'You are a great man, Manuel!' he exclaimed. 'It is a splendid idea!'
Manuel began to cut up onions and tomatoes 'Go away,' he said. 'I have much to think about. I think better alone.'
Fuentes, knowing he was incapable of thinking, withdrew to the cabin. In a few days, Manuel had said, they would be on their way to Havana with five million dollars. Manuel was a man of truth. When he said something, that something would happen. All the Cubans in this small colony had said so. They all said repeatedly, 'Manuel Torres is a man of truth. What he promises happens.'
Fuentes sat back on the bunk, his hands gripped between his knees. In a few days he would be worth a million dollars! The very thought of such a vast sum made his brain reel. A million dollars! What would he do with such a sum? Perhaps buy a farm? He shook his head. No, to work a sugar cane farm was too hard. Fuentes had left his home town because the daily cutting of sugar cane had been more than he could bear. Perhaps a boat? He could get a crew together and fish. He imagined himself, like Manuel, owning a big fishing vessel, but he wouldn't work as Manuel did who didn't even have a crew to help him.
He sat, thinking. A million dollars! No, he was thinking like a peasant, he told himself. Sugar cane! Fishing! Ridiculous! He would find a girl. With a million dollars, girls would be easy to find. He would buy a cafe-bar. The girl would run it and he would be the important patron, walking around, talking, meeting friends. Yes, this would be his future life!
Manuel came into the cabin and set down a big bowl of spaghetti. 'We eat,' he said.
It wasn't until the meal was over and Manuel was relaxed that he began to talk.
'I want you to know, my friend,' he said, staring directly at Fuentes, 'that this operation is not without its problems.'
Fuentes, who imagined that there could be no problems with Manuel in control, stiffened. 'Problems? What problems?' he asked nervously.
Manuel lit a cigarette and placed his big hands on the table. He looked beyond Fuentes at the dirty wall of the cabin as if Fuentes wasn't there, and he was talking aloud to himself.
'We will get into the penthouse because Anita has a duplicate passkey.' He said. 'That is the first step. Then we capture these two rich people, tie up the woman and make the man telephone his father in Texas. His father will collect the five million dollars. This will take a little time. It has to be in cash, the bills no larger than a hundred dollars. This means, my friend, a lot of bills. He will be warned not to go to the police. With all his money, I am sure there will be no problem. I will explain to him that we will be leaving by boat with his son as hostage. When we arrive in Havana or some place, his son will be released. You take your share. I will then sail for some place with the rest of the money. All this seems to me acceptable. No police. No problems.' He paused and shifted his gaze down to Fuentes. 'Do you agree?'
Fuentes shifted uneasily. 'Yes, but you said just now there were problems.' He ran his hand over his sweating face. 'Now you are telling me there are no problems. I don't understand.'
'My friend, you easily forget,' Manuel said quietly. 'Our big problem is the wife of Pedro.'
Fuentes stared at him. 'Yes, but what is a woman? If she makes difficulties, I will slit her throat.'
Manuel shook his head. 'Then the cops will come into this. You are not thinking. There must be no killing. So far, with my plan, the cops won't come into it. The father will give us the money, and we go. No cops. If we kill Anita, what do we do with her body? We leave with this rich man, warning his wife to say nothing or else we kill him. No one will know what is happening. We get on the boat and sail away, but if we kill Anita, we are in the shit. Do you understand?'
Fuentes' sluggish mind tried to absorb what Manuel was saying, but he kept thinking of the million dollars he would soon be owning. He forced himself to think, then a cunning smile lit up his fat face.
'Is it such a problem?' he asked. 'We will all get on the boat, and when at sea, I will slit her throat. She will be food for the sharks.'
Leaning forward, Manuel tapped his thick finger on the table as if spelling out each word. 'This is no ordinary woman. How do we get her on the boat without her husband who is dying and could be dead by now?'
Fuentes gave up. This was something his sluggish mind couldn't cope with.
'So what do we do?' he asked. 'You tell me I can't kill her. You tell me she won't leave the penthouse without this stupid husband of hers. What do we do?'
Manuel nodded. 'This is the problem. Unless I solve it, there will be no money for either of us.' He clenched his fists and slammed them down on the table. 'I have to solve this problem!'
Fuentes sat back. This was beyond him. He waited.
Manuel again appeared to be talking to himself, staring at the wall above Fuentes' head. 'I must lie to her, lie and lie and lie. I must have this money! My whole future will change with this money! I must lie to her! I must make her believe that she will have her husband. I must talk softly to her until I get her onto my boat. Yes, you are right, my friend, if, and only if, she becomes difficult, after she knows she is not getting her husband, then I will leave her to you.'
He put his hands on his bald head and groaned. 'My people trust me. She trusts me. By doing this thing I am no longer a man of truth. For years now, I have lived as a man of truth.'
Listening, suddenly into Fuentes' small, cunning mind came a frightening thought. If this man of truth could forsake the truth and betray one of his people, how safe was the million dollars this man of truth had promised to give him? Suppose when they were on the boat with five million dollars, Manuel told him to slit Anita's throat. Would it stop there? Would this man of truth decide five millions were better than four? Would he suddenly club him and throw him after Anita to be eaten by the sharks?
He felt a shudder of fear run through him. Manuel wasn't looking at him. He was now staring down at his big hands.
'This is the only solution. I must lie to her,' he muttered, 'and may God forgive me.'
In a sour mood, Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski sat at his desk in the detectives' room of the Paradise City Police headquarters. He was thumbing through the previous night's crime sheet reports, and muttering to himself. His sour mood was caused by an argument he had had with his wife, Carroll, an argument he invariably lost and this soured him.
Lepski liked his bed. He had always to rush to get to police headquarters on time, but this didn't worry him. He had the rush timed to a second. There was nothing he liked better than his breakfast: three eggs, grilled ham, toast, jam and coffee. At 07.15 Carroll rolled out of bed, went to the kitchen and prepared this meal while Lepski shaved, showered and threw on his clothes.
This morning, he had put on his shirt and was struggling into his trousers when his nose twitched. He couldn't smell the usual appetizing smell of grilling ham nor could he hear the sizzling of frying eggs. Puzzled, he zipped his trousers, then started towards the kitchen to find Carroll standing in the bedroom doorway, holding a juicy looking ham steak at the end of the fork.
'Hi, honey,' Lepski said, pausing. 'How's my breakfast?'
'No clean shirt . . . no breakfast,' Carroll said in her bossy voice.
'Shirt?' Lepski gaped. 'What's a shirt to do with my breakfast?'
'You have not put on the clean shirt I put out for you last night.'
Lepski made a noise that would have startled a wild cat. 'Nothing's the matter with this goddam shirt! Let's have breakfast.'
'That shirt is filthy!' Carroll said. 'Have you no pride?'
'Pride? What the hell has pride to do with my breakfast?'
'Lepski! You have worn that shirt for three days,' Carroll said, slowly and distinctly. 'It is a disgrace! I took the trouble to put out a clean one. Put it on!'
'One more day won't hurt. Let's have breakfast!'
'I will not have you, as a 1st Grade detective, looking like a bum! No clean shirt . . . no breakfast!'
Lepski hesitated. Time was running out. He wanted his breakfast, and seeing Carroll's determined stare, he moaned and tore off the offending shirt, scattering buttons. As he was putting on the clean shirt, Carroll gave a nod, then retired to the kitchen.
He was ten minutes late arriving at police headquarters. Max Jacoby was about to ride him, but seeing Lepski's sour expression decided to keep his mouth shut.
'Cubans!' Lepski suddenly exploded. 'Look at this mess last night!' He waved the crime reports in Jacoby's direction. 'Every goddam night, these jerks start trouble! Refugees! Florida is getting as bad as Chicago!'
'Well, it keeps us employed,' Jacoby said.
The telephone on Lepski's desk came alive. He snatched up the receiver and bawled, 'Lepski!'
'This is Larry. The fink who shot those two in the rent grab is coming to the surface. The quack says we can talk to him for three minutes. Do you want me to talk to him or you?'
'The -- !' Lepski shouted. 'I'll be over there in ten minutes.' He slammed down the receiver. 'Come on, Max. This rent killer is coming to the surface. Let's go!'
On the way to the hospital with Lepski driving, Jacoby said, 'That's a pretty snappy shirt you're wearing, Tom.'
Lepski looked suspiciously at him, wondering if he was being conned. 'You think so?'
'Sure do. I don't know how you manage to wear so many clean shirts.'
Lepski looked smug. 'It's a matter of pride. After all, I'm the top cop around here. A top cop has to look well dressed. Talking about shirts, Max, that rag you're wearing is a disgrace.'
'I guess.' Jacoby sighed, 'but then I haven't a great girl like Carroll to look after me.'
Lepski scowled. 'What's she got to do with it? Okay, she fixes the laundry, but anyone with pride should change his shirt every day. You'd better watch it.'
'Yeah.' Jacoby sighed. 'I'll watch it.'
Dr. Gerald Skinner, the head of the Paradise City Hospital, received them in his office. He was tall, thin, balding and busy.
'I understand you two officers want to interview this Cuban,' he said. 'I must make it plain that he is dying. There are favorable signs that he is recovering consciousness, but whether or not he will be coherent remains to be seen.'
'He's really going to croak?' Lepski asked, aware that he had shot down the young Cuban.
Skinner shrugged. 'I would have thought so, but he is young. We could just pull him through. The signs are not favorable. In intensive care he might survive, and he's getting the best attention.'
Lepski snorted. 'He's killed two people. Who cares?'
Skinner looked coldly at him. 'We care,' he said. 'We have a reputation here for saving lives, no matter what kind of life. I'll ask you to keep your interview with this man short.'
'Okay, Doc.'
Skinner pressed a bell push and a nurse came in. 'Take these two officers to room six,' he said. 'Good day to you,' and nodding, he picked up a bulky file.
Following the nurse, Lepski and Jacoby entered the room, set aside for Pedro Certes. By his bed, Larry Stevens, Detective 3rd Grade, sat in utter boredom. His round, freckled face lit up when he saw Lepski.
'The creep's making noises,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Okay for me to have breakfast?'
'Go ahead, Larry. Leave him to me.' Lepski sat in the vacant chair by the bedside. Jacoby pulled up another chair and sat down, hopefully taking out his notebook and pencil.
Lepski regarded the man lying in bed, and he grimaced. If ever there were signs of death, they were on the thin, white face of this Cuban.
They waited. Five minutes crawled by, then Lepski began to lose patience. He took hold of Pedro's hot, thin wrist and gave it a sharp shake. Pedro moaned, then opened his eyes.
'How are you feeling, son?' Lepski asked. His gentle voice startled Jacoby who had never heard Lepski in a kindly role. Pedro groaned and closed his eyes.
'Listen, son, who are you?' Lepski asked, slowly and distinctly. 'What's your name?'
Pedro's eyes slowly opened. 'Go to hell,' he mumbled, and closed his eyes.
'Son, I have to tell you something. You are a very sick boy, and the doc tells me you're not going to make it. In a little while you will be an unidentified corpse if you don't tell me your name,' Lepski said. 'Do you want that to happen?'
Pedro opened his eyes and stared at Lepski.
'An unidentified corpse,' Lepski repeated, a sad note in his voice that made Jacoby stare. 'Now, we don't like talking about this, but a lot of bums die in this city. We had an old rummy who died the other day. He had no papers. No one knew who he was. We tried to find his next of kin, but no one came forward. When the city gets landed with an unidentified corpse, know what happens? Funerals cost money. This old rummy was wrapped in a rubber sheet and was taken out to sea and fed to the sharks. You wouldn't want that to happen to you, would you, son?'
Listening, Jacoby gaped. He nearly spoilt Lepski's lies by protesting, but Lepski gave him his cop scowl and he controlled himself.
'No one wants to finish up as a shark's dinner, do they?' Lepski went on. 'If we know who you are, we can contact your family or your wife if you're married, and you'll be buried decently. You don't want to be chucked into the sea, do you?'
Pedro shivered, and a shadow of horror crossed his face. Knowing Cubans were not only religious but also superstitious, Lepski waited.
After a pause, Lepski went on, 'So, son, help us to give you a decent funeral.' He leaned forward. 'What's your name?'
Pedro's breathing became uneven. 'Sharks?' he mumbled.
'Yes, son, you know there are hungry sharks waiting out in the bay for a meal.'
Pedro shuddered. 'My name is Pedro Certes,' he finally whispered.
Still using his soft, kindly voice, Lepski asked, 'Where do you live, Pedro?'
'Twenty seven Fish Road, Seacomb,' Pedro muttered after a long hesitation.
'Have you a wife, Pedro? We'll go along and talk to her to give you a decent funeral.'