But on the Nuevo Cadiz mission, Morgan the Raider had been raided. One of the five men who had made up my crew in the war—when we took down those two armored cars and created the template for the money-truck heist—had been “vacationing” on that island, trying to make a deal with the government for laundering the loot. And I had turned up unexpectedly in his midst.
He was dead now, my old friend, his head blasted apart like a melon by my .45 slug, and any further details about exactly where the forty mil was stashed had gone away in a spray of gore.
Maybe my old friend had found one of Morgan’s places of safekeeping. One thing, that hiding place—whether in a cave or some old building or the remnants thereof—had most certainly been found after all these years, considering how many treasure hunters had gone looking. Surely it had been empty when my pal found it. Somebody would have been there long before him....
And once my pal stowed the forty mil there, anybody searching for the first Morgan’s treasure might have already have stumbled onto Morgan the Raider’s treasure—the treasure that could clear my name.
Meaning that place of safekeeping might be empty again. People just don’t pass up forty million in beautiful U.S. currency.
At least my pal would never spend another dime of it. My old buddy was good and goddamn dead, but if he only knew what was going down now for his old buddy, he’d be laughing his balls off, because my army buddy had wanted me dead in the worst way. He tried to make it happen several times... only I got him first.
How’d you work it, Old Buddy? Like Hitler? Ol’ Shicklgruber had his submarines booby-trapped, so that no matter how many years after they were sunk, nobody dared touch them, because they’d blow up in their faces. They were still at the bottom, prizes of war, their locations marked SECRET and left alone for the sea to swallow in due course of time, maybe with a minor upheaval and some surface turbulence when one blew; but with nobody around to get hurt, at least. You do it that way, pal? When I finally find the loot, will it blow up in my puss? Did you...?
“Morgan!” Gaita’s voice had a sharp ring to it, cutting through my thoughts. “We are ready.”
I stood, uncomfortable in my clothes. “Sorry, kid. Just reflecting.”
“At the wrong time, such reflection, it can get you killed.”
“So can not reflecting at all,” I advised her.
The briefing they had given me on the real Boyer covered him being a professional politician from an upstate county, a pol known for his indiscretions and peccadillos, but with enough votes in his pocket to keep him affluent. His sexual preference was young, dark-skinned girls, preferably of Latin ancestry, and he frequently visited Miami to patronize establishments that catered to his special tastes...and his former showgirl wife was known to just as frequently have to haul his drunken tail out of said establishments.
The real Mrs. Boyer was more than a little protective of her current position in life, afraid that she might lose that position to some enterprising sexpot who could cut the pudgy pol loose from any family ties the way the current Mrs. Boyer had the former Mrs. Boyer.
Apparently the woman had gone to certain lengths to avoid anybody recognizing her on these missions of wifely mercy, staying swathed in veils and always coming in a taxi; but her blonde hair and stripper’s body had always given her away. Not much of a disguise was required for Tami to fit the role.
The taxi was supplied by a friendly Cuban exile driver. I played my part with my head down, doing a stumbling drunk act, careful to keep my face averted to avoid more than a casual scrutiny. Tami did the rest, and nobody paid any attention to us.
Luck was on my side again: we made our exit on a night when the Mandor had a particularly high-profile clientele in the house. If the cops had elected to pull a raid, they would have had one hell of a time in court, trying hard to find a judge who wouldn’t have to disqualify himself as a friend and associate of any of these potential defendants.
Already the thing was almost put over. The taxi cut through the streets, heading toward the western section of town, and for some reason I got that funny feeling again. A long time ago I learned not to ignore it—a tightness at the back of my neck, and a clammy feeling there, my jaws clamped so tight, any more pressure would chip my teeth.
It wasn’t intuition. Not exactly. And it wasn’t fear or nervousness. It was just this thing that had become my best friend.
Call it instinct, or maybe luck again, whispering in my ear like a tender lover.
I said, “Pull over at the corner.”
The driver nodded and began slowing down, edging toward the curb.
Tami looked at me curiously and said, “But we’re not near the Amherst Hotel yet.”
“I know. But I get out here.”
“That is not the plan.”
“I know, kid. But I get out here—okay?”
She swallowed. Nodded. “What about the clothes?”
Even while she was saying it, I was busy shucking off the coat and pants that had been liberated off the doped-up politician. I got into the stuff Gaita had bought for me, the same gray jacket, black sport shirt and gray slacks, and I made sure the .45 was in place in my waistband.
Then I told the driver to take Tami and his heap back to where he had picked us up.
The hooker’s face in the rear window was tense with worry, her fingers splayed against the glass. I blew her a kiss that got a tiny smile out of her.
Then I walked the other eight blocks.
As I came around the corner, I got a great view of a pyrotechnics display that must have rivaled anything Miami pulled off on July Fourth.
I flinched, but that was all, as I watched the nearest side of the Hotel Amherst blow apart in a shower of brick and glass that decorated a huge orange ball of flame and billows of charcoal smoke.
Cars screeched to a stop, some pedestrians froze and screamed and others ran and yelled, and I moved through them toward the hotel like a sleepwalker, stepping over burning rubble. Sirens were just kicking in as I entered the building.
Not much later, I learned that four people had died in the explosion, and that room 409—where I had reservations under the name of R. Sinclair—had disintegrated.
What the hell. I decided to check in, anyway.
Surely they had other rooms available.
CHAPTER FIVE
The lobby had only the faintest tinge of smoke, the explosion happening several floors up and on the other side of the building.
I had to stand in line behind flustered, frightened guests who were hurriedly checking out, businessmen mostly but a few couples, hauling their own luggage. I carried an empty suitcase that had contained the change of clothes I was wearing now. The process was slow, because a guest inventory was under way, which would be tricky to execute, because anybody who happened to be out for the evening would start out on the M.I.A. list.
A frazzled-looking group of guests who apparently hadn’t decided to check out (at least not yet), some in bathrobes, all with wild eyes, were clustered among the plump chairs and potted ferns while a female hotel staffer threaded through, checking their names off a list.
The missing would not include the Mr. Sinclair who was supposed to have occupied the room, because he hadn’t checked in yet. And nobody would blame him, either, for taking one look at the smoke-bleeding Hotel Amherst and turning around to go looking for another place to stay.