Hard Case Crime: Honey in His Mouth (17 page)

“I see that, too.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing nobody has said much about.” Harsh cleared his throat. “I take it this
El Presidente
is not going to just step aside and let me masquerade as him. Okay, what makes him do it? What happens to him, and who makes it happen?”

“We will take care of that, Harsh. No need to worry.”

“I don’t know about that. It gives me the creeps, the way you people treat killing that guy like it was nothing. To say nothing of the way you casually mention a million bucks, just like it was an itch on the end of your nose or something.”

“Don’t bother yourself.” Mr. Hassam patted the air in front of him with both hands. “The way we will handle it, no one will ever know anyone was killed.”

“And I’ll tell you something else gives me the willies, Mr. Hassam. I think you’ve got people mixed up in this you can’t depend on in a squeeze. That Brother, that one is bugs. And Doc Englaster, going around with his nose in the air, I don’t think I would depend on him in a pinch either. You pile murder on that, and it gives me the plain goddamn creeps.”

Mr. Hassam leaned back and his face was wooden. “Cold feet, Harsh?”

“I’m just telling you.”

“Yes, I see.”

“And another goddamn thing is that fifty thousand dollars of mine, Mr. Hassam. I tell you flat, I don’t get that dough, there is going to be hell to pay.”

“You will get it.”

“I want it now.”

Mr. Hassam moved his hands wearily. “Impossible. No point in kidding around about that, Harsh, you get paid when you deliver.”

“In other words, you trust the hell out of me.”

“We trust you just as much as you trust us.”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t that right?”

“I guess it is.”

The other three conspirators appeared for breakfast. Miss Muirz, Doctor Englaster, and Brother together. Doctor Englaster’s voice was shrill with excitement. “Did you hear the news on the radio, Achmed?” He had been drinking again. “I knew the bastard was on the gunboat. I knew it!”

The news broadcast on the radio had a strong effect on Harsh. It added another subject to the two about which he had been doing most of his thinking: the fifty thousand dollars and Miss Muirz. Now he was for the first time really convinced he was being groomed to be a double for a South American ex-president.

Harsh presumed there were similar news broadcasts of the event taking place throughout the country. On the Florida station, he thought, they had put it right after the weather, so that made it of prime prominence. It was an important piece of news. He was alarmed that it should be so prominent.

If it ever got out he was masquerading as that guy, Harsh thought, there would be a stink.

He tried to weigh some of the effects of such a thing by imagining he was taking the place of the President of the United States, but the idea was so preposterous he could not get any value out of the thought. But there would sure be a mess stirred up.

The thing he ought to do, Harsh decided, was haul ass out of here. It was getting about that time. Fifty thousand dollars or no fifty thousand dollars, he should get long gone from here.

It was a good sensible idea and he knew nothing would come of it because it was physically impossible for him to leave without that money. If he tried to make his legs take him away, he hoped his legs would have sense enough to drop off his body.

Walter Harsh was walking around the grounds trying to think of a way into the wall safe when he heard swishing and cracking and thudding sounds, then saw Miss Muirz. A day or two ago he had noticed there was a smooth panel insert in the wall on the north side of the grounds. The panel was several feet high and more than twenty feet wide, smooth and made of concrete. Miss Muirz had a long curved wicker basket strapped to one hand and was firing a ball at the wall and catching it on the rebound, using the basket. The ball traveled like a rifle bullet, and sounded like one whenever it hit the wall. It was almost too fast for the eye.

Miss Muirz was wearing tennis shoes, shorts, bra. She was trim and very athletic. She was about the best looking thing he had seen in a long time, Harsh thought. She stopped when she saw him.

“Say there, don’t stop on my account.”

“I was just getting a bit of exercise and letting off steam.”

“Don’t stop. I don’t know much about that game, but you must be pretty good. I enjoyed watching you.”

“I’m out of practice, I am afraid.”

“If that was being rusty, you must be something when you got the shine on.”

“Care to try it?” Miss Muirz tossed him a ball. He found it to be near the size of a baseball and hard as a rock. Miss Muirz stood beside him. “The glove on my
cesta
can be let out a little to fit your hand.”

“Oh, no, thanks. Not me. You know a ball like this could kill a man if he got beaned with it, which would be just my luck.”

“Do not be chicken.”

“Is that what you call the thing, a
cesta?”

“Yes.”

“I bet it would be harder to learn to use than a snow-shoe.”

“You are chicken, aren’t you?”

“Nah. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He let her fasten the basket device on his right hand. She smelled faintly of perfume. His shoulder touched hers. She put the ball in the basket and he hauled off and let fly and missed the wall entirely. The ball disappeared. That ball went to hell and gone off into the mangroves, he thought, abashed. He indicated his left arm with a motion of his head. It still hung from its sling. “Bum arm overbalanced me, I guess.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye and saw she was not amused. She was not irritated either. She was just indifferent. He didn’t like that she was indifferent, he realized. He would like to do a little warming up there.

“You tried to overdo it, Mr. Harsh.”

“I guess. There’s more to this than a person would think, I can see that now. How did you get so good at it?”

“Once I was a professional.”

He looked at the ground, pretending his feelings were damaged. “Say, you set me up for a laugh, didn’t you?”

“I just thought you might like to try.”

“Yeah, I bet. You know how you made me feel? Like I had tried to show a fellow how to burn one across home plate, and the fellow turned out to be Dizzy Dean or somebody.”

She looked at him and he thought he detected a hint of something in her eyes, something that smacked of interest. Remember who you look like, he thought. She knows you’re not him, but that doesn’t mean she’s immune to whatever feelings the sight of him might stir up.

She spoke gently. “I am sorry to make you feel bad.”

“Oh, I’ll get over it. But seeing as how you made me feel about two inches tall, I think you ought to do something to raise me back to size. Something like riding into town with me and having dinner this evening.”

She shook her head quickly. “It is not wise for you to leave the estate.”

“Yeah, but you can’t leave me two inches high.”

She smiled. “No, I can hardly do that, can I?”

“We’re on, then?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t say I wouldn’t like it, Mr. Harsh. An evening away from here. From them. But no, we cannot leave the estate without a good reason.”

“Well, I got a good reason. You see, I got nothing to wear, no clothes for this climate, and certainly none for this part you people want me to play. I got to go into town and buy some stuff.”

“We can send someone to buy you clothes.”

“Not so as they’d fit properly.”

“They’d fit well enough.”

“For bumming on the beach maybe. But what about when you want to trot me out as your
El Presidente?
Did he go around in beachwear? Or suits that didn’t fit him just right?” He saw her nod slightly in agreement. “Anyway I’m damned if I am going to think of myself as a prisoner here.”

“You are not a prisoner, Harsh, but you do look exactly like a man who is being searched for all the world over. Really, it would be best if you stayed out of sight.”

“We could cover up my face. I could wear a scarf, a hat. Plus I’ve still got this bandage on, so you can’t see practically half my face. And I’d stay indoors most of the time, I wouldn’t be walking around on the street. It’d be quick, too—an hour, two tops.”

“I do not know that the others will have confidence that you would be so careful, Mr. Harsh, or so quick. Or, frankly, that you would necessarily come back at all.”

“But what if you went along with me? It would be okay with everybody then, wouldn’t it?”

She put one hand out, laid it against his chest. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Harsh. You let me talk to the others, and I’ll see what they think. Maybe it can be arranged. Maybe. However, if I do get permission to take you into town, you must promise to stay out of sight as much as possible. We would go straight to a men’s clothing store, then straight back, and no dining in public restaurants. If you want dinner with me, we shall have it here.”

“Say, now we’re getting somewhere.”

When Miss Muirz came out of the house for the trip into Palm Beach, she wore a grey dress which made her look tall, a grey hat, plain grey pumps. The only things not grey were her belt and a big handbag, which were shades of brown. They took the limousine. She drove. The machine had a partition between the front seats and the rear section, so they both sat in front.

“Will you open the gate?” Miss Muirz pulled the car to a halt just shy of the metal gate separating the driveway from the main road.

“Glad to, if you give me the key.”

Miss Muirz shook her head. “You don’t need a key. They don’t keep it locked.”

Harsh didn’t say anything to that, just got out and opened it, then closed it after she’d driven through. He got back in the limousine. He would remember about the gate being unlocked, he thought. It would be important if he had to make a break later.

They followed a road that wound south about a mile through sand and mangroves. The sea was quite near to the left. In many spots sand had drifted across the blacktop. Other large estates began to appear near the road just before it swung westward and joined another road coming in from the south. They crossed a causeway, then a drawbridge, and fifteen minutes put them in Palm Beach.

The store where they stopped was expensive looking, a one-story cream-colored building with a simple neon sign saying LEON in script. “This is a very fine men’s shop.” Miss Muirz pulled up at a side street door. “Brother says so, anyway.”

They went inside and a salesman in a mess jacket and cummerbund and black trousers began showing them slacks and the trimmings. When the man first looked at him after Harsh unwound the scarf from the lower part of his face, Harsh was nervous about what his reaction would be. Would there be a look of recognition followed by a hastily made excuse for leaving the room, then the sound of a phone receiver carefully being lifted from its hook? But no—the man showed no sign of recognizing him at all. Not everyone listened to the radio, he supposed. Or maybe the newspapers hadn’t had a chance to put photos out yet.

The sales clerk gestured for them to follow him toward the back of the store. Looking at the clothing on the racks they were passing, Harsh could find no price tags. “Jeez, they’re afraid to let you see the prices in this joint.”

Miss Muirz whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry about it. It will go on the expense account. Anything you want.”

“Somebody got generous, huh?”

“You made a persuasive argument, Harsh. We need you to look the part.”

Well, what the hell, Harsh decided. He had better load up on clothes while the offer stood. Slacks and Bermuda shorts, sport shirts, a couple of tropical-weight suits, a summer tux, all the accessories. Trying the suit jackets on with one arm still in a cast wasn’t easy, but with help from the other two he managed to get them on halfway. He wound up with a pile of merchandise stacked in front of him. He made sure to work in some slacks and a sport coat which needed alterations.

For the alterations he was escorted into the tailoring room in the rear where the dressing booths were. The booth assigned him was near a window that gave a view of the side street where the limousine was parked.

“Hey, buddy, you got a telephone back here?” Harsh winked and jerked his head toward the front of the store where Miss Muirz had remained. “A private phone, if you get what I mean.” The clerk returned the conspirator’s wink and opened a cabinet on the wall between the window and a back door held shut with a hook-and-eye latch. Inside the cabinet there was a phone on a small shelf and a dog-eared Yellow Pages beside it.

Harsh went to the telephone. Before he picked up the instrument, he lighted a cigarette. He was very nervous and did not want it to be noticed. He wished he had been more subtle about getting to the phone, and had left out that remark about privacy. The clerk would remember something like that.

Suddenly Harsh also realized he did not recall the telephone number of the Security Locksmithing Company. He thought he had memorized the number until it would never go out of his mind. Damn! He picked up the directory and thumbed through it one-handed till he found the number, then discovered he was too nervous to trust himself to remember it long enough to dial it. So he wrote it on the front of the phone book in pencil. The window beside the telephone admitted blinding Florida sunshine, and he had to squint as he wrote. There was too damn much sunshine in Florida.

He dialed the number. Then he watched the people coming and going in the street below while the phone rang. He felt conspicuous in front of the big window. He noticed one tourist, a man with an enormously floppy straw hat and sunglasses, at an orange stand across the street, sipping something through a straw. It was hard to tell because of the sunglasses, but it looked like the man was staring this way. The hell with you, you curious bastard, Harsh thought, turning his back.

In his ear, the ringing stopped as the phone finally was answered. A gruff voice spoke. “Security.”

Harsh drew in breath. “Who is this?”

The voice answered wearily. “Goldberg.”