Cast a Yellow Shadow (26 page)

“No.”

“Why? Because some little girl with puppy-dog eyes saved your life?”

“Don't knock my excuses. I've got better ones than you do.”

Padillo put a couple of bills on the table. “Let's go. Mush is waiting in the lobby.”

“Which way is Philip Price going to bounce?”

“I have no idea.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep Dymec from shooting Van Zandt.”

“How?”

“By persuasion.”

“Will that work?”

“Let's find out.”

We walked into the Roger Smith at two-twenty p.m. Mush was sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby, reading
The Wall Street Journal
through his dark glasses. He nodded his head twice as we walked to the elevator. He didn't seem to look at us.

I glanced around the lobby. There was no one else I knew. The elevator came and another man got in with us. He pressed the button for the third floor. When he got off, Padillo pressed the tenth-floor button. “Mush has a description of Dymec and Price,” Padillo said. “That nod means that Dymec's gone up. Price hasn't shown yet.”

We got off on the tenth floor and walked down to the thick door that said “Roof Garden.” The door was painted a Chinese red and the lettering was in gold. We went through the door and stopped because of the two guns that were aimed at us.

One of the guns was an automatic. From where I stood it could have been a Colt Commander .38. I wasn't sure. But there was no mistaking the big fist that held it. That belonged to Hardman. The other gun, a revolver, was in the hand of Philip Price and he seemed to know what he was doing. We let the door close behind us.

“Roof garden's done closed,” Hardman said. “For the season.”

Padillo looked at me. “Your friend,” he said.

“He was on our side this morning.”

We were standing in the small landing that faced the stairs which led to the roof. Hardman and Price were up five or six steps, aiming their guns at us in a calm, professional manner. Their advantage of height didn't hurt any.

“Just stand easy,” Price said. “Keep your hands in front of you and don't ask if you can light a cigarette.”

“I don't get it, Hardman,” I said.

“Money, baby. Fifty thousand is a lot of money.”

“We decided to consolidate,” Price said. “In return for our complete cooperation, your African friends agreed to raise the fee. Enormously.”

“They went way up,” Hardman said. “I just couldn't say no.” He sounded almost apologetic.

Price glanced at his watch. “It shouldn't be long now.”

“That little brunette gal with the pistol was supposed to hold you, Mac,” Hardman said. “What happened?”

“I killed her.”

He nodded. “That's more for us,” he said to Price.

“So it is,” Price said.

“Your wife all right?” Hardman said.

“She's all right.”

“I like Fredl,” Hardman said. “Didn't want nothin to happen to her.”

“It didn't.”

“What happened to you, Price?” Padillo said. “I thought you were going for the letter.”

“I don't need the letter,” he said.

“Just money.”

Price smiled. “There seems to be enough for all.”

Padillo turned slowly and leaned against the wall. He kept his hands in sight. “Your friend Hardman ever try to beat a murder rap?”

“You'll have to ask him,” I said.

“How about it, Hardman?” Padillo said.

“We're comin out of this one nice and clean. Ain't gonna be no mess.”

“Then you fixed it with Mush?” Padillo said.

“Mush works for me, baby.”

Padillo turned his head to look at Hardman. “What did you send Mush up to Baltimore for? Heroin?”

“I don't fool with H. Mush was goin after acid. Five hundred grams of lysergic acid diethylamide.”

“That's a lot of LSD,” Padillo said. “What's the market? I thought you could mix up a batch in the bathroom sink.”

“Gettin tough, baby. Feds are crackin down and so's the states. That much acid is good for a little less'n five million trips at five bucks per retail. I figure to wholesale it at thirty cents a trip.”

“The Englishman was supposed to have it?”

“He supposed to.”

“But they shoved him into the freezer. You think the acid went with him?”

“I don't know, baby.”

“Let me ask you something else, Hardman. How did Mush know who I was?”

“Didn't. He just found Mac's address in your pocket.”

“You're talking too much, Padillo,” Price said.

“You're in the business, Price. Do you think I'd carry a piece of paper around in my pocket with an address on it?”

“Not bloody likely. But shut up anyway.”

“If I didn't have any address in my pocket, Hardman, then how did Mush know about McCorkle and me?”

“You ain't makin sense,” Hardman said.

“You're smarter than that, Hardman,” I said. “Even I can figure it out.”

“How long's Mush been workin for you?” Padillo said.

The big man took one step down the stairs. “You sayin Mush is a ringer?”

“You didn't get your acid, did you?” Padillo said. “You got me instead. Why?”

“Mush get my acid?”

“Shut up,” Price said. “We're going to have to leave here in a few minutes. You can worry about it then.”

“Man's talking about maybe a million dollars' worth of acid—wholesale,” Hardman said. “I wanna know what happened. I gotta find out. Mush get my acid?” he demanded of Padillo.

“No,” Padillo said.

“Who got it?”

“The United States Treasury.”

TWENTY-SIX

The door from the hall slammed open and Mush came through it, moving fast. Padillo seemed to have expected him because he lunged for the steps and jerked Price's legs out from under him. Hardman kicked at Mush's head, but missed, and Mush scrambled on up the stairs. I grabbed Hardman's other leg and gave it a yank and he fell backwards and the gun clattered down the steps. Price was up and moving quickly up towards the roof, Padillo behind him. Hard-man wasn't down for more than a second. He moved too fast for a man of his size. I couldn't move like that and Hardman carried fifteen more pounds than I did.

I was still at the bottom of the stairs and Hardman was on the sixth step. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. Price and Padillo disappeared around a corner at the top of the stairs. Mush was no longer in sight.

“You ain't goin nowheres, Mac. You stayin here with me.”

“I'm going up the stairs,” I said.

“You ain't goin by me.”

“You're still clean on this one, Hardman. You can move out. I'll let you by.”

He laughed. “You a gentleman, ain't you? You gonna let me by. Shit, you somethin, baby.”

“Go on, Hardman. You've got time.”

“I ain't goin nowheres and you ain't goin nowheres.”

“I'm going up the stairs,” I said.

“Not past me.”

I reached into my coat pockets and took out the knife with my left hand and the .38 with my right. “You're wrong about two things. One, I'm no gentleman. If I were a gentleman, I'd try to take you with the knife. Now the gun says I go past you.” I pointed it in his general direction.

“No gun, Mac. Gun'll bring the law.”

“This place is soundproofed,” I said. “It keeps the band noise down.”

“You won't shoot me,” he said.

“You talk a lot.”

Hardman started down the steps towards me. He held the knife in his right hand, his arm up and out a little. The blade was flat with the floor, the easier to pass through the ribs, I suppose. He came down two full steps. “Gimme your gun, Mac.”

I shook my head. “Go on out the door and you're home free.”

“You ain't gonna shoot, Mac.” He took one more step. He moved slowly, but with curious grace.

“I'm going past you, Hardman.”

“No,” he said. He grinned. He took another step and he was still grinning when I shot him. Then the grin disappeared, and he tried one more step. I shot him again. He said, “Shit, man,” and fell the last step and sprawled in the corner and lay still.

I went up the stairs three at a time. Padillo and Price were in the anteroom that led to the roof. Price was in front of the stall where you checked your coats. He had lost his gun on the stairs, but he had a knife out. It seemed to be the day for knives. Padillo's back was to me as Price moved towards him slowly. Price kept his eyes on Padillo's right hand which also had a knife in it.

“If you move over, I'll shoot him,” I said.

“I'll drop flat on the floor, and then you can shoot him,” Padillo said.

I pointed the gun at Price. “When he drops flat on the floor, I'll shoot you,” I told him. “I've got four rounds left. I should be able to hit you with one.”

“I don't think he wants to be shot,” Padillo said and straightened up and put away his knife. Price looked at the one he held in his hand, shrugged, and tossed it on the floor.

Padillo jerked his head towards the French doors at the top of the stairs that opened onto the roof. “Move over there, Price.”

“All right,” the man said.

“Keep your gun on him,” Padillo said and moved quickly over to the doors. I motioned Price towards them. Through the doors' glass we could see a strange dance on the polished marble floor. Dymec and Mush were locked together as each struggled to get a killing hold. They seemed to glide around the dance floor. A rifle lay near its edge. The two men broke apart and Mush tried to produce a revolver from his coat pocket. Its hammer snagged on his lining and Dymec kicked it as if he were kicking a soccer ball and the gun flew out of Mush's hand and landed a dozen feet away.

Dymec reached behind his neck and produced a thinbladed knife.

“Make him come to you,” Padillo said softly.

“Who's getting the advice?” I asked.

“Mush.”

Dymec came at him. The Negro jumped back slightly and Dymec's concrete-colored face took on an earnest, thoughtful look. He turned slowly as Mush moved around him. Then he feinted and Mush tried for the right arm, but missed, and Dymec's knife went through his coat and into his side. Mush looked surprised and knelt on the floor and opened his coat to look at what caused him to hurt so bad.

Dymec picked up the rifle and ran quickly to the east edge of the building, glancing at his watch as he ran.

“I thought Mush could take him,” Padillo said.

I looked at my watch. It was forty minutes after two. “That leaves it up to us.”

“No,” Padillo said. “Just me.”

Dymec checked his rifle and aimed it between the posts of the chest-high railing. It made a comfortable rest. Padillo ran across the dance floor. Dymec heard him. He tried to get the rifle from between the posts, but Padillo hit him in the side with both feet. The rifle fell to the floor and Dymec was down on his hands and knees. He looked up at Padillo, said something, and jumped at him, his left hand out and stiff and extended. Padillo caught the hand, twisted and tried to throw Dymec, but the grey-faced man seemed to have anticipated it and drove his right hand hard into Pa-dillo's left side. Padillo went white and started to bend over and Dymec aimed a kick at his head, but Padillo caught the foot and threw it upwards and Dymec fell. He fell hard, striking his head on the edge of the concrete railing. He lay still and his head was cocked at an odd angle. Padillo bent over Dymec and produced a cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. Then he straightened up and motioned to me.

Mush was still on his knees in the middle of the dance floor and I herded Price towards him. Padillo was kneeling by Mush when we got there.

“How do you feel?”

“It's not bad,” Mush said. “You stopped him?” His southern accent was gone.

“Yes. You're Treasury, aren't you?”

Mush nodded, his face screwed up in pain. “Narcotics Bureau.”

“How'd you make me in Baltimore?”

“There were just two of you supposed to be on that boat. They gave me a print-out on both of you. You weren't five-foot, three-inches tall and fifty years old.”

“They thought I might have the acid?”

“One of you did.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Padillo said.

Mush grimaced again. “You saw it?”

Padillo nodded. “Those two who jumped you. One of them was carrying something. He dropped it. It must have been something you wanted.”

“You'll have to teach me that Juarez judo again. I didn't seem to learn too well.”

“You didn't turn it in, did you?”

“The acid?”

“That's right.”

Mush stared at Padillo. “Not yet. You want a cut?”

“Hardman said it would make a million dollars' worth of sugar cubes.”

“He was low.”

“And that's why there aren't any Federal cops up here.”

“That's why,” Mush said.

“O.K.,” Padillo said. “Now you're a rich man and a hero, too. You keep the acid.”

Mush opened his mouth wide and squeezed his eyes shut. The cut seemed to hurt. “I'm not keeping it,” he said. “I thought about it, but—” He shrugged and even the shrug hurt.

“One thing,” Padillo said. “Are you really a Muslim?”

“Maybe,” Mush said. “That acid would finance a hell of a lot of trips.”

“What kind?” Padillo said.

“To Mecca.”

“But you're going to turn it in?”

Mush nodded. “I'm going to turn it in.”

“O.K. You won't be a rich man, but you'll be a hero. Your story is that you found out about the assassination attempt through Hardman at the last moment. Then you shot him and took care of Dymec. McCorkle and I weren't even near the place. Price helped you. All right?”