“The money’s-”
“Of the conversation, man. This is what men do, they got a dispute. They talk about it, right?”
“We don’t have a dispute.”
“Sure, we do. I don’t mean we enemies or nothing like that. Just trying to get you… involved, see?”
“In what?”
“In my problem, man. What I been telling you.”
“Your ‘extra expenses.’ ”
“Now you paying attention. I don’t know you. Don’t want to know you. But I know what you here for. So I got to figure at least some possibility I may never get that phone call from you, understand where I’m going?”
“That you won’t get your car back.”
“That’s right! Now you getting with the program. I got a real nice… rental for you. You can drive a stick, right?”
“Yes,” the driver said. He took out his pack of cigarettes, held it toward the black man.
“No thanks, man. Appreciate it, though. Anyway, what I got for you is a sweet little ’49 Ford. But it’s not running no flathead-got a ’54 Lincoln mill with a lot of work into it. All heavy-duty: brakes, shocks, clutch, everything. Floor shift, Zephyr gears. Some wild-ass kid built it for drag racing. It don’t have a lot of top end, but it’ll walk away from any cop car in this town. Get you good and gone, you need to.”
“Sounds fine.”
“She is fine, man. What I’m telling you, she don’t come back, I’m out a lot of coin, see what I’m saying?”
“No. No, I don’t. I see you coming out ahead. My car’s worth a lot more than some kid’s hotrod.”
“Yours is newer, sure. But that don’t-”
“Mine’s running a punched-out Caribbean engine,” the driver interrupted. “Dual quads, headers, triple-core radiator, cutouts for the pipes. The whole chassis has been redone, and it’s got a belly pan, too. You could drive it through a cornfield at thirty and it wouldn’t get stuck. Got a second gas tank in the trunk: extra twenty-five gallons. Steel plate behind the back seat-”
“Damn!”
“There’s more. Go look for yourself, you don’t believe me. Cost you seven, eight grand, minimum, to build anything like it.”
The black man’s eyes narrowed. The pistol in his hand moved slightly. “Must make you worried, then. Leaving a valuable ride like that with a stranger. I mean, what if you called and I never came?”
“I’m not worried,” the driver said. “Whisper vouched for you.”
“Man can always be wrong.”
“Whisper told you about me,” the driver said. It wasn’t a question.
The black man nodded.
“Well, he wasn’t wrong about that,” the driver said.
1959 September 28 Monday 23:39
Only Sammy, Lymon, and Harley remained behind after the others had been dismissed, their chairs drawn up close to Beaumont’s desk. The men spoke in low, but not guarded, tones.
“We already lost one man,” Beaumont said. “Hacker never came back with the casino collection. It’s been over three weeks, and nobody’s heard from him.”
“That was a lot of money,” the broad-faced man said.
“Meaning what, Sammy?” Beaumont asked, swiveling his imposing head in the speaker’s direction.
“Everybody knows Hacker’s route,” Sammy said, unruffled. “It’s no secret. All our collectors work alone. We never have anyone riding shotgun. Everybody knows that, too.”
“You’re saying-what?-we don’t have any proof that it was Dioguardi?”
“I’m saying, it could have been Dioguardi, sending a message, sure,” Sammy said. “But it could have been a hijacker, too, Roy. A freelancer, I mean. We got no shortage of those coming through here. Most of them, they’ve got enough sense to come to our town to spend the money they made off their jobs, not to pull one… but every deck always has at least one joker in it.”
“Can’t say it wasn’t,” Beaumont mused. “But Hacker was always a ready man. He wouldn’t go easy… not unless he went willingly. And, you know, if you’re going to take down something big, like an armored car, say, the best way is to have an inside man.”
“Hacker wouldn’t steal from us,” the redheaded man put in, sure-voiced.
“I don’t think so, either, Lymon,” Beaumont agreed. “It was a good piece of change, all right, but not enough to live on for the rest of your life, if you had to stay hidden. When the cops came out here, they said nothing in his house had been touched. There’s things a man wouldn’t leave behind if he had time to plan his run.”
“Hacker would know that, too,” Sammy said, cautiously.
“He would,” Beaumont said, nodding his head. “But you know what else the cops found when they went to his place? They found that hound of his, Ranger. Dog didn’t even have food laid out for him.”
“That does it for me,” Sammy said, in a tone of finality. “Hacker loved that old dog. He expected to come home that night. Yeah.”
“So what’s our first-?” Harley asked, as a woman entered the room from the door behind Beaumont. She was of medium height, but looked shorter because of her stocky frame-an impression enhanced by her low-heeled shoes and boxy beige jacket worn over a plain white blouse. Her hair was the color of tarnished brass, worn short, with moderate bangs over her high forehead. She had Beaumont’s iron eyes, but long lashes and artfully arched eyebrows banked their fire.
At her entrance, the assembled men all rose to their feet and started for the exit.
“Lymon, you mind hanging around a few minutes?” Beaumont said.
By way of response, Lymon sat down.
1959 September 28 Monday 23:52
As if by prior assent, the two men walked across the clearing to the waiting Packard. The driver reached into the trunk, removed a pair of suitcases, stood them on the ground.
“Watch this,” he said, quietly. He lifted the heavy pad of felt that lined the floor of the trunk, revealing a flush-mounted keyhole.
“Now watch me,” the driver said, emphasizing the last word. He reached-slowly-toward his belt, carefully removed the tongue of the belt buckle, extracted a metal rod with a single notch at one end, and held it up for the other man’s inspection. He inserted the rod into the keyhole and turned his wrist-a shallow compartment was revealed. Filling the compartment edge-to-edge was a black, hard-shelled attaché case.
The driver removed the case, added it to the luggage on the ground, closed the compartment, pulled the felt back into place, and closed the trunk.
“Why you showing me all this?” the black man asked, more curious than hostile.
“I didn’t want anyone tearing up the car looking for… whatever they might find. So I thought I’d show you where the tricks were myself.”
“Pretty slick. But what’s the story with that key in your belt, man? Strange place to keep it.”
“It doesn’t just open the compartment in the trunk. It’s a speed key… for handcuffs, understand?”
“Yeah,” the black man said, shaking his head slowly. “But when they bring you down, first thing, they take away your belt and your shoelaces.”
“That’s after they get you to the jail,” the driver said. “Sometimes, their plans don’t work out.”
The black man stepped back a pace, but kept his pistol leveled.
“Look, man. Like I said, it was on the drums. Killer on the road, coming to town. Everybody knows there’s a gang war coming. That’s ofay business, got nothing to do with me, one side wants to bring in some outside talent. But if you kill a cop, even one of those blue-coated thieves that works for this town, that’s gonna bring heat like an oil-field fire. That happens, you call the number you got for me, nobody’s gonna answer. This big car of yours, it’s gonna get butchered like a hog, man. Cut up so small its own mother wouldn’t know it.”
The driver looked at the black man’s chest, expressionless.