“I could be, Karl. But I’m not. I came here from the East a year ago. Things were a little hot around East 21st Street in Manhattan. You probably have the connections. Check me out. I’ve got an FBI record as long as your arm. And it’s not the kind of a record that a stoolie might have.”
“I’m not worried about you being a stool pigeon, Mr. Padgett. I can predict the actions of a stool pigeon and handle them. As a matter of fact, I can smell a stool pigeon. And I know how to handle them. But the Bureau of Narcotics has some smooth workers today. I know for a fact that at least one junker in every city is an N Man in disguise. And I know all about their ability to take a phoney fix and shoot the stuff right through the skin into a shirt sleeve or on to the floor. Let’s go out to my boat. We can talk more there. I might just have a proposition for you.”
“Good,” Padgett smiled. “So far I’ve had to do all the talking. I’m a good listener, Karl.”
“Excuse me,” Gortoff rose from the lounge table. “I have some things to look after in the office.” He beckoned to the hovering waiter. “Tell John at the bar, we’ll have another round here, please.”
Padgett watched the heavy-set inn owner, bar owner, schooner-owner and kilo man move away. In his white flannels and blue blazer, he fitted the former three roles more appropriately, in appearance, than the latter. “He’s smooth,” the N Man thought, “and not sold on me yet. And he’s probably damned dangerous.”
In the office, Gortoff quickly signed checks presented by the manager and initialed some invoices. He made a long distance call to Rosarito Beach, down in Lower California, giving only a time, a latitude and longitude and a date. From a spring compartment in the office desk, he removed a flat Beretta, dropped it into his blazer pocket, and returned to Padgett.
“Have time for a short cruise?”
“My time is your time, Karl.”
“Good. We’ll be gone a couple days — down to Rosarito Beach — should be back up here by Friday.”
“Do we go ashore?”
“Why?” Gortoff asked.
“I’ve a passport but it’s only a passable forgery.” He tossed it on the table.
Gortoff examined it with an experienced eye. “It’s more than passable. It’s a good one for a forgery.”
Padgett pointed out the deliberately created flaw in the federal seal. “If you still have doubts, Karl. This little piece of engraving may reassure you. No law or N Man would be running around with a forged passport. And no ex con would have a genuine one.”
Gortoff laughed. “If I had any doubts at this moment,
Gortoff started the small electric outboard which silently pushed the dinghy away from the dock. “Ever do any sailing?”
“A little when I was a kid. I know the difference between a main sail and a gib.”
“Good. You can help me get underway. I’ve got a good diesel auxiliary. We won’t use any canvas ’til daylight.”
Sea-going traffic was so heavy in the San Francisco area that Padgett never knew if the Coast Guard kept the
“You agreed, Chris, that, if we could get together on a deal, you wouldn’t back away from anything. I like to test a man before I commit myself. And I’ve a test waiting for you. Under the starboard berth of the cabin, you’ll find the test. It’s the result of carelessness. Somebody grew careless. They couldn’t stand prosperity. Or, I should say,
Padgett made no reply. He looked at Gortoff. In the few seconds available, he debated the moral issue. He weighed his purpose and his Bureau operation against the
“In the event you fail to meet the test, Chris, you’ll be a permanent failure.” The kilo man smiled.