The Scarred Man (12 page)

    I braked hard at the end of the course and came around in a skidding turn and rode back. His smashed bike was a flaming beacon on the sidewalk. As the gasoline flared, the crowd scattered. A long line of state troopers' cars, shotguns projecting from windows, red blinkers flicking the old station house, was rounding the corner.

    Soldier was not, as I expected, lying amid the wreckage of his machine. He stood some twenty feet away leaning against the six-foot high iron fence that surrounded what had once been the baggage area. His position was casual, relaxed. I could not believe the evidence of my own eyes. How was it possible for him to have survived a crash at that speed and in such close quarters?

    I got off the bike and walked over to him. Behind me the troopers' bullhorns were blaring, "Stand where you are! Don't move! We are prepared to shoot! Stand where you are!"

    Soldier was grinning at me, a fixed and glassy grin. I was already reaching for the chain around my waist when I saw that it would not be necessary. There was rusty iron sticking out of his naked chest, and the blood was puddling the ground beneath him. He had been impaled on one of the iron fence posts. His grin was the slack grimace of a dead man.

    Tiny and the rest were cutting out. I heard the roar of engines as they kicked their bikes into life and split through the alleyways that were too narrow for the troopers' cars.

    Shotguns boomed behind me as I mounted the bike. I jumped the curb and went across a lawn and around behind the station house. Ahead of me the lights of the riders were scattered like fireflies all up and down the mountain. The great Kildare Rally, which would in years to come assume legendary proportions, was over.

    I was sorry for the dog.

    

    

    

    The room, heavy with the Florida midsummer heat, swam in a thick purple light. We wriggled through it like undersea creatures. The Grateful Dead bounced their rhythms off my skull. Eyeballs and teeth gleamed bone white in the ultraviolet. Somewhere behind me the steady roar of an airconditioner contributed its soporific effect. The fumes of grass were laid out in ribbons of smoke. It occurred to me that anyone passing the exhaust outlet of the airconditioner would be instantly stoned. What kept the fuzz from busting the joint? Heavy payoff, probably. Outside, the neon glare of the sign reading RED'S JOINT flickered in disturbing counterpoint to the interior strobes. The bar was three-deep in Beautiful People, all barefoot and wearing fashionably faded denims. Faggots, whores, pimps, beachboys, and Palm Beach society churning together like amoebae in the purple mixture. Talk of Jackie O and Ari, and St. Moritz, and the Guinnesses and Rothschilds, and Manalpan, the fashionable little Florida town where the truly great and elegant lived, those for whom even Palm Beach was too crass.

    Somehow Red kept them all happy. He was a thick, red-bearded man with hair down to his shoulders and tattooed forearms. He had served up a brace of stingers and come back to me wiping his hands on his dirty denims.

    "Where were we?"

    "We were talking about information."

    "Information costs."

    "Everything costs."

    "Ain't it the truth?"

    "So?"

    "Are you fuzz?"

    "If I were, do you think I'd come at you this way?"

    "You can't tell with them stupid fuckers. Most of them give up trying to bust me years ago. I've got friends here."

    "I'll bet."

    "I mean if you're a nark or something like that, like forget it, man. This county is too strong for you. You can see I don't even have to pull the shades on this joint."

    "I know. That's why I came to you."

    "You're pushing?"

    "Could be."

    "What?"

    "Grass. Nothing harder."

    He laughed. "Man, there's no shortage of grass around here. Your nose can tell you that."

    "I'm not talking about a few lousy sticks. I'm talking about large quantities."

    "Like what?"

    "Where can we talk?"

    "There's a back stairway out behind the crapper. Meet me there in ten minutes."

    I finished my drink and walked out and around the side of the building. There were Harleys out there, and Hondas, and dune buggies, and a couple of Bentleys, along with a sprinkling of less exotic sports cars. A voice behind me said, "Stand right there, pal. Right there against the wall and don't turn around. Just move real easy."

    I did as I was told.

    Hands went over me from armpits to ankles. My wallet was removed. "I know exactly what's in there," I said.

    There was a pause.

    "What's he got?"

    "A yard and a half in new fifties."

    "Well he's no piker anyway," said Red's voice. "Give it back to him. All but the ID. How does it read?"

    "Driver's license. New York City. William Shaw."

    "You make him from anyplace?"

    "He don't smell like fuzz to me. Could be insurance though or shamus."

    "Okay," Red said. "Go back and take care of the bar. I'll be upstairs if you want me. You can turn around now, Shaw."

    He handed the wallet back to me, open so that I could see the bills. "Here's your driver's license."

    "Thanks."

    "You know how it is," he said in half apology.

    "Sure."

    "Come on upstairs."

    I followed him. Frogs were croaking in the warmth. The door to the upper office was made of steel and looked thick enough to guard a bank. When we got inside and he had switched on the lights, I saw why. The room was crammed with Sony's, mostly color, all in their original cartons.

    Red grinned at me and waved a hand expansively. "All red hot. One day's rip-off. You're wonderin' why I'm lettin' you in on all this. Right?"

    I nodded.

    "Just to let you see where the power is man. And this is only one stash. Teevees, cars, bikes, portable typewriters, you name it. You could walk out of here right now to blow the whistle on me, and I'd let you go. The wheels are greased all the way. It's part of a big operation, man, and if you was the director of the FBI himself there wouldn't be nothin' you could do about it. Understand?"

    "Sure."

    "So now what have you got in mind?"

    "A boatload of grass."

    "How big a boatload?"

    "A thousand pounds. Maybe two."

    He whistled softly. "What quality?"

    "Jamaica Gold."

    "Uncut?"

    "Sure."

    "You're talkin' about a lot of bread, man. Maybe a quarter of a million."

    "I know."

    "You ever done anythin' like this before, Shaw?"

    "No."

    "How do you know I won't rip you off?"

    "I don't."

    "Whose boat?"

    "Mine."

    "Oh," he said. "I'm beginnin' to get the picture. Amateur talent. What makes you think it can work?"

    "Why not? I've got the boat, and I know how to sail it. I can navigate well enough to get to Jamaica and back. If I take out some ballast, I can easily handle a couple of thousand pounds. This is one hell of a big coastline. I don't see how they can patrol the whole thing."

    "So where did you figure to unload?"

    "Outside the territorial limits. You, or whoever it is, will have to come out in a boat to pick it up. The same thing on the other end. I don't want to go into Jamaica. Do you have friends down there?"

    "Sure."

    "Then you make the arrangements. Have the stuff brought out to me in small boats and meet me offshore."

    "Cash?"

    "I can hardly expect them to take my check, can I?"

    He grinned. "I guess not. But I still don't see exactly why you want to do it that way."

    "If the deal goes sour I haven't broken any laws. I was outside the limits on both ends and never touched land anywhere."

    He nodded approvingly. "That's pretty cute. I never heard of that dodge before."

    It had popped into my head on the spur of the moment. I could think of half a dozen legalities which would guarantee its failure, but if Red chose to consider it a good idea that was all right with me. "I've been planning it for a long time," I said.

    "Those cats in Jamaica will want cash. What if they try to rip you off when they come out with the stuff?"

    "I thought you said they were friends of yours."

    "When it comes to the kind of bread we're talkin' about, there are no friends."

    "My partner will be standing by with an automatic weapon."

    "Yeah? Who's your partner?"

    "How about you?"

    "Uh-uh. No way, baby. I don't even wash in water let alone sail on it. I can set up the contacts for you, but that's as far as I go."

    "Suit yourself."

    "You're a pleasure to do business with, Shaw."

    "You too, Red."

    "Let's have a drink on it."

    He poured two shots of whiskey and handed me mine.

    "To crime."

    "Why not?" I said.

    "So what kind of boat have you got, Shaw?"

    "Ketch."

    "Ketch, smetch. What the hell is that?"

    "Two masted vessel. Forty-five feet long. Alden design."

    "Listen, all you guys that go out there and beat your brains out on the ocean are nuts anyway. I get seasick just standin' on the dock lookin' at the stuff. Me, I'll take an air-conditioned Cadillac Eldorado any day. You dig?"

    "To each his own, Red."

    "So what about the guy to go with you?"

    "Well naturally, I'd like to have somebody with some sailing experience."

    "Like I said, don't look at me, man."

    "I was given a name."

    "What name?"

    "Skid."

    "Yeah? Who gave you that one?"

    "Couple of guys in Miami named Stud and Soldier."

    "What do they do?"

    "Ride bikes mostly."

    "Listen, you want to stay away from those guys. They're all stoned out of their fuckin' heads."

    "Well, they said he was a pretty good hand on a boat, and he came from somewhere around here and knew how to keep his mouth shut."

    "That's all you know about him? You never even seen this cat?"

    "That's right."

    "How do you know he won't rip you off?"

    "How do I know you won't?"

    Red made a sound that might have been gas or laughter. "You don't baby."

    "So I pays my money and takes my chances."

    "Yeah, something like that. And if all you know is Skid, how do you expect to find him?"

    "That's where you come in."

    "Why me?"

    "I figured you know just about every questionable character in town."

    "Well, you got a point there, Shaw. If he's ever been on a real caper I can probably locate him. But if he's just some punk kid riding around on a hog and ripping off hubcaps, it won't be so easy. What was the name of the club he was with in Miami?"

    "The Beaks."

    "Is he a pusher?"

    "I don't know."

    "Probably. All those crazy cats are high on something. If he doesn't push it, he must use it. That might be one way to locate him."

    "If you say so."

    "What does lie look like?"

    "Small, dark-haired, not more than a hundred and thirty pounds."

    "What good is a shrimp like that? You'll need muscle on that boat."

    "Not necessarily. I need someone who's cool and smart and quick on his feet. I'm told this boy is dynamite."

    Red nodded. "A little guy might be better at that. Some cat your own size would probably cut your throat and push you over the side and take the whole bag for himself."

    I shrugged. "A little guy might do it just as well. I have to sleep sometime.

    Red shook his head. "I think you're nuts to try it, Shaw. What you're talkin' about is big business-a quarter of a million bucks-maybe half a million depending on the quality of the stuff and how its handled after it gets here. You got to consider not only the narks and the fuzz, but the Syndicate as well. When it comes to a deal like that, it won't be me who's putting up the bread. I'm doing all right, but I'm strictly small-time-teevees, cars, a few joints, shit like that. If I can put the deal together, the dough will be coming from the Syndicate-guys you never heard of and hope to God you never do hear of-businessmen, presidents of banks, land developers, hotels, casinos, and all like that. The dough might come out of Vegas or Miami or Freeport or maybe from around here. What I'm sayin' is it's a big operation-not like running a few pounds across the Mexican border in a spare tire."

    "I know it's big. That's what appeals to me. I only want to do this once."

    "So you walk into a joint like this and spill it all to the first guy you run into."

    "Not exactly. I heard about you before I came."

    "From who?"

    "Those guys I mentioned. The ones who told me about Skid."

    "Wha'd they say?"

    "That you were straight and you knew your way around."

    "Shit," Red said, obviously pleased. "Okay, I'll ask around and get back to you. Where can I reach you?"

    "The Lake Worth Marina, about a mile south of here."

    "I know the joint. What boat?"

    "
Corazon
."

    "Okay. You'll hear from me."