The Brass Cupcake Page 14

  He stared at me. “I’m retired. Besides, if I didn’t like you, you woulda just got a bust in the chops.”

  I grinned. “Same approach the kids use, Johnny. You take it from me because you know where I stand. If this was my town and I was still a working cop, I’d try to make sure you’d really retire.”

  “Cops like you were, Cliff, always give us a headache. You square Johns don’t figure. Where you going to get your reward? Heaven? I’m glad most guys will settle for a little scratch.”

  I sipped the very good coffee. “Now you’re winning my argument for me. That scratch you hand out, that grease applied in the right places—it’s taken the guts and heart out of too many police departments. So now when they’ve got the wolf packs to deal with, they haven’t got good cops to put out on beats in the bad neighborhoods.”

  His voice went silky. “But right now, Cliff, you’re working with me, eh?”

  “I’m a practical guy.”

  “You shouldn’t talk to me that way, Cliff.”

  I actually think his feelings were hurt. He wanted so badly to think of himself as a retired businessman.

  “Let’s get to it. You said the fellow on the phone had references?”

  “That’s right. He mentioned names. He knew the right boys to unload on in other neighborhoods. Statz in K.C. Boly in Wilmington. I told him knowing the names maybe wasn’t enough, so he told me he knew a red-haired guy who pulled the Rorson job in Scarsdale. The color of the hair is more than the law knows, so that was good enough for me. Those jewel boys, they got a hell of a grapevine. I told him maybe the cut had to be higher because this one was sour. He said O.K. and he said he knew it was sour, and so what.”

  “He wants it for Monday night in Florence City?”

  “Yes, and he’s got it figured out pretty good. I asked for the proof and last night a little kid brought this around.” He pushed the wad of tissue paper across the table. I opened it. A small gold locket that had had a stone set in the front of it. The stone was gone. There were initials on the back of the locket, E.F.S. in fancy script. Elizabeth F. Stegman.

  “Will he just hand it over?”

  “Are you crazy, Cliff? He’s no dummy, the way he talks. He knows how sour this is with the old lady dead and with that chauffeur dead, and he’s not trusting anybody. It goes like this: At nine o’clock sharp you got to make the turn off, the main road four miles south of Florence City onto Route Eight-o-eight. You know the place?”

  “Yes. A gravel road with no traffic.”

  “You’re to go no faster than ten miles an hour. Hold it right on ten and put a cross of black tar tape on your right headlight. Be alone and have the dough on the seat beside you. Make sure the door is unlocked, and the right window down. When you see two blinks from a flashlight on the shoulder, slow down to five miles an hour. As soon as a package is tossed in the window, stop the car. He said that’s important. Stop dead. Don’t turn off the lights or the motor. He’ll give you a chance to check the package that’s thrown in. A quick check. He says it’ll all be there. Then toss the dough out. You know the way he wants the money. Old stuff, nothing bigger than a hundred or smaller than a twenty. Have the dough wrapped in a white package. Throw it about fifteen feet through the window. But don’t start up. He’ll shine the flashlight in at you when it’s time to start up. When you do start, barrel on out of there. Make time. Go down to the end of Eight-o-eight and turn right. That road will bring you out onto the main highway. From then on you can do whatever you want to, so long as you don’t retrace the route. Like it?”

  “It sure puts him in the driver’s seat, Johnny. I’ll make a nice target sitting there.”

  “You want to make money, you got to take risks.”

  “He picked himself a spot. There’s big groves there, and roads through the groves. Then there’s bay front, and he could have a boat waiting. It looks to me as though he did a nice job of casing the area.”

  “He sounded smart, Cliff. He doesn’t want to be crossed. Twice he cuts off and I get the rest of the call from another pay booth.”

  I met his eyes and then looked down at my coffee. The way things were beginning to shape up, I saw no point in telling Johnny that the actual payoff would be the three hundred rather than the four hundred the stranger had asked for. But Johnny had been in business a long time, and in his business a man either develops a batch of extra senses or he gets dead.

  “I wouldn’t like it much, Cliff, if you get fancy ideas,” he said, very gently, as though chiding a rebellious child.

  I looked over at his hand. The wrist was as heavily furred as an animal’s. The square heavy nails were clean and shining. The hair on the third finger curled around the edges of the wide gold wedding band, worn for the wife who had died bearing the fifth child.

  “You’re going to bring the kids up down here, Johnny.”

  “You changing the subject?”

  I met his glance. “I can hear the bells ringing in the back of your mind, Johnny. Like at a railroad crossing. You thought I was all right. Now you don’t know. Now you’re worried.”

  “I’m worried.”

  I put my elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “You were reading the paper this morning. Suppose it turns out really fancy around here, Johnny. Suppose it turns out like that guy in the temple after his hair grew back. Suppose the whole works comes falling down. Florence City is only a hundred miles away, Johnny. When kids get a little older they cover a lot of territory. You know that.”

  It was getting to him a little. He said, “That fella that pushed the temple down, Cliff. It fell on him, didn’t it?”

  “He wasn’t fast on his feet.”

  He sighed. “O.K., Cliff. But look. I don’t know a thing. Go away now. You didn’t say anything. If you did, I wasn’t listening. He calls me back and I tell him it’s all set.”

  I stood up, wiped my lips on the napkin, and tossed it beside the empty cup. “You’re all right, Johnny.”

  He flushed angrily. “I’m getting old and soft in the head. It comes from being retired, maybe.”

  “You’ll like it, I think.”

  He didn’t answer me. The man let me out and I drove back to the hotel. The day was still overcast. Melody was waiting.

  13

  IT WAS SUNDAY and there was no hurry. Melody got into the car beside me, and before we started up we shook hands solemnly and swore that until we got back to Florence City there would not be one single word about this thing that had brought us together.

  We took the long way back. We drove across the Davis Causeway to Clearwater, going slowly, so that it was nearly noon before we arrived on Clearwater Beach. I found a place where we could rent suits, and the February day was so bleak that only the die-hards among the damyankee group were brave enough for the beach. The gray gulf waves looked surly as they came in. I was in first and I turned around and laughed at her as she stood in water up to midthigh, her shoulders hunched, her teeth chattering, gasping as the waves splashed up the front of the rented suit.

  Afterward we ran on the beach until we were dry and relatively warm. We got dressed and found a small semicircular booth in the bar of a jukeless restaurant. We drank and looked at the people and felt that warm lethargy that comes after a lot of sea and sand and wind. We played the snide game of picking out people and deciding which animal they most resembled. A woman came in who was such a perfect bloodhound that Melody nearly strangled on her cocktail and I slapped her on the back.

  The steaks were huge and tender.

  Over coffee she said, “I have so much fun with you. Cliff.”

  “I’m an amiable type.”

  “But you’re not. You’re several different people. I like this one best.”

  I looked at her odd mouth, the square look of the lips, the threat of harshness, the hint of vulnerability.

  “Here’s my big chance,” I said. “I’ve got you softened up. Now I should nail you down. How many guys get a hack at an heiress?”r />
  She looked at me and her lips were parted an eighth of an inch and her breasts lifted under the green blouse and the tailored jacket with the new shallowness of her breathing. “How many guys?” she whispered. “Only one, Cliff. Only one. And the lady is all nailed down. Snap your fingers and hold out the hoop.”

  In that light her eyes were more blue than gray. I looked into them and saw the slow dilation of the pupils. The lids came down a bit over her eyes as though she were suddenly very sleepy.

  “I’m holding out the hoop.”

  “Take me someplace and kiss me, Cliff, before I upset all these nice tourists.”

  We drove back to Tampa in the gray afternoon, slowly across the causeway, her head on my shoulder. One of the little places where there are picnic tables was empty and more secluded from the road than others. As I parked she turned in the seat so that her back was toward me. She pulled her long legs up and lay back into my arms, her face upturned, the lips still parted, her left hand creeping up to the nape of my neck and then tugging in a small and insistent way. As I kissed her she made a small comforted sound and moved more closely against me. There were no awkwardnesses and no fumbling. The long lines that were made to be traced by a slow sweep of hand were a warmness that had awaited that hand. The chaliced breast had a need that could be answered by the instincts of the hand, functioning without thought.

  And then the horn blared as her shoulder rested against the horn ring. We jumped and her laughter was warm against my face. Sleepy contented laughter.

  “It comes true this way, Cliff. After the no-good years.”

  “After all the no-good years.”

  “I didn’t care before. Now I’ll have Rainey break that codicil to the will. Those far-off names didn’t mean anything when Aunt Elizabeth spoke of them. They didn’t mean anything if they were going to be shared with Furny. Now they mean something, darling. Hawaii, Bombay, Cairo. All with you. All the beaches, all the drinks, all the funny places and doors we can lock behind us.”

  “We’ll have to make two trips. The second time we’ll look at the scenery.”

  “Now you can stop all this insurance nonsense, Cliff.”

  I looked down into her eyes. I looked for the gleam that would show she was joking. I looked for the lift at the corners of her soft mouth. She was solemn.

  I laughed. “Let’s not go too fast.”

  She pulled herself up, moved over on the seat. “Now see here, Cliff!”

  “See here yourself, angel. Kissing me doesn’t hang any sandwich sign on me reading, ‘Property of Melody Chance.’ I have things to do. After they’re done we’ll talk about plans.”

  “You’re being dull.”

  “Then it’s a characteristic and something you’ll have to get used to.”

  “You’re not telling me what I’m going to get used to.”

  There we were, snapping at each other. And suddenly we both had to smile. We told each other that we were being silly, so sorry, darling. We kissed again, but it was not quite the same. Neither of us was going to be dominated, and yet we both had the instinct to dominate.

  It was funny that right in the middle of that second kiss I realized exactly how I was going to do the other thing. It was like some buried part of my mind had been nibbling at the problem, and all of a sudden the answer was there.

  She felt the detached urgency in me.

  She ran her fingertips down my cheek. “What is it? What have you just thought of?”

  “Ways and means, honey. Too complicated to explain. I’ve got a phone call to make in Tampa.”

  She sighed and gave me a look that promised me that she would soon develop ways and means of making me forget any part of existence that was not all bound up with her. It made me remember, curiously, the way the female black widow tops off the mating act by devouring Mr. Spider.

  We didn’t talk and I wasted no time getting back to Tampa. I left her in the car and went to a drugstore and got change for the phone. Anywhere in the country you can do it. Anywhere there’s a phone. Just put a coin in, dial the operator, and say, “Get me the F.B.I.” There is never any fuss about it. The nearest regional office pays the charge, even if you are pure crackpot and the nearest regional office is two hundred miles away. Outside of office hours the calls are fed to an agent who, according to the duty roster, is stuck with staying near a phone.

  The voice was crisp and neat. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “My name is Clifford Bartells. I’m in charge of adjustments at the Florence City office of Security Theft and Accident. If you people are willing to take a fling at what might turn into a wild-goose chase, I’d like a conversation with you.”

  “Will the matter in question come within our jurisdiction, or is it a purely local problem?”

  “Don’t you co-ordinate with the Treasury on certain tax-evasion problems?”

  “Where are you now?”

  I told him and added that I had a car with me, but also a passenger who wasn’t in on the situation. It was close to four o’clock. He told me he wanted to call me back in a few moments. I waited. When the booth phone rang I picked it up.

  He said that I should come to a certain office in Tampa and be there at five. The passenger was my problem.

  Yes, the passenger was my problem. I went out and put it up to her. I told her she could take the car and go back to Florence City, but that I would rather she wouldn’t. We settled on a movie for her. A new musical, a leg show. I bought her a ticket and told her where to go when she got out.

  And then I went to the office building. I went there with an empty feeling in my middle, because I knew that if they weren’t buying, they could put me in a sad and awkward spot. I wanted them to buy. The office building was locked. A young man with dark red hair and a sunburned nose was standing inside the door waiting. He let me in and we walked back to the elevator.

  “Turned cold,” he said as he shut the door.

  “The hot spell lasted a long time.”

  “It sure did,” he said. He opened the doors and we walked down a corridor to an office door that was open.

  Two other men were waiting. The older one of the two sat on a secretarial desk, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He looked like an advertisement for vacation living. The other one stood near him, a gaunt man with one of those smiles that turn down at the corners.

  “We’ll talk in there,” the older man said, sliding off the desk. We went into the inner office and the door was closed on the inside by the redhead. They sat me close to the desk. The older man sat behind it. The other two remained standing. The older man lifted a small mike out of the desk drawer and set it in the middle of the desk. “No secrets here, Mr. Bartells. This is being recorded. Now, to save us a little time, I’ll tell you that I’ve had a few minutes to look over our local records. We know you and we know your records. We assume this call of yours is connected with the Stegman murder and robbery. Now go ahead.”

  They listened without expression as I laid it on the line. I gave them every part of it. Then I told them what I expected and where I thought they might fit.

  When I finished the man behind the desk said, “Please step out into the outer office for a few moments, Bartells. We’ll call you.”

  I went out there and stood by a window, smoking, looking down into the street. Once in a while I could hear the deep tones of their voices.

  The redhead opened the door. “Would you mind coming back in, please?”

  I sat down and they let the silence mount.

  “If we play along, and if your hunch is right, there isn’t going to be any question in anybody’s mind as to who set it up, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll be up the proverbial creek. We can’t be asked to protect you.”

  “All I ask is that you handle it in such a way that there’ll be no tip-off before it happens.”

  “We’re always curious about motivation, Bartells.”

  I shrugged. �
��Just say they hurt my feelings.”

  “We have a plan that ought to work. All you have to do is get the money from the bank no earlier than two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You wouldn’t want to tell me…”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” the gaunt man said, speaking for the first time. “It’ll be better if you just forgot you came here. We’ll handle our end of it in such a way that no more than two men in the bank will know or guess, and they’ll be in no position to talk.”

  The gray-haired man gave me a nod of dismissal. I went to the door with the redhead. As he opened it, the gray-haired man said, “Oh, Bartells.”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  As we went down in the elevator, the redhead said, “Probably the cold spell won’t last long.”

  “Not more than a few days.”

  “Always happens when the wind’s in the north.”

  “At this time of year.”

  He opened the street door for me and said soberly, “You’re right. Just at this time of year.”

  I went to the theater and bought myself a ticket and stood in the back until my eyes were able to function in the darkness. Halfway down the aisle I saw the gleam of her hair. There was an empty seat just beyond her. I mumbled an apology to the people on her right and they stood up to let me pass. Melody stood up too, her eyes on the screen. I edged by her and sat down and I could see that she hadn’t noticed or recognized me.

  I reached over and took her hand. She gave a little gasp and yanked it away. Then she whispered, “You darn fool!” She put her hand back where it belonged.

  We watched chorus girls cavort.

  At last I said, “Let’s go.”

  I turned on the headlights as we drove out of the city. She had bought popcorn as we left the lobby. When we had to wait for a light, I pulled her closer and kissed her. Her lips tasted of butter and salt and her hair smelled of salt air and the sea.