Florida Firefight (14 page)

Medelli walked the briefcase down the bar and stood in front of Hawker. Simio still shadowed him. “I didn't catch your name,” he said.

“I didn't drop it.”

The narrow lips curled around the cigarette. Hawker guessed he was smiling. “A joke, that is correct? You are making the joke?” He looked up at Simio and said something in rapid Spanish. The mulatto's nose flattened as he hacked out deep laughter. Hawker could smell his breath: onions and stale grease.

“That is very nice,” said Medelli. His eyes narrowed, thin and brutal. “We have had a little joke. Among new friends, eh?” He swung his head at Mellor. “We have business to discuss. Perhaps we might have some privacy, yes?”

“I'm staying,” Mellor said firmly.

Hawker smiled at him. “No, you're not. You go on back and help Logan in the kitchen.” He looked at the two Colombians. “If these boys give me any trouble, I'll toss them out myself.”

The mulatto didn't understand English, but he sensed that his boss had somehow been offended. He grunted and took a step toward Hawker, but Medelli stopped him. “Another joke, eh? You are quite the funny man. But I have come here on business. Perhaps we can be done with the jokes now, eh?”

Hawker motioned the New Zealander away, and Medelli followed Hawker to a booth. Simio remained standing. Hawker ignored his glare, sipping easily at his beer. “You want to talk?” he said. “You have ten minutes. Talk.”

Medelli nodded, his fingers making piano exercise movements on the briefcase. “You are a blunt man. I like that, for I, too, am a blunt man. Perhaps we are alike in other ways. I am a man who has his way. It is my
orgullo
—my pride, you might say. People who work with me are treated fairly.” He leaned toward Hawker slightly. “People who get in my way are crushed.”

“You're wasting time, Medelli. Eight minutes.”

The Colombian nodded, his face slowly paling with anger. He dropped all pretension. “Then I will be frank. I want to buy the Tarpon Inn, Mr. Whoever-you-are. No, let me say that in another way, eh? I am
going
to buy the Tarpon Inn.” He clicked the briefcase open and swung it around toward Hawker. It was full of money in crisp stacks. The stacks were banded in brown paper: hundred-dollar bills.

“I am going to pay you five hundred thousand dollars for the land, the buildings—everything. How do you say it in America—‘cash money'?”

Hawker smiled. “I paid seven hundred thousand. I wouldn't be much of a businessman if I took a two-hundred-thousand loss after all the work I've done.”

Medelli's index finger tapped the table angrily. “I will give you a million, then. I will be back with the money tonight.”

Hawker shook his head. “The place is worth five times that.”

“Five million dollars?” The Colombian's face was turning red. With obvious effort he forced himself to remain calm. He took a deep breath. “All right, then. I will give you five million dollars. But not tonight. We are leaving very late tomorrow, and I will return in two weeks. I will bring the money then.” He paused. “But we will sign the papers now. Tonight. I have brought papers with me.”

“In two weeks the price will be higher—all the improvements we're making, you know. Inflation.”

It happened very quickly. Too quickly. Medelli slammed the briefcase shut, and suddenly Hawker was looking into the barrel of a tiny chrome automatic. “You will sign the papers now!” he hissed. “Do you understand? This moment!”

Hawker made a noncommittal shrug and reached for the pen the Colombian had produced. Halfway across the table, he backhanded the pistol to the floor and hit Medelli with a glancing left that jolted his mouth open—and suddenly Hawker was airborne.

As if in slow motion, he felt himself spinning across the room. He hit with a bone-jarring thud, and then used the bar as a brace to pull himself to his feet.

Simio was coming at him, the tiny albino eyes blazing.

The mulatto tried to grab him, but Hawker ducked beneath the massive arms and hit him three quick shots in the kidneys. Simio roared, turned and swung. Hawker blocked the punch with his forearm, but the impact of it sent him skidding across the floor. Medelli, he noticed absently, was still sitting dazed at the table.

The mulatto came at him in another charge. Instead of letting himself be backed against the wall, Hawker stepped through his arms and peppered him with a series of cutting jabs. It stopped his momentum. Hawker drove his left fist as hard as he could into the giant's side, then put all his weight behind an overhand right that crushed the flat nose flatter.

Hawker had never hit anyone harder in his life. The punch numbed his fingers and sent an electric pain up his arm.

The mulatto took two quick steps backward, shaking his head. Then he grinned at Hawker and spat blood at him.

Hawker was trying to decide between lunging for the automatic on the floor—and risking having his back broken—or jumping over the bar in search of a knife when Logan and Graeme Mellor burst into the room, each holding shotguns.

“
Hold it!
”

The mulatto studied the guns for a moment, growled at the men holding them, spat some more blood at Hawker, then shrugged. Slowly, as if he was used to having weapons pointed at him, he lifted Medelli over his shoulder, took the briefcase and lumbered through the door.

He didn't look back.

Hawker shook his head, still a little in awe, and sat down heavily on a bar stool. “Jesus, what took you guys so long?”

“How about a beer?” Mellor asked. “A cool beer, and some ice for that hand?”

“We couldn't find any weapons in the lodge,” said Logan. “The carpenters are redoing the billiards room, and they'd stored the gun case upstairs.”

Mellor brought a champagne bucket full of ice, and Hawker buried his right fist in it. “You could have come with clubs, damn it. Clubs are easy to find.”

“That guy's awful big,” Mellor reasoned.

“A lot bigger than me,” put in Logan. He smiled. “Besides, we'd both heard you were pretty good with your fists, and we wanted to see how good.”

“Very impressive it was, too,” said Mellor with a sniff.

“You two assholes stood and watched!”

“Just the last five minutes, boss. Hey, how about another beer? I'd like one. Logan, why don't we all have another nice cold beer …”

Back in his cottage, Hawker stripped his clothes off and dropped his ruined shirt in the trash.

It was 10:05
P.M.

He didn't have much time to get to Miami International.

The telephone rang while he was in the shower. It was the call he had been waiting for. It was Louis Brancacci.

“Hawk, where the hell have you been? I musta called a dozen times.”

“What did you find out, Louie?”

“That friend of yours in Washington—Guillermo?”

“Yeah.”

“No straight information, but some rumors and some good guesses. It's serious stuff. You want it over the phone? I've got a friend or two in Miami who wouldn't mind meeting you. They could pass on the info, one on one.”

“I need the information now, Louie.”

“Okay, here it is. This Guillermo is a very clever fellow. Like I said, nothing works directly through him. He's got a little organization of his own in D.C., and it stinks from the ground floor up. He's into a lot of things—has to be, because they have one hell of a cash flow. Drugs, for one. Maybe illegal weaponry, maybe some extortion. Since he's a diplomat, the money laundry is very clean—foreigners can bring all the money they want
into
the country, and they don't have to account for the source. Sweet, huh? I almost admire the guy.”

“What kind of drugs, Louie?”

“The kind of stuff that travels easy and sells big, I suppose.”

“Cocaine and heroin?”

“That would be my guess. And they must be bringing in tons of it, because the organization is very, very fat. Buying up all kinds of stuff. Heavy cash nut—so heavy, I'm surprised the feds haven't got him. Hell, those boys aren't dumb.” He chuckled. “Well, not too dumb, anyway. Stands to reason they'd have found a way to sneak a look at his luggage, diplomatic immunity or not.”

“Have your people figured in any of the exchanges?”

“Nope. Of course, I would tell you no anyway, but this time I happen to mean it. Like I said, it's rumor and guesswork.”

“That helps me, Louie. It adds some important pieces to the puzzle. His people have been carrying around suitcases full of money down here, and one of his lieutenants just offered me five times what my new fishing lodge is worth and didn't blink an eye.”

“Fishing lodge? You? Hey, how about filling me in, Hawk? Don't you think I deserve an explanation? I've got all of two long distance phone calls invested—no, make that three. The area code you gave me says you're someplace in sunny Florida. How is it down there?”

“Sunny,” said Hawker. “Don't forget—you win at racquetball next time.”

“What a guy …”

seventeen

Encased in an aluminum tube of narrow seats, smiling stewardesses, canned oxygen and club sandwiches, Hawker jetted from the Gulf Stream balm of Miami to the slush-freeze and smog of Washington, D.C.

At thirty thousand feet the cold lights of the Atlantic seaboard peeled away beneath him: the nestled glimmer of mountain villages, the neon sprawl of industrial slums, then the Capitol building domed in light and the white obelisk of the Washington Monument.

There was the Goodyear screech, the rumble of reversed engines and the audible sighs of seven dozen souls happy to have survived, smokers and nonsmokers.

It was 2:15
A.M.

Hawker could feel the seepage of arctic air through the exit tunnel. People in the terminal wore coats and gloves. They looked unhappy. They looked in a hurry.

Hawker bought a
New York Times
, folded it beneath his arm and found the information desk on the main floor—all as he had been instructed to do. The counter was closed. Hawker put the duffel bag at his feet and waited.

“Mr. Thornton?” asked a man. He wore an Austrian hat with fur lining. He was in his late fifties, and he looked like he probably owned a Mercedes and kept dachshunds.

Jacob Montgomery Hayes had given the man the proper alias. Thornton was Hawker's middle name, his late mother's maiden name.

“Yes?”

“My name is … Schmidt.”

Clever
, thought Hawker. “You were to arrange an appointment for me,” he said.

The man nodded quickly. Mr. Schmidt was obviously playing an unfamiliar role. Hawker wondered who he really was and how Hayes had gotten him. “I contacted Mr. Guillermo's office,” Schmidt said. “They said he had a very full schedule in the morning.”

“That's what we expected him to say.”

The man nodded again. “I did just as our mutual friend suggested I do. I told them it was a matter of the greatest importance. I stressed that several times.”

“And?”

“And I gave them the telephone number of the room I've reserved for you. They asked for your full name. Twice.”

“Good,” said Hawker. “Good.”

“Did you bring the money?”

Hawker fished two hundred-dollar bills, two fifties and two twenties out of his inside jacket pocket. Mr. Schmidt seemed unhappy that they were making the transaction so openly.

“Are you with the Federal Reserve?”

“Really, Mr. Thornton, that shouldn't concern you.”

“Just call me nosy. And you'll be telephoning me?”

“That was our agreement.”

“Tomorrow?”

“This sort of thing takes time. There are tests to be done, with chemicals and a microscope—”

“It has to be tomorrow. You have the number in Florida?”

“Of course.”

“No later than seven
P.M.
, Mr.… Schmidt.”

“I can only do my best, Mr. Thornton,” muttered the man. “I can only do my best.” He pivoted and marched away down the long corridor, walking strangely like a penguin.

Hawker couldn't resist. He called after him, “Mr. Schmidt—I was just wondering. Do you own dachshunds?”

The man studied him for a moment, as if Hawker might be joking. Finally he said, “Dobermans, Mr. Thornton. I keep two of them. I gave my dear little dachshunds away when I moved to his godforsaken town.”

Mr. Schmidt turned and disappeared among the cloaked and hurrying travelers.

Guillermo's office telephoned just after ten
A.M.

Hawker had almost given up hope. He had spent the morning trying to entertain himself in his room at the Stradford Hotel.

He had done push-ups, finished one of Allan W. Eckert's fine pieces on natural history, then done more push-ups.

Desperate, he finally turned on the television.

He was watching John Wayne in
The Quiet Man
when the telephone rang. It was one of Hawker's favorite movies, but the color was bad. John Wayne had a green face, and Maureen O'Hara's hair was harlot orange.

It was sacrilege.

Hawker switched off the television and answered the phone.

“Mr. Thornton, please.”

“I'm Thornton.”

“James H. Thornton?” It was a woman. Her secretarial formality didn't hide the Spanish accent.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Guillermo will be happy to see you this morning, Mr. Thornton. If it's convenient for you, Mr. Guillermo would be pleased if you would meet him at the Hyde Street Diplomat's Club.”

“Where? The lounge?”

He could tell the woman was smiling. “In the steam room, Mr. Thornton. We have called ahead and arranged your pass. Just give them your name at the desk. Is eleven all right?”

“Fine,” said Hawker.

He jotted down directions, then called Washington International Airport and made reservations on the 2:30
P.M.
flight back to Miami. He showered, put on fresh clothes, knotted a British regimental tie in the mirror, packed his duffel bag and paid his bill.