on that part of it. All I was doing was carrying a gun.” He grinned. “And a Japanese camera.”

“You private eyes,” Burns said flatly. “You’d sell your own grandmother.”

“I’ve done it often.” He shook the ash from his cigar. “Do you have anything to drink around here? Your boys took my flask because it might be a forty-five pistol in disguise.”

“Just being precautious.”

Burns offered him a pint of cheap blended whiskey. Shayne winced at the label, but took it and drank. He brushed magazines and newspapers off one of the chairs and sat down.

“I saw this kid Valenti in St. A. What did he do, wipe out one of their guys before he took off?”

“That’s the condition,” Burns said briefly, sitting down.

“It’s pretty crude stuff, Bobby, considering that everybody’s trying to live down that old image.”

“I don’t worry about that crap.”

“It’s like checkers. You take one. De Blasio takes one. It gives the media jerks something to talk about, and the cops get excited and close down the crap games. I’ve got a better suggestion.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Which will cost you money.”

“What else is new?”

“When I say money, I do mean money.” He looked thoughtfully at the glowing end of his cigar. “Because you realize I’m right in there. They love me on that island. I’m in a position where I can do you some good.”

“Tell me more about that, and we’ll talk price.”

Shayne shook his head. “The other way around, Bobby. I’m wondering how serious this is with you. Are you down here to make a nuisance so they’ll buy you off, or do you want it all?”

Burns, very erect, very cocky, snapped, “I’ll settle for the Beach. That’s for openers.”

Shayne nodded. “For openers. I thought so. That’s what the Don thinks, too — that if he made an agreement with you, you’d keep it only as long as you felt like it. You know you won’t get a hundred percent of the Beach by negotiating, because that’s where the money is.”

“Are you spokesman for anybody?” Burns said sharply.

“No, I’m the wild deuce. But I had a long talk with the man this morning.” He dismissed De Blasio with a gesture. “Nothing much there anymore. The organization stinks. And without Siracusa—”

Burns leaned forward. “What do you mean, without Siracusa?”

“An accident at sea. He went for a sail with the kid, and didn’t come back.”

“You mean with Carlo?” Burns said incredulously.

“Yeah, it surprised everybody. So how does that leave them for leadership? The old man, a kid out of college, a couple of nervous has-beens like Larry Zito. Soft and slow. It’s my judgment that they can be taken.”

Burns came to his feet, his muscles rippling, and took several strides toward the front windows, turned, and came back. He kicked an empty beer can out of the way violently.

“You’re positive about Siracusa, he’s definitely out of it?”

“Hell, I’m the one who wrapped him in the tarp and committed him to the Gulf Stream.”

Burns made an attempt to control his mounting excitement. He stretched like a cat, and sat down.

“Siracusa. There was one son of a bitch it was a good idea not to fool with.”

“So what you’d better do,” Shayne said, “is forget these small fry and go for the Don himself.”

“That’s common sense. But you know he’s going to stay on that island. He’s got it fortified like Fort Knox.”

“And if you want to knock over Fort Knox,” Shayne said, “you blow it up from inside.”

In spite of the exciting ideas in the air, Burns was exercising isometrically, lacing his fingers in front of his chest and trying to pull them apart.

“If somebody could blow up that main house…”

Shayne shook his head. “Most of their guns and ammunition are in a room over the garage. I know where I can put my hands on a chunk of plastic explosive and a detonator. It would make a nice loud bang and scare everybody.”

Burns studied him. “You could really do that?”

“All I have to do is go into the garage and reach up.”

“When?” Burns demanded.

“Tonight would be a good time. Four of your guys have seen me here. I’m sure they’re all honest and loyal, but I could be blown with a phone call.”

The hoodlum’s face and shoulder muscles were knotted with concentration. “How do you see this? You set off the bomb…”

“You’re out in the bay in a couple of power boats. There’s a floodlight system along the water, but don’t worry about that, I’ll pull the main switch first, and then detonate. While they’re running around wondering what the hell happened, your guys come ashore. I can let you have some aerial photos and a survey map. You don’t want to get involved in a fire fight if you can avoid it. I’d advise you not to hit the Don, but grab him. With any luck you can be back in the boats in five minutes.”

“How many men would we be up against?”

“I’ve only seen about eight or ten, but don’t go by me. You want to get in and out before they know what hit them.”

“You know, it could work,” Burns said in a low voice. “In five minutes. You’re sure that bomb will go off?”

“Sometimes they don’t, but that’s your signal. If nothing happens, call it off and go home.”

Experience told Shayne that this kind of proposal required a minimum of three repetitions. He explained it to Burns again, went back to his car for the photographs and ground plan of Ponce de Leon, and explained it once more, this time with two of Burns’s advisers in on the discussion.

Finally Burns said, “Now, money.”

“I’m asking fifty. Half now, half if it works. And that will be it. I don’t want you to do me any favors after you take over. If you meet me in a restaurant, don’t say hello. If I think I can get you busted for anything, expect me to try. I’ve had a bad run lately, but this is going to put me on the other side of the line. I only want one thing out of you besides money.”

“What?”

“I need to bag somebody for the Meister killing.”

“Why talk to me about it?” Burns said cautiously.

“Because I’m making it part of the deal. Everybody knows it was bought by the Don, but none of the regular pigeons have turned in anything specific. Give me a couple of names to start with. The cops are sore at me for one reason or another. Sore at me — hell, they want to strip me to the buff and run me out of town. If I can come up with an arrest on that and give them the credit for it, maybe they’ll forgive me. I need it. If a couple of the Don’s boys go over for it, why should it bother you?”

“There’s only one thing wrong,” Burns said. “That was our hit.”

Shayne was holding his cigar on his knee, the microphone pickup inside the leaves pointed at Burns’s chest.

“The hell it was.”

“I’m telling you.”

“You did everything on it? Who made the phone call?”

“I did. You’ll have to think of some other way to get square with the law. That one’s going to stay unsolved.”

Shayne shrugged. “You won’t have enough action for all the Don’s moochers, as well as your own people. If you feel like throwing me a couple when you settle, I’d appreciate it. We could put together a case, and you’d get off to a better start with the cops. It’s your smart move. Just remember, work it through me.”

Burns shook his head slowly. “I’ve heard about you, Shayne. You’re really something. You know that?”