Before leaving the garage, he unlocked the reinforced trunk of his Buick and took out a small waterproof case. He opened it to be sure everything he needed was still there.
“This is the Ponce de Leon thing?” she said quietly.
“Finally. And I hope it’s not a bad time for you, because I want you to stay close to the phone.”
“I haven’t made any dates I can’t call off. The freezer’s full of food. I won’t answer the phone when it rings. You’ll let it ring twice and hang up. Then you’ll dial again and let it ring twice more and hang up again. That means you want me.”
“That means I want you in a hurry.”
“Mike, did you ever wish you were in some different business, not quite so risky?”
“What?” Shayne said absently, fitting a lump of plastic explosive carefully back into a built-in pocket in the case.
“Just making conversation,” she said.
He tightened the waterproof overlap and zipped up the case. Liz’s boat was a low-slung twenty-four-foot sport fisherman, painted black with white trim, named the Wanderer. Shayne stepped down into the cabin.
He took his wet-suit and oxygen tanks from the diving locker. Before pulling on the wet-suit, he buckled the waterproof case to his belt. Then he went over the plan again step by step, while Liz nodded seriously.
She kissed him briefly. He put on the mask.
He switched over to oxygen and slipped into the water. He felt along the hull until he found the two handholds he had bolted to the planking, a foot below the water line. He rapped the side of the boat, and submerged.
The diesels turned over. Liz backed out of the slot and headed across the bay at low power. Presently Shayne heard the rush of traffic as they passed underneath the Venetian Causeway. A few moments after that she killed the engine. When the boat was nearly motionless he heard, or felt, a rap from inside, and he pushed off at a right angle.
They had rehearsed this. He went down to ten feet and swam in a straight line. He had been released forty feet off shore, slightly to the west of the De Blasio dock. He swam more cautiously when he saw the bottom coming up to meet him. The pull of the tide carried him to the left. He was able to make out a shimmering piling.
Three boats were usually docked here. Just beyond, an open-decked racing boat, a sleek, potent twenty-footer which looked fast even tied to a mooring, was kept in a closed boathouse. A black shadow in the water, Shayne swam beneath the dock and into the boathouse, where he surfaced silently.
He waited a moment before unclamping his face plate. When he was sure he was alone, he pulled himself out of the water.
He peeled off the wet-suit and hung it under a yellow foul-weather slicker. He hid his waterproof case in an equipment drawer, after removing a.38 revolver and a tiny two-piece listening device.
Hearing footsteps on the gravel outside, he went quickly to the building’s single dirty window, his hand on the gun.
He was seventy-five yards from the main house, but he could see only one corner of the terrace and part of one wing. Musso Siracusa passed, heading for the garage. He was walking quickly, his head down, and he had put on dark glasses for the short walk in the sun.
Two of the garage doors were down. The third slot was occupied by the gray Cadillac that had brought them from the airport.
Sarah, Shayne had been told, had been taken to the apartment over the garage. His eyes narrowed as Siracusa went into the apartment entrance. Shayne left the boathouse, slipping on his own shades as he came into the bright sun.
A gardener was watering the shrubbery in the distance. No one else was in sight.
Lighting a cigarette casually, Shayne went into the garage. It would be a bad place to be caught, but he needed to hear this conversation.
He lowered the garage door from inside. The pickup portion of his listening device consisted of a compact unit no bigger than a cigarette package, with a suction cup at one end, for pickups through hollow-core walls, and a thin spike at the other. He tied the earphone into the terminals, tightening the screws with his thumbnail. Stepping up on the Cadillac’s front bumper, he forced the spike through the plasterboard ceiling. When it met resistance he tapped it with the butt of his revolver.
He listened.
Nothing came through. He moved to the next car, also a Cadillac, and picked a different spot in the ceiling.
This time he heard the click of high heels. Sarah’s voice said, “This person named Skeets or Skeeter, he’s not anybody, is he?”
Siracusa answered, “One of our kids, he’s O.K. He stays in line pretty good. He was supposed to keep an eye on you so nothing happens.”
Sarah: “That’s what I thought. I wanted to say this to somebody who can take action on it. Can I get you some coffee?”
Siracusa: “I can always drink a cup of coffee.”
Sarah: “It’s made.”
Shayne, below, unreeled more wire and stepped down. He crouched in front of the Cadillac’s grille, ready to yank the spike out of the ceiling and slide beneath the car if anybody raised one of the garage doors.
Sarah was speaking: “What I really would like is a little Irish whiskey in this. I don’t suppose you want to go back and get us a bottle.”
Siracusa: “Hey, it’s eleven A.M. in the morning, lady. We’re in the middle of a crisis here; I’ve got to keep a clear head on my shoulders.”
Sarah: “I was thinking of myself, primarily. I didn’t get much sleep last night, about twenty minutes in all.”
Siracusa: “So sleep. What’s to prevent you?”
Sarah: “And miss out on a chance at some money? No, thank you. I need compensation for the wear and tear. What’s Musso short for — Mussolini?”
Siracusa: “Are you trying to be smart or something? It’s what I was baptized, after an uncle.”
Sarah: “Right. Here’s what it is, Musso. I’ve got something for you, but I want to be paid for it. I’m thinking of something in the middle four figures. Five or six thousand. I realize it’s a fluid situation.”
Siracusa: “What is this?”
Sarah: “Wait. I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours with Mike Shayne, and that qualifies me as a short-term expert. I know you’re interested in the same subject…”
Siracusa: “In Shayne?”
Sarah: “Baby, you’d better be interested in Shayne, because he’s interested in you. Musso, I’m an outsider. I don’t know the chain of command. How high can you personally go, in terms of dollars, for something that could save you considerable grief?”
Siracusa: “It depends on what I’m buying. Don’t believe the goddamn newspapers, that we’re all of us billionaires. We’re feeling the pinch, like everybody. Now, what the hell? It happens there are things popping, and I’ve got to get back.”
Sarah: “Musso, we have to come to an agreement on a price range first. Relax. Don’t be so tense.”
Siracusa: “You’d be tense, sweetheart, if you had what I have.”
Sarah: “No, seriously, if you go on picking me up on everything, I’ll have to talk to somebody else. You can’t spare the time? Excuse me for bothering you. At this rate, you’ll have a heart attack before you’re fifty. I think I’ll rub the back of your neck for a minute.”
Siracusa: “What am I, some kind of fag? Keep your hands off me. I don’t go for that crap.”
Sarah: “There. Lean your head back and go with it. This is going to help you think. Like that. Do you feel the tension slipping away?”
Siracusa: “I guess. Can you finish?”
Sarah: “I have to unbutton your shirt, to get at those muscles, but don’t be alarmed. Nothing more. Don’t interrupt. I won’t tell it all at once. I’ll hold something back until I see some money. You think Mike Shayne is coming apart at the seams, don’t you?”