The Demolishers (16 page)

“You should have kept straight on around that last square.”

Sandra had Rand-McNally open to a sketchy little city map in the corner of a larger state map. She was navigating conscientiously. I jerked my head towards the rearview mirror.

“That’s what he did,” I said. “The guy in the little green Ford. He took the correct route and let us go. But Car Number Two moved up to replace him. That beat-up four-wheel-drive Nissan.”

Sandra looked at me quickly, startled. “I thought we’d lost them!”

“We had,” I said, “but they picked us up again after we returned to 1-95.”

“Wasn’t that kind of stupid?” she asked in her forthright way. “I mean, no disrespect or anything, Mr. Heim, sir, but we could have stayed on the little side roads where they couldn’t find us, couldn’t we?”

I said, “Hell, if we lost them permanently, we might hurt their poor little feelings.” I grinned. “You don’t understand how this game is played. The moves are all cut and dried, like the standard chess openings. First, they place us under open surveillance to show their interest and study my reaction. Second, I lose them to show that I’ve suddenly discovered, surprise, surprise, that we’re being followed; and that I disapprove. Third, they pick us up again with a full team—not just one lousy, conspicuous Chrysler—to show that they mean business and to hell with my disapproval.”

“But who are they?”

“Anything I’d tell you right now would be a guess.” I shrugged. “People who don’t like me? You won’t believe it, a sweet guy like me, but there are some. People who don’t like you? People who don’t like your dad? Or any combination of the above. Until we learn more, we’ll just continue with the standard moves. Are you clean?”

She was a little startled by the question. “Well, I took a shower this morning, if that’s what you . . . Oh!” She looked at me indignantly. “That’s a lousy question to ask me, Matt!”

I said, “I do most humbly beg the young lady’s pardon. Her pop used to deal the stuff, but I’m not permitted to ask if she’s got a little something stashed away in her luggage or purse or clothes. Or her car. Excuse me all to hell, ma’am.”

Sandra spoke stiffly: “Maybe that was a little stuffy of me, but I’ve never in my life. . . . Daddy would have beat me with a baseball bat if I’d so much as taken a whiff of somebody’s secondhand smoke, that kind of smoke.” Then she shook her head quickly. “No. I won’t lie to you. I was curious; I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I suppose most kids do. So I did try it a few times in college, different things people offered me, but I didn’t like the out-of-control way they made me feel.” She made a face. “That official propaganda about how you take one snort and you’re hooked for life, that’s a lot of bull; I didn’t have any trouble turning it down, afterwards. The social pressure was much worse than the biological pressure, if you know what I mean.”

“It wasn’t a big problem in my day, everybody was more concerned about booze, but I get the general idea.”

She said flatly, “Anyway, it was rough enough being Cassandra Varek without taking that risk. All my life, off and on, some creep with a badge has been watching me and harassing me, hoping to get something on me, like drugs, so he could use me against Daddy. I wasn’t going to make those bastards happy by letting them catch me out that way. ’ ’

I spoke without expression: “So if somebody shakes you down now, and triumphantly discovers a little plastic bag full of white stuff, I’m justified in blowing him away for planting it on you? I won’t be executing an honest law enforcement officer unjustly because you’re too shy to admit that you do have just a bit of happy-powder hidden away—strictly for medical emergencies, of course?”

She glanced at me sharply. ‘‘Do you think it’s those people? They won’t be happy until Daddy’s dead; and then they’ll dig him up to make sure he didn’t take something with him in the coffin!”

I said, ‘‘Let’s not worry about your poor persecuted pop; he’s been making it for a good many years. The point is, I don’t know who’s behind us, but the people you mention are certainly one possibility, and we should be prepared for them.”

The girl beside me drew a long breath. “I don’t know how to convince you, Matt. You’re welcome to search me if you like.” When I didn’t speak, she cleared her throat and said, ‘‘I guess it sounds ridiculous, these cynical days, to talk about words of honor—although I don’t see why it should—but all I can say is that you have my word of honor that I have no illicit substances in my possession.”

I said, ‘‘It doesn’t sound ridiculous to me, and your word of honor will do just fine.” I felt her relax beside me, and went on: “Well, it’s obvious that our unidentified friends are making a point of showing their muscles this time, using at least three cars to keep us covered. We’ll let them think we’re suitably impressed. Now tell me how to find Bay Street and we’ll proceed to the motel to find out what they’ve got planned for an encore.”

She licked her lips. “What do you think they’ll do, Matt?”

I said, “I won’t kid you. If they’re one of the outfits I think—we both think—they’ll probably come on pretty strong. Can you keep your temper if things get unpleasant?”

She nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

“Okay, we’ll play it as it lays,” I said. “Keep your
gun but don’t use it, don’t even chamber a round, it’s not that kind of a game at the moment. They’ll probably try to tease us into giving them an excuse to really push us around; don’t give it to them. Let them take the piece and do what you’re told, no matter how crummy it gets. The situation is under control and things will work out if you’ll just let them.”

Our refuge for this first night out of Palm Beach was an old-fashioned-looking hostelry just half a block from the river, which didn’t mean it was actually ancient. They’re all built to look old-fashioned down there, where the city has been restored along the waterfront. Our rooms were at the back, ground floor, we were told. The connecting door that had been specified gave the lady behind the desk some interesting ideas about wicked men, no longer very young, who got their kicks from robbing the cradle. To hell with her.

I took the keys, and we drove around to park in one of the designated slots in front of the doors with the correct numbers. They didn’t wait for me to use the key I’d picked; suddenly they were all over us like a swarm of bees. I acted too surprised to defend myself; and I was glad to see that Sandra gave up her purse without a struggle.

“Inside, both of you!”

This was a big, handsome, blond gent in white designer jeans and a knitted blue sports shirt. Steely blue eyes; at least he obviously hoped so. Short hair, which scared me a little. It used to be that long hair was a statement of rebellion and nonconformity; but the rebels and nonconformists never hurt anybody much. All they wanted was to be left alone to do their long-haired thing. Now everybody wears it fairly long except a few and it’s these short-hairs who are making the statement. Decently shorn, a self-righteous minority in a shaggy immoral world, they want to impose their short-haired standards of decency and morality on everyone around, no matter who gets hurt in the process.

Blondie said, “Don’t even dream of resisting, Helm. We know all about you, and you don’t scare us a bit. You’re covered every way; make one false move and you’re gone. Inside!”

Somebody’d already got the door open with the key that had been snatched from me. Somebody else gave Sandra a shove so that she stumbled into the room; but they let me walk in under my own power. There seemed to be a lot of threatening firearms on display, but they always seem more numerous when they’re pointed at you.

I made it four by actual count.

“Frisk them!” Blondie said, kicking the door closed behind him.

I saw Sandra grit her teeth as one man patted her down, a little more intimately than necessary. Another got the pistol from her purse, an old Colt .380. Kind of a museum piece now, it had been a good enough gun in its day if you didn’t require a really potent cartridge. Listed as .380 ACP, for Automatic Colt Pistol, it’s also known currently as 9mm Kurz, to distinguish it from the 9mm Luger Parabellum, a much hotter round.

A third man managed to locate the snub-nosed revolver I’d worn inside my waistband for him to find. If I’d been found weaponless, everybody would have worried; on the other hand, it hadn’t seemed advisable to confuse the boys with exotica like sleeveguns, ankle holsters, crotch rigs, or neck knives. They were clean-cut, simpleminded, college-educated government thugs in jeans and sloppy shirts of one kind or another. A couple had even passed up shaving for a day or two so nobody could possibly guess that their paychecks were signed by Uncle Sam—but the guns were all the same, standard .38 Special revolvers like mine, except that theirs had four-inch barrels where mine was a two-incher.

That went for the troops; Blondie was fancier. He packed a heavy, stainless .357. Well, I would have bet that he’d be one of the Magnum boys. It was too bad they didn’t let him tote a .44 and really make some noise.

“Over there, both of you!” he snapped, waving his big revolver towards a blank wall. When he had us posed properly against it, he came forward. “Now let’s make this official. I’m in charge here. I’m a senior special agent
—the
senior special agent—of the President’s Task Force for Illicit Substances, the PTFIS. Just in case you haven’t been officially informed, Helm, I’m notifying you now that our authority supersedes that of all other government agencies including yours. Washington wants a final solution to this vicious problem; and we’ve been given the power to go for it regardless of costs or consequences.”

I reflected that a final solution had been all Hitler had ever wanted, but I didn’t say that. It was low-profile night in Savannah, Georgia.

Instead I said mildly, “Do you have a name, Mr. PTFIS?”

“Tallman,” he said. “Robert Tallman.”

“Well, that figures,” I said, although he wasn’t really so tall. I had at least an inch on him in height, although he had more breadth and weight. I went on: “If you’ve got all that superseding authority, why the hassle? We’re both on the same side, the government side. All you had to do was ask.”

“Maybe.” Tallman’s voice was sharp. “And maybe not. One of the things we’re here to find out is why you’re still in government service.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“After your son married into the Varek family; and Sonny Varek is reliably known to be associated with the Chicago Mob? We’re looking for soft spots in high government places; and your hush-hush chief and his little 124

secret agency have been treated as sacred cows much too long. Clearly, the kindest thing that can be said is that security must be pretty lax around your shop for you to still be working there, a man related by marriage to a known underworld figure, a man who drinks cozily with Sonny Varek, spends the night in his house, and sleeps with his wife and maybe even his kid, or what’s that connecting door for?” Robert Tallman made a gesture of distaste. “My God, the idea of going to bed with any of that female Varek slime would turn a decent man’s stomach; and if my boy ever so much as looked at a drug dealer’s brat I’d shoot him dead on the spot.” He turned, as a man who’d left the room came back in. Tallman asked, “Anything?”

“Not in the car.” The man was short and slight and dark, with sharp brown eyes and slender, long-fingered white hands. He was proud enough of those hands to keep them carefully manicured—his one claim to beauty, perhaps—although he didn’t seem to be particularly fastidious in other respects. He qualified his first statement. “At least I couldn’t find anything without trashing the heap, Mr. Tallman.”

Tallman shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get to that if we strike out here; it’s got to be somewhere. She wouldn’t travel without it, not a little tramp like that brought up in that decadent family. A few million unearned bucks on Mama’s side; and you know what those society dames are. And we know about Papa, too, don’t we? You can’t tell me she isn’t using. Check out her suitcase. His, too, he might be packing it for her, thinking we’d be too petrified by his reputation and his government ID to look there. ... Go on, Vance, go on, you’re supposed to be the expert. The way you’re acting, anybody’d think you’d never searched a piece of luggage before!” Tallman looked sharply at me. “You said something, Helm?” “Not a word,” I said. “It’s your show. No comment.” 125

“What, no threats of governmental reprisals, no promises of deadly retribution? Clint Eastwood would be ashamed of you! What about you, girlie? Aren’t you going to tell me how your high-powered papa will sic all the godfathers on me with their little Tommyguns?”

Sandra looked to me for help, got none, and remained silent according to instructions. Good girl. The fact was that Tallman probably wasn’t quite the blowhard he was making himself out to be. As I’d suggested earlier, he was probably hoping to goad us into angry action of some kind, if only so he could assert his authority and maybe put “resisted arrest” on the report.

“Nothing in the suitcases, except he’s packing a lot of spare firepower,” reported the little man called Vance. “At least, if it’s there, I’m not going to find it without using a knife. And they weren’t in here before us, so she couldn’t have tucked it away in a chair or something for safekeeping.”

I sensed that they were all getting tense now, two of them covering us from different angles while Tallman, in front of us, handled his shiny Magnum with phony negligence. Clearly, the big scene was coming up; and I had a pretty good idea what it would be. I hoped the kid wouldn’t find it too distressing.