CHAPTER 11

Tuesday—1:58 A.M.

Dondero turned his collar up against the rain and watched the taillights of Reardon’s Charger disappear in the fog and darkness in the direction of the Embarcadero and the center of the city. He tried to put aside any thought of his discomfort, concentrating instead on what a real fugitive would do, Italian or otherwise, if the police—for mysterious reasons of their own, not explained to a prisoner—took him to some unfamiliar place on a miserable night like this, and kicked him out of the car. Well, his first thought, quite naturally, would be to expect a gun blast to cut him down, and when this didn’t occur he would probably take the next second or two thanking his saints he hadn’t been brought here to be assassinated, in the manner of some cops in some countries.

After that, the fugitive would probably waste another second wondering why, then, he had been taken there at all. And after that, there is no doubt at all as to what he would do: he would get out of there as fast as he could, and leave the mystery of his release to be explained another time.

He would not know that a person was scheduled to meet him; he most probably would also not know of Lazaretti’s death—although the prison telegraph system was remarkable, and a lot better than Western Union, as what wasn’t; so he would merely assume his release was either an administrative error, or that some unknown friend had greased a few palms. But after spending a maximum of five seconds cerebrating the above, he’d get the hell out of there.

With that final conclusion reached in even less than five seconds, Dondero took one swift look about him and then started off in the direction Reardon’s car had taken. He had taken exactly one squishy step when he realized he was not alone.

“Hold it!”

There was something about the authority of the voice which, though the words were not delivered in overly loud tones, sounded familiar to him as a cop, and would even have been recognizable to him in his role of Italian fugitive. It was the authority of someone with a weapon to back up that authority, and even if Patrone hadn’t spoken English, he would have known what was required of him, just from the tone. Dondero stopped abruptly, waiting, staring in the direction he thought the voice had come from. Then, almost to his relief, he saw the small shape near one corner of the bridge; as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw that it was a small man with a very large hat and a raincoat that dropped almost to the ground. In that light he almost looked like a large tree stump on which someone had deposited a large hat. Dondero eyed the hat enviously; it was almost as good as an umbrella. He had brought his hands up almost automatically at the command; now he was about to drop them when he saw, extending from the tree stump, a large revolver, apparently taken from beneath the raincoat. Dondero, having been expecting it, was not surprised.

“Over here.”

Dondero shrugged. He had wanted to be picked up, so why be coy about it? Anyway, if he remained where he was very long, he figured the chances were he’d drown. He walked toward the small figure, but as he approached it, it seemed to recede; then he saw that the small man had merely stepped back and was now walking down a narrow path that paralleled the channel in the direction of the bay, looking back over his shoulder with his revolver ever ready.

“Follow me, but not too close.”

Dondero followed along. He stumbled over something, realized at the last moment that it was a railroad rail, and was more careful in crossing its companion. They were in a weed-filled area, with the grit of cinders beneath their feet, walking past empty boxcars; what little could be discerned of them in the darkness indicated they had been abandoned years before. Dondero suddenly realized it was a spur of the S.P.R.R. he had thought torn out years before; he was going to have to keep up on his geography of the city if he was going to know where he was being kidnapped in the future, because he would have sworn that there was nothing but empty fields between Third and the bay in this area.

He slogged on, the cinders underfoot giving way to mud, the wet weeds slapping at his thighs, soaking him to the skin. Ahead of him the little man moved steadily, the gun held in readiness. A fourth shadowed boxcar was passed when he noticed the little man had stopped and was motioning him forward with the gun.

“Over here.”

There was a car parked there, almost invisible, paralleling a boxcar and almost touching it. In that darkness and fog it would be well out of sight of anyone on Third Street, Dondero realized, and then thought it would probably be equally invisible from Third Street on a bright, sunny, day. He approached the car, his main consideration being that it represented shelter from the weather, but when he reached for the door handle, he felt the gun jabbed into his ribs. He winced.

“Hey! What that for?”

“Lean against the car.”

“All you got to do is ask.” Dondero hoped his harsh gutteral was an approximation of Patrone’s voice; he also hoped his captor was as unfamiliar as he was with the extent of English possessed by street guides in Rome. Still, being searched was only to be expected, although what they thought the police allowed prisoners to carry with them when being traded would make interesting conjecture. Well, he had on him what Lazaretti had on him when he had dropped the other man off at the bridge the night before, and that was nothing. He leaned against the car, feet apart, as if he were quite accustomed to both the position and to being searched. A small hand fanned him expertly; then the small man stepped back.

“Okay. Inside.”

Dondero climbed in, pleased finally to be out of the terrible weather. The door across from him opened and the small man got in, preceded by the raised gun. He held the gun on Dondero steadily while he closed the door and fumbled in one pocket of the raincoat, producing a pair of handcuffs.

“Slip these through the armrest and cuff yourself.”

“I don’ unnerstand.” Dondero prayed to his ancestors for forgiveness for his stage-Italian accent. He glowered at the little man. “Who you? Why dose cops, dey take me out of jail and put me down out dere in all dat rain, huh? What goes on, huh? What you want from me? Who are you?” Listening to himself, Dondero thought he sounded more like a stage-French Canadian, rather than an Italian, and could only hope the little man was no expert in linguistics.

“I’m a friend,” the little man said quietly, “just as long as you behave yourself and do what you’re told. Now, put the cuffs through the door handle and cuff yourself, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, because if I’ve got to translate any more, I’d just as soon shoot you. Not kill you, friend, because George wouldn’t like that; just shoot you where you won’t be cantankerous. Now, do what I told you.”

“I don’—” Dondero suddenly decided the little man meant what he said, and getting shot, at least this early in the game, wasn’t part of his brilliant scheme. He put the cuffs through the heavy handle of the door and with some maneuvering managed to click them about his wrists. The little man reached over with his free hand to check them, and then moved back, satisfied. He slid the gun onto a small tray built to the left of the steering wheel beneath the dash, and then leaned back, more relieved. Dondero stared at him.

“Okay, I’m cuffed. Now, what’s all this? Who are you?”

“I said, a friend, didn’t I? We got you out of the slammer, didn’t we?”

“Slammer?”

“The clink, the jug. Jail,” the little man said, and muttered, “Good God!” under his breath. He thought the dummy was supposed to speak English!

“Sure,” Dondero said suspiciously. “For why?”

The little man looked at him with amusement. “You wouldn’t kid me, would you, buster?”

“I don’ understand.”

“If you don’t, buster, then you’re even dumber than you look.” His amused look turned into a grin. “And if you’re as dumb as you sound, old George’ll smarten you up. He’s got a talent for that.”

“What you mean? Who is dis ol’ George?”

“I said, don’t worry.” The little man seemed to realize he was talking too much and lapsed into silence.

Dondero was just getting warmed up. “Why we sittin’ here? We waitin’ for somebody?”

“We ain’t waiting for nobody. We’re just waiting.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like waiting,” the small man said shortly, and added almost grudgingly, “Anyway, it won’t be for much longer.”

There was a brief silence, then Dondero said, “Hungry.”

He was proud of the conversational change of direction, although he had no notion as to what had suddenly made him say it. The fact was that at the moment he was sure he couldn’t have eaten a thing, although a drink would certainly have been gratefully accepted. But he doubted the little man had a drink in the car, or would offer him one if he had it.

The little man frowned in his direction. “What?”

“Hungry. Affamato.”

“What the hell—didn’t they feed you in the joint?”

“Food rifuiti.” Dondero made an expressive grimace. The little man didn’t need to understand Italian to get the meaning.

“Well, I doubt we got much in the place, and we certainly ain’t stopping at no McDonalds,” the little man said, and looked at his wristwatch. He nodded; they were on schedule. “Okay, Pisano, we’re on our way. It ought to be clear by now.” He considered Dondero thoughtfully and then said, “Look, I’m going to blindfold you. Those are orders, so don’t blame me. And don’t try to butt me with your dome—guy did that to me once, almost bust my nose.”

He picked an elastic ski band from the all-purpose tray beneath the dashboard and slipped it over Dondero’s head, adjusting it so the wide portion covered the eyes. Satisfied with his handiwork, he slid back under the wheel, inserted the ignition key, and twisted it. A powerful and nearly silent motor sprang to life beneath them, rumbling quietly. The little man listened to it with evident pride for several moments, and then eased the car from its position beside the boxcar, swaying over the rough terrain until he bumped gently over a curb into a street. To Dondero’s surprise they turned to the right, toward the bay, rather than to the left in the direction of Third Street; for a moment he wondered if they were to be picked up at some small dock and transported by water, after all, but the detour was only temporary, and then they turned again, heading north once more. One more turn and the car gathered speed as it crossed what Dondero judged to be Third Street in a rush, far from the bridge, and well north of Army. If Reardon was parked anywhere near the bridge, still wondering where Dondero had disappeared to, the blindfolded man thought, he was apt to wait there for a long time.

Beneath the lightly itching ski mask, Dondero tried to keep track of their location by counting dips at each intersection, trying to picture a map of the area in his mind and then place them upon it, as the car twisted and turned, but he soon gave it up. According to his calculations, they should have been halfway to Oakland, somewhere in the middle of the bay. In any event, he assumed he would know where they were when they stopped and the ski band was removed; in the meantime it was reassuring to think that if they had blindfolded him, they obviously had no immediate plans for killing him, since what difference would it make what he saw if he were going to end up in the bay in any case? On the other hand, he suddenly realized, the man they weren’t planning on killing was an Italian fugitive named Patrone with some valuable answers, and not an upright, hard-working, well-intentioned—if overly nosey—cop, who could well be into something a trifle over his head.

The little man drove with the assured knowledge of both his vehicle and the area. Dondero leaned his head against the cold glass, listening to the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers, and tried to blank his mind to whatever he would face when they arrived wherever they were going. Sufficient unto the day, or the night, he thought, and would have liked nothing better than to take a brief nap, but the constant braking and acceleration for the many corners made that impossible. He knew he should be thinking like mad, except he couldn’t think of anything at the moment to think about. He bit back a yawn and waited.

They drove in this fashion for what Dondero judged to be approximately half an hour before he felt the car being braked. It halted, purring contentedly, and he heard the car door open and felt the car list slightly as the little man descended. There was a brief pause and then the screeching sound of a large motorized garage door being raised. Then the little man was back and they were driving inside a building. The motor revved once in a powerful roar; the garage door screeched its way to closing, and then there was silence. A small hand touched his wrist, one cuff was unlocked, and then relocked free of the hampering armrest. The small hand touched his forehead and the ski band was removed.

He looked up and saw a large man with a heavy beard studying him expressionlessly through the wet glass of the car window. Well, he thought, in for a nickel, in for a buck; he pushed down on the door handle with his handcuffed wrists, shoved the door open, and stepped from the car, raising himself to his full height, but the other man was still looking down on him from a much greater height.

“Hello, Patrone.”

What attitude to take? Well, his mother always taught him that nobody ever got ahead in this world by being overly subservient, and even though any time he tried to disobey one of her orders he got himself a fat ear, it still struck him as being a basically proper teaching. He therefore paid no attention to the greeting but looked around coolly, noting that he was in what seemed to be the loading area of a factory of some sort. He tried to picture what part of the city was most apt to provide factory buildings, but dropped it as being highly unimportant. Instead he chose to bring his gaze back to the man facing him; he made his voice harsh.

“Okay, what in hell’s all this about?”

If the little man who had driven the car noted any marked improvement in his captive’s English, he made no mention of it, but remained beside the automobile, as if waiting. The big man with the beard smiled genially.

“Look, Patrone—Vito—we’re not enemies; not really. We’re on the same side, or we can be if you have any intelligence. You came over to this country to—but we can talk more comfortably upstairs.”

Dondero masked his disappointment. Old hair-face might have waited until he got through saying exactly why Patrone had come to this country before he became so hospitable! He held a poker face, however, and followed the bearded man up a small flight of steps to the loading dock itself, and then along the platform to a freight elevator in one corner. The little man stayed behind with the car.

The elevator rose creakily in the silence and the gloom. Dondero wondered exactly what kind of place he was in; he knew it was a factory or a warehouse of some sort, but the nature of the operation was a mystery; the elevator doors effectively hid any sight of the floors they were passing. The cab stopped at the top floor and the two men got off. The bearded man opened a door set in a partition across a narrow corridor, and Dondero entered. He was not at all surprised to find that Pop Holland was not present. His analysis for all the reasons the kidnapper would keep the two apart, apparently, was sound. He looked about.

A comfortable sofa graced one wall of the large room, flanked on either side by small end tables. Colorful pictures were spaced tastefully on the walls, a wide desk occupied one corner of the room with a utility bar behind it; venetian blinds had been tilted as if to keep out light, but heavy closed shutters could be seen behind them at the edges.

The large man closed the door behind him, walked over and seated himself behind the desk, and waved a hand hospitably for Dondero to take a seat. Dondero managed to drag up an upholstered chair with his manacled hands and dropped into it. The bearded man lit a cigar, offered one to Dondero; Dondero shook his head and raised his manacles as if in explanation for his refusal. The bearded man appeared not to notice the gesture, but leaned back, puffing smoke, stroking his beard gently with his free hand.

“All right, Patrone—Vito—let’s get down to business.”

“I got no business with you,” Dondero said, and tried to sound disdainful. He had no clue as to what he was talking about, but he did know he was at least stretching out an interview that could well end up uncomfortably for himself. He thought of Scheherazade and the thousand nights, and forced himself not to smile. “I got no business with anyone handles me like you handle me.” He raised the manacles again.

The large man shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s necessary for the moment. Certainly they are not uncomfortable; be patient and put up with them for the moment—”

“And I want dry clothes. I want—”

“Later,” the bearded man said and leaned forward. “Let’s forget what you want and get down to what I want. Where …?”

“And another thing,” Dondero said, frowning across the desk, “how much you have to pay to get me out of jail? And who you pay it to, huh? I meet a guy up there, good guy, maybe I buy him out, too.”

The bearded man smiled. “I’m afraid we didn’t buy you out of jail. I saw no necessity for wasting time determining the extent of corruption in our city police. No, we kidnapped a policeman and offered to trade him for you. It was that simple.”

“What!” Dondero glared across the desk. “Un vigile? A cop? You kidnap him?” He shook his cuffed hands violently. “I got nothin’ to do with no kidnap of a cop!”

George laughed, a small delightful laugh, somehow oddly out of place coming from the large body.

“Don’t worry, my friend. As you say, you have nothing to do with the matter.” The smiling face lost some of its jollity; the eyes studying Dondero turned cold. “The policeman need not concern you. You are here—”

“This vigile—you kill him?”

“I said, that scarcely concerns you—”

“What you say, it don’ concern me!” Dondero glared at the bearded man and waved his hands excitedly, the manacles jangling. “Right now they got nothin’ on me! Nothin’! I don’ get mixed up in no kidnap, see? An’ I don’ get mixed up in no killin’, either, see? They got nothin’ on me, an’ I don’ get—”

“They have nothing on you?” The delightful laugh returned. “Oh, my dear friend! Please! They may not know what they have on you, but I do. So let’s stop playing games—”

“I wan’ a drink,” Dondero suddenly said. He thought about it a moment and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I wan’. Hey, all I think about in the figlio de madre carcere is somethin’ to drink, you know?”

George looked at him a moment, finally sighed, and swung his chair about. He searched the top of the small bar a moment, found a bottle that suited him, and poured a generous drink. He swung back, leaned over, and placed the glass on the far side of the desk.

“This is some of the finest cognac to ever come out of France. I hope you appreciate it.”

Dondero showed his appreciation by clasping the glass in both hands, upending it, and taking the drink down in one gulp. He shuddered, grimaced, caught his breath, and then wiped his mouth on the back of one of his cuffed hands. He wiped that hand on his trouser leg and belched.

“Okay, I guess.” He looked around the room and his eye fell on the sofa. “Hey, you know, the bed in that figlio de madre carcere, nobody can sleep on her. Guanciale, she’s like stone.” He suddenly yawned and came to his feet. “Hey, we talk in the morning, huh? Right now I think I sleep.”

George’s big hand slammed down on the desk in sudden fury; Dondero’s empty glass jumped. Dondero looked down on the bearded man with a faint sneer.

“What’s a matter?”

“Sit down.”

The voice was dangerously quiet. Dondero shrugged and sat down again. “Okay, I sit. Now, what’s a matter?”

“The matter,” George said through his teeth, “is that we didn’t get you out of jail just to watch you drink or watch you sleep. We—”

“Yeah,” Dondero said, interested. “Why did you get me out of jail?”

“You know damn well! Where is the stuff?”

“Stuff?” Dondero looked puzzled. “I don’ know what you talk about, you know?”

George took a deep breath and slowly exhaled it, managing to keep himself under control. He studied the insolent look on Dondero’s face a moment and spoke quietly and clearly.

“Now, look, my friend. Listen and listen carefully. Before you continue with this charade about now knowing what I’m talking about, do you remember your friend Lazaretti?”

“Lazaretti ain’ no friend of mine!”

“Lazaretti,” George said slowly, “is no friend of anyone at the moment, unless it’s the crabs on the bottom of the bay. You are probably not aware of it, but we first thought Lazaretti was the man we wanted, and last night we got our hands on him in what the police thought was a trade for their sergeant. In any event, before he died—and he died very poorly, my friend—he talked, or tried to talk. His English was practically nonexistent, and I had no intention of bringing anyone else into the deal just to serve as a translator. Still, he did make enough sense for us to gather that he was merely the bodyguard. You were the courier—”

Dondero wrinkled his forehead; it was not all acting. He looked like a man who was doing his best to understand someone speaking too rapidly in a language he didn’t thoroughly understand. Still, he got the general idea. What he needed were details.

“Courier? What’s a courier?”

“You still want to be cute, eh? A courier, my friend, is a man who carries things from one country to another. You brought the stuff in. You brought it in for someone else, it’s true—and that someone else is just stupid enough to be waiting for you to get out of jail to take delivery—but I’m afraid it will be a little late for him by then.”

Dondero maintained a poker face. Now, at least, the whole thing made sense. Although how knowing what it was all about could help him at the moment was still one of the great mysteries. He brought his attention back to George and studied him through narrowed eyes.

“You think you know so much, maybe you don’t know as much as you think you know.”

George smiled. “No? You think I’m guessing? I don’t go to this much trouble for guesses, my friend. You brought two and a half kilos of Turkish pure into this country a week ago. Let’s stop playing games. I want to know where you hid it.”

Dondero sneered. “An’ if I don’ tell you, then I gonna end up in the water with Lazaretti, huh?” He shook his head. “Then nobody ever goin’ to find it, huh?”

The bearded man considered the tough unshaven face across from him for several moments, then took a deep breath.

“All right, Patrone. You can be broken, and if you think you can’t, you’re wrong. Your share in the deal is so damn small, anyway, that you’d crack the first time you started to hurt. But I’m getting tired of wasting time. So I won’t even threaten you—I’ll talk business with you.”

Dondero nodded. “That’s better. I don’ like threats, you know?”

“And I don’t like to make them. Let me put it this way—I know more about the deal than you think. You were paid the equivalent of five thousand dollars to bring the stuff in and deliver it. Five thousand lousy dollars!” He leaned forward, impressively. “If you’d even consider handing it over for that, you’re a bloody fool. You’ve got a fortune there, man! Come in with me and we’ll split right down the middle. I’ve got the best distribution system in the world, one that nobody can touch. Right here in this building I’ve got a system that makes all the rest of them look silly. No pushers, no street-corner exchanges in front of half the town, no kids selling in some dumb locker room. No chance, in short, of getting caught. Come on, Vito—come on in! It makes sense all around.”

Dondero appeared to think about it. “Sure,” he said at last. “It makes sense, but it only makes sense for you. I go for any deal like that, then the guy who hire me in Italy, he get mad, and I go down the street in Roma someday, and bang! bang!” Despite the manacles he managed to raise a pointed finger to his head, triggered by his thumb. “Then Vito Patrone, he’s just a memory. Like Lazaretti.” He shook his head dolorously. “I don’ like it.”

“Listen!” George said fiercely, scenting victory without the waste of time involved in torture, “don’t be a bloody fool! You don’t have to go back to Italy! You can be in Mexico tomorrow, or anywhere else you want to be! Hell, your share would be a kilo and a quarter of Turkish pure, and do you have any idea of what that’s worth when I get through cutting it and spreading it around? Man, you can pick your spot—Hong Kong, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney—and live like a king!”

“Yeah, but—”

“But, what?”

“Hey, you know, them guys, they trusted me—”

George came as close to snorting as he ever permitted himself.

“Trusted you? Trusted you? Who do you think you’re kidding? A man who made his living showing tourists the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps, and then stole some loose change from their purses? Did you think I didn’t know that? Trusted you? What do you think Lazaretti was doing traveling with you?” He waved that phase of the matter away as being of minor importance. “In any event, they wouldn’t use you as a courier again, if you handed it over to them or not. Once is par for the course. I mean, they never use the same courier twice; why take the chance? So where does that leave you? Back to rolling little old ladies from Iowa for lunch money! Man, get smart!”

Dondero appeared to be thinking about it. “I don’ know,” he said at last, slowly. “I don’ know.…” He looked around the room as if seeking some divine inspiration in arriving at so momentous a decision, and then spotted the sofa. He turned back to George, nodding his head. “I know. I sleep on it.”

“Sleep on it, nothing! You’ll tell me—”

Dondero’s jaw hardened. “I sleep on it,” he said simply.

George studied the tough face across from him a moment and then came to a decision, nodding. “All right, you sleep on it,” he said. “You get a good night’s rest and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“I sleep on it,” Dondero said vaguely, and came to his feet, turning toward the comfortable-looking sofa. He suddenly seemed to realize he was still encumbered by the handcuffs. He raised them. “Hey, how about taking these off? I don’ sleep so good with them on.”

“We’ll take them off when you’ve come to the proper decision,” George said, and his faint smile was back. “And I’m afraid that sofa isn’t as comfortable as it looks. Besides,” he added, “there’s nothing to handcuff you to there, you see. And I’m sure you can understand that we’d hate to lose you after all the trouble we had arranging your coming. No, we have a nice clean bedroom for you.…”

He reached into the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a revolver, checked it carefully, and came to his feet, gesturing toward the door.

“After you, please.”

Dondero shrugged and shoved the door open to walk into the corridor. He hadn’t exactly expected them to give him a car for a getaway, but he had gained a little time, at least, which he had a sad feeling he was going to waste actually sleeping. True, he had found out what the whole case was all about, but the question was, would he live long enough to pass the information along to the department? At the moment it looked doubtful. If he turned George’s extremely generous offer down in the morning, he had a feeling George could turn nasty. And if he accepted it, how could he pretend to know where the stuff was stashed? It was a pretty problem.

Still, he was alive at the moment, which was a giant step in the right direction, and the bluff was working on all twelve cylinders. He wondered idly what decision he would have made if he really had two and a half kilos of Turkish pure hidden someplace. Probably go along with George’s proposition, although it was highly doubtful that old George had much intention of allowing a confederate to live long enough to enjoy Lincoln Park, let alone Rio, or Hong Kong, or Sydney. It was what happened when you dealt with crooks; you couldn’t trust them.

“Right here.” George had stopped before a door. He opened it and stepped back for Dondero to enter. Dondero walked into the darkness and stood still while George reached in a hand and flipped on the light switch. Light flooded the room.

A gray-haired man was lying on one of the twin beds in the room. He looked up through feverish eyes. One hand was heavily and clumsily bandaged; his other was handcuffed to the bedstead.

“Hello, Don,” he said weakly, and tried to sit up. “So you guys finally got here, huh …?”