The Death Dealers (7 page)

“Then they can stop sweating.”

“Good enough. Let’s go then.”

 

The city is funny. Look normal, get the standoff. Be a little bit different, carry a clipboard, use a gimmick, do anything not normal, and nobody will ask a question. We passed the single police guard covering the side exit when he couldn’t understand Harry’s polite chatter but didn’t want to take the chance of getting involved with possible international diplomacy and its repercussions. We were on the ship before the passenger gangplank was down, through the crowd behind a white-coated steward while the police cordon was being formed on the dock below. Harry’s hundred out of my pocket got us straight passage to the luxury suite where the steward knocked gently and the voice behind the door called to come in.

Like chameleons, my three friends changed. They stood there bowing politely while I followed their motions, their soft voices murmuring the amenities of the East, their meaning not quite reaching me. And it happened like I expected it to, the recognition, the taking to the bosom, the almost instant friendship ... reserved, but pleasant.

Teish El Abin rose from his chair, a small, wiry man apparently in his early sixties, brown as a walnut left over from last season, but with bright snake eyes that could look right through you. He showed his Western indoctrination and shook hands with all of us, turned and introduced us to the taller saturnine man in the closely fitted English-cut suit, and I was the last to shake hands with Sarim Shey.

There was something slimy about this one. He was a little too sincere. He could smile with his mouth and not with his eyes and his hand was that of someone soft only in the palm while the rest of him was hard as nails. I had known killers like that who could wield a knife or trigger a gun with manicured fingers that an hour before and an hour later fondled a woman with never a thought to the interim between or the blood that ran or the voices that screamed.

Sarim Shey was a man to watch closely. His fawning attitude toward Teish was only a guise. He was a power within himself and knew it. His features were fine and sharp, his skin lighter than anyone else’s, and his voice had a deliberately cultured British accent. When he walked he had the grace of a cat or a person well trained in the deadly arts of Oriental death.

I knew he was watching me. So was Teish El Abin. They seemed to accept the fact that I was mute from birth because where they came from it wasn’t at all uncommon. It was my size they were looking at, my mannerisms, trying to decipher something that was just a little unreal. But my three friends caught it too and carried the play away from me, keeping me in the background while they made the pleasantries.

I knew our time was almost up. Five minutes was as much as we could ask. Then she came in. Nobody had to tell me who she was.

Vey Locca.

You could feel her presence even before you saw her, sense the aroma of musky perfume before you smelled it. Although her eyes never moved she saw everyone at once the way a woman can and above their heads our eyes met briefly before I bowed automatically in the fashion of the others and I knew it was me she was watching.

She wasn’t tall, but she gave the appearance of height. Vey Locca was a Eurasian with a proud tilt to her head, hair black as an arctic midnight matching her eyes even to the glints and highlights that shone there. Her mouth was full and luscious, accented by the inherited cheekbones of her forebears. She was a high, full-breasted woman who walked with a deliberate stance that thrust her beauty forward provocatively, each lithe step outlining the youthful swelling of her thighs. Every mannerism seemed to be a combination of the graces of two continents, from the minute finger movements to the demurely subtle facial gestures that made her appear to be both subservient and dominant at the same instant.

Like the men, she held out a delicate hand, clasped each person briefly, and when she came to me lingered just a little longer, ostensibly because of sympathy for my incapacitation. In her own tongue she welcomed me aboard, then, as if it were something offhand, asked if I enjoyed the United States. I caught just enough of it to understand the question, nodded quickly with a smile, took my hand away and made a typical “okay” sign with my thumb and forefinger. The puzzle in her eyes was there and gone almost before it could be recognized, but I caught it all right. Of the three she was the only one who thought me out of place and now she couldn’t be sure. She turned away, spoke to the others, then we went through the bows again and left.

As we went out Hal Randolph and four I.A.T.S. men were converging on the corridor, stationing men about quietly. They glanced at us briefly as we passed, but said nothing. Only when we reached the gangplank area did a plainclothesman stop us, but a little bit of gibberish from Harry, broad, friendly smiles and a bow got us waved on impatiently.

We left the same way we came on, were passed through to where Jack waited nervously, shucked our clothes and got back to normal again. We hopped a cab at the comer and I told the driver to take us over to the Blue Ribbon on Forty-fourth Street. I wanted George to take a look at me done up in brown.

It was too early for the lunch crowd to be in, and after a double-take George led us to a table in the back and sent a round of drinks in. Jack said, “Okay, how did it go?”

“I saw what I wanted to see. They’re trouble, all right.”

“If the customs boys ever find out what we pulled the stink will go pretty high.”

“Quit worrying.”

“Then what’s the next move?”

I nodded toward Harry. “This boy knows his way around. If you can break him loose a few days and I can use him, he might pick up some good bits and pieces. I only catch the loose ends of the language and if they want to converse it will be in their own dialect.”

“Interpreter?”

“Just about.”

“Won’t they know him?”

“I think Ernie can do a reverse job on him that will take. I saw it done before. Either that or we’ll pass him off as being from another country.”

“Suppose they get wise?”

“Our meeting was pretty damn brief. By now they’ll be shaking hands with dozens more and in another day they won’t be remembering individuals.”

“You hope.”

“Put it up to Harry.”

Jack grinned at me and waggled a thumb across the table. “I don’t have to. Look at his face. He’s having a ball.”

“Tell me, Harry,” I said.

In a surprising Brooklyn accent he said, “The king you met is a cruel man, my friend. He had killed two of my family. The people living under his hand do not live well. I can tell you this ... whatever he is planning is not for the good of the people, but only for himself. I will do whatever you want because I have learned many things in this country. I know why it is you do the things you do too. It is my desire to help.”

“Then you’re in, buddy. And thanks.”

“I thank
you,
sir,” he said seriously.

“Go over and get registered in at the Taft. Your last name’s unpronounceable, so use Smith.” I handed him a couple of bills across the table and said, “Get yourself a tux and keep it ready and stay there until I contact you.”

“Yes, Mr. Tiger.”

“One more thing ... if there’s any rough stuff, stay out of it.”

“Please ...”

“What?”

“I am quite capable, sir. I have fought in an army several times.”

“This isn’t a desert war, feller.”

“All killing is alike. It is merely a matter of location and method. I would rather you thought of me as not being helpless.”

“You bought it, Harry.”

We finished the sandwiches George brought us and split up there. I let them go out first, then followed after I finished my coffee. The noon crowd was just beginning to filter in and I went out through the bar, waving so long to big Jim.

 

At two-fifteen a messenger service delivered a manila envelope to my hotel. I tipped the boy and went back to look at the photos Virgil Adams sent over. They were eight-by-ten blow-ups of Malcolm Turos but had been taken out of focus with an apparently cheap camera at least ten years ago. In one he was standing outside the stage-door entrance of a theater shaking hands with some admirers, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, an unimposing man in topcoat and homburg with a heavy mustache and a thin smile. The other was a summertime shot taken when he was about to enter a car with a woman. He had no mustache here and wore a light-colored suit. Neither picture could be used for positive identification and unless Virgil came up with something from Brazil I had to rely on the hazy glimpse of the guy going down in front of my gun during the shoot-out there. And all I could recall was an ill-fitting white suit, a floppy panama hat and a nondescript face going down in a heap with the blood spurting from his neck.

I stuck the photos in the bottom of my suitcase, snapped it shut and got into the shower to soak off the stain I had bathed in. By the time I had toweled myself back to normal the phone rang and when I picked it up Charlie Corbinet said, “Smart move, Tiger.”

I grinned, but he couldn’t see it. “I like to see the face of the enemy.”

“You have more than you think. Some of them are domestic.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks for the warning, but why?”

“Because some of them are on their way up right now. If you have a rod get it out of sight. They’ll pull you in with any excuse right now. Why the hell you register in your own name I’ll never know. I thought I taught you better.”

“You did, that’s why I did it this way. Thanks.”

“Get some good lies ready.”

“I’m an expert.” I hung up quickly, took off the rig with the .45 and looked around for a place to ditch it. I didn’t want to lose the piece, not that it couldn’t be replaced, but it was fitted to my own hand and sighted in for accuracy, too much a part of me to lose. In this state I wasn’t licensed to carry it and they could hit me with a Sullivan charge without even listening to an explanation.

You don’t hide guns inside TV sets or air conditioners. These boys would check out every inch of the place, every ledge outside the window, every spot in the bathroom and closet, and unless I figured something out in a hurry I had it.

I opened the window and looked out Two floors down a spiked iron grillwork divided the terraces between apartments, the grill running up the side of the building, jutting out two feet to discourage access from one side to the other. I took off my belt, strung it through the trigger guard, buckled it and held it out in a wide loop. As the buzzer sounded I dropped it, and for a second, thought I had missed, but the belt caught a spike of the grill and stayed there. I grinned again, lowered the window and went to the door.

Hal Randolph stood there with another big guy, behind them a pair of young, gray-suited guys who could have just come from Madison Avenue. I said, “Come on in, gentlemen.”

He put the warrant in my hand first, his mouth forcing a smile of pleasure. “Shakedown, Mann. Hope it doesn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not a bit. Mind if I finish dressing?”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

I unfolded the warrant, read it and glanced at him. “Not unless you find what you’re looking for.”

He didn’t have to tell the others what to do. They were pros too, working quickly and smoothly, never missing a bet, hitting the obvious places then moving on to other spots. They laid a box of .45 shells on the bed alongside the leather holster and kept on looking. Hal picked up the box and flipped the top open. “Where’s the gun, Tiger?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re not.”

I finished putting on my shirt and tie, buttoning up in front of the mirror. Behind me one of the young guys had the window open and was checking the ledges, feeling for any cords that might be attached to the frame. “No law against carrying cartridges, is there?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

They took another ten minutes before they were finished. Everything was back in place, but nobody was satisfied at all. Hal stood there trying to hold his composure, his face dark with suppressed anger. Idly, he picked up the envelope, looked at it and said, “Mind?”

“Be my guest.”

When he saw the pictures he knew what he had. He took them over under the light, studied them carefully, and passed them to the big guy who had come in with him. When he put them back he threw the folder down on the bed. “Want to talk about this, Tiger?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

“What’s your connection with him?”

“I shot him once in Brazil. The slug caught his throat and ruined his lovely baritone and now he’d like to get back at me.”

“Go on.”

I hooked a chair leg with my toe, pulled it over and sat down. “He’s here in the U.S.”

“We know. There’s no record of his entry.”

“Malcolm Turos isn’t one to do things the easy way,” I smiled.

Hal Randolph and the others exchanged glances, then came back to me, every eye focused on my face. Each one took a position strategically and held it, not knowing what to expect. “Does the warrant include an interrogation?”

“It can be arranged,” Hal said casually.

“Don’t bother yourself.”

“Then let’s get back to Turos. I don’t think he’d make a specific trip here to nail you.”

“What’s the answer then?”

“Quit stalling and get to the point. Let’s update the talk and put Teish El Abin in the picture. Let’s discuss four persons in native dress who got on and off a ship unhampered by police or customs officials.”

“How about that?” I said with fake surprise. “Where am I there?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“Sorry, buddy.”

Hal took a deep breath and looked like he was about to explode. Then he let the air out of his lungs and strode to the window, looked out and down for a moment before turning back to me again. “Three were genuine countrymen of Teish’s, all right. The other was out of character. He was a mute and big. He wore dark glasses. He had a physical description that could have been you.”