The Delta Factor

7

Daybreak was the deathwatch of Nuevo Cádiz. Down stairs some of the habituals would still be drifting between the tables, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and their minds blurred with too much alcohol, but the rest of the world outside had buried itself, like Count Dracula, away from the morning sun. Across the stillness a rooster crowed shrilly, and annoyed at the lack of response, did it again.

I had awakened abruptly, fully conscious of being on the couch with the.45 warm in my hand. It had been an automatic reflex developed from years of waiting and watching, of hearing even when your brain was deep in the black of sleep. Inside the closed door of the bedroom I heard Kim toss restlessly, but that wasn’t what had awakened me.

Then I heard it again, the slow tread of footsteps going past my door, the fractional hesitancy when they were directly opposite it. I slid off the couch, cocked the.45 under my arm so the click would be inaudible and crossed to the door in my stocking feet.

I waited, listening, then yanked the door open and jumped through it, the rod in my hand swiveling with my body, and I crouched to cover both ends of the corridor.

Nobody was there.

As quietly as I could, I ran to the elevator, tapped the button and heard the slow whine begin from far below as the car inched upward toward me. Whoever had been there didn’t use the elevator. There wouldn’t have been time for it to make the trip. But the stairwell was handy and the door still hadn’t fully closed on its hydraulic cushioner.

Maybe I could have been getting spooky again, but somehow it didn’t just have that feeling. I got back to the room before the elevator reached the landing, closed and locked the door and went back to the couch. All I could think of was that there were more games being played in Nuevo Cádiz than the ones downstairs.

A little before noon I heard the shower going and knew Kim was up. I let out a silly laugh because I knew a lot of ice had to be thawed before the tension was off the spring, so I did the same bit with the door lock she had done with Lisa’s and let myself into the bedroom.

When I stepped into the shower with her she let out a stifled scream and would have slipped on her butt if I hadn’t grabbed her. “So shoot me with the soap,” I told her.

“You… get out of here!”

I squirted a mouthful of water over her. “Don’t talk like that to your legally wedded husband, sugar. You might get your tail paddled.” I took the soap from her fingers and began scrubbing her back. She tried to get away all right, and yelled a little, but what can a dame do when she’s trapped in the shower by her husband anyway?

The ice cracked, but didn’t thaw.

When I threw her a towel she deliberately turned her back, but I didn’t give a hoot about modesty and whistled while I dried, flipped the towel over her head and walked out to get dressed. A screwy marriage like this had to have some compensations.

I didn’t hurry at all. I loafed my way all the way into my shirt and tie before she finally gave up and came out with the towel wrapped around her like a sarong and stood there, daring to make a move.

“Sexy,” I said.

“Shut up and get out of here. I want to get dressed.”

“Rape or seduction, honey?”

“Neither.” Her voice was like a knife.

“The game’s getting rough, isn’t it?”

“You warned me once,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

I looked at her and I wasn’t smiling any longer. Very softly I told her, “I know it won’t. It will never happen again. Not that way, my beautiful wife. The law allowed me certain privileges. Normal male ego imbues me with certain desires I might be challenged to fulfill. I’m wondering how it works the other way around.”

“You’ll never know.”

I finished knotting my tie. “Oh, I know, honey. I’m curious about how long it’s going to take you to know.” I picked the.45 from the dresser, checked the load automatically, put it on half cock and stuck it in my belt. Then I looked at her in the mirror and said, “Things are beginning to jell out. Let’s get the show on the road.” I left her there and went back to the living room and turned on the radio. The tail end of a weather broadcast mentioned a tropical disturbance building up five hundred miles southeast of us that had possibilities of developing into a hurricane.

She was able to play the game without any trouble. We were tourist imports fresh enough to find things interesting, but jaded enough to steer clear of the traps. Kim and I had sensed the tails the minute they had picked us up when we left the hotel, the one behind us and the two in front of us. It was a team operation and when they broke off to let another pair do the shadowing we grabbed them too and made it easy for them.

I had gotten a map of the local layout from the desk that laid out the tourist attractions, and we hit each one systematically and in bored fashion, not spending too much time sight-seeing, but relieving the strain by popping in and out of the bars that fed on the trade. At least our tails were enjoying the hike if they were on an expense account.

All I wanted to do was establish a pattern.

By four in the afternoon the early floor shows broke out their tired strippers and worn-out jokes and we spent more time in these places than any of the others. By the time we had hit the Orino Bar it was almost an accidental stop and not a deliberate one, but we made a show of studying the menu pasted on the window, decided to try the local food and went on in. It was the first time we had eaten all day and the two mock drunks behind us in the white suits the businessmen wore were glad to see us pick a table, sit down and order.

The Orino Bar wasn’t like the others. From all appearances it was an established institution patronized by the residents. Native stone and timber had gone into its construction and time had weathered it until it had a flavor of old Spain itself. The waiters were elderly and gracious, the single bartender across the room a heavy-set man with an archaic white moustache and two medals pinned to his jacket. When he walked he limped, and when he looked, he watched. His eyes barely touched us, then focused on the pair in the white suits, hardened a little until he caught the direction of their seated positions and watched us with another degree of interest.

And now the pattern had to be set.

Three drinks for me did it. I insisted the waiter have one with us, sent another to the bartender who mixed them so admirably and waved back his thanks when he saluted me with his drink. A little old man sitting by himself over a bowl of chili got a bottle of wine that lit his face up with a multitude of “gracias.”

Then the show came on and the pattern was formed and I was getting drunk. They thought.

A four-piece orchestra had set itself up to the left of the small stage, a soft combo that lent a Spanish flavor to every piece it played. After the third number I sent them a bottle of champagne and got a “thank you crazy American” smile from all of them.

There were only three acts, a tenor soloist, a mediocre magician who relied more on his dirty jokes than on his feats for the applause, and a fiery, dark-skinned blonde blues singer, named Rosa Lee, with a body so fully in bloom it looked about to burst. She wore a two-piece halter and full skirt outfit, and when she whirled in tempo to the music the skirt flared out to show the loveliest pair of dancer’s legs I had seen in a long time.

This one the crowd didn’t want to let go and Kim and I were finished dinner and went into another round of drinks while she was still going.

And then she went into an old number called “Green Eyes.”

Kim saw my sudden interest and leaned toward me. “What is it?”

“Our contact.”

“How do you know?”

“The song. Art Keefer and I use it as a recognition signal. Something left over from the war when that band of us were working behind the lines.”

“Nostalgia?”

“No,” I said, “just habit. It’s one of the things you never forget.”

Kim gave me a small smile. “Your Rosa Lee was never in any war. She couldn’t be over twenty-five.”

“Art has her set up here for his own business.”

“And would that be something like yours… stealing forty million dollars?”

I could feel my jaws go tight. “Knock it off, Kim. What he does is his own business. I told you he had nothing to do with that job.”

“Tell me about the others.”

“I thought you checked them out,” I said nastily. “Your Intelligence figured him for being killed, so they can’t be too damn bright.”

“Perhaps they never had any reason for suspecting otherwise.”

“They didn’t. Art just prefers it that way.”

“Two others were reported dead too,” she insisted.

I reached for my drink and put half of it away before I said, “Carey got it in an explosion. There wasn’t enough left of him to identify. Art and I saw him go and they had to take our word for it. Malcolm Hannah couldn’t outrun a train on a bridge he was blowing and went down with the wreckage and a couple of thousand other bodies in the Nazi troop movement.”

“And Sal Dekker?”

“Caught and imprisoned in a concentration camp. Tortured but was unable to reveal any future operations because we never knew about them until we were briefed prior to their execution. He escaped, got tangled in a land mine, was badly hurt, but lucky enough to be rescued by some friendly farmers and turned over to Allied forces just as the war ended. He spent a few years in an Army hospital, then went to Australia.”

“So you could have had help,” Kim said. She wouldn’t let the thing alone.

“Not Dekker, sugar,” I told her. “He was the only one of us who truly hated the whole business. We enjoyed every minute of it. All he wanted to do was be a farmer. He’s got that now.”

“But that brings us back to you.”

“How about that?” I said.

On the stage Rosa Lee had come to the end of her routine in a burst of applause. I waved the waiter over, showed him the magic in a ten-dollar bill and asked him to invite the little lady to our table for a drink.

The bill went into his pocket while he told me that ordinarily the performers didn’t share the guests’ tables, but since the señorita was present it would possibly be all right and went away to get her. All the booze I had been buying for everybody else made the request look like a standard American habit anyway, so watching Rosa Lee hip-swinging to our table didn’t come as a surprise. Another two bottles of champagne to the orchestra kept them playing happily and loud enough to drown out our conversation.

“Rosa Lee,” I said. “My wife Kim, and I’m Morgan… Winters. Sit down. You were pretty good up there.” She tucked her skirt under her and slid into the chair I held out for her.

“Drink?”

“Manhattan, please.”

I passed the order on to the waiter and toasted her with my glass. “Liked your song ‘Green Eyes’ up there. Nice style.”

Her eyes came alive. “Really? Strange that you should enjoy such an old number.”

“I have a friend that likes it too. Art Keefer.”

“I see.”

The waiter placed her drink in front of her and she tasted it, approved, and took a bigger sip. I said, “Has Art alerted you?”

“Yes. What is it you need?”

“Access to a radio transmitter.”

“I live at 177 Palm Drive. A transmitter and receiver are installed in the area over the garage in the back. Anything else?”

“Information from the States. A check on a dead woman named Bernice Case. Have Art contact Joe Jolley, who may have something on it by now. Tell him it’s urgent and to expedite. Got it?”

“Clear.”

“Now, is there any word going around about Victor Sable?”

“The one in the Rose Castle?” Her face drew into a serious expression when I nodded. “It isn’t wise to ask questions about that one. For some reason he is in a special section under maximum security, a new place just built.”

“How would you know?”

“A guard… a cousin of a friend of mine. He was drunk and boasting one night and mentioned it. This Sable… he is important enough to be under the personal attention of Carlos Ortega. All the guards in that section are personally responsible to him.”

“I’ll want somebody who knows about the new modifications to the prison.”

Rosa thought a moment, then bobbed her head. “There is one who can be bought. The cousin of my friend, a Juan Fucilla.”

“That could be trouble. If we could buy him he could sell out to somebody else.”

“Only at the risk of his life, señor. He will be made to understand that.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it. Set up a meeting with him as soon as possible.”

“Tonight? Say ten o’clock?”

“That will be fine. Where?”

“Perhaps it had better be at my house. By then I will have contacted Art Keefer with your message and the transmitter will be available if you wish additional information.” She paused and studied my face. “The Rose Castle, señor… it is virtually impregnable.”

“How tight is the security?”

“Impossible to break without a direct attack by heavy forces. Even then, they have orders to kill Sable if such a thing occurs.” She looked down at her hands as if studying her fingers. “Tell me, is this the reason why you are here?”

I said, “Yes,” and Kim’s hand tightened on my forearm in warning. I shook it off gently. “Rosa’s on our side, kid. We can’t play this in the dark.”

Rosa agreed with a nod. “You are… agents?”

“Of a sort.”

“This is a priority mission?”

“Top.”

“We will do everything possible if it means we may be able to overthrow this regime.”

“How many people have you got available?”

“Key government people are in hiding. About two dozen are trained and experienced in the military phases of what may be done. We have deliberately kept the force small to avoid infiltration and for mobility. The people, of course, cannot be counted on until there has been a definite success by our group, then they will rally. At the moment they are kept in fear by Ortega’s mercenaries.”

“And the Commie influence?”

“They are waiting. We are not yet important enough to risk an international incident, but if they can move in subtly, they will, of course. Ortega has been cultivating them.”

“When are you planning to move?”

Rosa’s smile had a wry twist to it. “Whenever a situation arises that will unite the people and force the dictatorship out. That is why we are willing to cooperate with you.”

I nodded. “We’ll try to give it to you,” I said. “One other thing… Art Keefer train your military group?”

“Personally.”

“Good. I know his routine. I figured as much.”

“One thing more, señor. You are being watched at this moment. They are Ortega’s men under the command of Russo Sabin.”

“Yeah, I know. I hope they enjoyed their dinner.”

She stood up then, shook hands with us both and walked away smiling, saying hello to some of the regular customers on the way. For another half hour I played the good-time Charlie, left a fat tip for the waiter and paid the bill. On the way out I swayed a little, said so long to everybody around, laughed at their good-natured replies and even went to the trouble of including Ortega’s men in the fun and watched them smile back uncomfortably.

Outside, we caught a cab and when I leaned back against the cushions Kim looked at me curiously and said, “What’s the matter?”

“There was something funny back there.”

“Oh?”

“I made a big enough ass out of myself to get everybody looking at me.”

“You succeeded admirably.”

“Not quite.”

Kim frowned and waited.

“One made quite a point of not looking at me,” I said.

They had done a better job of shaking the room down this time. Both pieces of thread I had used on the suitcase to tell if it had been opened were seemingly untouched, but they had missed the third gimmick, a tiny splinter of metal on the lock itself that was straightened out when it was flipped up.

Kim waited until I lifted the leather facing on the bottom of the suitcase and extracted the Miami bankbook and the safe-deposit-box key before she asked, “You think they found them?”

“Sure they did. They’ll duplicate the key and forge my signature.”

“If it was too easy they’ll begin to suspect something.”

“I doubt it,” I told her. “We haven’t been here long enough to stash something away with any degree of surety. The bag was specially made to hold this stuff and it was a good stunt. Ordinarily, nobody would have uncovered it.”

“At least it will give us a little more time if they fall for it.”

“We can’t afford to wait, baby. Don’t play these guys down. Ortega will have me hooked good when he finds out this is a decoy.”

“How do you plan to move?”

“I’ll know in the morning. Tonight I’m going to see this Juan Fucilla and get the new layout of the Rose Castle and find out what’s turned up on Bernice Case. You’re going to stay here…”

“I am not!” she exploded.

“Knock it off. You’ll do what I tell you to. This is supposed to be a honeymoon and newlyweds don’t go prancing off all the time. There are other things expected of them.”

“But…”

“I’m taking another exit out. Nobody will see me go out or come back. If anyone checks this room I want somebody here. If they ask for me, tell them I’m indisposed.”

Her expression was a little too calculating. “Don’t try taking a powder, Morgan.”

I slammed the suitcase shut and stood up. Before she could protest I had her in my arms and tilted her face up with my fingers and kissed the end of her nose. “With a bride like you waiting for me? Hell, I’m looking forward to my husbandly due.”

A call to Angelo brought us two magnums of champagne and an oversize plate of canapés to precede the supper I ordered. If there was a watch on our activities the indications would be that we’d be spending the rest of the night in the room behaving as a honeymooning couple should.

Without asking questions, Angelo described the way to get out the back entrance with the least risk of being seen. It involved a circuitous route used only by the hotel engineer and maintenance personnel, ending with an exit through the building that housed the central air-conditioning unit.

A foxy little smile creased his face when he finished and he added matter-of-factly, “You are here for something good, senor. That is so.”

“Don’t make me admit it.” I grinned at him. “I have a reputation to protect.”

“Yes, I know of that. It is more that I can sense a person’s motives. Perhaps because I am of no consequence people pay no attention to a bellboy. I can study them at my leisure and understand their compulsions. I have reason to hate many people, señor. In Nuevo Cádiz I have opportunity to see and study the most extreme types.”

I looked at him a little surprised. “Coming from a bellhop…”

“A university-graduate bellhop, senor,” he said simply. “Student of political science. Someday, perhaps…” and he let it drop there.

I nodded. He didn’t have to say any more. Angelo was one of the little ones held in readiness. Carlos Ortega was grossly underrating his opposition. He waved off the bill I offered him and left with a polite little bow.

Kim’s voice had no trace of antagonism in it when she said. “You have the touch, Morgan. How do you reach those types?”

“Why?”

“Because they trust you.”

“Don’t you?”

She looked at me a moment, her face bland. “I have to, don’t I?”

“Not necessarily. Why should you?”

“That’s what annoys me,” she said. “There’s no patriotism behind your actions. There isn’t even the motivation of having your prison sentence reduced. It’s only a game to you. You’re enjoying yourself. You’re being Morgan the Raider again, spoiling everybody else’s pie. That’s it, isn’t it?”

I swung around and picked up my jacket. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the only one who hates you enough to understand it.”

“Don’t push me, baby.”

“I’ll push you as far as I want to.”

“And one day that will be too far for you to reach me,” I said.

Before she could answer I was out the door, heading for the service exit Angelo had described.

He had chosen the route well. Only twice did I see anyone, a maid and one of the room-service boys, but neither spotted me and I got into the basement, followed the line of blue lights that barely illuminated the passageway to the outbuilding, felt my way past the humming machinery that threw a waterfall onto the roof overhead and found the door that led outside. It had a one-way latch, so I gimmicked the tongue of the lock with the cover from a matchbook so I could get back in and stepped out into the darkness outside.

Somehow everything smelled different this night. It was like those other nights overseas a long time ago when the sense of smell had greater implications than the simple tasting of odors. You could smell an abstraction then, a danger that hovered in the air like a live thing. I could smell it now too. It was too nebulous to define, but it was there. It wasn’t as real as those other times, not as sharp or as imminently deadly, but it was waiting like a slow-acting poison and barely discernible.

I stood in the shadows, watching the other shadows. For thirty minutes I was motionless before I was certain I was alone, then I picked my way into the stream of pedestrian traffic, got off the main street and walked until I spotted a cab disgorging its passengers and waved it down.

Earlier I had checked the city directory and picked a spot two blocks from Rosa Lee’s house. I gave the driver directions in his own dialect and he made a U-turn and drove off with barely a nod. Ten minutes later he pulled to the curb, took my fare and let me out.

Her house was a simple frame affair set back in a jumble of weeds that sprouted among the trees, the single lighted window hardly visible from the street. I picked my way up the path, waited until the headlights of an oncoming car had swept by, then climbed the rickety porch and knocked on the door.

Inside, the light went out before I heard the latch click and the door open. I said, “Hello, Rosa.”

“Come in, Senor Morgan.”

She pulled the curtains closed before she turned the light back on and I had a chance to look around. Shoddy as the place was outside, the woman’s touch showed here. Rosa caught my casual glance and said, “We who live here are not permitted many luxuries, señor.”

“The casino operations should eliminate taxes,” I told her.

The shrug she gave me matched the cynicism in her voice. “Señor Ortega prefers to keep the people subject to his will. That way his occasional gratuities make him seem like a benevolent person.”

“You should have done something before this.”

“Have you noticed the military?” she asked derisively. “They were field hands, the uneducated, criminals. Now they are in positions of authority and carry out Señor Ortega’s orders to the letter. There was a parallel in Germany when Hitler first took over.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She watched me closely. “Perhaps their time is at hand.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Did you contact Art Keefer?”

“Yes. He will be monitoring the frequency right now. I gave him your message.” She looked at her watch. “I suggest you call him immediately.” She turned on her heel and glanced back over her shoulder. “This way, please.”

The transmitter was a cleverly contrived affair some master craftsman had built into the hand-hewn beams that supported the old carriage house she referred to as the garage. It was so carefully concealed it would have taken a team of pros a week of working a specific area search pattern to locate it, and even then they’d have to have luck on their side. The manually extended antenna rose through a core in the beam and power was supplied to the unit through the house current. Rosa indicated the four supposedly beatup storage batteries haphazardly scattered around and told me they were on full charge for emergency use in the event of a power failure. Old car parts and a few discarded wheels gave the place an authentic appearance of an unused garage in case of a cursory search.

I switched the set on, dialed the frequency and turned up the receiver. “No longer than five minutes, señor,” Rosa advised. “The government keeps a full crew monitoring the channels. We can’t afford to have this position triangulated.”

My hand waved the okay and I fiddled with the dial to break through the static, then picked up Art on the old Kissler code. Rosa listened, a frown on her face, not understanding what I was saying, nor would anybody else, but Art got it, all right.

“Morgan,” I said.

“Go ahead, kid.”

“You reach Jolley in New York?”

“Affirmative,” Art said. “You started something up there. The guy’s shaking in his shoes, but he came through.”

“What’s the pitch?”

“All he did was nose around trying to pick up something on Bernice Case and Whitey Tass. Someplace along the line he made inquiries about Gorman Yard and the squeeze started. Joey Jolley recognized it as coming from Whitey Tass and right now he’s ready to cut out. He has something more, but he’s holding out for protection. I had to play it by ear, so I clued him in on how to get to me. If he makes it I’ll hold him here until you can speak to him.”

“Did he say what he knew?”

“He hinted at it,” Art told me. “Seems like he knows why Gorman Yard was bumped off.”

“Damn!” I exploded.

“He’ll be lucky if he can dodge Whitey Tass. I reached a couple of my own contacts who told me something has Tass excited enough to call in all his troops on this movement. Now, where do I go from here?”

“Get Jolley and hang onto him,” I said.

“Will do. Things okay there?”

I caught Rosa’s signal of tapping her watch impatiently and said, “Shaping up. I’ll call back.”

“Roger and out,” Art told me and switched off. I cut the power, flipped the dial off the frequency and put everything back the way it was.

Outside, the smell was just the same. The thing was there. I closed the door and turned around. “Juan Fucilla,” I said.

“In a few minutes,” she said. “It was difficult, but he will be here.”

“Sure?”

“Positive. He smells money.”

“What did you tell him?”

Rosa looked at me with a knowing little smile and said, “Money, of course. The love of which is the root of all evil.”

“Who am I supposed to be?”

“One of the many persons interested in supplying forbidden items to the inmates of the Rose Castle. It is a flourishing business here, señor.”

“Anything specific?”

“The usuaL Tobacco, alcohol, narcotics. The smuggling of messages. It is a, profitable arrangement for the guards.”

“If they’re caught?”

“Nobody bothers to investigate. It is the accepted way of things. Corruption breeds corruption. Since everyone is involved it is unlikely that they are interested in upsetting the system.” She glanced impatiently at her watch again. “He is due here momentarily.”

As if on cue, a heavy hand banged on the door. Once again, Rosa doused the lights, admitted her visitor and turned the lights back on again.

Juan Fucilla was a short, swarthy man in his late forties, with a shifty, predatory expression creased into the folds of flesh around his eyes. There was a touch of official impertinence in the way he acknowledged the introduction and slid into a chair. He pulled a silver case from his pocket, studiously ignored me and poked a vicious-looking black cigar between his thin lips and lit the end of it.

“Now, señor,” he said, “Rosa tells me you have business to discuss.”

I let a good ten seconds pass before I answered him so he’d get the message. At the end of it he licked his lips nervously and fidgeted with the cigar. I said, “If I have to go over your head, forget it.”

His smile of assurance was as quick as it was phony. “You have to look no further, senor. I can make all arrangements…”

“What’s the bite?”

He started an eloquent shrug but I cut him off. “Don’t give me any crap, buddy. I’m not here to dicker. Just lay it on the line. If I like it, maybe I’ll go for it. If not… there are other ways.”

My tone wiped the indignation out of his voice. He shrugged again, this time with resignation. “Usually it is fifty-fifty, señor…”

“But this time it will be sixty-forty with me on the big end.”

“But señor…”

“When I take the risks I get the big chunk. Once the deal is made and anybody tries to pat me down I guarantee they get hurt. This isn’t amateur night. Now, do we take it from there?”

Fucilla grunted through his cigar smoke and nodded. “You drive a hard bargain, but perhaps it can be a profitable one after all.” He looked at me through narrow eyes. “You can supply what is necessary?”

“Anything,” I told him. “What’s in demand?”

“At the moment there is a shortage in certain… narcotics. Other markets bring higher prices, so naturally there is a shortage here. If you can arrange…”

“Where does the money come from?”

His fake smile held a lot of meaning. “Most of those in the Rose Castle are political prisoners, señor. Naturally, they come from families of wealth who have since left for other areas. However, they do pay for… shall we say, requirements of those who were left behind?”

“The picture’s clear. One more thing. How were they addicted?”

He didn’t try to shake it off. He gave another of those shrugs and said, “As usual. They believed medicine was being administered. It is necessary to keep them so from becoming politically active again.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now give me a rundown on the clientele and the distribution.”

He didn’t bother to analyze my question. Instead, he simply rattled off names that didn’t mean anything to me until he included Victor Sable, told me that distribution was taken care of by the guards, the payoff going to the ranking officers, with the biggest cut reserved for Russo Sabin. Payment would be made on delivery of the shipment, with collections going through Russo’s office well screened by a lot of paperwork. No questions would be asked and for agenting the deal Fucilla got 5 percent of my end.

I took my time before I said, “The cut’s steep enough. It’s easy to see why you have a shortage of the stuff here. Not many other guys would want to buy in on the deal.”

His little eyes glinted at me. “Not unless they have a rather unusual source of supply.” His fingers stroked the cigar and spun it around between his lips again. “Perhaps you do.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

“Ah, then we can do business,” he said pleasantly.

“Maybe.”

“There is something else?”

I nodded. “I don’t like setting myself up for a target. If there’s money behind those guys in the Castle and one. of them kicks off, there’s enough money to buy me a casket. Hot-tempered Latin types with close family ties hold a grudge a long time. They could buy my name and get me picked off and that I don’t like.”

Fucilla frowned, watching me closely. “So?”

“So I want to see those clients personally. Healthy addicts I can supply. If they’re ready to kick off, forget it.”

“I can assure you…” he bristled.

“Balls,” I said. “I see it for myself or it’s no deal. I can make out someplace else. It happens that I’m here and I can clear a nice profit, but I want to live to spend it. Dodging some contract killer those families could hire isn’t up my alley.”

Fucilla thought it over a moment, then bobbed his head. “In that case, we would demand assurances too.”

“Like what?”

“Your ability to deliver and the quality of your merchandise.”

“Fine,” I told him. “You’ll get a sample to analyze with a full shipment available immediately after I see who’s getting it.” I paused, then: “Now, do I import openly or use my own methods?”

His smile had a little humor in it. “I suggest, señor, that you adopt your own ways. Our present government must put on a front, so to speak; therefore they are against the traffic in narcotics and will not hesitate to confiscate what they find for the sake of publicity. However, I can mention that they are most lenient in their approach to prevention of such events.”

“I take my chances, is that it?”

His shrug was eloquent. “We all take our chances, señor.” Then he added brightly, “But we are all alive, no?”

“For now,” I said.

“Very well. When shall we… how do you say it? Get together?”

“I’ll need two days.”

“And the contact point?”

“The bar at the Regis Hotel.”

He nodded, then let his eyes drift toward Rosa Lee. “Promptly at six. I go on duty an hour later. And her?”

“I’ll pay her a finder’s fee myself. She’s not on percentage. ”

“Ah, very good,” He got up, his official arrogance back once again, bowed curtly to Rosa and shook my hand with a quick limp motion. “It has been a pleasure, señor.”

Rosa darkened the house again, let Fucilla out and stood at the window watching him disappear into the night. Without turning around she said, “You are doing a dangerous thing, Señor Morgan. They will be expecting a delivery.”

“They’ll get it.”

She turned slowly and her face was a pale oval in the gloom. “Morgan…” This time her tone had changed and I knew why.

I said, “Only the sample, Rosa. It’s my way into the Castle. Like you said… the smell of money. They’ll do anything for it.”

“And by this means, you will be able to extricate Victor Sable from the prison?”

“I hope so.”

“Can I be of further help?”

“Yes. Contact Art Keefer and tell him his friend needs a pat on the back.”

“But…”

“He’ll understand. It means two ounces of pure heroin. We called it that when we used it for currency in some strange places in the old days.”

I saw the outline of her smile. “You are a very odd person, Senor Morgan.” She walked up to me and I could smell the wild, flowery perfume that was like a part of her. Very gently she placed both hands on my chest. “Someday I would like to know you much better.”

“Maybe…” Then I stopped because her hands moved quickly and did something so unexpected it stopped the words in my throat. Her face blurred as it tilted up to me, the gentle movement of her fingers a jarring sensation. It wasn’t a kiss, just a momentary dart of her tongue before I could move, then she stepped back.

“Yes, we Latin types are very hot-blooded and it has been much too long for me. Much too long.” She held out her hand and I took it without realizing it. “Another time, Morgan. Now you must leave. There is much to be done.”