The Consummata

one.

Saladar was already nodding. “I was thinking the same. Senor Morgan, I have the Chris-Craft. It is thirty-three feet. Two V8 engines. Would that do?”

I grinned at him, nodding. “That would do fine. It’s your boat, you say?”

“Si, senor.”

“What value would you place on it?”

“It is hard to say. It is several years old. Perhaps ten years. Still, it would be a considerable cost to replace it. And we would, senor, need to get another.”

“How considerable?”

“I would say...fifteen thousand American?”

“All right. I may not have to hang onto it. That’s just one of a number of things that I won’t know until the time comes.”

Saladar sat forward. “Do you need someone to watch your back, amigo?”

“Luis, I would hate to impose on your generosity yet again....”

He made a bowing gesture like a Middle Eastern pasha. “To accompany you would be an honor, senor. I will bring a gun, no?”

“You will bring a gun,” I said, “yes.”

The night was as clear and warmly windy as you might imagine of Miami, though under a sickle slice of moon, Biscayne Bay seemed uncommonly dark, with more light from the shorelines than the sky. And shorelines was right, because there were assorted islands to navigate, some—like Palm Island—man-made.

I sat with Saladar up on the flybridge of the Chris-Craft Futura, letting him play captain—these were his waters, after all, smooth waters right now, with only a gentle refreshing spray to remind us where we were.

We’d started out in a marina near Bayfront Park and cut between islands and under the MacArthur Causeway, which ran parallel to the ten-mile-wide Palm Island, coming up on the dockside down behind the old stucco mansion.

The boat Saladar provided was a good one, a rare Sport Express model dating to ’57, black hull with brown and white trim, rakish as hell, the words Black Beauty on its stern. The cabin below had built-in couches and tables, and a wellequipped galley, with forward sleeping quarters. Not a bad candidate for Morgan the Raider’s new galleon.

Cutting a dashing figure with his well-trimmed mustache and spade beard, Saladar had at my request worn black, a cap in place of his plantation hat, his shirt another of those pleated button-down jobs, his pants sporting a gaucho flare, with a .38 long-barrel revolver low on his hip, gunfighter-style.

My suit was a sharp charcoal number I picked up in Miami Beach, though the coat was a size up to help disguise the shoulder sling with .45, and to give me easy access to the razor-sharp six-inch throwing knife in the sheath strapped to my left forearm. My shirt was black, my tie midnight blue—dark enough to blend into the night, but a look suitable for just another sleazy well-off guest.

When we tied up, ours was the only boat at the little dock—no surprise, since no one lived at the mansion right now. Rows of palms bordered a back yard big enough to build half a dozen tract homes on, and there was just enough moonlight to reveal that the swimming pool was empty, cracked, and dirty looking.

The abandoned pool was halfway between here and the mansion, its neo-Spanish structure typical of the 1920’s real estate boom, a little landscaped rise putting the massive structure up on a pedestal it no longer quite deserved. In the meager moonlight, I couldn’t tell whether the house was white or beige or yellow, though the tile roof appeared to be a shade of dark green.

“Just sit up in the flybridge,” I advised Saladar.

Right now we were on the dock.

He frowned and cocked his head. “I will be out in the open, Senor Morgan.”

“Yes, and there’ll be security working this shindig. They may notice you. Be friendly and just say you are waiting for the senator.”

“What senator, senor?”

“Any senator. That’s all you’ll have to say, most likely. If they get nasty, show them your gun, then tie them up with that green tape I gave you.”

“Si, senor.”

I had a roll of duck tape in my jacket pocket, too—I’d learned in the military that you could fix anything from a gun to a jeep with that stuff, and it made excellent gags and bindings. No way to conceal that bulge...but a necessary tool tonight.

I hoped not to kill anybody on this mission—even Halaquez. This was, after all, just a party for perverts, who probably deserved a spanking but not to be shot. And why spank somebody who would only enjoy it, unless maybe it’s a beautiful willing woman?

“If you hear gunshots,” I advised the exile leader, “don’t leave until you see people streaming your way...but, man, if I’m running out in front of ’em, hold up.”

“Si, senor. Do you anticipate trouble?”

“I’m delivering it.”

“...But I am to avoid...” He frowned, calling up a phrase I’d used earlier. “...avoid the deadly force.”

“You got it, Luis. Good luck, amigo.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

Gun still tucked under my arm, I hugged the line of palms at left, moving low and slow. The mission-style mansion had only a few lights on downstairs, but plenty burning on the upper floor. I didn’t see anybody back here patrolling the grounds.

That is, not until I assumed a more normal gait and posture, moving past the empty swimming pool and walking up the concrete steps to a patio devoid of outdoor furniture. Around the mansion to my right came a burly young guy with a short military haircut. Like me, he was in a dark suit, though his was indifferently tailored, making no attempt to conceal the gun under the left armpit of his unbuttoned coat.

“Can I help you, sir?” he said, his voice a no-nonsense baritone. Like a lot of military types, he could frown at you without any wrinkling around the eyes.

“Good evening,” I said, and walked right up to him. “I just stepped out for some air.” I grinned. “Things were gettin’ a little hairy in there, know what I mean?”

But he wasn’t having any of the we’re-just-a-couple-ofregular- guys routine.

“I’ll have to see your invitation, sir.”

“Sure,” I said, and whipped the .45 out, slamming the barrel against the side of his head, catching the edge of his face, opening it up to bleed some. He went down on one side and was either out or damn near, so I risked hauling him by the feet over to some bushes before I removed and tossed away his gun (a Glock) then duck-taped his hands behind him, and his ankles. He was just coming around when I smeared the slab of tape across his mouth.

Then I knelt and whispered in his ear: “You might be able to get to your feet and waddle around like an asshole. But then my friend keeping watch back here would have to shoot you.”

His eyes, which had bulged with indignation as he craned back at me, turned wary—probably as close to fear as this apparent ex-Marine could feel—and his muttering beneath the duck-tape gag ceased.

“You just stay put, catch a little nap. You’re going to have a scar on your face that the ladies will just love.”

I would have left it at that, but the wariness of those eyes turned a nasty shade of cold, so I had to kick him in the head. It wouldn’t kill him, I didn’t think. But it did guarantee that nap I’d suggested.

I went up half a dozen cement steps onto a stoop, then in the unlocked back door into a good-size white ’30s-modern kitchen—the only light on was over the sink. Despite the party underway, this was a kitchen empty of food or any preparation thereof, with the exception of an impressive array of liquor bottles on a counter—back-up supplies, perhaps, for various wet bars around the facilities.

Though I shut the door as silently as I could, another military-trained bouncer type came in from a hallway and asked, “May I help you, sir?”