going to try to storm the hotel. Ruiz, we believe, has been brought in to organize this, which indicates that they’re shooting for something big. It’s an easy scenario to write. Take over the St. Albans, cut off the electric power, disrupt the luncheon, kidnap Crowther-”
“Kidnap Crowther! Maria! That would be an impressive thing. On American soil!”
“They’ll settle for less. We won’t know till it happens. Luckily, we know about Ruiz, so they won’t be taking us by surprise. There’s going to be heavy media coverage, and purely for propaganda reasons, we don’t want to call out the National Guard. We would prefer to have the Latin community handle the problem in its own way.”
“But I had no idea-four hundred! Students, probably. I assure you, four hundred militant students are no joke. I can’t produce an effective counterdemonstration out of thin air. The paramilitary organizations are dissolved. The cadres stay home watching Jackie Gleason on television. Saturday afternoon there will be football games. I can predict that no one will feel ambitious about being cracked over the head on behalf of Eliot Crowther, a person of so little magnetism. I dislike him myself. Tell me exactly what it is you want. I would like to help you because of our past associations. It will take money, you know.”
“We want you to get out a special edition of your paper, what’s its name again-”
“A lot has changed in three years. If your regular printer won’t cooperate, go to somebody else. Leaflets would be just as good. Don’t mention Crowther. Or Ruiz, naturally. The Commies and Castroites want to give the impression that the refugee community is opposed to United States policy, so on and so forth, so let’s come out on the streets to show our gratitude for American hospitality, the American way of life, the greatest country in the world et cetera-you’re the writer, put it in your own words. Then get on the phone and start calling people. You used to be considered quite a fair organizer.”
“In those days, I will remind you, I had money in my pocket. I could buy a person a glass of rum. If he needed a new shirt-”
“We understand that you’ll have expenses. A thousand dollars should cover it.”
“Including the printing? Some people will be working Saturday, putting in overtime, I will have to recompense them for taking time off. I say it with regret, but in this day and age, ideology is not enough. Even five thousand would be inadequate, but I would try to manage.”
Vega, as they both knew, wasn’t going to end up saying no, and they settled on $1,750.
“And I don’t even know what I’m buying,” Mr. Robinson complained. “How many people? You don’t seem able to tell me. This had better work, or it’s my ass. Tell them to take guns, just in case. If it looks too tough, do some shooting and then the cops can move in.”
So that was what it was all about! Penniless, Vega had allowed himself to be outmaneuvered. If guns had been mentioned earlier, he wouldn’t have agreed to do it for a measly $1,750. These North Americans were businessmen, after all.
“Yes, Mr. Robinson,” he said sadly. “I understand the situation. I will do what I can for you because I am grateful for American hospitality, and I assure you I really do mean that.”
Sometime in the early hours of Thursday morning, thieves broke into the Emerson Sporting Goods outlet on North Miami Avenue. A partial list of the missing merchandise, supplied to the police the following day, included tennis rackets, cameras, fly rods and golf clubs, hunting rifles, shotguns, an assortment of handguns, including a window display of unusual European pistols.
The detective division of the Miami police department, which as yet had not been officially informed of the security preparations for the visit of the U.S. attorney general two days later, treated it routinely. They called their informants and asked if they had heard anything. No one had. There it would have stopped, except for a lady who lived over a restaurant on the same block. Seeing an account of the break in the morning paper, she called in to say that she had gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and had happened to observe a light blue panel truck, unmarked, come out of a delivery alley. Nothing more important was happening at the moment, and two detectives were assigned to see what they could turn up.
The state motor vehicle bureau had recently installed a cardsorting machine. A clerk ran the truck registrations through the machine, which in a matter of moments kicked out all the blue panel trucks in Dade County. Most were the property of stores or delivery services, and were clearly identified. Only four were unlabeled. One of these was registered to a Guillamo Delgado, at an address on 15th Court in Southwest Miami.
The detectives were hurrying to get back so they could wind up their paperwork without running into the dinner hour. Delgado operated a small moving business and did light junking. His truck was up on blocks, and the oil pan had been pulled. The detectives nosed around, without really expecting to find any stolen tennis rackets or shotguns at this point. They knocked on the back door and were admitted to the kitchen.
Three young men, one of them with oil under his fingernails-this was Delgado-were sitting around the table drinking red wine from a half-gallon bottle. A woman at the sink was washing dishes. A radio, making too much noise, was tuned to a Spanish-language station. One of the detectives turned off the radio and asked for identification. Nobody seemed to speak much English.
“ID,” he said, shaping a card with his hands. “Name.”
They all had something, a driver’s license, Social Security. After looking around casually, the detectives left.
The young woman drifted to the front window and watched the police car drive off. She laughed and said something in Spanish. One of the young men at the table removed an extra set of protuberant top teeth, which had given his face a deceptively foolish look. He was fairskinned, with crinkles of concentration at the corners of his eyes.
He opened a door beneath the sink and took out a large rolled drawing. The others cleared the table. He unrolled the drawing, weighting it at the corners with wineglasses. It was a scale-plan of the Miami International Airport.
He covered it with a sheet of flexible acetate, drew several quick arrows with a red marking pencil, and began to talk.
CHAPTER 3
Michael Shayne-red-haired, powerfully built, as relaxed as a cat-sat back in the dental chair and let a plump, motherly nurse snap a bib around his neck. Dr. Galvez approached with a probe and a long-handled mirror.
“Open, please.”
After a moment’s cursory inspection, he murmured something about X-rays and told the nurse to write up the chart on the last patient. He would call her when she was needed. She nodded cheerfully and went out.
As soon as he heard the door close behind her he put down his tools.
“I am sorry about this cloak-and-dagger atmosphere, Michael. But there are now seven people working in my office, all with a passing interest in political matters. I would like to think that they subscribe to my own belief in constitutional democracy, but about one or two of them I have my doubts.”
“I needed a checkup anyway,” Shayne said.
“Your teeth seem in excellent shape. Come back next week for the X-rays, if you wish. Right now, politics. I would like everyone to think that it was my specialty that brought about this meeting, not yours.”
He opened a cabinet and took out a fifth of Jamaica rum. “I keep this for my nervous patients. Can I offer you-”
“Sure.”
Galvez poured two drinks into paper cups, gave one to Shayne, and perched on a high stool. He was small and slightly built, with a neatly trimmed Van Dyke and a professorial manner, in his middle fifties. He had formerly practiced in Havana. He was an excellent dentist, and several people Shayne knew used him. He was also an active figure in refugee politics, a subject about which Shayne knew very little. Before keeping this appointment, he had checked with his friend Tim Rourke, a reporter on the Miami
Dr. Galvez was the leading personality in a group that until recently had been the largest and most influential. It was usually referred to by its initials, NLS; Rourke had forgotten what the initials stood for. It was generally pro-
