Little of any value to anyone other than Floyd. Not much to show for a life, but right now it amounted to a sight more than I had.
There had to be a reason for his disappearance. I checked the bathroom cabinet in case Floyd had been taking some sort of prescribed medication, but all I found were Aspirin and a packet of prophylactics.
On the kitchen wall was a calendar from a Chinese restaurant. That day's date had been ringed in red ballpoint and 'Steve − Lake Butler' scrawled across it. Sunning itself on the fire escape outside the kitchen door was an one-eyed cat. It hissed angrily and scratched me on the back of my hand when I reached down to read the collar tag.
The phone ringing caused me to start. I walked back into the sitting room and picked it up.
"Floyd?" a woman asked.
I didn't recognize the voice.
"I need to speak to Floyd Benedict. Is he there?" the voice snapped when I didn't answer.
"Not at the moment. Who wants him?"
The line went dead and I cradled the receiver.
The first sign that there might be something sinister behind Floyd's disappearance was the contents of the refrigerator. The carton of orange juice was two weeks old and a tray of ground beef had spoiled. It had been a while since anyone had used this apartment. That would explain the cat's testiness.
There were enough cans and dried food in the cupboards to assemble a meal from and I busied myself at the stove, relishing cooking for one for a change. The cat slipped through its flap and eyed me suspiciously. I tossed it a piece of pasta, which it sniffed but didn't touch. The engraving on its collar read, 'Jasper'.
For the rest of the evening I sat in front of the television, channel-hopping, expecting Floyd to ring at any moment demanding that I come pick him up. No one called, so a little after midnight I turned off the lights and went to bed.
CHAPTER THREE
The parole office was housed twelve floors up in the Dade County courthouse on Flagler. My appointment with Shapiro was for ten and I arrived fifteen minutes early. Unused to the apartment's quiet and growing more concerned over what had become of Floyd, I found sleep elusive and had risen at first light. Before leaving the apartment, I forked a can of chopped ham into a bowl for Jasper, but the cat was still acting like a Diva and had ignored it.
"Take a seat, Stricker. I'll be with you in just a second," Shapiro said, without looking up from the file he was writing in.
I had to lean to one side to see him behind the mountains of paperwork he had piled up on his desk. Every square inch of space was taken up with stacks of manila folders. Tacked to the walls were several discolored maps of the Metro Miami area, a couple of cheap prints, and a cluster of yellowing parole department memos. The one conspicuous exception was the wall behind his desk. It was blank apart from a photograph of much younger Shapiro in State Police uniform. No souvenir certificates, no insignia mementoes, just that one picture.
I sat down and waited. From the window, I could see Biscayne and watched a white cruise liner sail south. Probably destined for the Bahamas.
I turned my attention back to the parole officer. Dave Shapiro was dressed much the same as the day we had met in prison; a pair of cotton jeans and a tennis shirt. A slim man, he had pale skin and washed-out brown hair. The sunlight made his ears appear translucent and highlighted the thick tuff of hair growing out of them. His lips were thin. Probably five or six years younger than the fifty he appeared. There were no gold on his finger, and he had his nails eaten down to the quick. As far as I could see there were no personal photographs on his desk. His eyes lacked humor.
Shapiro cleared his throat and directed those cold eyes towards me. His intense scrutiny made me uncomfortable and set my teeth on edge.
"I've reviewed your notes," he said, dropping his gaze. "Single. Raised in Hallandale. Top quartile in high school. Your boxing scholarship to college was withdrawn after you were busted by the campus cops for dealing marijuana to fellow art students. Kicked off the Olympic boxing squad for the same reason. Joined the Metro Dade Fire Department and made lieutenant. Served with distinction until your arrest for arson. Your fiancée 'Dear Johns' you while you're in the penitentiary, to marry another guy."
"You've done your homework."
Shapiro looked up. "You seem to have made a habit of failing to fulfill others' expectations of you."
"You could say that."
"I just did," he said, his voice sounding as though it could have cut through steel. "Your time in Lake Butler was relatively trouble-free and you have completed three years of a six-year sentence. State time − that's unusual for a first offence?"
"The judge thought firefighters should put out fires, not start them."
"I hear there's more to it."
I said nothing.
"I've had a visit from a Secret Service agent."
Morrell again, I thought bitterly. There's a man who doesn't know when to throw in the towel.
"Agent Morrell claims there was a cache of counterfeit currency in the house you burnt. He says he can't prove it, but that he doesn't have to."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"In his book, you belong inside and he's determined to see you complete your sentence at Butler. He's seeking my cooperation."
"How do you feel about that?" I asked. Morrell had written to the parole board opposing my release, but his views had been ignored. Obviously the agent hadn't been content to leave it at that. Morrell must have rubbed Shapiro up the wrong way, if he was letting me in on the agent's intentions. The parole board had warned me that life on the outside would be no picnic.
"I'll be up front with you," Shapiro said. "If you fuck with me, I'll have you on the Lake Butler bus so fast it will make you ears bleed. On the other hand, if you keep out of trouble I have no heartfelt desire to return you to the penitentiary." Shapiro's voice took on a sharp edge. "I most certainly shall not conspire with the Secret Service, or anyone else for that matter, to facilitate it. And I resent their attempt to implicate me in their machinations."
The extent to which Morrell had misread Shapiro became clear when I caught a brief flash of white hot anger behind the parole officer's eyes. If Morrell had it in for me, how much of a difference would it mean to have Shapiro on my side? I didn't plan to put him to the test.
"What gate money do you have?" he asked.
"Three hundred and twelve dollars." All there was to show for three years' toil in the prison's kitchens at fifty cents an hour, but that was more than most inmates managed to accumulate. I didn't smoke or use drugs.
"That should last you to your first wage packet. Six dollars an hour, paid weekly, less tax and deductions."
It would take a while to make Forbes' Fortune 500 at that rate.
Shapiro handed me a sealed envelope with the filling station's address written on the front. I knew the place. It was where the Florida Turnpike met the 1-95 and the Palmetto Expressway.
"Hand that to the manager when you arrive. He's expecting to see you sometime this morning."
"What's his name?"
"Drew Ryder. He works closely with this office and has taken on several paroled prisoners. A vacancy became available three weeks ago."
"How come?"
Shapiro shrugged. "Your predecessor is in Metro Dade jail charged with handling stolen property. Not an unusual occurrence, he just took less time than most. Where are you living? I telephoned the half-way house earlier and they said you hadn't checked in."
"I'm staying in a friend's apartment."
"What's the address and phone number?"
I told him. Shapiro wrote it down. "And your friend's name and occupation?"
"Floyd Benedict. Boxing coach."
Shapiro didn't look up as he asked his next inevitable question. "Has Benedict ever been convicted of a criminal offence?"
"Yes." It would be pointless to lie. "He did a two-year and then a four-year stretch in Michigan for auto theft. He's been straight for fifteen years."
"I see," Shapiro said, setting down his pen to give me his full concentration. "You realize that rooming with this man is a contravention of your parole conditions. I could violate you right now and have you fitted with an electronic ankle tag."
"It's his apartment, but he's not there at the moment. I have the place to myself."
Shapiro didn't appear too convinced, but he let it ride.
"Report to me every Friday and Monday at nine a.m. Ryder knows to excuse you from work at those times. I will be contacting him in a couple of days to see how you're settling in. Any questions?"
"Nope."
Shapiro got to his feet and hitched his jeans up. For a moment I thought he was going to shake my hand.
"Try to stay out of trouble longer than your predecessor."
Drew Ryder was a big man in his late forties. Only his large frame prevented him from appearing truly obese. He wore his hair long and sported a greasy beard which did little to disguise the four or five chins hanging slackly under his jaw. The belt around his middle had been fastened into an extra hole pierced in the final inch of leather. His forearms protruded like two inner tubes from his short-sleeved shirt. He had all the appearance of a gone-to-seed gorilla.
He took the letter from me in his office at the rear of the Exxon station. "What were you in for?"
"Arson."
"Insurance fraud?" Ryder's voice betrayed no sign of being judgmental as he ripped open the envelope.
"No. For the hell of it."
"I hope it was worth three years." Ryder scanned the contents.
"It wasn't."
"Try anything like that here and you'll not live long enough to be indicted. You clear on that?"
"Yeah." I had seen his type before. Ryder had probably been a bully in the school yard and, thanks to his size, had found the trait easy to maintain as he got older. Now he was nothing but a bag of guts, but he could still tyrannize by picking on those with too much to lose to risk fighting back.
Ryder proved my hypothesis correct by saying, "If you want to keep the job, it will cost you fifty a week. Basic's forty hours at six bucks per. You want more hours, you pay me an extra twenty-five. You clear?"
I nodded. I guessed my predecessor had preferred a little fencing on the side to lining Ryder's pockets. I wondered if Shapiro was in on the scam. Probably not.
Ryder pulled open a drawer and found a new set of overalls for me, then filled out a clock card.
"You can start now on day shift. That's seven to seven. Go find Tom Bell, he's probably loafing around the carwash, and have him to tell you what to do. There isn't anything here that requires much in the way of brains. You'll pump gas, clean windshields, check oil and tire pressures, just like any new boy until Dave tells you different. Okay?"
"It's clear."
One of the night shift Exxon employees failed to show up and Ryder had me stay on for a few hours, so it was gone midnight by the time I arrived back at Floyd's apartment. A couple of times during the day I had tried phoning, but there had been no reply.
I pulled the key out of the lock, nudged the door shut and flicked on the lights.
The young woman had been crouching behind the sofa and was on me before I had time to react. All I saw were the two shiny prongs of the stun-gun as it was jammed against my abdomen. I heard the crackle of the electric pulse as the voltage scrambled my nervous system, dropping me to the floor. It wasn't the first time I had been at the wrong end of a stun-gun, the Butler guards were issued with them whenever the yard atmosphere got ugly, and they weren't too discriminating about who got zapped. A jolt from a 4,000 volt Stinger would paralyze any man, regardless of size. The heart keeps on pumping and the brain is fully alert, but for two or three minutes the victim has the strength of a new born baby.
I watched helplessly as the black girl tied my legs together with duct tape, then rolled me over on my stomach and lashed my wrists behind my back. She worked quickly, obviously aware of the length of time I would be defenseless. She turned me over again and slapped a strip of tape across my mouth before propping me up with my back against the sofa. Satisfied that I was secure, she picked up the Stinger and rose to pull the blinds shut. She sat down and crossed her legs to wait for the effects to wear off.
I would have put her at no more than twenty-one. Her dark brown hair was swept back from her forehead and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were green and she was wearing black cycle shorts and polo. You didn't need to be a genealogist to realize that, with legs that long, the girl had to Floyd's daughter. We had never met, but Floyd had often talked of Robin.
"You okay?" she asked, when I started to struggle against my bindings.
I nodded, recognizing where I had heard her voice before. It had been her on the phone the night before.
"I'm going to ask some questions and I want straight answers. Nod your head if you understand."
I nodded.
"In a moment I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you shout out, I'll hit you with the Stinger again. In case you're not aware of it, repeated high-voltage shocks over a short period of time can cause permanent nerve damage. The threshold tolerance is different from person to person. You might handle a dozen hits without injury, or you could be one of those who will experience irreparable damage after only two or three. If I was you, I wouldn't risk finding out."
More nodding. She reached over and peeled off the tape.
"How did you get in?" I whispered.
"I told you, I'm asking the questions. What have you done with Floyd Benedict?"
"Not a damn thing. He disappeared yesterday. I've been expecting him to show up anytime."
"He left to pick you up at Lake Butler, but you arrived back here without him. What have you done with him?"
"You know who I am?"
"Yeah. You're Steve Stricker. You were doing a stretch for arson."
Play dumb. Not much of an option, but it was the only one I had at the moment. "Who are you?"
"Never mind about that. Tell me what you've done with Floyd?"
"What the hell are you on about? Why would I want to do anything to Floyd? He's my friend. We stopped for a beer and I went to the John. When I came out, Floyd was gone. I waited around for him, but he didn't return."
"Then how come you're riding about in his car?"
"He'd asked me to drive. I still had the keys on me when he disappeared."
"What stopped you from going to the police and reporting him missing?"
"And say what? That a grown man left a bar without telling anyone his business. Anyway, they wouldn't listen to a con fresh out of Butler."
Her face clouded with doubt for a second. "I guess not."
"Why do you think something might have happened to him?"
"I told you not to ask questions. Just tell me where he is."
"To hell with you. I've already told you the truth. Can I help it if you're too damned dumb to recognize it?"
She pushed the Stinger up to my face. Its coldness touched my cheek. She scraped the bristle with the metal prongs. Her thumb was over the button.
"You think I won't do it?"
She mustn't have appreciated the 'Fuck you' look in my eyes because I was treated to another jolt from the Stinger as penalty.
"That's two," she said, yanking my head up by the hair. "Want to try for a third?"
I was incapable of answering. She let go my hair.
"I swear I don't know where he is" were my first words, spoken as soon as the stunning had worn off.
"You were the last person to see him."
"You can't believe I would be stupid enough to come back here if I had harmed him."
"You don't need brains to qualify for Lake Butler."
"Is Floyd in some sort of trouble? We didn't have much time to talk."
The girl pressed the Stinger into my crotch. "How much is Angelo paying you?"
"What are you on about? I don't know any Angelo." I braced myself for another jolt. This one would really hurt.
"Stop jerking me around. It would have been easy for Angelo to get a message to you."
"Robin, was someone leaning on Floyd? It's time to stop playing games. Floyd used to talk a lot about you. I thought you were living with your mother in Saint Louis.
Robin was about to answer when there was a rap on the door. She slapped the tape back over my mouth and stood up. There was another knock, more insistent this time. I screwed my head around. There was no security peep-hole in the door.
Another rap.
Robin crossed to the door. She held the Stinger behind her back as she swung it open.
Floyd was standing there, gently swaying back and forth, his face swollen and battered. One eye had closed and the front of his shirt was drenched in blood. He looked as though he had gone the distance with Mike Tyson. His mouth dropped open like the maw on a largemouth bass.
"What the hell are you doin' here, girl?" he asked.
"Looking for you." She pulled him in and shut the door. Floyd leant on her as he crossed to the sofa. He was limping a lot more than usual and I could see that, as well as blood, the front of his shirt was criss-crossed with black streaks. Someone had been practicing their soccer skills on him.
Robin brought a wet cloth from the kitchen and started to wash the blood from her father's face. He held her wrist.
"Leave it. What you been doin' to Steve?"
"He turned up here by himself. I thought he was with them."
I struggled to my knees and, bracing myself against the back of the sofa, tried to stand up. I wobbled precariously for a second, and then crashed to the floor. The tape over my mouth didn't stop me grunting in pain.
Floyd's one good eye watched my antics. He smiled, revealing a freshly chipped tooth.
"Cut him loose. He'd nothin' t'do with it."
Robin looked dubious, but returned to the kitchen to fetch a knife. She sliced through the tape around my wrists and ankles. I stood up and pulled the tape from my mouth.
"Who worked you over?" I said, moving around the sofa to take a better look at Floyd.
"A couple of goons; twin guineas called Napoli. They came into the bar and sat down either side of me. One of them stuck a knife in my ribs and told me t'choose between walkin' out quietly with them or leavin' in a morgue van. They didn't much care which."
"Was one of them wearing two-tone loafers?"
"Both of them." Floyd used a finger to rock an eye tooth that had been loosened. He winced. "Those two sorry-assed mothers' wear the same clothes."
"I take it that their showing up wasn't entirely unexpected," I said, wondering how the drinkers in the bar could have failed to spot the Napoli double act.
"Sit down so I can talk to you; my neck hurts too bad t'keep starin' up at you. I was intendin' t'tell you all 'bout it, but they made their move before I had a chance. This is my daughter, Rob---"
"We've met," Robin said, picking the Stinger up from the armrest of the sofa. She gave me the same cold stare I've received from fighters before a bout.
"I got a hell of a shock when I walked in and found her here," I said.
Floyd laughed, then turned serious, "Robin's a nurse with an abortion clinic in Tallahassee. Three weeks ago one of the doctors was shot as he arrived for work. He was lucky, the bullet struck him in the shoulder, but it was high and a thro' and thro'."
"Pro-lifers?" I asked.
"No, at least not directly. A gangster by the name of Angelo has been shakin' down some of the clinics. They're an easy touch and most of the time he doesn't have to dirty his hands. If they don't pay up, Angelo arranges for the place t'become a focus for the Pro-life pickets, he has some sort of sway with their hierarchy. A month ago he upped his ante on Robin's clinic and they stalled. The shootin' of the doctor was intended as a final warning."
"With the Pro-lifers handed the blame. Nice routine."
"Only it didn't quite work out like that. Robin witnessed the shootin' and recognized the gunman, Ray Loomis, a punk who works for Angelo. A girlfriend of Robin's had been friendly with him for a while. Robin's t'testify before a grand jury tomorrow."
I looked at her. The girl did not lack guts.
"And Angelo would prefer she didn't."
"That's about it. The Tallahassee PD promised protection and moved Robin to a safe house. Angelo's people found her in less than a day. She gave the police the slip and caught a Greyhound to Miami. There wasn't much point waitin' around for them t'show up here, so Robin and I have been stayin' at a friend's place. Somebody they couldn't connect with me."
I remembered the note on the calendar. "But it wouldn't have been too hard for them to discover that we were buddies. You took a risk coming to Butler."
"I told him it was a mistake," Robin said, glaring at me. "But the old fool insisted."
Floyd gave his daughter a frosty glance. "After we left the bar, they drove non-stop to an empty house on Bay Harbor. That's when they started in on me."
"You've taken a lot of punishment," I said.
"I've had worse. Neither of them could throw much of a punch. I guess you 're owed an apology."
"How was I to know?" Robin spat out savagely. "He moves into your apartment, make himself at home, and doesn't bother looking for you, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to up and disappear."
I got up. "We'll discuss it later. Right now I think we may have a problem. Floyd, how come they let you go?"
"They didn't. I was knocked unconscious for a while and when I came to, the place was deserted. I burnt through the nylon cuffs with my cigarette lighter."
I looked at his hands. The insides of his wrists were covered with ugly red blisters.
"I was 'tailin' down the road when a bro trucker stopped and gave me a lift; saw the state I was in and offered t'take me any place I wanted. Maybe it was a little too easy, I was thinkin', so I had him drop me here. If the bro was workin' with them, at least I wouldn't be givin' up anything they didn't already know. I didn't figure on findin' Robin here." Floyd let his head slide back and closed his good eye. He was hurting and it wasn't from his injuries.
I walked through to the unlit bedroom and looked outside. The other side of the street was a ribbon of liquor, convenience and fast-food stores. There were few people about and it took only a moment to spot the car with two men inside it, parked further along the street where they had a good view of the apartment block's front entrance and the fire escape to the side. The driver was smoking a cigarette and had his window down. Every now and then his gaze would drift up to the third floor.
Back in the sitting room I told the others what I had seen. "Is there a back way out?"
"Only the fire escape," Floyd said.
"What about the roof?"
Floyd shook his head.
"They're not going to wait outside all night," I said. "They don't know that your daughter's here, or they would have been through the door by now. They'll be thinking that you came here first to clean yourself up and retrieve your car. They'll give you maybe twenty minutes and if you don't show yourself by then, they'll come looking for you." I turned to Robin. "What time are you expected at Tallahassee?"
"Nine o'clock. But forget it. My father's been through enough. I'm going out to talk to them, let them know that I won't testify. Angelo will call off his muscle."
"That's just about the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Is Angelo mob?"
"He's better connected than Atlanta airport."
"Then you'll have more to worry about if you don't testify. I've talked with enough of their foot soldiers taking a Lake Butler sabbatical to have a pretty good idea of how the mob operates. Angelo will do his damnest right up to the last moment to stop you testifying. But if you do, and Loomis is indicted, it will end there. Loomis will take the rap and keep his mouth shut, knowing he'll be well taken care of. It happens. No big deal. Angelo won't risk bringing trouble down on his head over an expendable punk. If, on the other hand, you don't testify, you'll remain a threat to Angelo himself, like an unexploded bomb ready to blow maybe when he's in a tighter corner than this, and he'll never allow that. He'll silence you for good."
Robin's body shuddered. She looked at her father.
"Steve's right. Angelo won't lose much sleep over one of his goons takin' a fall. That's what they're there for."
"Okay. Okay. But I don't think those men in the car outside will see it the same way." Robin glared at me. "You seem to have all the answers. How are we going to get out of here without them seeing us?"
I looked at Floyd.
"How much do they know about me?"
"They know you were servin' time for arson, but that's about it."
I pulled the Miami Dolphins' key ring from my pocket, worked one of the keys off and slipped it into my shirt pocket, then handed the ring to Floyd.
"Are you fit enough to drive?" I asked Floyd.
"Sure. Looks worse than it is."
"Good. When I've taken care of our friends outside, I want you to drive your daughter to Tallahassee. It will take you five or six hours this time of night. Don't stop for anything or anyone until you're at the courthouse steps."
"I know that look. What you cookin' up?"
"Funny you should say that. Listen, this is what I need you to do."
After everything was fully understood, I opened the fire escape door and wished Floyd and his daughter luck. They started down the metal steps, Floyd in front, his gimpy leg slowing them. They reached the first landing before being spotted by one of the men in the car. Even from the third floor, it was possible to see the look of surprise on the guy's face. I stood well back from the door and waited for events to unfold, praying that the mobsters would react instinctively.
The men left their car, dodging through the late-night traffic as they crossed the street. Floyd lowered the base flight of the steel staircase, then stopped, turned, and pushed his daughter up the fire escape again.
It was working. The Napoli brothers assumed something had spooked the Benedicts. They sprinted the last twenty yards and caught the base section before it sprang back into its horizontal position, ten feet above ground level. The rubber soles of their loafers hardly made a sound as they took the steps two at a time. Ahead of them, Robin Benedict darted through the fire escape door, her father only inches behind.
A voice carried up from below. "One of us should have taken the main entrance." They still kept coming though.
The men paused, pulled their guns, and rushed the door. They froze when they saw me leaning against a kitchen cupboard giving them the evil eye, even though I was holding nothing more dangerous than a cigarette.
"The fuck?" they said in unison.
"Glad you could join me."
Fingers tightened on triggers. They took a step forward.
"Make another move and I blow us all to hell. Take a good look at that rubber hose sticking out under the stove. I've just spent three years in Lake Butler for being a bit too fond of playing with fire. This room is swimming in propane."
The brothers turned towards the hiss of the escaping gas.
"That's better." I took a pull on the cigarette, and then held it by the butt between my thumb and forefinger with the glowing tip pointing down. "No need to look so worried. Propane gas is heavier than air; it won't rise above knee height. We're in no danger as long as I don't drop this cigarette."
"You're bluffing," one of them said. "There's no way you'd do it."
"Try me. It's been a long three years. The explosion will take out most of this floor and I get to have my picture on the breakfast news. You get dead. Loomis worth it?"
"We only want to talk to the girl. She isn't to be harmed."
"The same kid glove treatment you gave her father. I don't think so. Besides, they've left already." I took another drag. The smoke caught the back of my throat.
Two sets of eyes watched my every move. A bead of sweat broke from the temple of the silent brother and ran down the side of his face.
"I want you to set the guns down on the refrigerator, then back up against the wall. You really don't want to make me nervous. The prison shrink thought that we arsonists like to jerk off dreaming of self-immolation. He doesn't know the half of it."
They reluctantly did as they were told.
"That wasn't so hard. Matching guns, I like that. A present from Momma?" I stuck one of the automatics into my trouser waistband and picked up the other. The safety catch was off. "Maybe I should drop the cigarette anyhow. Save the world from your dress sense."
I tossed the butt into the basin and ran water over it.
I said, "We're going to be here for a while, so what shall we talk about?"
"Fuck you," they snarled together.
"Didn't your Momma teach you better than that?"
I held a gun on them for an hour, then threw them out, but not before I showed them that the rubber hose had been spewing out nothing more than inert carbon dioxide from a soda machine cylinder. I never did have much time for clowns.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was day three at the Exxon gas station and already I found myself slipping into a routine. The simple freedoms that ordinary people take for granted can mean a lot to an ex-con. Prison life so conditions you to routine that you yearn for it on the outside. I would leave the apartment shortly after six, buy a breakfast of coffee and toast at a diner, and pick up a paper from the kiosk at the corner where I caught a bus.
That morning's Miami Herald carried a couple of lines on the Grand Jury's indictment of Ray Loomis in Tallahassee. The paper had picked up the story because of the Pro-life connection, and made no mention of any organized crime involvement. Most of the front page was devoted to Governor Henry Kemple's visit to Miami as part of his presidential campaign trail.
Floyd had phoned the previous evening to say that he was going to stay at his daughter's place in Tallahassee for a few days. I had heard nothing more from the Napoli boys, though I slept with one of their guns under my pillow. The other I taped to the rear of the garbage chute flap.
Jasper had declared a cessation of hostilities. The cat still wouldn't eat anything that I left out, but had given up using me as a scratching post.
I slipped my card into the time-clock with three minutes to spare. Ryder never put in an appearance until after nine, so until then the employees had the place to themselves. There were two other ex-cons on the payroll, both making hefty donations to the Ryder pension fund. I changed into overalls and headed out onto the forecourt. My first contribution to the Exxon billions was to empty the trash bins into the Dumpster at the rear. After that I was to refill the oil can racks.
A silver Ford Mercury pulled up alongside just as I was making a start on the racks. Mike Morrell was at the wheel. He climbed out and rested his arms on top of the car door, grinning all over his face.
"Stricker, good to see you making some honest money."
Morrell was wearing a black tuxedo with his unknotted bow tie flapping at his throat. He had a square head with a strong chin and thick neck. His hair was black and cut in a short spike. I had him in early to mid-forties. His eyes were green, with gray flecks. He was in need of a shave. Even out in the open, I could smell the stale booze off him.
"What do you want?"
"Some gas to start with. Twenty bucks should do it.'
I stood up and walked to the rear of the car. Morrell swung around to watch me.
"Give the windshield a wash as well"
I left it until I had finished and was replacing the hose. "I hear you've been talking to my P0."
Morrell raised an eyebrow. "I thought he might tell you. I've just dropped his boss, Governor Kemple, back to his hotel. For a Democrat, the man knows how to party."
"When did the Secret Service start nurse-maiding Governors? I thought that was down to the State Police."
"Since the man made assholes out of the others in the New Hampshire primary. Kemple has what it takes for D.C."
I soaked the windshield and started to wipe off with a squeegee. "Yeah, well good luck to him. He'll need it with you at his back."
Morrell pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapping it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light and saying, "You can't be too careful." before handing it over. He swung himself back into the car. "I'll be seeing you."
"You forgot the tip."
He had the door half shut. "How about some good advice? Don't be making any long-term plans − I'm not through with you, and if you think I'm going to settle for another lousy three years, you're way off. Fifteen seems a nice round number."
Morrell left a trail of rubber on the forecourt's brickwork. I went back to stacking oilcans
After finishing the shift I drove east towards the ocean, then north through Golden Beach. One of the other ex-cons had supplied me with a day-glow orange VW Bug for as long as I needed it at ten dollars a day. I didn't bother asking about the registration docs. The last driver must have been a golf nut and they had left a dozen plastic tee pegs and a pack of brand new golf balls in the front pocket. I tuned in to seventies' rock on WVUM and kept an eye on the rear view mirror, not noticing anything that looked like a tail. That didn't mean there wasn't one; a blind man could have followed the fluorescent VW from the next county. Pulling in at a roadside diner for a coffee, I scanned the sky for choppers. Maybe the Secret Service was rushed off their feet guarding the Governor, or maybe that was what Morrell wanted me to think.
After Fort Lauderdale the road runs between the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic until it reaches Boca Raton, the city designed by Addison Mizner to rival Coral Gables. I took the loop that circled the town, parked on Camino Real, then covered four blocks as I did the store shuffle; entering and leaving by alternate exits. I switched cabs three times, following the routine that Andy had insisted we go through each time any of us visited the print shop.
The elaborate precautions allowed me plenty of time to change my mind. But I didn't. I'd known from the moment I saw those agents creeping through my neighbor's back yard that someone had ratted on me. Exactly who the shitbag was, I had never been able to work out. But the place to start looking for an answer had to be Boca.
I was drawn like a moth to a flame.
Andy had been the driving force behind our counterfeiting operation and it had been on his recommendation that we had set up in Boca Raton, well away from where we lived, so there would be less of a chance of running into anybody who knew us.
While I had been putting out fires for Metro Dade, Andy had been serving time at Raiford for printing his own American Express travel checks. On his release, Andy had been keen to put into practice new techniques gleaned from his spell behind bars. A penitentiary is a criminal's Ivy League he had claimed. After a spell in Butler, I knew he hadn't been fooling.
A little cautious research by Andy around the bars on the University of Miami campus had yielded a list of art students who had studied printing technology, with my name at the top. As a disgraced alumnus, I had all the attributes he was looking for. I had an in-depth knowledge of paper and ink, no qualms about breaking the law, a low income, and, as he told me when we got to know each other better, was probably harboring regrets over lost chances. Best of all, the cops had long before lost interest in me. After tracking me down and learning all he could about me, Andy had turned up on my doorstep one day out of the blue to pitch his idea. With his know-how and my printing expertise, Andy reckoned we could produce counterfeit bills that would be practically undetectable.
He had put his argument well, and to tell the truth, he had not had to twist my arm all that hard.
In turn, it was I who had drafted Floyd as extra man. He was no fancy ring-craft boxer; he had learnt to fight in the Detroit projects, where savagery and an unwillingness to show mercy made for better weapons than a strong right and fancy footwork. Floyd's reign as the baddest of the bad asses was cut short when the drug enforcers with their semi-automatics started a whole new breed of violence. He was brushed aside like yesterday's paper, though his street savvy had kept him alive long enough to make it out of town in one piece. He had drifted south until he landed a job instilling some of that edge into young boxers in a Miami gym.
I had convinced Andy that if he and I were to find time to perfect our counterfeiting techniques, then we would need someone like Floyd. He could help with the donkeywork, and at the same time be the eyes in the backs of our heads. Andy, initially, had been reluctant, but soon saw the sense of what I was saying and so Floyd had joined the team. Stricker, Kove and Benedict − Forgers three.
According to Andy, the establishment of a secure location to work from had to be our priority. He treated it like some sort of Holy Grail. A pickpocket is highly mobile, he said, and can ply his trade without arousing suspicion; the same goes for a hotel thief. They are invisible to the untrained eye, but the sight of a machine churning out dollar bills will have even the slowest-witted of citizens dialing 911.
The entrance to the print shop was through a metal door at the rear of the underground garage of a skeleton of a condominium block. Construction at the site had been halted after the start of the real estate slump and the shell had been left to rot as the developers waited for property values to rise again.
I prowled the perimeter fence until I reached the main gates. Incredibly, the site seemed much as it was that last night. Construction was still stalled. I took the key I had separated from Floyd's bunch and slipped it into the lock of the picket gate. It was stiff and took a hard twist before the lock turned. I shut the gate and made a quick reconnaissance. Judging from the healthy carpet of weeds, I was the first person to have entered the site for some time. The counter-weight tower crane soared above me; its concrete pouring bucket still suspended in mid-air. Abandoned machinery had turned red with rust. I walked carefully towards the garage entrance, wary of stumbling over the bricks and steel rods I knew would be lurking in the floral.
The existence of the underground room had been passed on to Andy by his Raiford cellmate, who had worked on the construction site; it had at one time been a security vault in the basement of a furrier's. The store was long gone and the basement stairway filled in, but the vault had remained as it was until the condominium constructors had accidentally punched a hole through a sidewall while excavating the site. They had fixed up a proper entrance so they could use the vault as a storage room.
Andy had already completed his alterations to the room before I was recruited. He had cleared out all the junk and had hung a huge metal door which he had salvaged from a rubbish tip. The door had been installed with dummy hinges and locks to fool any casual attempt to open it. It swung up, not out. Only when one hundred percent convinced of my commitment had Andy let me in on his chosen location.
I made a circuit of the garage, checking it was empty, before raising the door. There was barely a sound; if Andy had not plumped for a life of crime, he would have made a fine engineer.
Stepping through, I gently lowered the door behind me. The soundproofed inner door was open. I slid it shut behind me before flicking the wall switch, flooding the room in light. Four years and the electric company still hadn't discovered that one of their underground cables had been illegally tapped into. Maybe not so odd, since no power had been used during the last three. The air was bone dry and a thick layer of dust covered everything.
I broke into the same cold sweat that had deprived me of sleep at Butler. The vault was exactly as I had left it the night we had packed up the three thousand C-bills. Andy had made no attempt to dismantle it.
That night was the only time that any product had been taken from the room. We had been meticulous about that. The print shop's integrity had been considered absolute, but nowhere else was. Andy had talked of a counterfeiter who had been caught when his car was tail-ended at a red light and the trunk lid sprang up to reveal a batch of uncut currency.
Memories flooded back as I walked around the room examining the equipment that the three of us had believed would change our lives. On a table against the inside wall was an electric paper guillotine. Next to it a clothes dryer filled with Indian rubber erasers; five minutes of tumbling in that aged the money, and worn bills were always easier to pass. Beside it was the laser scanner that we had used to produce the color separations from which we made the plates; seven were required to duplicate the photogravure techniques that the mint used. The dollar bill lacked the watermarks or metal strip found in other currencies, like British sterling, yet it still remains one of the most difficult notes to counterfeit. The extensive filigree; the almost invisible blue and red background flecks on the paper; the positive and negative printing; all combined to make the greenback a counterfeiter's nightmare.
Despite the difficulties, Andy explained to me during his recruitment pitch, the dollar has been counterfeited on a great number of occasions. And those were the forgeries that had been discovered. Contrary to what the Treasury Department claims, the truly successful counterfeiter will never be caught because his crime is undetectable. That would be the touchstone that he and I should aim for.
I froze momentarily when I noticed that one of the plates was on its cylinder on the offset litho machine, still covered in ink. Andy would never have left it like that. I took a closer look. The blanket cylinder still bore the marks of the ink that we could never completely wash off despite hours of trying. The impression cylinder was shiny and bright, as though it had been installed the day before. The plate transferred its image to the blanket roller in ink, and then onto the virgin paper on the impression roller. Since the litho plate never made direct contact with the paper, the process was known as offset printing.
I thought of all the stealth and planning that had gone into the purchase and then the transportation of the printing machine, packed in wooden crates, to the vault; followed by time-consuming assembly. The process had been made interminable by the strict security procedures that Andy had insisted we follow.
The light flickered but stayed on.
The untouched room was proof that it had not been Floyd or Andy who had betrayed me to the Treasury agents. But I knew that, if it had been one of them Morrell would have had all the evidence he required and my arson stunt would have been in vain.
The non-reflective paper, metallic ink, plates and numbering boxes were kept in an old chest freezer that Floyd had found one night. The condenser had packed in, but the rubber seal was still airtight and the freezer was as good a container as any for the more delicate materials.
I pressed the old-fashioned thumb button on the chest handle and heaved. It did not budge. I went back across to the table and found the key in a tin can we had used as a desk tidy. It turned easily in the lock and I raised the lid.
On top of a jumble of litho plates, ink reservoirs and paper reams was Andy. His throat had been cut through to his spine and his blood had soaked into the paper, staining it. His skin had turned brown and was stretched tightly across his skull like dry leather. The yellow vertebrae of his neck were clearly visible at the bottom of the gaping wound. He was dressed in the same black jeans and River Phoenix T-shirt he had been wearing on the night I had last seen him.
I stepped back and crashed into the litho machine, cracking my skull against the gears and knocking over an ink reservoir, spilling dollar green ink over the front of my shirt. Burning bile poured into my stomach and throat and I vomited across the dusty floor. My insides turned to mush. I drew a deep breath, bracing myself for the stench of putrefaction, but caught only the sharp odor of the spilt ink. Decay had been decelerated by the lack of oxygen inside the freezer. Andy had been entombed in a Kelvinator sarcophagus. I reached for the lid and closed it, blanking out the nightmarish sight of the desiccated body.
Andy and I had spent nine months working side by side, as close as any men could be: producing plates, testing ink, experimenting with paper texture. The long hours we put in, coupled with the constant need for secrecy had forged a strong bond between us. Despite many failures and disappointments along the way, there had never been an angry word exchanged. After the first month's work, the prospective rewards of what we were doing had taken second place to a common drive for perfection. We had, through trial and error, learned a craft together, and a deep pride in our work had drawn us close.
I stumbled across the room and swept the soundproof door aside. Dropping to the floor, I rolled against the outer door until it lifted enough to let me through. It slammed down heavily behind me. I scrambled to my feet, bent forward and, like a man near to drowning, sucked in deep breaths of fresh air.
My lungs filled, my blood oxygenated, I started to reason clearly. Like it or not, I had to go back into the vault, douse a rag with acetone, and wipe down every square inch of the print shop. And that included the grisly task of disturbing Andy's body to reach the contents of the freezer.
The new day was two hours old before I arrived back at Floyd's apartment. I remembered little of the return trip. With my concentration shot, my driving had been erratic, though at one time I felt sure that I was being tailed by a dark blue panel van. After a couple of miles it turned off and I told myself that my gruesome discovery had me imagining things. In the kitchen I stripped off the stained shirt and stuck my head under the faucet, letting cold water sluice the dust from my face and hair. I swilled water around my mouth to rinse away the stink of sick, though nothing would quell the turmoil that was eating up my insides. I took Floyd's key from my pocket and hung it on a rack near the door. I crashed down on the couch, reached for the phone and dialed the number Floyd had given me.
"Whoever it is had better have a damned good excuse for callin' this time of night," Floyd threatened, when he at last picked up.
"It's Steve."
Floyd caught the tension in my voice. "What's up?"
"I've seen Andy."
"He's back in town?'
"He never left. We need to talk. Not over the phone. Can you make it home tomorrow?"
Floyd caught on fast.
"I guess."
"I'll see you some time around seven." I put down the phone and looked at the cat sprawled out on the other end of the sofa. He roused himself and sniffed the air, hissing and baring his teeth as though he could smell death off me.