“Yeah, didn’t I say that? But that’s not the big news.”
“Do I have to buy you more pie before you spill it?”
“Naw. I’m just having the one piece...that bring-yourown- whips-and-chains party on Palm Beach? At that rented mansion? It happens tonight.”
I sat forward. “You know this how?”
“I have ops staking out the area, like you requested. They have this very day seen hookers streaming into that joint like ants to a picnic. These are not your run-of-the-mill chippies —real beautiful pieces, and word is, they are specialists. Domination. Bondage. The whole ball-gag bit.”
“Coming from out of town, you think?”
“Oh, no question—some, anyway. There aren’t that many of this specialized type of sex worker in Miami.”
“And the Consummata herself?”
He shrugged, patting his comb-over in place. “Well, we don’t know for a fact that this is the Consummata, Morgan. It just fits her M.O., is all. And how would I know her if I saw her? Other than she’s a well-preserved old broad, by all accounts. I mean, she wears a leather mask and the whole nine yards. You know, the Lone Ranger or Zorro, they got nothing on her, and they don’t have tits.”
“What if I wanted a blueprint on this mansion?”
He didn’t bother hiding his smugness. Both his grin and tone conveyed it. “I’m ahead of you, Morgan...but it’ll cost you a thousand.”
“What do I get for it?”
“How about floor plans? Also, the position of the dock off the back lawn, if you should want to show up by boat.”
“Done.”
The fleshy face creased in a smile and he pushed the cleaned plate aside, just as the waitress was coming by. She snagged it but Muddy stopped her, touching her arm. “Do that again, sweetheart, would you? But hold the ice cream. I’m watching my figure.”
“Bring me a Key Lime,” I said, smiling at her. She was a cute kid. “And some unsweetened iced tea.”
I’d worked up an appetite.
“And sweetheart?” Muddy said to her back. She glanced over her shoulder. “Give my friend the check, would you?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
From a phone booth outside a gas station, I tried to get Kim at her room at the Raleigh. She didn’t answer, but I did catch Crowley in his.
He said, “Was that your handiwork at the bus station?”
“It was self-defense.”
“How do you drown somebody in self-defense?”
“Well, you have to be willing to get wet. Prick shouldn’t have interrupted me in that stall. Whatever happened to common courtesy?”
“Jesus, Morgan. I give you a free pass and you—”
“What do the cops know?”
“Nothing to speak of. I haven’t seen the body yet, but judging by the description, I’m thinking it’s another of these hardcases imported from Cuba. I’m pretty sure we’ll come up bupkus on prints.”
“Yeah, I sincerely doubt he had a green card.”
Crowley grunted. “Something a lot more important than a seventy-five grand score brings that kind of talent to town.”
“No argument. I recovered the seventy-five thousand, by the way.”
“How?”
“Not important. Let’s just say, I found what those tourists from Havana were looking for. Any objection to my turning those greenbacks back over to the Cuban exiles?”
“If I had any objections, would it do any good?”
“No.”
“Well...you have my blessing, anyway. More power to them. We weren’t looking to recover that money as much as Halaquez himself. He could be a major source of information, under the right interrogation techniques.”
“You better find him before I do.”
“Morgan, you’ve done enough killing....”
“I’m not going to kill the bastard.”
“No?”
“No. I’m just going to turn him in to the people he screwed over. Maybe they’ll have some ideas of their own.”
“Morgan—”
I hung up.
Once again, a taxi took me to Little Havana. By sunlight, it was a different place, with only the familiar coffee and tobacco scents to say otherwise. The Spanish architecture of Calle Ocho, its sidewalks shaded by nicely spaced palms, made an authentic backdrop to the outdoor cafes, gift shops and magic-potion dens courting tourists.
I was in a tan suit with a brown sport shirt and Ray-Bans, just another gringo rubbernecker. Only this gringo had a .45 under his arm and a money bag in his fist.
I’d called ahead, and soon I was sitting at the familiar dining table in the simple room of second-hand furnishings and Catholic icons in the living quarters over that grocery. Pedro, in a yellow pleated button-down shirt, had a matching cap before him on the table, like a dish he was preparing to eat. Next to him, dignified Luis Saladar—his plantationowner white hat on the table—wore a cream-color suit with yet another black bolo tie.
Both men were smiling, but especially Pedro, his upraised grin at odds with his down-tipped bandito mustache.
No food was being served at this table—Maria wasn’t with us this afternoon, working downstairs in the tiendo—but a feast had been served up. By me. I had dumped the black leather bag onto the table and turned Richard Best’s neat stacks into an ungainly pile of money, all sorts of denominations, though rarely over $20, representing hundreds of small but hard-earned contributions from the Cuban exile community.
“That’s seventy-five thousand,” I said, “on the nose.”
Saladar’s smile became a curious frown. “Halaquez had not turned it into foreign currency, as you had thought?”
“No. No need. He was using it to fund a project here in the States.”
“What project, señor?”
“Not important. What is important is that pile of cash.”
Pedro, so happy his eyes brimmed with tears, said, “But you did not take out your payment, Señor Morgan! Do we not owe you another six-thousand-and—”
I held up a hand. “The five-thousand-dollar down payment will cover it, and my expenses. I recovered more money than this...” I nodded toward the cash “...and I’ve helped myself to the excess.”
Saladar was really frowning now. “How much more, señor?”
“Does that matter? I fulfilled my contract at a bargain rate.”
Pedro didn’t care about such trivialities, though the exile leader remained troubled.
“I don’t know where Halaquez got the extra dough,” I said, answering the question in Saladar’s eyes. “I will say he was working on something bigger than raiding your treasury. Three asesinos from Castro’s Cuba have been backing him up, of late. I’ve taken out all three.”
Pedro’s smile finally vanished and he raised his hands as if in surrender. “Perhaps it is best you do not share all of this informacion with us, señor. We are very satisfied with these results. We do not...begrudge, is that the word? We do not begrudge you making a profit from your hard and most dangerous work.”
“You’re only disappointed,” I said, reading it in his voice, “that I haven’t killed Halaquez, or better still turned his sorry ass over to you.”
“Señor....”
“Well, me, too, Pedro. But before I move on...and soon I’ll have to, because the federales will come down on me before long...I have one last chance to catch this bastardo, Halaquez.”
Still troubled, Saladar asked, “Would this require further payment, Señor Morgan?”