Loot for the Unlucky Lady

The shoe box, sewed in oilcloth, was buried in the sand near the windbreak. The money she had allotted herself she kept on her person. The sun gradually tanned her delicate skin, and, except for the constant, biting worry, she was almost content.

Wesley Gibb, his tiny brown eyes set into the pads of gray sweating flesh like currants in an unbaked cookie, sat alone on one side of the booth. On the other side, Steve Harris was against the wall. Gibb’s ‘assistant’ was sitting on the outside edge.

The waitress had brought a wicker basket of large pieces of greasy chicken, wrapped in a starched napkin. Wesley’s fingers were shiny with grease, as were his ripe lips. The ‘assistant’ was a completely bald young man named Harry. His melting blue eyes stared upward in a half trance and he beat his knuckles against the edge of the table in time to the music, ignoring the conversation between Steve and Wesley Gibb.

Steve took a deep drag at his cigarette, mashed it out in the chipped glass ashtray. “So this is a checkup on me?” he said.

“Don’t be difficult, Stevie,” Wesley said in a gentle and oily manner. “You know how these things are. Fourteen days and no report and I guaranteed your expenses. You can’t blame me for thinking maybe you have cleaned it up down here and you’re letting the expenses ride.”

“I don’t operate that way,” Steve said.

“Don’t be annoyed, Stevie. Lots of people would. Everybody tries to take advantage of me because I’m generous. Besides, I own a piece of property in Miami and I always check on it this time of year and get them set for the big season.”

“You’re generous. Is that why you brought Muscles, here along to see me?”

Harry stopped drumming on the table, half turned and gave Steve a long look. “Watch your mouth, Harris.”

Steve turned back to Gibb. “Do I have to listen to your cheap imitations of a Hollywood-type hood?”

“Go for a walk, Harry,” Gibb said.

Harry snorted, stood up and wandered off.

Gibb said, “If it isn’t asking too much, Stevie, could you let me in on what I’m paying for?”

“I don’t know why I should, but here it is. I think she came here and got undercover fast. I think she’s sitting tight somewhere in this town waiting for word from Barnard. I think Barnard is somewhere between here and New York, working his way down here, being very, very cautious about throwing people off the trail. When he gets here, I figure they’ll leave the country by private plane or boat. I’ve spread a little dough around so that I can find out quick when they try to hire something. In the meantime, I keep my eyes open.”

“And suppose you’re wrong? Suppose they’ve already gotten out of the country?”

“Then you toss a little more money after bad money. Remember, you’re not paying for my time. This is on spec. You’re only paying my expenses, Gibb.”

“Maybe I’ll leave Harry here to help you.”

Steve smiled tightly. “I could stand him for maybe twenty minutes, and then I’d float him out with the tide.”

“Harry’s a good boy.”

“He’s maybe okay handling drunks at the Candor Club. Maybe.”

Gibb finished the last piece of chicken, wiped his mouth and his hands on the empty napkin. He smiled. “I guess, Stevie, I meet too many angle boys. I keep thinking you are one.”

Steve looked steadily at him. “Gibb, it makes me feel dirty to have you as a client. Twenty minutes after I accepted the case, I began to regret it. But I’ll follow through and play square. But I wouldn’t have anything more to do with you after this is over for five times the potential profit on this one. Understand?”

Gibb’s smile was undisturbed. “Perfectly, Stevie. As long as we’re being personal, I might add that I don’t believe I’d hire you again anyway, not after the way you let a simple girl slip through your fingers.”

Steve glanced at his watch. “Two buses and a train due. I’ve got to cover them.” He stood up, walked out of the place. The night was warm. At the corner he turned sharply and looked back, caught a glimpse of someone melting into the shadows. He smiled tightly. That much was obvious. Gibb was anything but a trusting soul. It wasn’t worth the trouble to shake Harry.

The man who looked like Al Barnard hurried diagonally away from the bus terminal. Steve got one quick glance at his face. All of the uncertainty faded away. The face of Al Barnard was engraved on the surface of his mind. The man who had passed under the street light matched that image — and the new mustache, the rimless glasses were a feeble smokescreen for Barnard’s real identity.

The man carried a small brown suitcase. Steve glanced at the suitcase and his smile was tight. There goes eighteen thousand bucks for Harris! Hosanna!

Barnard was difficult to tail. He walked quickly, selected the quieter streets. Steve kept a good block behind him, cursing himself for not having shaken off Harry.