Читать интересную книгу Shoot It Again - Ed Lacy

     If still shaking with fear, the thought I was about to put my meathooks on anything worth three million bucks was staggering. Hand read my mind. Patting my knee he said in his precise English, “Clayton, please don't try to be 'clever.' You're being well paid and any double-cross would certainly result in your death. While I think you're a bit of the fool, I wouldn't have approached you if I considered you stupid.”

     Under my numbness I was angry at the way he kept calling me a fool. “Just to be sure I'm getting that well founded picture, how can you be certain I won't inform?”

     “For several reasons. Your cut for informing would only be a thousand or two. Secondly, while but a few people are in the deal, at this stage—obviously a large and efficient organization is behind it: you wouldn't five long enough to spend your first Judas dollar. Thirdly—and this indeed makes you the ideal courier—you've been involved in a dope case with a Monsieur Parks. Should you inform I doubt the U.S. government would believe your story—far too much of a coincidence you're being innocently dragged into two dope cases within twenty-four hours. The net result is you'd certainly do time, never leave jail alive. Now, I'll drive you back to my shop, pick up the real cat.”

     I shivered as he started the Citroen. Hank's hand was still on my knee. “Frightened?”

     I started to say no, then nodded.

     “You are lucky—I've been involved in this for a... your period of fear will last but a day. I know what else you must be thinking—dope is dirty business. How often I've wished it was precious stones, gold, anything but this cursed junk! Still, remember this; every fast buck, lira, mark, or franc has dirt on it. I can only assure you that your biggest danger is yourself—not a word or smallest hint of this to anyone.”

     “If that's the greatest danger, I'm safe.”

     “As of this second, no one but myself knows you are the courier, and nobody else will know until minutes before your plane is due to land in Idlewild. Nor will it matter if New York City is fogged in, the plane forced to land at... say, Washington. Stanley Collins is to remain at the Hotel Tran until contacted. Is that clear, Clayton?”

     “Yeah. But now that I'm in, one more condition,” I told him, the tension in my belly relaxing. “Since you're in a position to help my painting career, don't forget bringing my work to your buddy in Paris, the write-up in the papers.”

     Hank nodded his tanned head. “I promise to do what I can. Needless to add, you are never to mention this to anybody when it is finished, and it also would be stupid to attempt any sort of blackmail on me. Always remember, it would be nothing for 'them' to have you killed.”

     “Just do what you can for me,” I told him. He squeezed my knee but my thoughts were so full of three million dollars, I barely was aware of his hand.

     Stopping at the gallery, Hank picked a cat from his stock which didn't look any different than the other statues. Hefting the ugly figurine—it weighed about thirty-five pounds—I told him, “Doesn't seem heavier than the cat in the back of the car.”

     “Clayton, two hands for beginners,” he said, gently placing it on the counter. “As I told you, it's perfect in every detail. I won't talk about the best laid plans of men and mice... but the only way this deal can sour win* be due to some minor hitch we couldn't have foreseen... such as you dropping this while horsing around.”

     “I'll be careful.”

     “Be damn careful, with your big hands and bigger mouth. Now, here are a few bottles of cheap perfume, some ash tray souvenirs—sales slips for everything, each slip carefully wrinkled and aged. You'll breeze through Customs, you're under the one-hundred dollar duty-free limit.” Hank held out his hand. “I won't see you again, Clayton. You'll probably be watched by 'them,' for all I know—we both are at this second. Just act normal.”

     Shaking his hand, glancing at my water colors on exhibit, I picked up the cat, told Hank, “Guess I should thank you for this... opportunity.”

     “Thank me if you wish... when it's all over... if we're still alive.”

     “Aren't we moody, now? Minutes ago you were full of we-can't-fail-cheer.”

     Toying nervously with his wild scarf, Hank said in French, “He who handles dynamite must expect death. I have this advantage: with my blocked heart veins, death is never far from my mind or... I am an ass, there's no reason for such talk—I'm positive this will not fail! Clayton be careful, but above all—act normal: you're merely bring home some cheap souvenirs.”

     “Don't worry.” I felt slightly giddy—holding three million bucks' worth of anything is a hell of a boot.

     Hank said sadly, “I'd worry less if you were more frightened. Bravado is another way of spelling stupidity.”

     “I'm plenty scared and worried, but on top of it all the way.”

     He stared at me for a long moment, then slapped my back. “It may sound blasphemous but—God's speed, Clayton.”

     Hank wrapped the cat in newspaper and I left the gallery with the statue cradled in my arms. It was minutes before eight and I wanted to phone Syd, tell her not to see me at the airport. She was now my hole ace—Australia would be a perfect hideout—if I double-crossed 'them.' I wasn't seriously considering it, three million bucks was far too much action for me to try alone... but the idea was lingering around the back of my mind.

     Walking toward Rue du France, I thought of Hank's stress on my acting normal... certainly not having any girl see me off wouldn't be normal. Even if Hank knew about Syd, he probably thought she was merely another female sucker I was working. And the only way I could persuade Syd to stay away from the airport would be to see her now: if I was being followed—I couldn't chance calling 'their' attention to Syd.

     Her coming to the airport, the tearful farewell, would be in character, nothing anybody would remember... And in a few days Syd would leave Nice, be in London.

     I waited on Rue de France for the airport bus, which stopped within a street of my hotel. It gave me a charge to sit in the half-empty bus with more money in my arms than the entire city of Nice saw in a week, or months. But I wasn't merely daydreaming—I was watching the various gift shops along the street. Out near Avenue de Californie there are a few starving ceramic shops full of cheap tourist stuff... and in one window I saw, finally— another cat like the one in my arms.

     Reaching my stop, I seemed to be alone. Walking quickly to the hotel, I told madame I was leaving and paid my bill. She hadn't read about me in the paper, still mumbled about her lousy hot water as she counted my francs. Going to my room I started packing, taking my easel-sketch box apart, telling myself if this deal went through I'd burn the damn thing up—even though I once paid seventy-five dollars for it. I wrapped my paintings, throwing out a lot of unfinished and lousy stuff. The cat was standing—almost carelessly, most of the newspaper torn off—on the floor beside my bed. After a few minutes, madame came in to see what I was taking—as I knew she would. I told her, “I'm in a hurry to leave and there is something I forgot to buy. Is the porter's son around?”

     “I do not know. You cross the back yard to his rooms, if you wish to find out: he lives behind the shoe repair shop on the next street... Ah, what a beautiful and lucky cat!” She rushed over to put her crooked hands on the junkie cat.

     “Careful, it's heavy,” I said, taking it from her. Why lucky?”

     “I've seen many such cats, although never this big. They are said to be a copy of a cat on an Egyptian tomb, perhaps the beautiful Cleopatra's, considered a good luck omen. You take this to the States, Monsieur Biner?”

     “Yeah, for bookends, but I need another. I don't have time so I thought the boy might buy me one. I know a shop which sells them, not far from here.”

     “I can not leave my desk, or I would see if the boy...”

     “Thank you, Madame, but I am in a hurry,” I said, glancing at my watch. I still had over thirty minutes. “I'll find him.” Taking the cat I went out the dingy kitchen door, crossed the dark patch of ground and garbage they called a yard. The sky was starting to fill with stars and I thought how wonderful—I'd soon be up there in the plane... and how absolutely silly it would be if I stumbled, spilled three million bucks' worth of junk on the real junk in this tiny yard. If there was a 'they' behind all this, and there had to be, I could be found face down in some other yard.

     I walked with great care.

     The boy was having supper but stopped when I showed him the cat, told him the address of the shop, and 100 new francs. I impressed upon him that if the store was closed, he was the find the owner's flat—undoubtedly in the rear of the shop— and explain it was a rush sale.

     “I will bring it to your hotel room, monsieur.”

     “No, I'll wait here.” I gave him a hammy wink. “Madame is raising the devil about the state of my room, the paint stains—it will be easier for me to wait here. Now hurry.”

     “I take my bike.”

     When the boy left, I talked to the porter for a moment, then giving him a tip, said I'd better go to my room after all and finish packing, to tell the lad to bring the cat up there.

     Crossing the filthy yard again, holding my cat statue like a lover, I thought I'd been clever. If the hotel was being watched, 'they' couldn't possibly know of my visiting the boy on this other street. On returning and finding me gone, he would certainly come to my room via the yard—unseen by anyone watching outside.

     Finishing my little packing, I was trying to smooth out my one jacket, when madame broke her heart by offering to iron it. I told her the coat would only be wrinkled again on the plane, but the way she kept eyeing the cat so much, gave me the jitters: I let her take the coat to her kitchen.

     The boy returned with the other cat statue and thirty-one new francs. He was breathing hard, really a sturdy, well-built thirteen-year-old youngster. Giving him a large tip, I had him get me a cab. I wrapped the new cat in newspaper, rolled it inside an old sleeping bag I'd brought from the States with tie jazzy idea of walking through Europe.

     Saying goodbye to madame, who suddenly put on a tearful act, actually tried to kiss me, I reached the airport at nine-fifteen. Parks was already there, along with two reporters. My luggage was overweight and the clerk insisted the cat could not be considered hand luggage. I had to call Robert over to pay for the extra weight. Pointing to the cat, he asked, “Man, you actually taking this glass monstrosity home? I was anxious to see some of your work, but if your taste runs to this—I don't know.”

     “Stop the shellack, it's merely a good luck omen.”

     “The newsmen want a picture of us waving goodbye. Corny as hell but... you think all this will be in the States papers? I hope to hell not. Figure if I play ball with the press here, make like it's all nothing, the whole mess will cool sooner.”

     He paid the extra weight charges and the clerk took my bags, the easel and canvases. I held on to the real cat, placing it on a bench—while I posed with Parks—feeling rather smug at being so damn off-hand with millions.

     Syd came in looking like hell; eyes red—face pale and drawn. Glancing around—casually—I couldn't see anybody especially paying any attention to us. Walking over to Syd, I pulled her down onto a seat, sat beside her—the cat carefully on the floor between my big feet. Squeezing her hand, I said loudly, “Baby, how sweet—you came to see me off!”

     “What?” Syd asked, on the verge of tears. “Are you daft, lugging this bloody glass horror with you?”

     “This—I have an aunt who unfortunately judges gifts by size.” Still keeping a big grin on my puss, I whispered, “Listen to me, Syd: received a wire from the States—some wealthy art patron is crazy about my stuff.”

     “Yes.”

     “Come on, smile. Honey, you're not getting my message: if things work out, I may sell a few thousand dollars' worth of paintings!”

     “Of course I'm happy for you... Clay, I've been so sick at the thought of your leaving.”

     “Get will, you skinny dope, with this money we may go to Australia, see what cooks on your land!”

     Her small face came awake—slowly. “Oh God! Clay, this isn't more of your bloody talk, is it? I couldn't take it if...”

     “Syd, if I swing the deal fast, I may wire you at your pension here before the week is out! If not, I'll write you in London, care of the American Express.”

     Syd looked bewildered. “Clay, you do mean this?”

     “Of course. A few hours ago, before the wire, well—I didn't think we could make it because I was stony, couldn't put up my share. Now it's a new deck of cards—with the happy ending due on the next deal.”

     She took my hand, kissed it, began to weep gently. “You do love me!” Syd mumbled, almost to herself.

     Pulling my hand away, I told her, “Stop it, honey, I hate public scenes. The score is—some rich cat (I had to grin) who's pee'd off at a modern art museum for not placing him on their board of directors, —plans to open his own. He's buying up paintings—secretly—if it gets out the other museums might put the screws on artists not to sell to him. All very complicated. The point is, with all the artists and Americans around Nice, don't talk about the deal, not a word about the... eh... money, my contacting you, our going to Australia. It's such an unexpected break, I wouldn't want anything to spoil it.”

     “Not a peep from me, darling,” Syd said, reaching for my hand again. “Time your talent was recognized, the blasted critic bastards!” She sighed. “Darling, how I wish we had time to go to my room!”

     “We haven't and everything depends on your playing it cool,” I said, wondering how all this nonsense I was spouting could make any sense to her. “A week or two, at the most, and we'll be set for life...” I saw Parks coming our way. “Remember now, mum's the word.”