Brubaker sat on the edge of a chesterfield. “Senor Ramero has personally engineered the shipment we talked about,” he said admiringly. “While the politicians were arguing and cutting throats in Guatemala, the senor calmly and efficiently raided their drug supplies.”
“We are talking openly,” Ramero cautioned.
Brubaker waved his glass expansively, “We’re making Sweeney a member of the firm, Senor Ramero. He knows too much, holds too many key cards for us to do otherwise.” He winked crudely at the other man as I tilted my head away to sip my drink. “Sweeney is holding some of our people for ransom, so to speak, and we are going to exchange a kilo of merchandise for their release. Additionally, I think he would be an asset to our organization. Don’t you agree, Senor?”
Ramero stared thoughtfully at the white haired man for a moment, then said, “I understand you, amigo. It is a wise decision.” Brubaker beamed into his glass.
“I could easily replace this tub of nerves,” I proposed, indicating the sweating Mortola. He half rose and Brubaker motioned him back. I added, “I’m surprised you tolerate hop heads in an operation this size, gentlemen.”
Brubaker frowned at the fidgeting Mortola. He said, “Frankie is a before and after picture. Originally, he had no use for drugs...”
I interrupted, “But you made them available and attractive, so he’d fall into the trap and your hold over him would be tightened. Like Ralph Booker.”
Mortola lunged off the chesterfield and I moved out of my chair quickly. Caught off balance, he steadied himself on the chair arm and straightened up, coming after me like an angry ape.
“Stop.” Ramero demanded in a voice so low it startled us. “Please sit down again, both of you.” He held a snub nosed 38 on us. We returned to our seats respectfully and he buried the gun somewhere inside his coat. “This is a time for words,” he explained briefly.
Chimes echoed in the deep foyer outside the library. Benny Lufts stuck his head inside the door. “They’re here, Eddie and Syd.”
“Tell ’em to bring the stuff in,” Mortola clipped. He cleared half the space on the cocktail table between the two chesterfields. My friends, Eddie and the bandaged Syd, entered. Eddie carried a small black satchel.
“You here, you bastard?” Syd thundered at me. The adhesive strips on his face reflected light and made his eyes look eerily chalked.
Eddie opened the bag and transferred five chamois pouches to the cleared space on the cocktail table. When he finished Brubaker said, “Now get out. Wait in the hall.” He turned to me and said coldly, “There it is Sweeney, five kilos of pure heroin, eleven pounds in all. It was originally destined for our candy maker, but now we will have one bag less.”
“Until you reach the bank in the morning,” I corrected.
I took a bag off the table and unwound the leather thongs which bound it. Inside the black, treated lining I saw the crystalline white mass, the tiny particles which transformed healthy men into degenerate cripples and swelled the cash boxes of perverted bloodsuckers. I retied the pouch and replaced it on the table, asked, “All the way from Guatemala?”
“Via airplane, pack mule, horse and truck,” Brubaker bragged.
Ramero grinned, “Followed by Cadillac.”
“Now for your end of the bargain, Sweeney. Where are Donaldson and his friend and the Booker girl.”
“I’ll take you to them,” I offered.
“We’re not fools. Tell us where they are and we’ll get them.”
“Mrs. Sweeney didn’t raise any stupid children either, Brubaker.”
Ramero stretched out his legs in the overstuffed chair. “We seem to be at an impasse,” he said calmly. “May I make a suggestion. Let Mr. Sweeney phone these persons and we will listen in on the extension. He can direct them here on a pretense. When they arrive we will complete the transaction.”
“I don’t like the idea of their coming here,” Brubaker said.
“It’s dark and foggy,” Ramero advised. “No one will see them arrive. It is the best way, I think. Mr. Sweeney?”
“I agree on one condition. I’ve got to be cleared on the Ralph Booker rap.” Mortola who had been sitting back listlessly, started as I spoke.
Brubaker hedged. “That wasn’t our agreement.”
“Take it or leave it. A hundred grand won’t do me any good with the cops looking for me.” Brubaker beckoned to Mortola and they retired to the far corner of the room and whispered at each other. When they were seated again Brubaker said, “Very well, Sweeney. The hypo Eddie used is in the glove compartment of the Buick. We’ll arrange to have him found with it after the deal is closed.”
Mortola had regained his bulllike poise and scowled self-confidently. I nodded agreement and went to the phone on the desk in the corner. Brubaker followed and picked up a second phone, flipped a switch on its base. His brows shot up when I called a Moraga number and Max Wendell answered.
“Hello, Max. How are my two clients?”
“Nice kids, Bill. They’re doing the dinner dishes.”
“Put Donaldson on the phone will you?”
Donaldson sounded excited. He asked immediately, “Is everything okay?”
I told him it was and gave him the Pacific street address. I said the police were here and wanted to ask him and Miss O’Rourke some questions.
“I’ll tear right over,” he shouted his relief.
“Don’t get picked up on the bridge for speeding,” I cautioned, hoping he would. It was eight-forty by my watch. The trip should take him slightly more than half an hour.
My next call was tougher. “Beckett Hotel,” a switchboard operator announced, as if she were proud of it. She rang Anne’s room several times before it was answered hesitantly. I gave Anne the address on Pacific street and asked her to come over.
“But you told me not to leave the room under any circumstances,” she said in a scared voice.
“There’s been a change in plans.”
“All right, I’ll call a cab. You’re sure it’s safe?”
Brubaker put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone I was using. “No cabs,” he said harshly. “Tell her to stay where she is. Tell her you’ll pick her up.” He removed his hand.
“Never mind, Anne,” I said. “Stay where you are, as I said. I’ll drop over there and get you.”
When I replaced the receiver Brubaker took a phone directory from a drawer of the desk and strode across the room to Mortola. “Your hooligans haven’t been able to follow Sweeney across a street,” he blurted out in a high voice. “Do you think they could do a simple job like going to the Beckett Hotel and picking up Booker’s daughter?” When the big man nodded, Brubaker threw the phone book in his lap. “Look up the address and get her then.” As Mortola left the room he wiped his forehead with a silk lapel handkerchief.
I returned to my chair and gulped the remains of my drink. Ramero watched me with bright eyes as Brubaker replenished our glasses. “A satisfactory conclusion to a hard day’s work,” he toasted. Brubaker snickered and raised his glass. I drank to that.
Mortola came back and stood glaring down at me, the big meat-hooks at his side clasping and unclasping spasmodically. “You’re all mine, Sweeney. I’m gonna squeeze that neck of yours till the apple pops out.”
“I must ask you to be seated again,” came from Ramero.
Brubaker barked, “Sit down, Frankie.”
Mortola turned sullenly. “Why wait? We got what we wanted.”
“Wait for the others,” Ramero told him drily. “You will have one big meal.”
Eleven
At five minutes past nine we heard the screech of brakes in the driveway. Mortola, peering through one of the French windows, said, “Foggy as hell out there. It’s the Buick.” He turned, adding, “They got the broad with ’em.”