'That's it. Are you good with a gun, Lu?'
'Not me. I don't like guns. I've never carried a gun and never will.'
'I'll fix it for you to have a man who's a dead shot. He'll take care of the guards, drive the Rolls and help with handling the boxes. No problem.'
'You really mean this drug won't hurt anyone? No after effects?'
'The guy goes to sleep, wakes up some six hours later and is fine.'
'Well, what do you know?' Brady looked admiringly at Haddon. 'You certainly come up with ideas, Ed.'
'Now, you get your end organized. Suppose we meet on Saturday for lunch? I guess we'll meet at the Seaview Hotel, in Miami. I'll be staying there. We can then have a day to talk it all through. You'll check in at the Spanish Bay Hotel Monday afternoon. Okay?'
'Sure.'
'Right.' Haddon put the gun in his lap, concealing it by the table. He signalled to the barman. 'To set your mind at rest, Lu, I'll give you a demonstration.'
The fat barman came over and Haddon gave him a ten dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. He watched the barman walk back to the bar, raised the gun, took aim and squeezed the trigger. There was a faint plopping sound. The barman started, clapped his hand to the back of his neck and turned to stare at Haddon who was closing his briefcase, then the barman's knees buckled and he spread out on the floor.
'Get the idea?' Haddon asked. 'Nice quick job, huh?'
Goggle-eyed, Brady stared at the unconscious barman.
'Get the dart out of his neck, Lu,' Haddon said, 'and let's go.'
Getting unsteadily to his feet, Brady crossed to the unconscious barman, located a tiny metal dart embedded in the barman's fat neck and withdrew it.
'You're sure he'll be all right?' he asked as he gave Haddon the dart.
'I'm sure. Come on, let's get out of here before someone comes in.' The barman began to snore as the two men hurried out of the bar and into the hot, steamy sunshine.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ever since the age of fourteen, Maggie Schultz had been a menace to men. Now, at the age of twenty three, she was more deadly to men than a neutron bomb. She was beautiful in every possible way: blonde, her body so perfectly built all the glossy photographers, all the porn movie merchants fought for her services. She had climbed the ladder of whoredom, rung by rung, until she was now in the position to pick and choose. She had met Lu Brady, and for the first time in her life, she had fallen in love. There were times when Brady wondered what made this happen, knowing Maggie could have the pick of any man. He had explained to her that he was in the antique furniture business and was constantly travelling, but if she liked to move into his West-side apartment in N.Y.C. and to continue her fashion modelling and to sleep with rich jerks who paid off, it was okay with him. Love was such a wonderful thing to Maggie, she agreed.
Maggie had been a help with the icon attempted steal. Brady decided he must now put his cards on the table and bring her into his thieving fold. This could be tricky. Maggie was always happy to climb into any man's bed, but Brady was a little doubtful if she would go along with thieving. During the flight from Jacksonville to New York, he pondered the problem. He couldn't think of any girl who would play a sexy nurse as well as Maggie. He decided, because she was so madly in love with him, with the right approach, he could talk her into cooperating.
Arriving at the airport, he went to a boutique and bought a giant cuddly panda. He knew Maggie, apart from mink and diamonds, was crazy about pandas. He had already alerted her that he would be arriving. Her squeals of excitement and pleasure over the telephone line had nearly split his eardrum.
As he opened his apartment door, Maggie, stark naked, threw herself on him. For some seconds, he was nearly strangled. Then Maggie caught sight of the panda toy.
'Oh, look!' she cried. 'Oh, baby! Is it for me?'
'What do you think this place is . . . a nudist club?' he asked, grinning.
She hugged the panda. 'Oh, darling! You're so wonderful! To think of this! I adore it! It's beautiful!'
Brady set down his suitcase. 'Not as beautiful as you, honey. Let's have some action, huh?' and he went into the bedroom.
Half an hour later, Maggie was again cuddling the panda. Brady, feeling spent, lay on his back, thinking there was no woman he had ever slept with who could drain him as Maggie did.
'Baby, how about a drink?' he asked.
'Of course.' She slid off the bed, still hugging the panda, and he watched her long beautiful back, her tight rounded buttocks, her long, slim legs as she darted out of the room, and he sighed with contentment.
It wasn't until they had returned from dining at an exclusive and expensive restaurant and were seated side by side that Brady began his sales talk.
'How would you like to stay a week in Paradise City?' he asked casually.
Maggie's china blue eyes opened wide. 'You mean that place where all the gorgeous billionaires live?'
'That's it.' Maggie gave a squeal of delight and threw herself at Brady who firmly pushed her away, 'Stop it, Maggie! Do you want to come with me?'
'Try and stop me! Paradise City! The things I've heard! Gorgeous hotels, palms, beaches, restaurants . . .'
'Cool it, Maggie. I'm going there to do a job. If you want to come, you'll have to help me.'
'Of course I'll help you, honey. I would do anything for you! You know that.'
'I love you like crazy, Maggie. Now listen. I'm not a dealer in antiques.'
Maggie giggled. 'I never thought you were, sweetheart. I was once in bed with an antique dealer. After be had huffed and puffed, he never stopped talking about what he sold and who to. His pad was stuffed with antiques.'
Brady patted her hand. 'Smart girl.' He paused, then went on, 'I am a professional thief.' He waited for her reaction.
She blinked, then nodded. 'You mean you steal from the rich and give to the poor? Like Robin Hood? I saw a re-run of Errol Flynn as Robin Hood. He was groovy.'
Brady sighed. 'Never mind Errol Flynn. I steal from the rich and put the proceeds in my pocket.'
Maggie considered this, then nodded. 'I always thought Robin Hood needed his head examined or something. Now, I'll tell you honey, there have been times when some rich old fink has been screwing me and when he went to sleep, I'd take a thousand or so from his wallet -- so that makes me a thief too, doesn't it?'
Brady sighed with relief. He was over the hurdle, now he had to instruct Maggie what he wanted her to do.
He took her over Haddon's plan to rob the Spanish Bay Hotel. Maggie listened, and from her intent expression, Brady was satisfied that she was absorbing what he told her.
'There's at least two million in it for us, baby,' he concluded. 'When I get the money, we'll get married.'
Maggie sighed. 'You said that the last time, but you didn't get any money and we aren't married. All I got was a trip to Switzerland and a diamond watch.' She kissed him gently. 'Don't think I'm moaning. I loved my watch and I adore Switzerland.'
'That job didn't jell,' Brady said. 'This one will.'
'So what do I have to do?'
'I'm going to the hotel as an old man in a wheelchair. You're going to be my nurse and companion. You will look a knock-out in a nurse's uniform.'
Maggie's face lit up. 'Oh, yes! I'd love that! I've always wanted to be a nurse! Honest, honey! I love helping rich old men. I really do! I mean it!'
Brady contained his impatience with an effort. There were times when he found Maggie a trial.
'Your job is to find out where the safe is located. You will have to chat up the staff and sex the hotel dicks.'
Maggie clapped her hands. 'That'll be no problem.'
Looking at her, Brady thought it would certainly not be a problem. Maggie could sex George Washington out of his grave.
'Well, baby, is it on?'
'Try and stop me!' Maggie cried and threw herself into his arms.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Having spent twenty years in various U.S. prisons, Art Bannion, now fifty years of age, had accepted the adage that crime doesn't pay. Because of his association with many top criminals who had also been behind bars during his various incarcerations and becoming friendly with them, he had seen the opportunity of a new career which would help others and be profitable to himself. With the aid of his wife, he was now established as possibly the only casting agency for the underworld. After all, he argued, in Hollywood they had casting agents to supply movie moguls with stars and bit-part players, so why not a casting agency to supply the right man or woman for a carefully planned crime? For the past five years he had built up his agency, drawing first on the names of those who had been in prison with him and had been released, then collecting names of those who were recommended as the up-and-coming younger criminal generation.
All his business was done by telephone. He sat in a small office off Broadway N.Y.C. from 09.00 to 18.00, smoking, reading crime fiction and waiting for a call. His wife, Beth, sat in a smaller office, knitting sweaters which Art didn't want, but had pressed on him.
When a call came, Beth would flick through the big card index with expert fingers and take the cards into Art's office and he would satisfy the client with the name and address of the man or woman who fitted the client's requirements.
Art took ten percent of whatever the man or woman he supplied was paid. This was a satisfactory arrangement for both the client and Art, and during the years, Art made a considerable amount of money, always in cash, and free from the grasping claws of the IRS. His activities were hidden behind a plaque on the door that read: The World Wide Bible Reading Society. He was bothered neither by visitors nor the police.
This morning, Art Bannion, lean, balding, and with features a buzzard might envy, lolled in his desk chair, his feet on the desk, contemplating his past life. From time to time when he was bored reading crime fiction and when the telephone remained silent, he would think of his mistakes and his life in various prisons, and even of his mother and father.
His parents had been small time farmers who were happy to slave on the land and earn, to Art's thinking, peanuts. His brother, Mike, ten years younger than Art hadn't had Art's driving ambition. Art had left home when he was seventeen, thirsting for money and the bright lights. After a year of semi-starvation in New York, he was caught with two other men, trying to bust a bank safe. He went to prison for two years. From then on, he never stopped trying for the fast buck, and did it so badly, he was continually being picked up and thrown in the slammer.
When his parents died, his brother, Mike, joined the regular army and worked his way up to Musketry Sergeant, which Art considered to be one of the lowest forms of animal life. However, he was fond of his brother who never interfered, never criticized, always visited him when he was in prison and never attempted to change Art's way of life. There was a strong bond between the two men, and Art had a sneaking admiration for his brother which he kept to himself.
When Art finally accepted the fact that crime didn't pay, he looked around, found and wedded Beth, a small, fat, easy going woman of forty whose father was serving life for murder and whose mother ran a sleazy brothel in New Orleans. Beth was happy to help Art run his crime-casting agency and to have a well furnished, comfortable four room apartment.
Sitting at his desk, thinking about his past, Art turned his thoughts to his brother, and his face saddened. Mike had had a real tough break, a break that Art wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. When Mike had reached the rank of sergeant, he had married. Art had only met Mike's wife, Mary, once, but he had approved. She was an attractive girl who made Mike more than happy.
Mike broke the news of his wedding when visiting Art in prison some six years ago. With a beaming smile, he told Art that he and Mary were planning on a big family. Art forced himself to look pleased, but he thought anyone wanting children should have his head examined.
Mike had been transferred to California, and the brothers lost touch for some years. Art had vaguely wondered how Mike was getting on, but he was no letter writer, and I was fully occupied building up his agency.
Now, two weeks ago, he had had a telephone call from Mike asking if they could meet. There was a note in Mike's voice that alerted Art that something was wrong. He had told Mike to come to his apartment, but Mike had said he wanted to talk to Art alone.
'That's no problem,' Art had said. 'Beth can go see a friend. Something up?'
'That's what I want to talk to you about,' Mike had said. 'See you then at your place at seven tonight,' and he had hung up.
Thinking back on the meeting, Art grimaced. When he had opened the front door of his apartment in answer to the ring on the bell, he was confronted by a man he scarcely recognized as his brother. The last time he had seen Mike he had envied his physique and that look the Army gives to its regulars. Now Mike was a shadow of his old self: thin, his face drawn, his eyes sunken, and a despair exuding from him that Art could almost feel.
The two men had sat down in the quiet of Art's living room, the first time the brothers had met since six years before. Mike had sketched it out for Art in short curt sentences.
A year after his marriage a baby girl arrived. Mary had given up her job to be with the baby, a Mongol baby named Chrissy, and tended her with loving care. They had to reduce their standard of living and make do on Mike's Army pay.
'Jesus!' Art had exclaimed. 'A Mongol? What the hell's that?'
'A mentally retarded child,' Mike had told him. 'A darling, affectionate kid who will never learn to write and only talk with difficulty, who will always be a burden -- never mind. She was ours and we were both crazy about her.'
'So . . . ?'
Mike stared into space for a long moment and the despair that sat with him deepened.
'Mary was killed by a hit-and-run three weeks ago.'
Art sat forward, staring at his brother. 'You mean your wife was killed?' he jerked out.