Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [60]
Munsch didn’t know what to do.
“Out! Out!” an officer commanded.
“Okay, okay,” Munsch said, opening his door and coming out of the Volks. He raised his hands, skirted the front of the taxi, and forced his widest smile. “What’s the problem, amigos?” he asked. “Take it easy. I’m a friend, an amigo, sí?” He wished he spoke Spanish.
Two officers approached, their handguns aimed at Munsch’s head. One pushed him so that he faced the taxi, then gave him another shove so that his hands rested on its sloping hood. They patted him down.
Munsch slowly straightened and turned to face them. “Okay, amigos, I get it. I understand the drill.” He started to reach for his wallet but the motion caused the officers to snap commands and wave their weapons.
“Money,” Munsch said. “What ’a you call it? Dinero! Mucho dinero!” He carefully removed his wallet from his rear pants pocket and held it out for them to see. His mind raced. He’d give them a thousand and keep two. A thousand dollars would buy anybody in Mexico, he reasoned. Just don’t take it all, he silently prayed. Leave me enough for the plane ticket.
He pulled out what felt like a third of the bills and waved them in the air, grinning as he did. He shoved them at the officer standing closest to him. “For you, amigo. Take it, share it with your friends.”
Another officer came up behind and grabbed the wallet from Munsch’s hand.
“Hey, come on, let’s not be greedy, huh?” Munsch said.
The rest of the bills were removed from the wallet and placed in the cop’s shirt pocket.
Munsch was bombarded with conflicting thoughts. He didn’t want to lose all his money. At the same time, he was relieved that he was simply being held up, Mexican style, and not being arrested for the Miami heist and murder.
He picked the cop who looked as though he might be most amenable to a plea and tried to get across that he needed money for an airline ticket, that he would take the cop’s name and address and send him more money from Cuba, that he understood they didn’t make much money and needed to rip off gringos—dumb tourists—and that he wouldn’t report it to anybody.
“Just give me back five hundred bucks, huh? That’s all, just five hundred. How many pesos is that? I’ll—”
The officers started laughing as they backed away and stood by their cars. One told the taxi driver to turn around and leave, while another motioned for Munsch to start walking toward the airport. Sadly realizing he wasn’t about to receive a refund, Munsch told himself to get away from them as quickly as possible. At least he wasn’t being arrested. Get to the airport and maybe find somebody to scam. He thought about his overnight bag but saw it disappearing with the taxi as it sped to the main highway.
He walked slowly at first, looking over his shoulder to be sure he was doing what they wanted him to do. Sweat poured down his face and his breath came hard as he increased his pace, almost running now, stumbling, wanting to cry—why me?—get to the airport and—
The shots crackled from six weapons, a barrage of bullets tearing into his back and buttocks, sending him pitching forward face-first onto the hard blacktop. But his face didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore.
Chapter 23
Annabel hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. The pain in Mac’s knee had kept him awake, causing him to struggle in search of a comfortable position.
“You should have the surgery,” she told him at breakfast. “These things are so easily fixed these days.”
He just looked