Have a Nice Night (8 page)

Once in the stuffy cabin, with Fuentes nervously nibbling at his nails, Anita sank wearily onto the bench, resting her hands on the greasy table on which Manuel took his meals.

'I have been organizing this affair,' Manuel said, sitting opposite her. 'First, I have news of your husband. He is still unconscious, but he will live. He has every attention. You don't have to worry about him.'

Anita clenched her hands and closed her eyes. Watching her, Manuel saw her dedicated love for this stupid, worthless man, and he marvelled at it.

'The cops are trying to find out who he is,' Manuel went on, 'but they have come up against a wall of silence. I have told our people not to talk to the cops. Even when Pedro recovers consciousness, he won't talk. So the situation is encouraging. We now have time to get your plan moving. This is a good thing, because nothing should be rushed.'

Anita looked searchingly at him. 'Will my husband live?'

'Yes. One of the hospital interns is a good friend of mine. He says Pedro is badly ill, but he will live.'

Tears trickled down Anita's face which she impatiently brushed away.

'And so . . .'

'We must wait a little while until Pedro is well enough to travel. It would be a stupid act to be too hasty. If we move him from the intensive care ward too soon, he might not survive,' Manuel said quietly. 'You see? I think not only of the money, but of your husband.'

Anita nodded.

'Very well,' Manuel continued. 'I have been giving this affair much thought. We must put on pressure. This pressure must be so strong, the cops will be forced to hand over Pedro.'

'Pressure?' Anita looked puzzled. 'What pressure? I don't understand.'

'Warrenton's father will pay the ransom. Five million dollars will mean nothing to him, but to get Pedro released is a much bigger problem,' Manuel said. 'I have thought about it. The cops will resist, so great pressure must be brought to bear.'

'What pressure? I still don't understand.'

'The Spanish Bay Hotel is the best and the finest hotel in the world. To the tourists, it is a status symbol. Even when they don't stay at the hotel, I understand from my informants, they are asked if they have dined at the hotel. They suffer a loss of face if they have to admit that they haven't: such is the snobbery of the rich.

'One of the workers, a good friend of mine, who works at the City Hall, tells me the city's revenue would be nearly halved if the Spanish Bay Hotel didn't exist. The owner of the hotel, Dulac, is a personal friend of the mayor. Now when Dulac learns there is a powerful bomb hidden somewhere in the hotel, and unless he can persuade the mayor and the police to release Pedro, the bomb will explode, he will do his utmost to get Pedro released. He will be told that this bomb could and will create such damage, his hotel will be out of action for months.'

'But suppose the mayor and the police don't react to your bluff?' Anita said.

Manuel smiled evilly. 'I never bluff. This will be for real, and you will have to find a safe place to conceal the bomb.'

Anita's eyes opened wide. 'You have a bomb?'

Manuel nodded. 'I will have two bombs in a few days. I have many grateful friends. I have talked to a man who, but for me, would be serving a thirty year jail sentence. He is an explosive expert. I have explained what I want. At this moment, he is constructing the bombs. One is a very minor affair. It will cause little damage: break a few windows, nothing important. But the second bomb will create havoc. Once we are in the penthouse, all I have to do is to press one of two buttons and the little bomb will go off by radio beam. This will tell Dulac I am not bluffing. If I press the second button, the hotel will cease to function for many months.'

Anita flushed with excitement. 'This is a wonderful plan! You are truly a man of truth! Where do I hide these bombs?'

'That is a good question. The little bomb should be hidden in the entrance hall of the hotel. It is not powerful enough to injure anyone, but it will be noisy, and glass will break.'

'The big bomb?'

'This is something I have given a lot of thought about. I have asked myself where is the heart of the hotel that keeps a hotel running? The kitchens! If we threaten to wipe out the kitchens, Dulac will realize his beautiful hotel will come to a standstill, so you will conceal the big bomb somewhere very, very safe, in the kitchens.'

Anita drew in a deep breath. 'That will not be easy. There is a day staff and a night staff, always on duty. The kitchens never close.'

'If you want your husband you must solve this problem. There is time. Think about it. I can think of no other way to get Pedro's release. It is the only way.'

Anita sat motionless, thinking, then she nodded. She got to her feet.

'I will find such a hiding place,' she said. 'You are a clever man.' She put her hand on Manuel's shoulder.

'Thank you.'

When she had gone, Fuentes exclaimed, 'Who cares about this jerk, Pedro? Five million dollars! To hell with this bomb idea. It's crazy!'

'If it is possible, Pedro leaves with us,' Manuel said coldly, 'I have given her my word. That is final.'

'Now, wait,' Fuentes said. 'Think about this. Who wants to have anything to do with bombs? Don't you see . . .'

Manuel interrupted him. 'Then go, my friend. Go out onto the harbor and get picked up by the cops. You either work with me, do what I say or you are at liberty to go.'

Fuentes sat still for a long moment. He realized he had no alternative but to accept Manuel's conditions.

'Then I work with you,' he said finally.

Manuel leaned forward and slapped Fuentes on his shoulder. 'Well said. We drink to it.' His cold little eyes stared fixedly at Fuentes, 'And remember, my friend, when I drink with a man who tells me he will work with me, it is a binding contract. Is that understood?'

The two men stared at each other, then Fuentes forced a smile. 'It is understood,' he said.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

With the aid of six detectives borrowed from the Miami police force, the eight detectives of Paradise City were combing Seacomb, searching for Fuentes. They also carried a photograph of Pedro, taken as he lay unconscious in the hospital bed. No one knew him. No one had ever seen him, nor had they seen Fuentes, nor knew him.

Manuel Torres' word had gone out. The Cuban workers followed Manuel's instructions. One day, he told them, they too could be in cop trouble. The wall of silence was frustrating to the hot, tired detectives visiting each walk-up, knocking on doors, showing photographs and asking, 'Have you seen these men?'

Lepski, with Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, was working the waterfront. The hot lead to Fuentes' whereabouts was that his gun permit had been vouched for by Lu Salinsbury, a rich yacht owner who had asked for a permit so Fuentes could guard Salinsbury's big, opulent yacht. Salinsbury had left for the Bahamas, but records showed Fuentes hadn't turned in the gun. Lepski decided some of the night watchmen, guarding the other yachts, might know where Fuentes could be found.

As the two detectives walked along the waterfront, Lepski chewed on a dry cheeseburger and was grumbling. The time was 22.30, and he kept thinking of the chicken dinner he had left on Harry Atkins' bar the previous evening, when the shooting began.

'Chicken in white wine sauce and mushrooms!' he moaned as he chewed. 'Imagine!'

'Harry will keep it in the freezer for you,' Jacoby said comfortingly. 'If there's enough for three invite me to dinner.'

Lepski snorted. 'You think too much about food, Max.'

'It's not a bad occupation. How about those two?'

The two detectives slowed their pace. Two men sat on a bench, drinking beer from cans. They both wore revolvers on their hips and were obviously hired guards, guarding two big yachts moored side by side.

Lepski introduced himself, flashing his shield. One of them, elderly and bulky, squinted at the photograph of Fuentes, then handed it to his younger companion.

'Sure, that's Fuentes,' the younger one said. 'He used to work for Mr. Salinsbury. That's right, isn't it, Jack?'

'Yeah. A Cuban.' The bulky man looked up at Lepski. 'Is he in trouble?'

'He could give us information,' Lepski said. 'Any idea where we can find him?'

'He doesn't work around here any more. Haven't seen him in weeks.'

The younger man said, 'You talk to Manuel Torres. He and Fuentes are buddies. Torres owns a fishing vessel at the far end of the harbor. Berth three. If anyone knows where Fuentes is, he will.'

'Manuel Torres?' Lepski asked. 'Who's he?'

'Just another goddam Cuban. I've no time for Cubans, but Torres seems important. He owns his vessel and runs a junk stall in the market.'

'Important?' Lepski probed.

'To Cubans. He has lots of friends who visit his vessel.'

The younger man shrugged. 'For a Cuban, I guess he's important.'

Lepski thanked the two guards, then moved along the waterfront with Jacoby at his side. 'We'll take a look at Torres,' Lepski said.

It was a long trudge, past the moored luxury yachts to the basin where the fishing vessels were moored. Both men were sweating in the humid night air, and Lepski was in an ugly mood. A squat, dark Cuban woman walked by them, giving them a quick, suspicious glance, then looking away. Neither of the two detectives were to know she was the wife of Pedro Certes. They dismissed her as yet another of the waterfront whores.

They found Manuel's vessel moored in the third berth, between two clam fishing boats. The gang plank had been run in, but there was a light on in the forward cabin.

In his cop voice, Lepski bawled, 'Hi, Torres! Police!'

Manuel and Fuentes were just touching glasses of whisky to cement their contract when Lepski's voice made both men slop their drinks.

Fuentes turned a greenish yellow and his eyes went dim with fear. Police!

Manuel patted his arm. 'I will handle it.' Moving swiftly, he pushed aside the table and lifted a trap door. 'Down there, and keep silent. It will be okay. Leave it to me.'

As Fuentes lowered himself into a dark hole that stank of stale fish, Manuel came out on deck.

'You Torres?' Lepski barked.

'That is my name,' Manuel said quietly. 'What is it?'

'We want to talk to you.'

Manuel ran out the gang plank, then moving swiftly, he arrived on the quay and faced Lepski who flashed his shield.

'Where is Roberto Fuentes?' he demanded.

'You mean my friend, Roberto Fuentes?' Manuel asked and smiled.

'You heard! We want him as accessory for murder. Know where he is?'

'Accessory for murder?' Manuel faked a startled expression, 'Ah! That explains everything. I guessed something was wrong.'

'Explains what?'

'My friend came to me last night. He seemed agitated. He told me he had to leave for Havana immediately. He asked me to lend him money. I look after my friends so I lent him a hundred dollars. When my friends are in trouble, I don't ask questions. You, Mr. Cop, when your friends are in trouble, would act the same way.'

Manuel was now enjoying himself as he watched Lepski's frustrated expression.

'So my good friend, Roberto Fuentes, took a boat and is now with his family in Havana.'

'What boat?' Lepski snarled.

'That I wouldn't know. He has friends on the waterfront. Many of them fish. Some go to Havana on business. We Cubans help each other.' Manuel shrugged.

Lepski moved forward and tapped Manuel on his chest. 'I think Fuentes is on your scrap heap. I think you are lying.'

'Mr. Cop, I am known on the waterfront as a man of truth. You can search my poor home with pleasure,' Manuel said. 'Fuentes, I assure you, is now with his parents in Havana. You will, of course, have a search warrant? I believe that is the necessary form.'

Lepski loosened his tie. 'Now listen, smart ass, you could get caught with an accessory to murder after-the-fact rap. That could put you away for a five to ten. I'm asking you: is Fuentes on your vessel?'

Manuel shook his head. 'He is, by now, in Havana. I am a man of truth. Ask any Cuban. Never mind the search warrant. Come aboard. Search. Satisfy yourself. I am a man of truth.'

Lepski hesitated. If he went on board and didn't find Fuentes, this slick bastard could complain to the mayor: an infringement of rights. Lepski decided he wasn't going to get involved in a mess like that. He decided he would report to his chief first.

Watching him, Manuel saw his bluff had worked. 'I need my sleep, Mr. Cop,' he said. 'I am a hard working man. You too need your sleep. I say goodnight.' He stepped back, gave Lepski a respectful wave of his hand, walked up the gang plank, waved again, pulled in the gang plank, then walked to the lighted cabin.

'He could be telling the truth,' Jacoby said.

'Like I'm Greta Garbo,' Lepski snarled.

Maria Warrenton was in the mood to show off. To Wilbur's surprise, she told him they would dine in the Empress Restaurant which was strictly for the clients staying at the hotel, away from music, rich tourists, and with a terrace on its own.

'But that will be full of old people,' Wilbur said as he struggled with his tie. 'Wouldn't you like something more gay where we can dance?'

'We will dine there,' Maria said firmly. 'I want to show those stupid looking old women I have finer and more beautiful jewels than they have.'

'As you like,' Wilbur said. 'I'll get the diamonds then.'

Going to the concealed safe that Dulac had installed, he opened it and took out the red leather case. Then putting the case on the dressing table, he finally fixed his tie. He put on his white tuxedo, then sat down to watch Maria adorn herself with the jewelry her father had given her.

He admitted, watching her, she was a very beautiful woman, and the glitter of diamonds became her dark skin.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

When Maggie wheeled Brady into the Empress Restaurant, their appearance caused a minor sensation. The old people were already seated at their tables. Waiters were moving around with trays of aperitifs. The short, fat maitre d' was darting from table to table, smiling, suggesting this and that delicacy to tempt the jaded palates of the old. Seeing Maggie pushing the wheelchair, he flicked his fingers and his assistant took the bundle of menus from him, and he advanced, smiling at Brady.