The Consummata Page 8

  The smile stretched a little. “That would not be my description of you, señor.”

  “No?”

  “No. You are very the much active man. Remember, I said there are things I do not miss?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Forgot the big rule for a second there.”

  “What rule is that, señor?”

  “Don’t shit a shitter.”

  He laughed. “Those are words of wisdom. It is always wise not to insult the intelligence of those around you. Even one in a menial position may provide the great insight, now and then.”

  “Damn, are you all college graduates around here?”

  A white flash of smile again. “Not yet, señor...but I intend to be one day.”

  “Amigo,” I told him, with a pat on the shoulder, “you’ll make it all the way.”

  “I have the grades and the ambition. But the world turns on money, señor.”

  “Then maybe you’d like to add a little more to your piggy bank.”

  He looked at me with eyes narrowed and alert.

  I said, “Somebody was in that room since it was cleaned after the last check-out. Somebody who left a package under the bed, with a timer on it. Luckily, like some bridegrooms on their wedding night, the thing went off prematurely.”

  His eyes widened. “But it has been five days since the last guest...”

  “This would have been recent—in the last day or so. Before then, nobody knew who was going to occupy that room.”

  His voice was very soft. “I see....”

  “You can’t be the only one around here who notices things. Someone else on the hotel staff must have seen him. Or anyway there’s a hell of a chance of that.”

  Nodding, the boy said, “I understand, señor.”

  “Be discreet, son.”

  He grinned. “That is the way of the world at any hotel.”

  After he took the elevator down, I walked back to my room and stretched out on the bed.

  A couple of things were pretty obvious.

  Luis Saldar’s operation had one big goddamn leak in it. So far seven adults were in on the hardcore facts of this particular junket, and if one or more of them hadn’t tried to tap me out directly, they could have tipped somebody else to it...either by accident or design.

  The other obvious factor was this: somebody wanted me dead bad enough to put a hurry-up job like this botched hotel room bombing in motion—meaning there would be another try. Maybe with more care, next time.

  Or maybe not.

  Either way, all I had to do now was make myself available for next time, and be ready for it.

  Well, here I was.

  I fell asleep thinking, jarred from sleep twice because some odd little piece about Jaimie Halaquez and his seventy-fivethousand- buck haul kept rattling around loose; then finally I fell into a fitful doze...

  ...until an insistent tapping jolted me awake, and I sat up with the .45 in my hand.

  When I reached the door, I yanked it open and the bellboy was staring down the hole in the muzzle of the gun with a shocked expression, a real ay caramba moment, though he didn’t say it.

  Then I yanked him inside, eased the door shut, and shoved the rod in my belt.

  “Sorry, amigo,” I said.

  He nodded, feeling for his voice. “Looking down that gun barrel, señor, is a most uncomfortable feeling.” Little beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.

  “No shit.” I checked my watch. In another half-hour the sun would be up. “It’s getting late, my friend. Or early. Not quite sure which.”

  “Either way, there is still time.”

  “For what?”

  He licked his lips nervously and patted his forehead dry with his sleeve. “The old one, the porter you spoke to?”

  “Yeah?”

  Slowly, his eyes crawled up my face until they were meeting my own. “He is in a closet near where the explosion happened. He is quite dead, señor. Someone has broken his neck for him...very expertly, I would say.”

  I said, “Damn,” very softly.

  “His body, it is cold and...and stiff. I do not know much about such things, but I know enough to say it must have happened some time ago. Perhaps shortly after you talked to him in the hallway.”

  “You haven’t reported this?”

  “Just to you, señor.”

  “If you hadn’t found the body, who would be most likely to discover it?”

  He didn’t have to think about it. “In the morning, the maid whose equipment is in that closet, she would find him, maybe. Or perhaps the police, when they come back to investigate more in that blown-up room. That is why there is still time for you to leave, señor.”

  “How did you come across the dead guy?”

  “I was trying to find out things for you. I went to his room first and he was not there. The old one never goes out at night. I had hoped to speak to him. He is like a ghost, that one. He could watch, he could spy, and no one would notice —an old man in a menial position, he is invisible. Until his death, at least.”

  “What do you mean, kid?”

  “Whoever put him in the closet failed to close the door tight. I went back to the hallway, where we were earlier, where the explosion room is? Looking for the old man. I notice that door, it is...what is the word...ajar. So I open it, only to close it better, harder, and then...there he was.”

  I waited a second, watching him close. “And you haven’t spoken to anyone about this?”

  “Señor!” His tone was sharp, his eyes wide. “The maid, let her do the discovering. I know nothing of this, should anyone ask...but it is important that you know.”

  I gave him a smile and squeezed his arm. “Thanks, amigo.”

  “What does it mean, señor, this death? This...murder?”

  I shrugged. “Probably that the old boy was paid to plant the gimmick. Maybe that’s why the timing was off. He didn’t know enough about setting the mechanism, and it blew early.”

  “But to kill him...why? Surely he would never talk to the police, and risk arrest for himself.”

  “Nobody was worried about him going to the cops. Whoever set this in motion, they know I’m still alive...and were afraid I’d get to him.”

  “Señor...you must go. Before the body is found.”

  I fished out the roll of bills Saladar had given me and peeled off a hundred-dollar leaf.

  “Enroll in some courses on me, amigo,” I said.

  “This is not necessary.” His eyes were glittering. “But I am very grateful.”

  “Back at you, kid.”

  He thanked me again and slipped the C-note in his pocket.

  I glanced at the roll of bills again, found a ten, and handed it to him with a grin. “And check me out, would you? I like to keep my bills paid up.”

  The parents of Magruder Harris had optimistically overnamed their offspring.

  Magruder had grown up to become a bail bondsman who was never known by anything except Muddy. Whether

  Muddy’s folks were proud of him, or alive or dead, I had no idea. What I did know was, the beach house and the matching set of Caddies he owned, a convertible and hardtop, hadn’t come out of the interest he charged on his bonds.

  To the right people, Muddy was known as a fixer and information source par excellence. His eyes and ears—and that filing cabinet mind of his—had cornered a unique market on contacts, and if the price was right, what you needed to know would be for sale.

  Heavyset but not fat, well dressed but not flashy, with fleshy features and a comb-over that wasn’t fooling anybody, Muddy sat behind a battered mahogany desk, feet propped on top, his cloudy blue eyes peering at me around the thin tendril of smoke from the butt that swung from his lips.

  I said, “Long time, Muddy.”

  He barely nodded. “Morgan.” The cigarette shifted to a corner of his mouth seemingly of its own volition. “Wondered when you’d be around.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Always has and always wil
l,” Muddy shrugged, and took a drag on the cigarette.

  My watch said it was a little after nine. Outside the night had tucked the city under its blanket. I’d spent the day holed up, sleeping, eating, and making phone calls, all in a room at a hotel picked out by nobody but me. I asked him, “Working late?”

  “Nope. Just sitting here expecting you.”

  “Why?”

  “You called Kirk in New York, he called me, so I waited.” He paused a second, then added, “It has been a while, Morgan.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Long time between scores.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ll say.” The cigarette was almost down to his lips, so he plucked it out, pinched it, and tossed the stub in a wastebasket. “Kirk was plenty happy to hand you over to me. Right now you’re too hot for anybody.”

  “So, then, I shouldn’t let the door hit me on the ass on the way out?”

  “Naw, hell, man. Make yourself at home.” He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back, those cloudy eyes watching me with interest. “That was supposed to have been you in the Amherst Hotel, wasn’t it?”

  I pulled a chair out from the wall with my foot and slid into it. “That’s right.”

  For the first time since I got there, Muddy Harris grinned.

  “The boys in blue were pretty sore last night.”

  “Really? Is this where I bust out crying?”

  “Homer Carey had you pegged as familiar but didn’t hit the mug books fast enough to make you. You damn near blew it, though, sticking around that dump that long. Did you know the locals got a murder warrant out on you?”

  “I read the papers this morning. All it said was an old lowlevel hotel employee got himself killed by person or persons unknown.”

  Muddy grunted. “I guess they aren’t passing everything out to the press...or else maybe the newshounds are cooperating by keeping it quiet a little while longer.” An eyebrow raised above a smoky blue eye. “Your name still moves mountains, though. A lot of strange faces are popping up these days, and they’re all carrying badges.”

  “Good for them.”

  Muddy squinted at me. “You knock off the old Mexie, Morgan?”

  “You know that’s not my style, buddy.”

  “Didn’t think it was. If I did, we wouldn’t be here talking.”

  “Even so, Mud, you’re taking a big chance right now.”

  “Life is all chances, Morgan. If you don’t take a chance, you don’t win a prize. Like, I coulda had the cops waiting right here with me, and picked up that gravy they got ready for whoever turns you in. Trouble is, I don’t get to spend it, because some punk figures me for a squealer and picks me off, or some friend of yours decides to do an unasked-for favor and squeezes my neck for me.”

  He shrugged rather grandly.

  “This way it’s better,” he said. “Some way, shape, or form, I’ll come out of this thing with a little more bread than when I went in. Playing the angles, but not crossing anybody who’s my friend...or who’s too dangerous not to be my friend. Follow?”

  “I’m in the business, too, remember?”

  “Yeah, but how does it feel to be hunted?”

  “Keeps me on my toes. My chances of survival go up, thanks to all this experience I’m getting.”

  “That, Morgan, is one hell of an attitude, even for you. Like that cop...what’s his name? Oh yeah, Walter Crowley. Like Crowley said, whoever takes you down gets the brass ring.”

  “Screw Walter Crowley.”

  A faint grin cracked Muddy’s lips. “I think you already did—or screwed him over, anyway. He had you and now he doesn’t. That’s why he’s so damn mad. Taking it so damn personal.”

  “Is it.”

  “By the way, Morg—he’s got it figured out, you know.”

  “What has he got figured out?”

  “How you busted out of that net they had around you.”

  “Oh?”

  “They got a partial description of a guy wearing coveralls from Farango’s Car Wash, but nobody that size works there. The cop had a pretty good look at the girl, though. Especially at her titties. They’re shaking down the area looking for her.”

  “They better be pretty good at breaking alibis, if they find her.”

  Another shrug, not so grand. “Just thought I’d mention it. Now, my old compadre, what can I do for you?”

  “You can run a check on the old man killed at that hotel. Somebody paid him off to plant that charge in the room.”

  His smile was just another fold in the fleshy face. “That’s what I thought you’d ask for.”

  “Can do?”

  “Maybe. How much do you think he got for the gig?”

  “Not big money. Well, maybe big for him.”

  “Chump change to take out Morgan the Raider? How far fall the mighty.”

  I waved that off. “My name wouldn’t have meant jack to him, so the price would’ve had to be high enough for him to take it on, but not enough to make him suspicious.”

  “You mean not suspicious enough for a possible blackmail shot later on.”

  “Right.” This time I shrugged. “I’d guess five hundred bottom, a grand tops. It would be cash, and small bills. Chances are the old man didn’t have a chance to spend it, and he sure wouldn’t carry it around on him. He was a loner, according to my inside source. So anybody making contact with the old boy might get noticed.”

  Muddy squinted at me. “You got it pretty well figured out yourself.”

  “All part of a pattern, Mud, my man. Human nature doesn’t vary that much.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it.” He leaned forward to light himself a new smoke. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. What do you know about the Consummata?”

  Muddy’s eyes got less cloudy. “Not my scene, Morg.”

  “What do you know, Muddy?”

  He shook his head in a “no way” fashion. “That world’s dark and dank and dangerous, my friend. If she even exists at all. They say she’s done business in every major city here and overseas. That she can give you girls you can whip and screw and even kill if you want. Whatever your perverted pleasure, whatever your sicko taste might desire.”

  I made an appreciative face. “Well, she accomplishes a hell of a lot, for somebody who maybe doesn’t exist. Is she in town?”

  He got coy; it didn’t become him. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard.”

  “But you’ll ask?”

  “I’d rather not, Morgan.”

  “But you will.” I tossed a couple of bills on the desktop. “That’s a retainer. Enough?”

  His sigh was long-suffering. “I guess it’ll do for a start. I suppose I don’t contact you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m in the book,” Muddy told me.

  I was just going out when he said, “Morgan!”

  I turned. “Yeah?”

  “You already got enough problems, with Crowley and that federal bunch. This Consummata dame, that whole whipsand- chains crowd, and the freaks who dig that crazy pain scene? I’d advise against going anywhere near it or her.”

  “You would, huh? Why?”

  Muddy’s smile was a nasty thing lurking in the folds of flesh. “Oh, don’t know, Morg. Maybe ’cause you might get a spanking.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  At ten-forty, I tucked into a phone booth alongside a gas station and dialed the office number of the Mandor Club, but the line was busy.

  I had a cup of coffee at the diner across the street, used their payphone for my second try—another busy signal. A slice of Key Lime pie later, I headed back across the street to the gas station booth, and this time I got Bunny.

  Not wanting to chance a phone tap, I let her identify me by voice, then—before she could say anything but hello— said, “The truck with the shipment of cutlery you ordered just came in. I know it’s late, ma’am, but you said call when it arrived. You ready to take delivery?”

 
Her hesitation was just right—a businesswoman thinking, not a conspirator covering. “Yeah, Jonesy—you might as well bring the stuff on over. Wait, on second thought, send it over to my apartment at the Hillside. Have your guy give the package to the doorman. He’ll sign for it.”

  “Sure thing, ma’am,” I said, and hung up.

  In its day, the Hillside had been one of the better apartment buildings, one of those pink stucco art moderne jobs that looked so spiffy in the thirties, but now were faded, pockmarked and crumbly. A few face-lifts hadn’t helped much, and now the Hillside just stood there among others of its ilk like aging old broads gathered to talk about what used to be and what might have been.

  From my spot in the shadows, I could cover both ends of the street, a boring wait because anybody who lived here was already in bed, and most of the cars cruising through were taxis going back to their stands. The .45 was in a shoulder rig now—not a great one, but passable, considering it had come from a pawn shop. Anyway, the rod felt nice and snug under my arm, and was far less conspicuous than just being shoved in my waistband.

  At twenty after twelve, a white Ford station wagon rounded the corner, and turned in just past the entrance of the Hillside, into a small side lot, and found an open stall.

  Moments later, I heard the car door slam, but wasn’t sure it was Bunny till she came around and paused under a streetlight. She might have been a veteran streetwalker if her white fur coat and blue velour pantsuit hadn’t put her in a whole other class. She was getting keys out of a purse, but not for the front door of the place—there was a uniformed doorman just inside who tipped his hat and opened one of the two glass doors for her. The entryway was well lighted and I could easily make out Bunny’s activities within.

  The gal knew the ropes, all right. She took her time looking in her mailbox, sorting out a few envelopes, reading a letter, giving anybody who might have been following her a chance to show themselves, not so much to her as to me.

  I waited maybe three minutes, then left my shadows and walked across. You’d never know her eyes had left the letter she was reading—or pretending to read—as she stood there in the foyer in no hurry at all.

  But I knew she had spotted me crossing the street when she approached the doorman, granted him a lovely smile, and said something to him, gesturing behind her as she did.