But she couldn’t do it like that. She had to do the full scene, with more Kleenex. He finally extracted the information that the phone conversation had included questions and answers and thus couldn’t have been taped in advance. It was definitely her husband’s voice, not some clever mimic imitating a dead man. In Greco’s version-and what DeLuca was going to do to that kid! — Canada had gone up in flames between two-thirty and three in the morning. Nevertheless, it now seemed, he had been alive at nine, ordering his wife to stay home because a package was going to be delivered and he didn’t want her to be off at the beauty parlor. As she said this, Mrs. Canada’s hand flew to her hair. What else? That he was the prisoner of some determined and dedicated people who were not to be fooled with.
“And he said one particularly cruel thing,” she said with an upward look. “He has all his personal cash in a place nobody can find it, and if anything happens to him, all I’ll have is the house, not a single other penny. It was Larry, all right. That was a Larry touch, completely uncalled for.”
“Now let’s hear the tape,” DeLuca said grimly.
The kidnappers had provided not only a cassette, but a tape recorder to play it on. She had trouble with the controls and pressed the erase button by mistake. DeLuca caught it in time.
Canada’s voice sounded tired and a little forced, as though he were reading a statement prepared for him by someone else. “I have been kidnapped. I am in serious danger. These are serious people. I have been treated O.K. so far. Do not under any circumstances inform the police. Do not attempt to cut corners or depart from instructions unless you would like to be a widow. Tell Lou DeLuca, nobody else. They want one million dollars. I suggest half from the construction company, half from friends. Fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. Do not try to bait the bills or record serial numbers. Lou has one assignment from me. Get the money together, and don’t try any fancy stuff, there is no way it can be done. At four-thirty exactly, four-thirty on the dot, Lou will come out of our house with the money in a suitcase. Alone. Drive slowly to the south parking lot of Miami High School. There he will find a red pickup. It will be equipped with a citizen-band radio. Do not change channels, Lou. Turn it on. Drive west on 395 at exactly forty miles per hour. You will receive further instructions by radio. If anybody does anything foolish, like being a half hour late or a couple of thousand short, three things will happen. I will be shot. You will be shot, Molly. And Lou will be shot. That’s what they promise, and I believe them. If there aren’t any snags, I’ll be home for supper. Make something good.”
“I think chicken crepes,” she said. “He loves them. Chocolate cake.”
The chimes sounded while DeLuca was rewinding the tape. This was a special-delivery letter, which Molly signed for and tore open breathlessly. It contained stale news. Her man had been kidnapped and the price was a million. The one interesting thing was that the note was almost a copy of the Eddie Maye one-same ink, same style. It was out of sequence, it should have arrived before the phone call. But that was the post office for you.
DeLuca had to rush if he wanted to meet the deadline. And having heard that his name was number three on the kill list, he was no longer thinking about sabotaging the collection. Canada himself had probably contributed that suggestion-quick thinking, Larry. DeLuca would have to hand over the full sum. If he had anything to say about what happened after that, however, Canada wouldn’t be alive to eat supper.
He gave Molly a quick, sympathetic hug and told her he would keep in touch. Flushed and excited, a little drunk, she was much more attractive today than he had ever seen her. He took both the tape and the recorder because he was going to be pitching to some very suspicious people. Cash was the problem. There would be notes to arrange, signatures to get. DeLuca himself, to maintain his new status, would have to contribute a tenth.
His first stop was the Doral. After the busy night, Greco had decided to stay over. A girl in unbuttoned pajamas came to the door to see who was being so insistent. Greco was all but asleep, smiling blissfully while another girl chewed at him. Nick didn’t seem to be home, though that bed had been slept in. DeLuca picked a gun off the carpet and used it to drive the girls into the hall, throwing their clothes after them. Greco was up on his elbows.
“Hey, man-”
DeLuca swung, and he dodged back. “I don’t see why-” he whined.
“What gave you the funny idea Canada was in that trailer? Did you see him?”
“Not with my own eyes, no, but those other guys, one of them, looked in and saw him. If he said it once, he said it a couple of times. I wouldn’t shit you! Would I still be here? I’d be in Mexico.”
“Where’s your tall friend?”
“Well, Nick-he got shot and I had to put him in the fire.”
DeLuca nodded. “Not as heavy as Canada, but about the same height.”
Greco, paling, went even deeper into the pillow. He looked at the gun in DeLuca’s hand and began to babble. “I didn’t, honest-”
He ended up in a fetal coil. DeLuca, disgusted, ordered him into a cold shower. In a pillow case, where Greco had hidden them from the girls, he found the six big ones he had paid for the job. Becoming impatient almost at once, he rolled up his sleeve, went in, and dragged Greco out of the shower. The big question was, who were the three people who had driven off with the trailer? All Greco knew was that they had definitely been after Canada. The name of Canada had been mentioned over and over. He would swear to that.
To bring his anger under control, DeLuca forced himself to unwrap a stick of gum slowly and deliberately and chew it down.
“Well, you blew it,” he told the boy, shivering in the chill blast of the air-conditioning. “This has been embarrassing for me, and if that slob comes home, it could be a lot more than embarrassing. I feel like blasting you, I really do, and start over with somebody else.”
“Please-”
In fact, DeLuca was strongly tempted. The trouble was, the recruiting and briefing would all take time, and he shouldn’t even be here, he should be out accumulating the ransom.
“I’m going to give you one more crack. Better not fuck up twice. Stay here. No women. Be awake and dressed and straight by three-thirty.”
Chapter 17
Shayne, back in his own car, met the bondsman in Homestead. Half an hour later the man brought out the construction workers, Benjamin and Vaughan, who had been arrested the night before for the possession of heroin.
Shayne unlatched his rear door and said he would drive them to work. “I’m Michael Shayne. I’m a friend of Soupy Simpson. Which one of you is Benjamin?”
The stockier man nodded slightly. They were both in their thirties, in need of a shave and a shower, wearing work pants and dirty T-shirts. Shayne had two cartons of take-out coffee and a box of doughnuts. That convinced them he was friendly. They got in the car.
“That stuff was planted on us,” Benjamin said.
“Three ounces, they tell me. That’s a lot to invest in a practical joke.” He passed them the coffee. “I’d like to watch your reactions, but I’ve got to be moving. Everybody seems to think you’ve been stealing construction equipment on a regular basis. True or false?”
Benjamin took a swallow of coffee. “We’ll plead to that when the time comes.”
“That won’t be the charge. The rap is much worse.” The traffic light changed, and he moved. “First-degree murder.”
One of the men said softly, “How do you make that out?”
“Somebody hit the Homestead job last night and took everything that wasn’t nailed down. It all ended up in your trailer.”
“Why don’t you talk to Soupy about that? Take money.”
“As soon as Soupy understands what he’s mixed up in,” Shayne said, “I think he’ll be hard to get hold of. I’d give you the same advice, except that you’re in a lot deeper. But I think I see a way you can dig yourself out. That’s why I put up your bail.”
“Out of the kindness of your heart,” one of the men said ironically. “Now you want a return favor. First-degree murder. Who was murdered?”
