Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [19]
John Smith frowned.
“I’ll cut my fee so you can get another frame, but not by a lot. A frame don’t cost much.”
“The frame’s not important. You did what you had to do. We read the Miami papers, too.”
“That’s right. We used our heads.”
“Want to give it to me?”
“Sure.” Munsch handed him the painting. “You want to open it here, see what it is? Believe me, it’s what you … what your client wanted.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Brown.” He withdrew a fat envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Munsch. “What was agreed upon.”
Munsch shoved the envelope into his pocket.
“Don’t want to count it?”
“No. You trust me, I trust you.”
“The way it should be. Sure you don’t want a drink?”
Munsch shook his head. “I better get going. John Smith, huh? Probably your real name.”
Smith smiled. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Brown.”
Munsch, who had been eager to go, hesitated.
“I know it’s none of my business … but how come your client wants this? It’s worth a lot, huh?”
“Staying in L.A. for a while?”
“A day or two.”
“Enjoy your stay.”
Munsch exited to the street and looked for a cab. There were three lined up at the next corner. He got into the first in line and told the driver to take him to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He knew that was where movie stars stayed; his cellmate in prison had told him he’d stayed there once. “They got a bar called the Polo Lounge, Warren,” he’d said. “You should see the broads hang out there, starlets wall to wall. Like calendar girls.”
The clerk at the hotel’s registration desk eyed Munsch suspiciously, with his cheap overnight bag, ill-fitting brown corduroy jacket, and no reservation.
“I’m just in from Miami. Last-minute trip. Had to meet with some producers.”
The clerk said nothing.
“You got one of those cottages out back?” Munsch asked.
“No, sir, but we do have an available room.”
“I’ll take it.”
He took a nap and felt somewhat better when he woke up. The headache was gone. He called Miami. The voice and tone told him that Morrie’s blond girlfriend was answering.
“Morrie there?”
“Who’s this?”
“Warren. Munsch. Put Morrie on.”
“Call the jail. They arrested him and Garraga.”
“Oh, man,” Munsch muttered.
“They arrested Morrie at the dock. We were going to Nassau to gamble. I was there. I’ve never been so embarrassed. Where are you?”
“I’m—What about Garraga?”
“Him, too. They got him, too. I told Morrie you were a loser, not to get involved.”
Munsch hung up, thought for a minute, then called his daughter in Oregon.
“It’s Papa.”
“Hello.”
“How’s things?”
“Things are just fine.” She always sounded cold when she spoke with him.
“Good. That’s good to hear. How are the kids?”
“Fine. Are you in trouble again?”
“Me? Nah. No trouble. Just thought I’d check in. I’m on the Coast. On business.”
“What coast?”
“The West Coast. Got to run. Good talking to you. Say hello to the kids for me.”
“I will.”
He looked up airline numbers in a listing he found in a welcome package and called three of them. The third had a flight for Mexico City leaving in two hours. He opened his passport as though to make sure it was legitimate. It wasn’t, but it looked good, good enough to get into Mexico. He’d picked it up in Miami six months ago at a bargain price.
Munsch didn’t bother telling the hotel he was checking out. No need. He’d paid cash up front. He poked his head into the Polo Lounge before heading for the hotel’s main entrance. A nubile redhead in a tight dress smiled at him from where she sat at the bar. Munsch considered having a drink, nodded at her, had one of the parking valets hail a cab, and headed for the airport.
No need to send Morrie and Garraga their share of the money now, he decided. Where they were going, they couldn’t spend it anyway. Where he was going …
Where was he going?
The first thing was to get out of the country. You could fly to Cuba from Mexico City. That was it, he decided, Havana, drinking mojitos like Hemingway with a bunch of wild Cuban women hanging over him. As long as the U.S. and Fidel didn’t decide