But he never did lose Termite Tommy, even as traffic heavied south of Avon Park and Sebring, and even when they drove through a couple of heavy rainsqualls that darkened the sky and cut visibility. They hit Fort Lauderdale a little after nine o'clock, and Fortescue decided that if Tommy had driven all this way for a shackup with some bimbo, he himself would have a hard time explaining to Tony Harker why he had deserted his assignment in Lakeland.
Keeffringer seemed to know exactly where he was going. He cut over to Federal Highway, turned onto Commercial, and pulled into the parking lot of the Grand Palace Restaurant.
'Welcome home,' Roger said softly, feeling better.
He parked a block away and sauntered back. He returned in time to see Termite Tommy come out of the side entrance to the Palace Lounge. With him was a blond guy wearing a white suit. When they passed under the restaurant's outdoor lights, Fortescue thought the newcomer might be David Rathbone. But he couldn't be sure, having seen only that photograph Harker had.
Roger watched as the two men climbed into a parked car, a big, black job that, from where he stood in the shadows, he guessed was either a Rolls or a Bentley. They were together less than five minutes, then got out of the car. They shook hands. Rathbone, if that's who it was, went back into the Palace Lounge. Termite Tommy returned to his truck and pulled away. Fortescue could have taken up the tail again but didn't.
'The hell with it,' he said aloud.
He drove home, and when he walked in carrying his suitcase, Estelle looked up from her sewing and said, 'Have a nice vacation?'
But she rustled up a great meal of cold chicken, spaghetti with olive oil and garlic, and a watercress and arugula salad. She also warmed up a wedge of apple pie and topped it with a slice of cheddar, just the way she knew he liked it.
She watched him wolf all this down and asked, 'Didn't you have any lunch today?'
'Oh I did, I did,' he said. 'Instant ptomaine.'
He opened his second bottle of Heineken before he called Harker at his motel. He gave Tony a brief account of meeting Weisrotte and how he tailed Termite Tommy back to Lauderdale.
'He met a man in the parking lot of the Grand Palace,' he reported. 'I think it was probably David Rathbone, but I can't swear to it. A good-looking blond guy wearing a white suit. They sat together in a car that was either a Rolls or a Bentley.'
'Rathbone drives a black Bentley,' Tony said. 'It was probably him and his car. Find out anything about that self-destruct paper?'
'Sheet,' Fortescue said, 'I barely had time to turn around. But while I was in the German's printshop, I spotted something interesting. He's got a brand-new color laser copying machine.'
'Oh-oh,' Harker said.
38
'When's this guy going to show up?' Rathbone demanded.
'Hey, take it easy,' Jimmy Bartlett said. 'You've been awfully antsy lately.'
'You're right,' David said. 'I'm getting impatient. And when you get impatient, you make mistakes. I'll try to slow down. But did we have to meet in a crummy place like this?'
Bartlett shrugged. 'He picked it, and at the last minute. Look, the guy is playing a double game. If his agency finds out he's turned sour, he'll draw ten, at least. And if the Colombians even suspect he might be a plant-which he isn't-he's dead meat. So can you blame the guy for being paranoid? He's just meeting us as a personal favor to me. He'll show up-after he's made sure the place isn't staked out.'
They were sitting in the bedroom of a motel far west on Atlantic Boulevard. The room smelled of roach spray, and the wheezing air conditioner in the window was no help at all. Bartlett had brought along a bottle of Chivas and a stack of plastic cups. They got a tub of ice cubes from the machine in the lobby, and were working on strong Scotch and waters.
'Before he shows,' Jimmy said, 'let's talk a little business. That queer twenty you got from Termite
Tommy is a gem. Was a gem. I went to dig it out just before you picked me up, but it wasn't there. Just a pile of confetti.'
'I told you,' Rathbone said.
'David, this is the greatest invention since sliced bread. The possibilities are staggering. We'll start with a deal I've got coming up in a week or so: a big deposit at the Crescent Bank in Boca.'
'Mike Mulligan covering for you?'
'Oh sure; he's true blue. The deposit will run at least a hundred grand. Probably more. I suggest we begin by salting it with thirty thousand of the queer and taking out thirty Gs of genuine bills.'
'Whatever you say, Jimmy.'
'If it goes okay, we'll increase our take from future deposits. Can you get thirty grand of those color prints from Tommy?'
'In twenties?'
'Better make them fifties and hundreds, half and half. Twenties will be too big a bundle.'
'All right. I'll let him know.'
'And if Tommy is out of the picture, you'll be able to deal directly with the printer?'
'Absolutely. He-'
But then there was a single knock on the door, and both men stood up. Bartlett put the door on the chain, opened it cautiously, peered out. He saw who it was, closed the door, slipped off the chain, then opened the door wide.
'Hiya, Paul,' he said. 'Glad you could make it.'
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident grin. His madras sports jacket and linen slacks didn't come off plain pipe racks. He moved smoothly and, before saying a word, walked into the bathroom and out again, opened the closet door and looked in, even went down on one knee to peek under the bed.
He rose, dusting his hands. 'No offense,' he said to Bartlett, 'but I'm alive and mean to stay that way. Who's this?'
'David. He's in the game. Paul, meet David. David, meet Paul.'
They nodded. No one shook hands.
'Warm in here,' Paul said. 'Why don't we all take off our jackets.'
'Paul,' Bartlett said gently, 'we're not wired; take my word for it.'
'Sorry,' the newcomer said, still grinning. 'Force of habit. Hey, Chivas Regal! That's nice.'
'Help yourself,' David said. He sat on the bed, let the other two men take the spindly armchairs.
'So?' Paul said, taking a gulp of his drink. 'What do you want to know?'
'An overall view of the world market,' Jimmy Bartlett said. 'What's going to happen in the next year. Your opinion, of course. We know you don't have a crystal ball. We just want your informed guess on the future fluctuation of the product price. Cocaine especially.'
'Okay,' Paul said, 'but all this is just between us. Right now there's a product surplus. That should evaporate within three months. Demand will hold steady; supply will contract.'
'How do you figure that?' David asked. 'Government raids? Interception of shipments?'
Paul laughed. 'Forget it,' he advised. 'Washington claims they stop ten percent at the borders. The truth is, if they're grabbing two percent they're lucky. No, the reason for the coming shortfall is more basic than that. The U.S. is saturated, all markets covered, no possibility of any great expansion. So the cartels are turning to the European Community. What's the market over there right now? Modest for heroin and marijuana, underdeveloped for cocaine. There are a few wealthy snorters, no one is free-basing, and they don't even know about crack. Plus you've got to realize that by 1992, the borders between countries in Western Europe will be a sieve; it'll be no problem at all to move the product. So the cartels' merchandising and sales managers have planned an all-out campaign to flood the whole continent with coke. It's already started in a small way, but eventually the European demand should be as strong or stronger than the American. That has got to mean reduced shipments to the U.S. and higher prices. You asked for an educated guess; that's mine.'
