Carnal Hours

“Is it?” I asked. “Tell me, Naval Intelligence-what suddenly turned me into a loose end those assholes had to tie up?”

Fleming was lighting a new smoke. “Why don’t you ask Meyer Lansky and Harold Christie?”

“What do you mean?”

He smiled as he waved his match out. “They’re in a suite at the British Colonial, right now-talking business. I can give you the room number, if you like….”

I was dressed and out of there within fifteen minutes-and I had my own weapon now, the nine-millimeter Browning. With an extra clip.

“Is the main house open?” Fleming asked. “I need to use the phone.”

I gave him the keys. “You’re not coming?”

“No. I’ll just stay behind and…tidy up. Happy hunting, Mr. Heller.”

Somehow I knew what Fleming meant by “tidying up”: those two bodies would soon be gone, as if they’d never been here.

But that wasn’t my concern.

I had tidying up of my own to do.

26

The world was a pale ghostly green as I padded across the tar roof, feet splashing big pools into little ones. After the storm, the wind had turned lazy and gentle and cool. Getting up here had been no problem-stairs led to the flat roof of the central tower of the British Colonial Hotel-but now things would get tricky.

Meyer Lansky had the sixth-floor suite, the penthouse, in the six-story tower that was the axis of the hotel structure. Right now I was directly above that suite, leaning up against a terra-cotta facade which extended up another half-story and faced the ocean; on the other side was a massive plaque of Columbus, which jutted up higher than the rest of the facade, and atop it like a huge coachman’s lamp was an electric lantern that must have been a good five hundred watts. This was the source of the pale green mock moonlight.

By standing on tiptoe, I could peer over the wall of the facade to the balcony a story below. Meyer Lansky’s balcony. About a fifteen-foot drop, if I wanted to climb over at the point just before the abrupt jut of the Columbus plaque. If I didn’t break a leg or two, trying that drop, and instead missed the balcony altogether, five stories below the cement patio of Davy Jones’ Locker cafe was patiently waiting.

For a Saturday night, things were quiet-despite my already active evening, it was not yet eleven p.m., but the storm had hit early enough to keep people home or in their hotel rooms. Below, a few couples stood looking out at the restless sea and wind-brushed palms, doing their best not to step or stand in puddles, dodging the occasional fallen branch.

About six feet down was a decorative overhang above the balcony; it was probably just under a foot wide. I reached in my pocket for one of half a dozen cigarettes I’d bummed off the British agent. Lighted one up with a match from the British Colonial matchbook I’d picked up when I was checking the lobby for Lansky muscle. I hadn’t seen anybody who seemed to qualify, but when I went up to the sixth floor, there was a pockmarked burly sentry in the hall by the door to the suite; he wore a two-tone blue suit and sat in a folding chair too small for him, reading Ring magazine. I had walked on by him and taken these stairs to the roof.

Now I leaned against the back of the facade, sucking in the smoke, a strong, bitter blend, my white linen suit washed green by the lantern, the nine-millimeter snug under my arm in the shoulder holster, jacket unbuttoned. I could go find some rope…with all the boats around that wouldn’t be hard…I could tie it around the base of that big electric coachman’s lamp and…

Fuck it.

I tossed the cigarette and it sizzled in a puddle and I climbed over the facade and dropped myself down the stucco face of the building until my hands were hooked over and gripping the edges above, wrists bent, while below my feet stretched and danced in the air, searching for that overhang.

I didn’t dare risk just dropping there-not enough width to maintain my balance. Over to my left was the lower part of the Columbus plaque; it was recessed and ornate, with a lot of rococo design work.

I let go with my left hand and every muscle in my body pulled as my right hand held on and my left scrambled over the plaque’s surface, like a blind man searching for a light switch, until finally my fingers clutched some sculptured rococo work that served as a handle for me to grab on to.

I let go with my right hand, and my body swung toward where my left hand held on, but suddenly my feet were touching the overhang-and not just my toes; my feet, turned sideways, had footing, at least as long as I had hold of whatever I had hold of in that damn ornate plaque.

Then my right hand searched for something else to grip among the design work, found another rococo handle, and my feet were securely under me and I had my full balance, and I dropped to the floor of the balcony below.

The water puddled there made me slip and I fell back, hard, against the wrought iron of the balcony itself, shaking it, but I didn’t lose my balance, and it didn’t give way, and I had my gun out from under my arm and in my hand when the French doors opened and a heavyset bodyguard in a straw fedora and tropical shirt-he looked a little like Wallace Beery-peeked out, his hands empty, to see if a branch had fallen or something.

I was on my feet with my gun in his belly before the stupid surprised expression was off his face. In fact, it was still there when I plucked his long-barreled.38 from under his arm, sticking it in my own waistband.

“Now back up,” I said, “hands high.”

“Look who dropped in,” intoned a deep, firm voice.

Meyer Lansky sat casually on a couch, legs crossed, in the sitting area of the big one-room suite; Harold Christie sat across from him in a comfortable armchair. Lansky, in light blue sport shirt and dark blue slacks, wearing sandals and socks, was smiling; he seemed faintly amused by my entrance.

Christie, who wore a rumpled canary-color linen suit with a red bow tie, looked astounded, and dismayed, the money-color eyes wide and blinking. He looked ten years older than when I first met him, at Westbourne, not so long ago; also skinnier, the flesh hanging on him like another rumpled suit.

Between them was a coffee table on which were their drinks and a briefcase that I figured belonged to Christie. A well-stocked bar was at the left, and a double bed was over at the right. The two of them-but for the bodyguard and me-were alone.

I ignored Lansky; also Christie, who was saying, “What in the hell are you doing here, Heller? What in the hell is he doing here?”

‘Tell your friend in the hall to come inside,” I told the bodyguard. “Tell him Mr. Lansky wants to talk to him.”

He nodded.

“Meyer,” I said, “tell him no signals. Otherwise I shoot up the place.”

“No signals, Eddie.”

Eddie nodded.

He poked his head out and said, “Boss wants to see you.”

The burly guy in the two-tone suit came in with Ring magazine under his arm and his guard down.

“What the fuck…?”

But he didn’t argue with the nine-millimeter in my one hand as my other took his.38 out from under his arm. Now I had two of them in my belt, Zapata-style.

“In the toilet,” I said, pointing the way with the nine-millimeter. “Immediate seating….”

I locked them in by wedging a chair under the knob.

“Get yourself a drink while you’re up, Mr. Heller,” Lansky said cordially.

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. It disappoints me that you think you have to go to such absurd lengths to see me. If you wanted to stop by, all you had to do was call.”

I stood between them, Lansky at my left, Christie at my right. Lansky was obviously unarmed and Christie