Iris and Pope pushed past Varga, joined Artist. They examined the boy. “Goddamn…” whispered Iris. Pope said nothing.
Iris came out of the truck suddenly, took command. “We take the other three upstairs, put them away as planned, but we’ll have to get rid of this kid. You do it when you take the truck, Stevie-boy.”
“The hell with that,” growled Pope. “We’ve had the heap for hours now. Every car bull in town has got its make and number. Wheelin’ it is chancy enough. I don’t want no stiffs in the back end!”
“I’ll take him,” Artist said, moving out to the dock. “Help me load him into Varga’s car.” Artist was grinning.
Varga exploded: “Wait a minute! This changes everything! This—”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Iris said evenly. “So we dangle three plums instead of four. Damnit, I told you way back in the beginning, dolclass="underline" we could get as much mileage out of two kids as four. You didn’t listen, natch, because you had this plan, the master plan all laid out. Well, it’s slightly different now, baby, but we’re still going for the million! We’ve gone too far to turn back! Okay, let’s get the other three upstairs to their beds.”
“You stay here, Varga,” Artist said. “Keep an eye on the corpse. Don’t let anyone steal him.” He chuckled.
III
Varga sat on the edge of the loading dock. He was greasy with sweat and he felt disjointed. His heart beat hard, there was a weakness in his muscles and his mind raced.
Maybe he should split while he had the chance. His car was there, just to his left, just where he had parked it that afternoon as they had launched the kidnaping operation. The car was six years old, had dents and rattles, windshield splayed on the passenger side, but the motor was tuned, the tires new. The car would carry him north to New York, Chicago, Minneapolis.
And he had about a hundred bucks in cash in his pocket, his last dime. He could make it. He’d prefer to fly, of course, prefer to wing on his own — piloting a plane alone was the only time he ever really felt at peace with life and the world — but that was out. Unless…
Maybe he could find a plane at International, steal it.
No! The theft would draw all of the attention to him, free the others, just what he didn’t need. He’d drive.
He dropped from the loading dock to his feet, then discovered his legs wouldn’t work. He stood there, fighting a fierce inner struggle. The others still were upstairs.
Even if they heard the start of the car motor, he could be gone and free of all this before they reached the dock area. On the other hand, he was giving up an opportunity of acquiring a tremendous bundle of cash, a good life with the lush Iris in some faraway place — and his revenge.
He seethed suddenly. In his mind’s eye, he briefly relived the angry conference with Alexander Johnson, his immediate superior in the city Health Department, Johnson informing him he was being terminated from the city payroll and handing him a work evaluation report to show him why. Johnson had typed: “General incompetence, laziness.”
Now Varga attempted to blank his mind. The words hurt deep. His only wish was that Johnson had had a child. But Alexander Johnson was a bachelor.
Varga used his hands to hoist himself back up on the loading dock. The city of Miami was going to pay!
He heard the trio approaching from behind him. Artist said, “All of the kiddies are tucked neatly into bed, man. You still got my corpse?”
Varga held up the car keys without looking around.
Artist took the keys. “So let’s get him into the front seat. Prop him up just like he’s a drunken passenger. Who’s gonna know? This is wild!” He laughed.
Varga didn’t move. Artist and Pope loaded the dead Littrel boy. They propped his head against the window on the passenger side. Artist grinned and rubbed his palms in glee, then dashed around the car and drove away.
Pope snarled, “That kid’s nuts.”
“So he gets his jollies drivin’ stiffs around town. So?” shrugged Iris.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Varga.
Pope muttered an oath and leaped down from the dock. “Hold his head, cat, while I dump this heap.”
Porter “Artist” Bass kept the speed of the sedan under the posted city limits. This was wild! He wondered how many other people in the world could boast they had carted a corpse around town, a stiff propped up in the front seat, that is.
He laughed to himself, kept an eye on the street. Traffic was light. In a way he wished it were daylight and the traffic was heavy. Popped eyes staring at him from other heaps would be kicks.
He laughed louder, slapped the steering wheel. Maybe he should stop at a drive-in, order a burger!
Hey, cool it, man. Varga’s plan held potential. It cried of wild happenings to come. The payoff tomorrow, the plane ride. He’d never been inside an airplane. That might be exciting. Mexico! He’d never been to Mexico. And he knew Mexico would be exciting. He could sense it in his bones. The two hundred and fifty thou — his cut — it’d get him to Rio. Eventually.
Rio. Beautiful. He could sprawl in the sun and sketch beautiful things. No mugs. God, no more mugs. He had his gut full of mugs, detectives, informers, raped housewives, robbed bankers, slugged truck drivers leaning over his shoulder, telling him to remove this line, add thickness there, shape the eyebrows down just a shade more, the corners of the mouth up.
“There! There he is! My rapist! My robber! My hijacker! That’s him, officer! Right there on the boy’s pad! That’s the man who did it to me!”
Once he had thought being an artist for cops might be exciting. Dullsville. He’d retired after two months.
This was more like it. The real scene, man. Driving around town with a stiff propped up beside you. Wildsville.
But he had a hunch he’d better watch Pope. Pope would turn on anyone, make for a bad scene. Pope was a loner, an iceman. Pope might even be harboring ideas about knocking off the three of them, splitting with all of the mill.
Had to watch Varga too. Varga was nervous and frightened. He had a brain, all right, was a squirrel for detail. It showed in how he had everybody scoped, had all of the pickups laid out, timed perfectly.
But Varga was no good when things didn’t fall into place. The weakness had surfaced when Pope had laid on the kid and killed him. Varga had gone bananas for awhile, and still was walking on nail ends.
Iris? Write her off. Iris was going to end up in a grave, with or without her cut. Yeah, she and Varga might split together, go off to the mountains somewhere, but nobody was going to keep Iris in the mountains. Iris would come down out of the hills and flaunt herself before the masses.
Eventually, someone was going to come out of those masses and kill Iris. It might be passion, rejection, jealousy — hell, her killer might even be Varga. Maybe he should stick with Varga and Iris for awhile. Maybe he’d get the opportunity to haul a stiff Iris to her grave.
How sweet that would be!
He laughed again, braked for a red stoplight. Okay, time to conjure. Where to drop a corpse? No rooftop, no alley. Too gauche. He needed to spark someone’s life tonight, provide a jolt.
Like to that old couple standing there on the curbing, gaping at him. They had the green walk light. Why didn’t they walk?
Ahhh. They had lamped the stiff propped against the side window glass. Maybe he should get out of the car, offer them the corpse to take home.
IV
Mike Shayne, private detective, was involved with the memory of a frightened, desperate, end-of-the-road, would-be bank robber. Shayne dallied with an after-dinner cognac, cupped the small glass in his hand and absently swirled the amber liquid around.