His voice was very soft. “I see....”
“You can’t be the only one around here who notices things. Someone else on the hotel staff must have seen him. Or anyway there’s a hell of a chance of that.”
Nodding, the boy said, “I understand, señor.”
“Be discreet, son.”
He grinned. “That is the way of the world at any hotel.”
After he took the elevator down, I walked back to my room and stretched out on the bed.
A couple of things were pretty obvious.
Luis Saldar’s operation had one big goddamn leak in it. So far seven adults were in on the hardcore facts of this particular junket, and if one or more of them hadn’t tried to tap me out directly, they could have tipped somebody else to it...either by accident or design.
The other obvious factor was this: somebody wanted me dead bad enough to put a hurry-up job like this botched hotel room bombing in motion—meaning there would be another try. Maybe with more care, next time.
Or maybe not.
Either way, all I had to do now was make myself available for next time, and be ready for it.
Well, here I was.
I fell asleep thinking, jarred from sleep twice because some odd little piece about Jaimie Halaquez and his seventy-fivethousand- buck haul kept rattling around loose; then finally I fell into a fitful doze...
...until an insistent tapping jolted me awake, and I sat up with the .45 in my hand.
When I reached the door, I yanked it open and the bellboy was staring down the hole in the muzzle of the gun with a shocked expression, a real ay caramba moment, though he didn’t say it.
Then I yanked him inside, eased the door shut, and shoved the rod in my belt.
“Sorry, amigo,” I said.
He nodded, feeling for his voice. “Looking down that gun barrel, señor, is a most uncomfortable feeling.” Little beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.
“No shit.” I checked my watch. In another half-hour the sun would be up. “It’s getting late, my friend. Or early. Not quite sure which.”
“Either way, there is still time.”
“For what?”
He licked his lips nervously and patted his forehead dry with his sleeve. “The old one, the porter you spoke to?”
“Yeah?”
Slowly, his eyes crawled up my face until they were meeting my own. “He is in a closet near where the explosion happened. He is quite dead, señor. Someone has broken his neck for him...very expertly, I would say.”
I said, “Damn,” very softly.
“His body, it is cold and...and stiff. I do not know much about such things, but I know enough to say it must have happened some time ago. Perhaps shortly after you talked to him in the hallway.”
“You haven’t reported this?”
“Just to you, señor.”
“If you hadn’t found the body, who would be most likely to discover it?”
He didn’t have to think about it. “In the morning, the maid whose equipment is in that closet, she would find him, maybe. Or perhaps the police, when they come back to investigate more in that blown-up room. That is why there is still time for you to leave, señor.”
“How did you come across the dead guy?”
“I was trying to find out things for you. I went to his room first and he was not there. The old one never goes out at night. I had hoped to speak to him. He is like a ghost, that one. He could watch, he could spy, and no one would notice —an old man in a menial position, he is invisible. Until his death, at least.”
“What do you mean, kid?”
“Whoever put him in the closet failed to close the door tight. I went back to the hallway, where we were earlier, where the explosion room is? Looking for the old man. I notice that door, it is...what is the word...ajar. So I open it, only to close it better, harder, and then...there he was.”
I waited a second, watching him close. “And you haven’t spoken to anyone about this?”
“Señor!” His tone was sharp, his eyes wide. “The maid, let her do the discovering. I know nothing of this, should anyone ask...but it is important that you know.”
I gave him a smile and squeezed his arm. “Thanks, amigo.”
“What does it mean, señor, this death? This...murder?”
I shrugged. “Probably that the old boy was paid to plant the gimmick. Maybe that’s why the timing was off. He didn’t know enough about setting the mechanism, and it blew early.”
“But to kill him...why? Surely he would never talk to the police, and risk arrest for himself.”
“Nobody was worried about him going to the cops. Whoever set this in motion, they know I’m still alive...and were afraid I’d get to him.”
“Señor...you must go. Before the body is found.”
I fished out the roll of bills Saladar had given me and peeled off a hundred-dollar leaf.
“Enroll in some courses on me, amigo,” I said.
“This is not necessary.” His eyes were glittering. “But I am very grateful.”
“Back at you, kid.”
He thanked me again and slipped the C-note in his pocket.
I glanced at the roll of bills again, found a ten, and handed it to him with a grin. “And check me out, would you? I like to keep my bills paid up.”
The parents of Magruder Harris had optimistically overnamed their offspring.
Magruder had grown up to become a bail bondsman who was never known by anything except Muddy. Whether
Muddy’s folks were proud of him, or alive or dead, I had no idea. What I did know was, the beach house and the matching set of Caddies he owned, a convertible and hardtop, hadn’t come out of the interest he charged on his bonds.
To the right people, Muddy was known as a fixer and information source par excellence. His eyes and ears—and that filing cabinet mind of his—had cornered a unique market on contacts, and if the price was right, what you needed to know would be for sale.
Heavyset but not fat, well dressed but not flashy, with fleshy features and a comb-over that wasn’t fooling anybody, Muddy sat behind a battered mahogany desk, feet propped on top, his cloudy blue eyes peering at me around the thin tendril of smoke from the butt that swung from his lips.
I said, “Long time, Muddy.”
He barely nodded. “Morgan.” The cigarette shifted to a corner of his mouth seemingly of its own volition. “Wondered when you’d be around.”
“News travels fast.”
“Always has and always will,” Muddy shrugged, and took a drag on the cigarette.
My watch said it was a little after nine. Outside the night had tucked the city under its blanket. I’d spent the day holed up, sleeping, eating, and making phone calls, all in a room at a hotel picked out by nobody but me. I asked him, “Working late?”
“Nope. Just sitting here expecting you.”
“Why?”
“You called Kirk in New York, he called me, so I waited.” He paused a second, then added, “It has been a while, Morgan.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Long time between scores.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I’ll say.” The cigarette was almost down to his lips, so he plucked it out, pinched it, and tossed the stub in a wastebasket. “Kirk was plenty happy to hand you over to me. Right now you’re too hot for anybody.”
“So, then, I shouldn’t let the door hit me on the ass on the way out?”