Выбрать главу

The truck park, with long ranks of earth-moving and paving equipment, lay in a shallow, dishlike depression to the right, in what would eventually be the armpit of the intersection. There were a half-dozen light poles carrying the spread wings of mercury-vapor lights, but these had been turned off so the surreptitious meeting could take place in darkness. He adjusted the focusing knob and began looking for private cars. Everything had a queer reddish tone, as though seen through a filter.

After one quick sweep, he began to see some order in the apparent chaos. A dirt road, passing out through a chain-link fence, must lead to the new construction, the broad sandy gash that was being driven from Homestead to the bay. That road and four others became the spokes of a great wheel. At the hub sat the huge mixer-a semi-permanent installation where the oil, sand, and gravel came together to be cooked. Two of the spokes ran outward to low banks of sand and gravel, which had been eaten at by payloaders. From huge bins on either side of the mixer, sand and gravel spilled onto conveyor belts leading to the apertures in the face-plate of the great revolving tank. Mixed and heated, loads of the hot goo would be drawn off into trucks and carried out to the pavers. The mixer itself was controlled from a command trailer, tied to the feeds and motors with a variety of umbilical connections.

Headlights gleamed in the distance, traveling south. Magnified by the magic of his night glasses, the splinter of light permitted Shayne to pick out the shape of a parked car between the control trailer and a blocked-up tanker the size of a beached whale. He held the glasses steady. The next headlight gave the car dimensions and character. It was long and stately, with the distinctive grill and regal rear end of a Cadillac.

Cadillac, of course, would be Larry Canada’s car of choice. This was Canada’s turf, the one place in the vicinity of Miami where he could hold a meeting and be reasonably sure of not being monitored or interrupted. It was a little melodramatic, but Canada had always had an excessive streak; a big man, he liked to do things in a big way.

Shayne smiled slightly. Tim Rourke’s employers were going to love this.

He moved back to the high step and used the glasses again, looking for Gold’s Chrysler or other cars. The magnification picked up a glimmer of light from a window of the control trailer.

He climbed down. Surprising Canada and Gold in a secret conference two days before the opening of bids for a new stretch of highway would be almost enough. It would prove nothing, but the lawyers would then let Rourke print his accumulation of rumors and leaks, and Gold would be laughed at if he attempted to sue.

But it would be better to make this a public event, with other witnesses in addition to a pair of private detectives working for Rourke’s paper.

“Fireworks time,” he told Frieda softly. “Bicycle back and call the Homestead barracks. Tell them to get some cars out here fast. Somebody’s looting the site. Do you have a gun in the van?”

He felt her shake her head no.

“Here, take mine.” He put it in her hand. “I’m going to try for a picture. Swing around and come back from the north. Put up a roadblock, barrels, rocks, whatever there is. If one of them wants to leave before the cops get here, he’ll have to stop to clear the road. If you have to, shoot out a tire. We want to catch them together.”

He touched her shoulder and let her go. That should do it. He could roll one of the trucks out and block the down exit. Neither Cadillacs or Chryslers are rough-country cars.

Moving cautiously, he checked the next piece of equipment, a scraper. It was parked on a slight rise. If he took off the brake and turned hard, it would roll into position to block both lanes with its long, angled blade.

He continued to be extremely careful. Everything about this told him that Canada had come alone. Canada had a reputation for trusting nobody. Probably that was why he had lasted so many years. But Shayne, too, had lasted, and one of the reasons for that was that he took as few chances as possible.

He tried to keep the glimmer of light from the control trailer in sight as he circled, coming down and in. He lost it for a moment, blocked by a long storage trailer. As he came around, he had a sense that the scene had changed, and felt for his glasses.

Now one of the big Euclid payloaders was in his way. He stepped on the bucket yoke and then found an even higher perch against the front of the cab. He was seeing a different trailer window now, and this one had a chink of light along the bottom edge. Something moved. He saw the corner of a desk, part of a control console. A hand appeared, holding a paper. Another hand came into the field. The single papery object turned into several. Envelopes.

Another fragmented headlight beam swept across the tops of the taller machines. Concentrating hard, Shayne almost missed a flicker of movement to the right of the trailer. Swinging, he searched the area.

A figure moved out from the loading bin and approached the parked Cadillac. One hand was extended, groping through what to him was nearly complete darkness. Isolated in Shayne’s binoculars, he seemed tall and somewhat misshapen. He was wearing a warmup suit and a tight-fitting cap. He turned his head. Shayne’s hand jerked slightly as a face out of a nightmare jumped at him. It was a mask, the kind of protective mask worn by hockey goalies to keep from being stunned or killed by flying pucks.

Hunched and furtive, the masked figure continued along the Cadillac’s long flank. The door opened. He slipped inside.

Shayne’s mind was racing. A killing? No, a killer wouldn’t hide in the car. Then a kidnapping. Big Larry Canada would bring a far higher price than poor Eddie Maye. That meant there were others hidden in the darkness, waiting for the meeting to end. Other cars. Other guns.

Chapter 8

Downey had found a wrecker equipped with a siren. To make sure it was working, he flicked the switch on and off quickly, producing a spurt of noise. He had also carried in a regulation riot-control bullhorn. Together, these two noisemakers should put both Canada and the Tallahassee bureaucrat into a nice state of panic.

The trio had two hours to prepare. The mercury lights were burning, but a sweep through the site showed them that Downey had been right: the watchman had been told to get lost so Canada could have the place to himself.

Downey assigned roles, and they went through the whole thing twice. So what if Canada and Gold didn’t use a trailer, but talked in the car. It would be Canada’s car. One scream from that siren, and the Highway Commissioner would leap out and burn rubber getting away. If Canada had a gun, Downey would use the bullhorn and talk him into throwing it out.

“Good God, man,” he said when Werner continued to nip at his heels. “You’d think I never made an arrest. These people are realists. When they see they’re outnumbered, they come in quietly and call the lawyer.”

“But if he brings anybody with him-”

“Wernie, look,” Downey said, clearly suffering. “We control. If they come in three cars, we sit here and jack off and wait for some better time. Who’s in a hurry? For that much dough, I’m willing to make it a six-month project.”

And that was easy for Downey, Pam thought, because he was drawing a city salary. She and Werner had both left their jobs. They had decided not to ask Downey for an advance because that would really put him in charge. Her airplane ticket to New York was her ace in the hole. If she was really turned off by the way things were going, she could always pull out, and it gave her a dreamlike feeling. In dreams, she always escaped by sprouting wings and going straight up.

The hot plant, according to Downey, had been fixed as the meeting place. Downey was guessing that they would go into the superintendent’s trailer, a radio-equipped command post for the whole operation. Werner was posted near this trailer, leaning against the fender of a big oil truck. At the first sign of a car, he would drop to the ground and slide between the front wheels. If they were lucky, Canada would park directly across from him.