Suicide Squeeze

22

Becker puffed her cigarette, knew she now had Samson’s attention. Almost everyone understood threats and money. The threats might become necessary later. Hopefully not.

“Let’s talk in the other room,” she suggested. “It stinks in here.”

Samson nodded, backed into the living room, keeping an eye on her. He was so wary. Again she sized him up. She could see the indecision and caution in his posture. He was acutely aware of his own ineptitude, a man smart enough to know he was in over his head. She made him nervous. Then again, Joellen Becker made a lot of people nervous. They’d taught her that at the Agency, how to make a man squirm with a cold stare. How to intimidate with a glance.

She followed him out, sat on the sofa, stubbed out her cigarette in a candy dish full of Hershey’s Kisses. Conner stood there, waited for her to get on with it.

“I’m going to level with you,” she said.

“Okay.”

“It’s a pretty good story. You might want to get comfortable.”

“I’m good.” Conner remained standing.

“You know what Teddy Folger did for a living, right?”

Conner said, “I know he owned a plaza and ran a comic-book store. It burned.”

“I work for the insurance company that paid the claim after the fire,” Becker said. “Folger reported that something very valuable had burned in the fire. It didn’t burn. He collected the money but still has this thing hidden.”

“That’s why you said it was something that doesn’t belong to him,” Conner said. “Okay. So what was it?”

“A one-of-a-kind, autographed baseball card.”

“This is about a baseball card? Are you shitting me?”

“I don’t have time to shit anybody, Samson.”

Conner asked, “So what happens now?”

“I’ve searched Folger’s house and this bungalow. No dice. If he was planning to skip the country, I’m thinking he has the card aboard the Electric Jenny. Show me where the boat is, and you’ll get paid.”

“Cash?”

“Of course,” Becker said. “As soon as I deliver the card to my employer, he’ll give me the money, and I’ll give it to you.”

“When?”

“A few days.”

She watched Samson turn the offer over in his head. He knew where the boat was, she was sure of it. What he was doing here in Folger’s bungalow wasn’t much of a mystery either. She’d told him Folger had something worth money.

“What card is it?” he asked.

“I told you, a baseball card.”

“I mean, who’s on it? The player.”

“Joe DiMaggio.”

Samson bit his lower lip, shook his head. “What’s it worth?”

She thought about telling him the truth, but only for a split second. He’d needle her for more money if he knew its real value. Samson wouldn’t settle for the two thousand. But he knew the card must be worth something. Why else go to all this trouble? “It’s autographed, and that makes it worth a lot. Twenty thousand.”

“For a baseball card? Now I know you’re shitting me.”

She drew the automatic from her shoulder holster, pointed it at Conner’s leg. “If you say that again, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”

Conner gulped. “Right. Sorry.”

“Listen, I don’t know why a kid’s baseball card should be worth that kind of money, and I don’t care.” She put the gun down on the coffee table, shook another Virginia Slim out of the pack, and lit it. “These hard-core collectors are crazy. They can get obsessed. But if some rich nerd wants to fork out for a slice of cardboard, it’s fine with me. You want a 10 percent finder’s fee or not? Two thousand bucks.”

Conner rubbed the back of his neck. He looked nervous and unhappy. “If I know where the boat is-and I’m not saying I do-but if I do, I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.”

Becker blew out a long stream of smoke, shook her head, and rubbed her temples like she was weary. Let Samson think he was playing hardball, wearing her down. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, Samson, you win. Fifty-fifty. But only if we find the card. Otherwise, no deal. You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

“I still have your phone number,” he said. “Let me poke around. I’ll call you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“Very soon,” Conner said.

“Don’t fuck with me on this, Samson. I’ll make you hurt.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

Becker said, “If I don’t get a call from you tomorrow, I’ll stomp you so hard, you’ll think that kick in the chops I gave you yesterday was foreplay.”

Conner said good-bye and left by the front door.

She sat, waited, finished her cigarette, and listened for Conner to start his car and drive away. She kept listening, but never heard anything. Had he walked? It didn’t matter. Becker wouldn’t be able to stall Billy Moto much longer. She needed Conner Samson to come up with something. Even if she paid him ten thousand dollars, she’d still be way ahead in the end. Ten thousand was chump change.

Or maybe she’d save ten grand and put a bullet into Conner Samson’s brain.