the Hunted (1977) (12 page)

That was the way it went. Rashad talking, Davi
s holding on to the steering wheel. Rashad admirin g the gutty sound of the Z-28, saying shit, this machine ought to blow the mothers off the road, put a Mercedes on the trailer. Davis began to relax. A n insistent Israeli car horn would sound behind the m at a light and Davis would give it some revs wit h the clutch in, letting the horn-blower have som e heavy varooms, then release the clutch and slingshoot the Camaro away from the light. Kid stuff, with gas a buck sixty a gallon. But he enjoyed i t once in a while and the black guy ate it up. The gu y didn't seem so bad when he wasn't trying to com e on, when he relaxed. He asked Davis was that al l he had, the one bag? It was on the back seat. Davi s said no, he had stuff in the trunk. Some newspaper s his aunt had sent him. Rashad said he liked t o travel light. He unzipped his plaid bag and pulle d out a white and black kaffiyeh and draped it ove r his natural, saying, man, it made sense. It was cool , and he meant cool cool. The guy tried to be entertaining, trying to be friendly. He was tiresome.

On the highway, the Haifa Road, Davis said, "I
g ot to make a stop in Herzliya. It's a suburb u p here."

"You going to be long?" Rashad laughed then
, taking off the kaffiyeh. "Shit, like it makes any difference. Man, I don't even know where I'm going.

But if you want me to get out up here, say it. I
t won't hurt my feelings any. You've been very kin d and I appreciate it. I suppose after talking to yo u last night and all, meeting your friends," Rasha d said, "I feel like I'm one of them."

"Well, I don't think I'll be too long," Davis said.

Dumb. Backing down because he felt sorry for th
e guy. He didn't say anything else until they were i n Herzliya, passing streets lined with new apartmen t buildings.

"I'm looking for Bilu. That's the name of th
e street."

"You never been here before?"

"Well, it's not a friend," Davis said. "I just hav
e to stop and see a guy for a minute."

Rosen heard the car, the rumbling engine sound.

He stepped out onto the balcony to see it roll int
o the blacktop parking area facing the building: a lime-green American car among the Europea n minis. That would be the Marine.

Except there were two people in the car. Rose
n watched the driver, in a white cap, get out an d reach in again to get the canvas bag, then slam th e door and start toward the building.

Rosen stepped back, a reflex action. He coul
d still see the car and make out the figure sitting in th e front seat. He didn't see the man's face, though, until the side window came down and the face inside leaned over to look up at the building. Rose n jumped back again.

The guy in the car was black.

He told himself it couldn't be the same one.

Probably another Marine or a guy who worked a
t the embassy. When he heard the elevator comin g up--one door away in the hall--he stepped out t o the balcony again. The black guy was still in th e car. If it was the one from Netanya he wouldn't b e sitting there doing nothing. Rosen went to the doo r of the apartment and opened it about an inch, the n moved to a table facing the door where his attach e case was lying open, the top half of it standing up.

The small automatic pistol he brought out of the attache case was wrapped in tissue paper.

He didn't know for sure that the guy in the ca
p was the Marine named Davis. Or if the guy wa s coming here. He was thinking now he should hav e waited, given it more thought and picked anothe r place. This seemed too close to Tel Aviv. They'
d gotten here in twenty minutes. Maybe it shoul d have been out somewhere in the desert, in th e Negev. They drop the money and leave and h e picked it up later. He should have taken more time.

The guy, somebody, was knocking at the door. . . .

"It's open."

"My name's Davis. I've got something for Mr.

Rosen."

"Show me your name's Davis," Rosen said. H
e closed the attache case, bringing the top par t down.

Davis saw the automatic pointing at him. Littl
e 32-caliber Beretta, seven shots. Not a bad weapo n if the man knew how to use it.

"Are you Mr. Rosen?"

"Let's see something with your name on it."

Davis dropped the canvas travel bag on th
e table. He dug his wallet out of his pocket, opene d it, and held it out for Rosen to see his Marin e Corps I . D . The man was too old for Tali. H
e couldn't see the two of them making it together.

The man would be like her father. Davis wondere
d if he should take the Beretta away from him. No--
l eave him alone. The man was nervous and had a right to be.

"Who's the one in the car?"

Davis put his wallet back in his pocket. "Som
e guy thinks he's a friend of mine."

Rosen looked at him, stared for a moment. H
e didn't understand, but it wasn't something he wa s going to get into a discussion about. He said, "Yo u know what it is you're bringing me?"

"Yes, sir. Money."

Davis got the alligator case out of the travel ba
g and reached over to lay it on top of Rosen's attach e case. He watched the man snap it open.

"You mind my asking, sir--your name's A
l Rosen?"

"That's right."

"You weren't by any chance a third baseman?"

Rosen looked up at him, his hands on the case.

"You're about the right age," Davis said. "Th
e one played for the Indians, made Most Valuabl e Player in, I think, '53. Hit forty-three home runs , led the league with a three thirty-six average."

"You want to know something? You're the firs
t person over here's asked me that," Rosen said.

"How old you think I was then?"

"I don't know. In your twenties?"

"He hit three thirty-six," Rosen said, "bu
t Mickey Vernon led the league that year. Beat hi m out by oh-oh-one percentage point with a thre e thirty-seven."

"Yeah?" Davis was interested and more at ease.

"I don't remember what happened to him afte
r that. I was only about eleven."

"Rosen? He retired, thirty-one years of age.

Greenberg, the sonofabitch, wouldn't give him an
y more than twenty-seven five to come back, an d Rosen said fuck it. He was already in the brokerag e business."

"Greenberg from the Tigers?"

"Yeah, he was general manager of the Indian
s then."

"I guess I don't recall that," Davis said.

"Yeah, well, I'm about ten years older than yo
u are." Opening the alligator case, Rosen said, "S
o you remember Al Rosen, huh?"

He picked up a sheet of paper that was insid
e and his expression changed as he began reading it , squinting or frowning, Davis wasn't sure which.

Something wasn't right. Davis stepped around t
o look in the case. There wasn't anywhere near tw o hundred thousand inside. Just a bunch of loos e hundred-dollar bills.

"You know about this?" Rosen was staring a
t him again. "He sent five grand. That's all."

"You think I took it?"

"I'm asking if he said anything about it, if he tol
d you what he was doing."

"No, sir. He put two hundred thousand in ther
e yesterday. I watched him."

"You counted it?"

"He said how much it was. There were twent
y packs of hundred-dollar bills."

"How long have you been working with Tali
, getting the packages?"

"This was the third one," Davis said. "Ther
e were some letters other times."

Rosen held up the sheet of paper. "My lawye
r says, 'I'm not sure we can trust the Marine.' "

Davis was used to standing on the front side of
a desk, at ease or at attention. He made no comment.

It was all right, because he felt much different wit
h Mr. Rosen than he did with Mr. Bandy. He respected Mr. Rosen.

"My lawyer says we can't trust anyone under th
e circumstances. 'Anyone' underlined. He says, m y lawyer who's been here two days, 'Let's conside r this a test run. If you receive the five thousand intact we will know we have established a reliable liaison'--Jesus Christ--'and I will feel more confident in carrying out the responsibility of seeing that you receive the entire amount.' "

"He writes different than he talks," Davis said.

"Fucking lawyer," Rosen said. "His responsibility! It's not his responsibility, he's got nothing to do with the money!"

"Why don't you fire him?" Davis said.

"He says if I receive this and so on. He doesn'
t say anything about if I don't receive it. You notic e that?" Rosen said. "All right, why wouldn't I receive it? One, you ran off with it. Two, I didn't show up here for some reason. But if I knew it wa s coming, what's the only reason I wouldn't b e here?" Rosen waited.

Davis shook his head.

"Because I'd be fucking dead is what I'd be,"

Rosen said. "The sonofabitch, he's waiting to see i
f I stay alive before he delivers the two hundred. I'v e got to save my ass and he's concerned, he's worrying, he says he wants to feel confident about his responsibility!"

"Why don't I go back and get it?" Davis said.

Rosen looked at him and seemed surprised.

"You mean right now? You'd do that for me?"

"He says he wants to establish a liaison. Well
, let's show him it's established." He watched Rose n reach into the case and pick up some hundreddollar bills. "No, I don't need any more. The thousand Mr. Bandy gave me'll cover it."

Rosen paused. "How long you think it'll tak
e you?"

"Forty minutes. If Mr. Bandy's there and he's go
t it ready."

"He'll be ready," Rosen said. He went over t
o the phone that was on the counter separating th e kitchen from the living-room area. He dialed a number and asked for the room.

Now the lawyer would get chewed out. Davi
s felt good about that and was anxious to hear it. H
e didn't want to appear to be listening, though. I t wasn't any of his business. Walking out on the balcony, he heard Rosen say, "Tali, let me speak to Mel. . . . Yeah, he's here. Everything's fine." Hi s voice sounded calm; he was in control, knew wha t he was going to say. The man was all right. Peopl e trying to kill him, he still seemed to have it prett y well together.

"Mel . . . I got your note. . . ." Rosen was listening; then: "Mel . . ." not able to get a word in.

Davis could picture the lawyer with his hand in hi
s light blue pants, talking, looking up at the wall.

Davis was looking down five stories at the limegreen Camaro, the racing stripe--he hadn't realized the white stripe didn't extend over the roof of the car. Just on the hood and the trunk. The ca r looked empty. The black guy, his new buddy , wasn't inside.

"Mel, you're a wonderful person, I appreciat
e your concern. . . . Of course not, I understand. . . ."

It surprised Davis, Mr. Rosen's tone, his patience.

There he was. The black guy was over towar
d the far end of the parking lot standing by a car , leaning against the side, bending down a little now , talking to somebody in the car. One in front, behind the wheel, one or two in the back seat.

". . . I understand, Mel, you don't want to dela
y this any more than I do . . . Mel, would you just d o one thing for me? PUT THE FUCKING MONEY
IN A BOX AND HAVE IT READY . . . RIGHT
NOW!"

Davis heard the phone slammed down.

"There," Rosen said, quietly again.

"You better come out here," Davis said.

"What is it?"

"You know anybody owns a white BMW?"

Teddy Cass was the driver. Valenzuela was in bac
k with the worried-or sick-looking street kid, Mat i Harari, who sat with his hands folded tight.

"He says he thinks its the top floor," Valenzuel
a said. "Number 23?"

Mati nodded.

"No name of Rosen on the mailboxes," Rasha
d said. "Less it's in Jewish. There's a little elevator , one set of stairs, very dark. I think it looks good.

You want to hand me something out of the trunk?"

"When the hot-rodder leaves," Valenzuela said.

"What do I do, he comes out?" Rashad said.

"I'm standing there."

"No, you better get around the back of th
e building someplace, till he comes out," Valenzuel a said. "He'll think you got tired and left."