Shayne picked up the phone and held it out. “Call your connection. If there’s any conflict here, let’s straighten it out.”
Vega held up his hands. “That wouldn’t be procedure.”
“Lorenzo, will you use your head? You’re in a jam. If you thought up this stunt by yourself without checking in, I’m authorized to tell you that you’ll never see another penny of government money, and you’ll be called in immediately for a tax audit. If you’re one of those people who tell the exact truth on your Form 1040, don’t worry about it. But if somebody conned you into putting out that leaflet, there are still things you can do to deodorize. This isn’t much of a national emergency, but it’s an emergency for Lorenzo Vega. Call the goddamn number.”
Vega accepted the phone unwillingly. When the operator came on the line he whispered an area code and a number. She asked him to say it again, louder. Shayne had instructed her that all calls to area code 202 or 703-Washington, D. C., or Virginia-were to be put through to Tim Rourke at the Three Deuces bar.
“Hello?” Vega said cautiously when he heard an answer. “Red Tiger calling. Red Tiger, Miami.”
A voice exploded in his ear, and he winced away from the phone. He tried to speak, but Rourke overrode him.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I hope you will not withdraw your confidence. I assure you nothing like this will occur again.”
He hung up and turned aggressively on Shayne. “How can you people believe it was my private inspiration to organize support for Crowther? He is not congenial to me personally.”
“Lorenzo.”
“I will tell you a small sad anecdote. I have a potentially good business, importing and exporting with Latin America. I have correspondents in all parts of the continent. But I have been unlucky in my currency dealings. Delay is murderous for a man without credit. I see a chance for a profit in platinum, but it is held up, it is held up still, with the storage charges eating me up mouthful by mouthful. Some difficulty with the export license. And now I understand. U.S. Metals is also in the business of exporting platinum. Crowther and U.S. Metals are in each other’s pocket, if one can believe the newspapers.”
“I really doubt if Eliot Crowther knows you exist.”
“You think not,” Vega said stiffly. “I tell myself that coincidences happen. But sometimes, you know, these funny coincidences are not so funny. The amount of money involved is minor. But to me, a man who is not even on a small retainer from your agency any more, it is a matter of survive or not survive. Yet when I was asked, out of a love for democracy, to risk my neck for a man highly antipathetic to me, I did not hesitate.”
“Who asked you?”
“An individual calling himself Mr. Robinson,” Vega said bitterly, “because that is not his real name. The card he showed me was an excellent imitation of the real card. His rudeness was unquestionably CIA. I captured it on magnetic tape. I will play it for you, and you will see plainly that it was definitely not the idea of Lorenzo Vega.”
“How much did he pay you?”
Vega shifted, embarrassed. Shayne repeated the question.
“A miserly seventeen hundred and fifty dollars! Can you imagine? He wanted a special edition of my newspaper, but for various technical reasons that was impossible. I did as well as I could with leaflets. When I heard the sum he was offering I was nearly sick. In the old days I would receive that much every month or so for incidentals, and not be asked for an accounting. Except as a favor for an official agency of the United States government, would I involve myself in an affair that will almost certainly lead to shooting, arrests, hospitalization, for seventeen hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Was shooting part of the deal?”
“It was mentioned,” Vega admitted. “A small fusillade as an excuse to involve the police. As I say, a very good imitation of a genuine agent.”
“Who do you think he actually was?”
Vega flapped his hands. “I am at a loss to say! Shall I play you the tape? To the trained ear, perhaps he made some tiny mistake.”
“Not now. You’ve got work to do.”
“Yes?”
“You realize you’ve got to call this off.”
“But how can I?” Vega cried. “You mean publish another leaflet saying the whole thing has been a mistake? The community would laugh at me.”
“For the first time, Lorenzo?” Shayne said without sympathy. “How many people have you signed up?”
“It’s not that so much. It’s how many come out in response to the leaflets.”
“Nobody’s coming out in response to the leaflets,” Shayne said flatly. “You’ve been passing out money. Not much, probably, but some. I want to know how many you think you can count on. Start with Carlos. He looks like a broken-bottle fighter. How many others?”
“You must understand,” Vega said defensively, “that the climate in Miami right now is not favorable to a pro-United States position. As recently as a year ago I could mobilize hundreds, with a few phone calls. But everybody has jobs, they have become so materialistic. Lawn mowers. Washing machines.”
“How many?” Shayne said.
“Twenty-eight? I know it doesn’t sound like much, but twenty-eight experienced activists, properly dispersed, can set a much larger crowd in motion. To quote Napoleon, ‘Give me a corporal’s guard-’”
“All right. Twenty-eight phone calls. Tell them to stay home and watch the riot on television. In fact, if they stay home there may not be a riot.”
“I’ve already paid-”
“Don’t try to recover. That’s down the drain. They’ll be glad to earn money staying home. It’s less bloody.”
“Some were looking forward to it, you know. I ought to have a fund to dispense in case-”
“Lorenzo,” Shayne said softly, “if five of your people show up tomorrow, Internal Revenue is going to be looking for you, and I hope you believe I mean it. Don’t look so unhappy-people are talking about you again. You’re important enough to be bought. That’s better than nothing. Now let’s see how it sounds.”
A good Japanese tape recorder was concealed under Shayne’s dashboard, with pickup mikes planted at various places around the car’s interior. The playback was tied into the radio speaker. He moved a recessed dial built into the left side of the driver’s seat. The tape whirred. He reversed it, and Vega’s voice came out:
“His rudeness was unquestionably CIA. I captured it on magnetic tape. I will play it for you, and you will see plainly that it was definitely not the idea of Lorenzo Vega.”
“Very good fidelity,” Shayne commented. “Not everybody has such clear diction.”
“You do not surprise me,” Vega said wearily. “I made my tape of the spurious Mr. Robinson for the same reason, self-protection. Then I can expect no remuneration at all from you, even say five hundred dollars? One hundred?”
“Zero.”
“Past loyalties, I see, count for nothing. Now please tell me what I am to say when this Mr. Robinson, whoever he may be, asks me how he got so little value for his money?”
“You’d better keep out of sight for a while,” Shayne told him. “First I want that tape. Then get to work on the cancellation. When that’s taken care of, go to the Royalton Arms Motel in North Miami. I may or not need you. I’ll call in a few days.”
The phone rang between them.
“Do call in a few days,” Vega said. “It makes me nervous to think that people have forgotten me. I do rash things.”
“This time stay cool.”
The phone rang again. He picked it up.
A voice he didn’t recognize said, “Shayne?”
Shayne jerked his head, dismissing Vega, and waited till the Cuban was out of the car. He rolled up the windows and returned to the phone.
“Yeah, this is Shayne.”
“Tell me your car license for an identification.”
Shayne dropped his hand to the controls of the tape recorder, advanced the tape and opened the switch cutting in both ends of the phone transmission. By that time he had recited his license number.