“Get me the St. Albans, on the Beach.”
That line was open. Shayne asked for the manager, an acquaintance of his. He had to go through a secretary, who wasn’t sure Mr. Farber was free.
“Put him on right away,” Shayne said. “It’s urgent.”
In a moment, a man’s voice: “Mike? I’ve got some people in the office. Can I get back to you?”
“No. Listen to this, and take it seriously. Are there any Israeli government officials staying at your hotel?”
“What are you talking!” Farber said, alarmed. “Not that I know of. Are there supposed to be?”
“Here’s what I know. These are facts. There’s a party of Arabs around. Their leader broke out of an Israeli prison a few weeks ago. They’re carrying submachine guns, and they’ve been studying a floor-plan of the St. Albans. Do you have anybody staying there who might be a target? Or can you think of any other reason why they might be focussing on your hotel?”
“But this is fantastic! In the United States? Impossible-” He paused. “No. We’ve got a meeting of the Coordinating Committee, chairmen of all the big fund-raising outfits, in fact I’m on it myself. I have two gentlemen with me here right now. But good God, you don’t seriously-”
The phone thumped. Something was said sharply elsewhere in Farber’s office, and that was followed by confused noises, a scraping movement, a command, several voices speaking at the same time.
Then the phone was hung up decisively.
10
Lillian LaCroix was her real name, though people sometimes wouldn’t believe it. She didn’t consider herself a professional, and she had never been able to utter the phrase “call girl,” even in privacy. She had a circle of friends, that was all, and when one of them happened to be down, he was usually nice enough to call, and she was nice enough to come over, and he was nice enough to make her a cash present when he left, though some of her friends preferred to wait and give her something for Christmas. There were even a few who never offered her a cent. That didn’t mean that she refused to go out with them the next time, if she had nothing better to do that evening. She was completely unmercenary. All she wanted was enough to live nicely, without having to get married, the fool’s way out.
She was blonde, not because she was naturally blonde, but that was the way her friends liked her. She tanned nicely. Sexual exercise was the only exercise she got, so she was on a diet most of the time. She was thirty-one. She had an excellent sense of humor, and was a successful over-the-counter speculator, using information dropped in her ear by friends, who had no reason to lie. She didn’t drink or drug. Laziness was her only vice.
When Andrew Weinberger called, she was reading the financial page of the Times with her glasses on. She remembered him at once-an attorney from one of the big New York firms. They chatted, and then he asked if there was any possible chance that she could visit him in his room at the St. Albans.
She frowned, but kept it out of her voice. “You mean right away?”
“If you can make it. I’ve got a meeting coming up with some of the world’s leading bores, and there’s only one way I can get through it and keep my sanity.”
She suggested alternatives, but he had his wife with him this trip, which meant he was going to be tied up for meals. The meeting was likely to continue all afternoon and into the evening, perhaps most of the next day. But he thought it would be marvelous to see her. His wife was visiting family in Coral Gables.
Lillian reached his room at 10:45. He was nearly bald, with a mottled forehead, a big laugh. He was wearing flowered shorts and a loose poolside shirt. They were easy with each other at once. It was that way sometimes.
“No time to kid around,” he said. “I’m a busy, busy man.”
She saluted, and pulled her first zipper. “You’re sure your wife-”
“No problem. She just called me from there.”
She burst out of her clothes. He was delighted to see this happen, and said some nice things. Like everybody, she enjoyed getting compliments. Lying down, she kissed him seriously, and that was enough to get him up. She was glad it was easy, because the truth was, she liked to keep her mornings to herself, so she could adjust gradually to the day. But Weinberger was no trouble. She took him in her mouth for a moment, and he kissed her the same way, and when it was all over he was hardly breathing hard.
She kissed him fondly. “Beautiful. I didn’t go all the way myself, but that’s all right sometimes. I don’t have to run right away, do I? Can we talk?” There was a knock at the door. They both stiffened, and Lillian made a pass at the corner of the sheet. It had happened once or twice that a wife had walked in on her, and that was the kind of unpleasantness she didn’t care for, that ruined her mood for days.
“Some hotel thing,” Weinberger said. He went to the door naked. “Who is it?”
“Special delivery package for Weinberger.”
“Leave it at the desk and I’ll pick it up later.”
“No, you have to sign. Securities.”
Weinberger looked back at Lillian and shrugged. “Shall I go in the bathroom?” she said.
“No need to.”
She covered herself. Weinberger pulled on his shorts. He opened only enough to admit a parcel. The door was knocked out of his hand, striking his bare toes.
Two men exploded into the room. That was the only way to describe it: an explosion. They jumped inside and closed the door. They were dark, and overdressed for Miami Beach, with jackets that matched their pants, white shirts and ties. They were dressed for a funeral, except for one thing. They were carrying machine pistols, the frightening kind with the long clip.
Lillian had been pleasantly relaxed, but the suddenness of the intrusion had sent her back hard against the headboard, pulling the sheet with her. Weinberger was hopping in pain. The guns kept him silent. He was scared, and from the way the young men looked at him, he had reason to be.
“You come with us,” one of the intruders said. “Both.”
He drew an arc in the air with his gun, to be sure Lillian knew she was included. In spite of her easy life, she had never made the mistake of thinking that people were basically kind and gentle. For too many of her friends, sex was a battle, and when it was finished they wanted to think they were the winners. Outside of this strip of sand and hotels, the world was an ugly place, and here were two delegates from that world, their nerves stretched to a point where any sign of contempt or distaste would push them over the mysterious borderline into open insanity.
“Andrew,” she said warningly. “It’s a tax deduction.”
She saw that he had read the danger correctly, and had decided to ride with it. One of the thieves had his back to the door, holding his weapon tightly in crossed arms, that long clip sticking out toward Lillian like a penis. The other looked into the bathroom, moving like a wind-up toy. Excitement came off him in waves. Everything about him was tight, stiff-very scary. But Lillian felt a twinge of the sexual response she had missed with Weinberger.
“Dress,” the young man said.
Again he moved the gun barrel. Lillian didn’t get the accent, but it came over her all at once that they couldn’t be Americans, and they were too heavily armed to be simple hotel thieves. Weinberger was not only rich, he was something in Republican politics. What had she got herself mixed up in here?
Really alarmed now, she came off the bed clutching the sheet.
“I say to you hurry,” the youth repeated, his gunbarrel shaking with urgency.
“But why me?” Lillian said. “I’m only here for half an hour.”
The young man didn’t like her to talk. He lunged, swinging the gun. She stumbled and went sprawling, absolutely naked except for her jewels. The young man almost fell over her, and for an instant she wondered if rape was on the program, along with whatever else.
The man at the door said sharply, “No, no. Only if necessary.”
Lillian rolled away. At least one of their visitors, she knew now, was closer to the insanity borderline than
