Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [67]
The clock said 5:26.
Plenty of time. Redbirt focused on the fine print of what seemed to be a fairly standard loan agreement. Bermúdez sat expectantly before him, hands crossed demurely athwart the attaché case.
“Mr. Bermúdez,” Redbirt said, “this couldn’t be simpler. Your protection is as ironclad as the law can make it.”
“I know.”
“If you know, then what is the question?”
“I have no question.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I said I would come at five-forty. I came early.”
“You?”
José Bermúdez smiled. “It is quite simple, really. I see a bright young lawyer in the elevator every now and then. I make some discreet inquiries, and I discover that he is an ambitious man who is already strapped for cash. So ‘Morgan Jones’ calls and offers a private little cocaine deal that is too good to refuse. That is the beginning. Simple. I could have worked it with any one of a hundred young and ambitious professionals in this city.”
Redbirt’s astonishment gave way to admiration. Bermúdez, of all people. What a scream! This would be easier than he thought.
“You’re the last person I would have guessed…”
“That is how I want it,” the banker said, nodding in satisfaction. “Now listen. I have solved all the problems. In another few weeks the merchandise will begin flowing at a standard quality and a fixed price. Only those who are authorized will deal.”
“Jesus, you’ve cornered the market!”
“Enough of it to make life comfortable.”
“My God, how?” The stakes would be tremendous. Lane Redbirt struggled to find a diplomatic way of asking how much was in it for him. No, he thought, I won’t ask. I’ll demand. He wondered in silent congratulation whether Bermúdez understood how fatally he had exposed himself now. He was at Redbirt’s mercy.
“I like your style, Lane,” Bermúdez said unexpectedly. “I want you as a full partner.”
Redbirt was speechless.
“The market will be orderly, and we will not be greedy. I believe it should be worth about three million a year. Each.”
Redbirt could only nod.
“From now on we work together. Let me see what records you have kept, and I will assimilate them into the overall plan. We will study it together.”
“They are hidden.”
“Of course, they are hidden. Get them.”
Numbly Redbirt stumbled to a filing cabinet and extracted a file marked DeFalco v. DeFalco.
“There’s nothing deader than an old divorce case,” Redbirt joked weakly. “Everything’s in there under ‘List of Witnesses.’ Names, dates, amounts, the whole thing.”
Redbirt slumped back into his chair as Bermúdez rifled the file. God, he needed another snort.
“Excellent. I am glad to see my instincts about you were well founded. I will study these over the weekend. Let us meet again Monday. Would the same time be convenient for you?”
“Uh, sure, Mr. Bermúdez.”
“José.”
Bermúdez slipped the DeFalco file and the loan agreement into his briefcase. “Now I must go. There’s only one more thing: Now that you know who I am, you must never, under any circumstances, contact me directly. Just wait for ‘Morgan Jones’ to call. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly. I will never call you, Mr. Bermu—José.”
“I know you won’t, Lane.”
It was over in a second. Bermúdez slipped a silenced Beretta from the attaché case and fired once. The bullet took Redbirt between the eyes.
Bermúdez replaced the gun, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel and rose to leave. He was halfway to the door before he realized his mistake.
Wiping his hand in a clean white handkerchief, he rummaged swiftly through Redbirt’s desk. The tape recorder was still spinning. Bermúdez flushed. He took both spools and glowered with scorn at Redbirt. Then he shot the corpse twice more, once for each ball.
“Gringo de mierda,” said José Bermúdez, mayor-to-be.
The wall clock said 5:40.
LATER THAT NIGHT Bermúdez let himself into the darkened cigar factory in el barrio. Once more he had two calls to make.
The man Chris Meadows knew as the Peasant answered on the first ring.
“We are ready now. You may begin,” said Bermúdez.