Like Saturday, today looked like being a beautiful day. The clouds were lying well off-shore and the surf came rolling in like it had been choreographed.
My knee was still feeling fine - today without the bandage. I left the deck chair on the porch and found a place above the cliff, folding my legs comfortably and relaxing, taking deep breaths of salt and sea. Even if it had been raining, it would have been a beautiful day.
Later, I'd meet Lucille for lunch.
And I had a few errands - meeting Caesar at the hospital, picking up the laptop, buying some luggage. But those were all minor details. The important question was closing - the mystery was settled and I had a solution to settle the crime. Closure and balance.
Maybe next week ... maybe I could book a flight to Phoenix ... Once I was there, I could settle another itch - finishing Sucker Game the right way.
After that ... well, after that, we'd see ...
For one, I'd promised to deliver the rewrite in person. And, for another, I had the outline - and most of the plot - for another book. Something very different.
One I was going to enjoy writing.
But, I decided, I'd be coming back to San Francisco.
Several reasons. One, of course, was Lucille ...
But another was that, at the moment, almost everyone I knew was here.
And I wanted to see Dan's plot develop - to help if I could. He was showing talent - and desire - and I figured that I owed him.
Besides, I just wanted to ... Maybe I just needed someplace to come back to ... Maybe this was it.
And, even if the poetic closure was imminent, there'd still be loose ends to tie up ... I was going to need to talk with a lawyer and get things moving on the legal front. And I'd have to talk to the police ... but I'd need a good story for them ... Hey, I was a writer, wasn't I?
But, for now, I could relax ... and enjoy the breeze off the ocean and the gulls and the bumble bees.
After breakfast, we cleared a space in the garage and assembled the goods the Captain and I had bought the day before. The kayak, of course, wasn't included but the port-a-potty and the duffel filled with MRE rations were. We didn't have the bottled water yet - I made a note to pick up at least twenty liters.
The three of us stood there for a few minutes, trying to decide what else was missing.
Finally, I walked out to the van, then returned carrying the package of handi-wipes, setting them next to the port-a-potty.
A moment later, Dan went inside, then came back with a handful of thick paperbacks and the bottle of cognac.
Captain Donavi smiled, then made his own trip inside, returning to place a deck of cards on the stack.
"What else?" I asked.
"Maybe an air mattress?" Dan suggested.
"Seems reasonable," I agreed, making another note. "Anything else?"
"Since he'll be mostly sleeping," the Captain commented, "he shouldn't get too bored."
"I need to pick up some literature," I remembered. "I can do that this morning. What about a blanket? Will it be cold?"
"Couldn't hurt, can be chilly at sea," Captain Donavi admitted.
That was another note.
"This the stuff?" Dan asked, picking up the wrapped slab from the shelf.
"That's it," I agreed.
"And it's safe?"
"Absolutely. Might give you indigestion if you ate it but, otherwise, it's safe without a detonator. I'll work it over with a rolling pin later and we'll finish the attaché case this evening. Well, if you can't think of anything else, I guess I'll try and run a few errands before I meet Lucille for lunch ..."
Dan and the Captain shook their heads.
"Okay," I agreed. "Then I'll see you this afternoon."
I started out. Behind me, I could hear the Captain offering: "Suppose I tell you about the handcuffs ..."
"One of these," Caesar assured me, "and your friend will siesta for twelve hours or more." He handed me an unmarked bottle of tablets and a data sheet headed 'Rohyrol'.
I read through the data sheet, concentrating on the dosage information. The suggested dosage was variable, depending on the desired degree of sonambulance. "So," I thought aloud, "doping a liter of water will dilute it. Spread the effects out. Still, it should be enough. Say, one per liter?" It sounded about right. If it was too much, he'd sleep more. If it weren't enough, he might be bored but still tranquilized. The exact dosage, I decided, wasn't that critical.
"Bien, gracias," I thanked Caesar, shifting in the driver's seat to reach for my wallet, "What do I owe you?"
"Uno momento," Caesar raised a hand. "This is connected with your being shot, si?"
"Si," I admitted. "Mas o menos." - More or less.
"Then later, amigo, you tell me everything, si?" Caesar made a small waving motion with his hand, refusing payment.
"The drinks will be on me," I agreed, grinning. "Tequila e cervesa."
"So, were you watching the runners yesterday?" greeted me as I entered the computer store.
"Sorry, missed it. Hadn't had a chance to get back until now. Something came up."
"No problem," the salesman assured me. "Got your laptop right here," he produced a generous sized box with a padded kevlar carrying case on top. "Installation disks, manuals, warranty and registration materials are in the box. Computer's in the case - modem's installed. Power supply, battery, adapters - everything you need. Let's check it out, okay?"
The computer was exactly what I'd asked for. And the 'extras' - in the box - weighed more than the computer. I assumed - for now - that I could park the box in Dan's garage. I sure wasn't going to carry it around with me. For the immediate moment, I stowed the box in the rear of the van but tucked the computer - and case - in the compartment behind the driver's seat.
I still had a couple of errands to run - and one of them was going to have to wait for Monday. The local offices of Cuba Libre weren't open today.
On the other hand, bookstores were ...
Finding an air mattress was no problem. Just for the hell of it, I selected one with some kind of ninja turtles romping across the plastic. A small irony. I wondered if the joke would be appreciated.
For a blanket, the same army surplus which had supplied the MREs had a nice selection in a choice of army green, navy gray and air force blue. Since they were all equally warm - i.e. scratchy wool - and had the same vague odor of camphor, I settled for the gray.
I bought another duffel for the blanket and mattress, figuring there'd be room enough for bottled water and miscellaneous as well.
It was nearly eleven. I found a pay phone and dialed Lucille's number.
Lucille's idea of lunch was a picnic ... surrounded by the faux-Graeco-Roman ruins which had originally been constructed for an Exposition - or a World's Fair or something - the best part of a century earlier.
The picnic itself had been catered - complete with a wicker basket, plastic stemware and a quite decent wine - by an Armenian deli and was waiting for pick up when we drove by. Again, it was Lucille's idea but it was elegantly off-beat ... like Lucille herself.
I'd produced the gray blanket for a ground cloth - I didn't think a few grass stains would hurt it any - and we'd dined overlooking a small lake, at the base of a tall ionic column topped by toga-draped figurines whose backs were all turned to world as they peered at something - the gulls only knew what - inside the centers.
The scraps were eagerly devoured by assorted varieties of ducks and geese ... and a few gulls.
After lunch, we'd stowed the basket and blanket and spent the afternoon walking through the park and talking.
"I'll need to get back before too long, Alex," Lucille sounded regretful. "We have services this evening as well."
"Unfortunately, I have some tasks this evening too," I admitted. "And I don't know what next week will be like. Or when I can get off to Phoenix - except that I need to."
"Maybe," Lucille suggested, "I can arrange a weekend free. Tyrone and Margaret could manage the store and I'm not the only mam'bo in Frisco. The oum'phor can manage without me occasionally. I could always fly down on Friday and come back Monday morning ... if you'd like."
If I'd like? What kind of a silly question was that?
Besides, it wasn't as if vo-dou - literally 'introspection into the unknown' was that different from 'zen' - emptiness. More ritualized, perhaps, but there were similarities as well.
"Forget about 'accomplices before the fact'," Dan argued. "It's never going to come up, right? Besides, all we're doing is discussing the plot for a new Gregory Thorne novel, right?"
Put that way, it was hard to argue. Besides, Dan was already implicated in a B&E job.
I hadn't worried that much about the Captain - he'd be out of local jurisdiction anyway ... not, I hoped, that there'd be any juris dictating anything - pardon the pun.
And, as Dan said, all we were doing was discussing a plot for a novel ...
Later, if a certain individual - by some stretch of the imagination - had the nerve to claim that it had actually happened - to him, no less ... well, the claim itself would be tantamount to an admission of attempted murder, murder, embezzlement ... all of which were more likely to be believed than the claim itself. Particularly since the police - acting on a complaint - were going to find some very incriminating materials. Possibly with fingerprints.
I didn't know if there were any already ... but, I decided, there would be.
No, all in all, it was pretty hard to imagine Dan actually getting into any trouble over any of this. At least, that's what I told myself.
"Okay," I agreed. "But we want to make this as realistic as possible, right? So, let's see if I can roll this stuff out nice and thin without it sticking to everything."
Plastique wasn't the same as pie dough. The consistency was quite different and I couldn't dust it with flour to keep it from sticking to the rolling pin.
Still, with the help of a piece of saran wrap - and a lot of patience - we had a flat slab of the plastic material a little larger than the bottom of the attaché case.
After laying the 'dough' inside the shell and trimming the extra to make it fit, Captain Donavi took a fresh piece of saran wrap and used the small roller to smooth everything into place.
"If you'll hand me a spoon," the Captain requested, "I'll get the edges with it."
"I'm tempted," Dan commented, passing over a thick tablespoon, "to keep the scraps. There's really not much here. And you said it was safe."
"The safest thing," I suggested, "would be to mold it around a stone and see how far you could throw it from the bluff. No evidence, remember?"
"Just because you're right," Dan responded, "doesn't mean I like it."
Putting the layer of plastique in place was the easy part. Adding a new fabric lining was harder but, finally, the cloth was in place and smooth, held by a thin film of rubber cement.
"We let it dry, eh?" the Captain instructed. "While we spread the slot in the frame a bit? Then we fit it back in, add a bit of glue and, presto, good as new."
The wood chisels were never going to be the same ... but, in a few hours, they'd be tossed in a dumpster somewhere anyway. No evidence. Every scrap - except for the plastique fragments which were now somewhere under the surf - went in an open paper grocery sack. Later, after dark, the bags would be deposited in some other neighborhood - just another bag of debris from a disposable society.
"Isn't this what they called the 'date-rape drug'," Dan queried, closing another bottle of Evian water.
"That's the one," I admitted. "No permanent damage but it'll keep the cargo from causing a distubance."
We returned the doped bottles to the carton. There was no way to replace the seals but I didn't suppose a thirsty prisoner was going to be complaining.
"Better than new," the Captain announced, patting the attaché case with heavy handed affection.
After fitting the shell back to the frame, he'd used the vise - with padding for the jaws - to squeeze the slotted aluminum frame tight on the fiberglass shell before applying a thin bead of superglue. Last, the hinge pins were restored, the lid supports riveted back in place and the handle remounted ...with a little additional glue for strength.
He was right. It looked great ... like it was new.
For the moment, there wasn't much left to do. The MREs were stacked in one duffel bag along with the cognac - padded in the blanket - and the books and cards. The second duffel contained the case of Evian, the air mattress and the handiwipes. The port-a-potty - charged with deodorant / digester - was in its box as was the Seylor kayak. The handcuffs and the books I'd purchased were in the attaché case.
The attache case - and the kayak - would go in the Captain's quarters - or, maybe, the forward chain locker with the elephants - until it was time. Where he planned to stow them, I didn't ask - certainly it would be someplace discreet.
There were still two more items to add but they'd have to wait until tomorrow morning - when the bank was open and when the Cuba Libre offices would be available.
After all the preparations, having them finished was almost a let down. It seemed like it had taken hardly any time at all.
The two bags of trash - we'd left them sitting on the patio - were the only loose end.
While Captain Donavi started the charcoal, I made a salad and Dan punctured potatoes for the microwave.
The dinner menu was simple - grilled steaks and trimmings - and the conversation was even simpler. It was like we were all feeling slightly drained. More emotionally than physically but ... there just wasn't that much to say.
Everything was planned ... tomorrow - as long as the Andromea made port on schedule - the last steps would be carried out.
The next twenty-four hours were simply a matter of waiting.
Sure, there were a few details that would need handling ... but all the major items were done.
It was bit after eight when the phone rang.
The Andromea was in port - docked across the Bay. They'd begin loading early tomorrow and be ready to depart Tuesday morning. Cargo containers, I gathered, didn't take long to load or off-load.
"We could always have engine trouble, eh," Captain Donavi grinned. "Just in case you need a little more time?"
"Let's hope there's no problem," I reminded him. "I know - always expect the unexpected. Well, maybe one of us should drive you over?"
"Unless you'd prefer to stay here tonight," Dan hastened to add.
"Not to belittle your hospitality," the Captain stood and stretched, "but I would like to have a few words this evening with the purser, eh?"
Since the purser was also his wife, it was hard to object ... and easy to understand. Besides, even if it's a ship, there's no place like home - a sentiment I was beginning to feel myself ...
A seasoned traveler, it didn't take the Captain long to pack. And half the time was spent gathering his unfinished contrivance from the table where it was still taking shape. "I'll be sending it back in a while," he assured Dan. "When I've finished, eh?"
The van made more sense than the BMW - since we were loading the duffels and the boxes as well as the Captain's gear. And the two bags of trash.
Even so, loading didn't take long enough and, by nine, we were approaching the Bay Bridge, heading for the east bay and the Andromea.
The Andromea's purse - Illya - greeted the Captain with a display of affection which was excuse enough for his wanting to return as quickly as possible.
And there were other crew members waiting to welcome him as well - not as demonstratively but certainly sincerely enough. The greetings encompassed a half-dozen languages, several of which I didn't recognize but Captain Donavi returned each greeting with a fluency that made me feel almost tongue-tied.
But, when it came time for introductions, the lingua franca shifted to English - sometimes heavily accented, true, but still English.
A few instructions from Captain Donavi and the duffels and boxes we'd loaded in the van disappeared up the gangway. "Come aboard," the Captain invited, his arm wrapped around his wife's waist. "And I'll show you the ship."
"Maybe tomorrow," I suggested. "It is late ..." And even a blindman could see that the Captain and his lady had some catching up.
"Tomorrow," Dan agreed. "Maybe we could take the two of you out to lunch."
It took a few more protests but the Captain gave in and we agreed to get together around eleven. We could see the ship then.
"Good time to find a dumpster," I suggested as we left the docks.
"Forget it," Dan responded. "They're gone already. I looked."
"I hope," I thought quickly, "there's still a cardboard box in the back." The laptop was safe at Dan's ...but I hadn't brought in the manuals or installation disks.
After a brief investigation, Dan confirmed the presence of the box - everything was in order.
"Man runs a tight ship," I commented.
"Hope his passenger enjoys the voyage," Dan mused.
"Hope we get him aboard all right," I worried.
"Quit sweating. It's in the bag. Right?"
"I certainly hope so ..." And I sincerely did ...
Morning of the Seventeenth Day
This morning was foggy. Not heavy or raining but thick enough to obscure the sun. At the same time, the fog had held yesterday's warmth keeping the morning from being cool.
Everything seemed to be falling into place ... which meant it was time I should be worrying. It wasn't a question, I reminded myself, of being paranoid ... only a question of being paranoid enough.
Then I remembered the other half of the old joke: Even paranoids can have friends ... for which I was grateful.
On the bluff, the fog was high enough to create a channel above the water, blue waves below blending into blue gray above in the distance. An emptiness of white caps, blue waters and gray fog leading the eyes into a distance beyond measure. Gulls dipped unconcernedly in and out of the cloud, brief darts of black and white giving momentary shape to the textured distances.
"I've got you now," Dan announced.
I turned from the dishwasher where I was loading the breakfast dishes. Standing in the doorway, Dan was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Okay," I agreed. "Let's hear it." I leaned against the counter and waited.
"It's really very simple," Dan's excitement was audible. "The reason why your fingerprints aren't on file? And why the Social Security Administration hasn't heard of you?"
"I hope you're not going to tell me that I work for the CIA," I suggested.
"They couldn't stand you," Dan shook his head, grinning even larger. "It's even simpler - you're not a U. S. citizen." He paused, waiting for a reaction.
"I'm certainly not French," I pointed out. "What am I? A Russian spy turned defector?"
"Even simpler," another pause. "You're Canadian!" he blurted. "The unidentified letter/number sequence? That's the number of your Canadian passport. I just checked with the Canadian embassy in Los Angelos. They know who Gregory Thorne is - I told you, it's simple."
"Canadian?" I echoed.
"And the police must have only checked the national databanks ... but not the international," Dan nodded.
"It does cost money," I considered. "And budgets are tight ... so, if they didn't have any reason ..."
"They didn't spend the money to look," Dan agreed.
"Very good," I admitted, wondering what kind of a past I'd find in Canada. And wondering how anxious I was to find out. Not immediately, I decided, there were other matters to clean up first. "What tipped you off," I asked.
"Last night - when we dropped the Captain off?"
"Right?"
"I got to thinking about how Captain Donavi greeted everyone in a different language. And that made me start thinking about where else English is spoken. Britain was out - wrong accent - but I remembered visiting Canada a few years ago on vacation. Didn't even need a passport, just a driver's license. And, even if the money's different, the accents are the same. So, I checked. And there you are ..."
Knowing my origins - even in general terms - was a help.
I made my own call to the embassy in Los Angeles - and, yes, I could apply for replacement passport. But, of course, they would need my fingerprints ... and when could I come by?
Maybe later in the week, I suggested - I'd call and let them know. I wondered if National Health would settle my hospital bill.
For the moment, there were more important matters to handle.
One was to arrange an appointment with a lawyer - to get certain legal proceedings started as soon as possible. Still grinning, after I suggested it, Dan returned to the phone ...
A second - also involving Dan - was to make a phone call - to ensure that a certain party would be in the right place at the right time.
A third was to run by the Cuba Libre offices and pick up some literature ...
Fourth, we had a lunch date with Captain Donavi and his wife ...
And the last - this evening - would require a trip across the Bay ...
"Okay," Dan announced. "We're on for two-thirty this afternoon. That should give us time for lunch in Berkeley."
"Let's set things for eight then," I agreed. "I don't know how long your lawyer friend will want but surely he'll be done with us by five or six."
"Probably earlier," Dan grinned, relaxing on the couch. "Sara's known for burning the midnight oil ... but she prefers doing it at home ... where she can keep an eye on her daughter. We'll be out of the office by four at the latest - so she can beat the traffic."
"I wish," I offered, "that we didn't have to wait." - not that wishing was going to change anything - "Better call Toland and set up the appointment."
I sat down and listened while Dan picked up the phone. I could only hear one side of the conversation but it was enough - I already knew the script Dan had concocted.
"Mr. Joseph Toland? ... Daniel Shores from Paladin Press ... No, at the moment, I'm calling from the Denver Airport ... Just a brief layover - the reason I called - and I apologize for the brief notice - but I'll be in Oakland this afternoon and I was hoping you might have a few minutes free this evening? To discuss a project for two of your authors?" - Dan mentioned two of the writers represented on Toland's web page - both with an interest in insurrection and home weaponry - neither of whom lived in the San Francisco area - "That's most kind of you but it's really not necessary," Dan continued, "I'd planned to call you after I got in - and after I had a chance to arrange my schedule - but something has come up suddenly and I'll have to fly back to New York tomorrow. ... No, I really appreciate your making time for me. Would it be okay if I call you later to finalize our arrangements? ... No, I'm afraid that won't be possible since I have a dinner engagement but I should be free by eight or so ... Then that's not too late? We could have a drink or something. ... No, I'd rather tell you about it later but I think you'll definitely be interested. ... Fine, then, I'll call you by eight at the latest. ... Until this evening, then. ... Good-bye." Dan hung up the phone before sighing heavily.
"He'll be there," Dan assured me. "He offered to meet me at the airport. Anxious doesn't seem to be the appropriate word for him."
"It's always nice to be able to count on people," I observed. "It makes things so much easier."
"What if he'd been out? Or if he'd had another engagement?" Dan asked. "You can't always count on cooperation like that."
"Then the Andromea might have had engine trouble," I suggested. If Tolland had been busy this evening - or unreachable - the alternative would have been a breakfast meeting tomorrow. But tonight was better.
"Pass the phone," I suggested. "I'll call Captain Donavi and let him know we're coming over for fifty-cent tour."
Aboard the Andromea, the Captain's special workshop - housed in the undelivered cargo container - was a marvel of rube goldberg gadgetry. Some of it was fascinating, some was art ... and a number of pieces were unfinished, conglomerations of parts hinting at some future purpose or the skeletal remains of an unsatisfactory piece being salvaged for other purposes. One monster piece - with no visible purpose beyond a mass of whirling gears, swinging arms, cams and a few blinking lights, opened suddenly at the Captain's touch to reveal a generous cavity beyond - a cavity which, an instant before, had appeared filled with more gears, rods, wheels and shafts, all half-hidden, half-visible behind more of the incomprehensible mechanisms.
After visiting the Captain's museum of the curiously functionless, the rest of the ship was a marvel of clarity.
The Andromea wasn't new but, even to a landsman's eye, appeared well-run and well-tended. The engine room - dominated by hulking monstrosities of diesel engines - was far from spotless and the paint showed stains and wear but the wear and soil were working marks, not neglect. The rest of the ship followed the same pattern - lived in but not neglected.
In the crew quarters, a half-finished mural was growing along the corridor wall - exhibiting something of a tagger's style combined with elements of pointillism.
The galley was like the engine room - worn but clean. The crew's lounge was more of the same - comfortable and livable without being restrained.
And the Captain's quarters - roomy by shipboard standards - held several of the Captain's creations but was also decorated by art - or artifacts - from a dozen cultures. It was an eclectic mixture but still one where the elements - individually diverse - blended in a single, unified whole.
It was Illya - the Captain's wife and ship's purser - who put a stop to the tour, insisting that she had an hour and a half window for lunch but no more - that she needed to be back by one to oversee the arrival of the last of the outbound cargo containers. "Mikhael," she insisted, "would talk about the Andromea all day. But, while we're in port, some of us have work to do."
We kept to the purser's schedule, enjoying lunch at an unpretentious but excellent Greek deli not too far from the waterfront, returning the Captain and purser to the Andromea by one o'clock ... and leaving immediately to keep our own appointment - back across the Bay - with the attorney.
Dan's choice of attorney met with my full approval. Sara Gotlieb was professional, competent and concise.
After introductions, I offered an outline of what had happened - both from what I remembered - which was little - and from what we had surmised - which was more important. What I didn't explain - initially - was what our 'investigation' had uncovered.
Ms Gotlieb listened carefully, making a few notes on a yellow legal pad. When I'd finished - and Dan had offered a few collaborating comments - Ms Gotlieb considered the question for a moment.
"You certainly have the right," she agreed, "to request an outside audit. And," she tapped the photocopied royalty statements, "these and your notes are suggestive that there is a discrepancy in the accounts. Now," she paused for a moment, "would you like to tell me the rest? Confidentally?"
We didn't tell her everything - but we did add enough to suggest that there was more ... without admitting to details which would be embarrassing - to any of us - if they came to the attention of the duly constituted authorities. Between us, Dan and I both did a neat job of sidestepping any actual admissions while still providing a fairly full account of the situation.
"Then," she summarized the situation neatly, making a steeple of her hands, "there's a strong certainty that additional evidence would be uncovered - if, for example, we obtained a warrant for Mr. Toland's records. And copies of his bank transactions ..."
Dan had been correct - we were out of Ms Gotlieb's office by four o'clock ... but Ms Gotlieb was already putting the wheels of justice in motion ... including assurances that - by tomorrow - she would have a request for a court order to freeze all bank accounts, property and assets pending a full investigation by court appointed auditors.
The only question remaining was whether we - Dan and I - and, of course, the Captain - could finish the rest of our prep work before Ms Gotlieb stirred the waters.
And, for the next three - four hours, there was nothing we could do. Waiting was the pits.
But we did have time enough for a quick trip by the Cuba Libre offices.
I squirted a mouthful of cognac from the small squeeze bottle, then swirled the fluid around my mouth for a moment before spitting most of it in the shrubbery. The squeeze bottle, with the spigot thumbed shut, went back in my pocket.
Taking two steps up on the small porch, I leaned against the door jam and banged loudly on the door, ignoring the button for the bell. The sun was setting, the street lights were on, it was that hazy time between day and dark when there isn't enough light for normal vision but it isn't dark enough for night vision.
Inside, there were sounds of movement, a TV being muted, footsteps. I levered myself away from the door jam, resting a right hand over the peephole and pulling the flask from my pocket with my left. When the porch light came on, my back was to the street and any possible witnesses.
I was better dressed than I had been the last time Joseph had seen me. My clothes were clean, no wax under my fingernails, no aroma of vinegar, my hair was brushed and my beard neat and, this time, I was wearing my glasses - as soon as I had time, I was going to have to get a new pair ... with better frames.
As Joseph opened the door, I pasted a drunken grin across my face and let my weight force the door open, stumbling slightly as I followed it. "G..g..g..good m..m..m..morning," I stammered, ignoring the evening hour and breathing cognac fumes in Toland's face. "I've g..g..got t..t..to ta..talk to y..y..ou." I waved the flask in Joseph's face, adding: "L..let's h..ha..have a d..d..drink."
Joseph's face was a study in mobility with surprise becoming alarm then dismay then calculation in rapid succession before assuming an awkward smile of greeting.
"Of course," he started. "Come in," he grasped my arm, almost jerking me through the door and slamming it behind me.
"R..r..rem..membered w..w..w.. you l..lived," I sputtered, throwing the arm with the flask around his shoulder and letting my weight pull him off balance. "B..b..brought y..y..you a d..d..drink." I used my weight to steer him toward the kitchen.
For a moment, I felt a temptation to simply force the flask into Toland's mouth and pour the liquor down his throat. All it would need would be to shift my weight slightly, pulling him off balance and locking my arm around his throat.
But violence wasn't elegant ... and the elegant solution was better. More malicious as well.
"Er, I was going to call you," Toland staggered slightly under my weight.
"M..m..moved," I offered as explanation - suggesting a plausible reason for not having received a certain package. "P..p..place wa..wasss a..a..a d..d..dump. Ha..ha..have a d..d..drink," I insisted.
After the shock of finding me alive, my showing up on his doorstep must have seemed like a god-send to Toland - the fly banging on the spider's door. Except this fly was a wasp - not dinner at all.
"B..b..been r..r..rem..membering," I added, dangling the thought like bait. "G..g..g..et s..ss..sssome g..gl..assesss. D..d..dr..ink l..l..like civ..civulizzzed p..p..people." We were almost to the kitchen.
Through the door, I let Toland shift me off his shoulder and into a chair. I banged the flask on the table. "C..cognac," I insisted. "T..t..the g..g..good s..s..ssstuff."
"Where'd you move?" Toland asked, reaching for glasses in the cupboard. "Someplace decent?" Toland was trying to keep his voice steady but I could hear the hesitation. He was trying as hard as I was to keep the conversation going - just that our aims were slightly different.
"D..d..d..drake," I lied. My aim was simple - to get him to sit down and share a drink.
Toland's aim was to play for time to decide what to do about my inconvenient reappearance. To decide how he'd kill me this time. That and whether my appearance would interfere with his expected appointment later that evening.
It was an appointment - of course - that Toland wouldn't be keeping. On the other hand, since Mr. Shores - Dan's nom du guerre of the morning - wasn't going to be expecting him anyway, it really didn't matter.
"The Sir Francis Drake?" Toland asked for confirmation.
I nodded. "B..b..better p..p..place," I agreed. "H..h..here," I reached for one of the glasses, pouring with a shaky hand, then reaching for the second and adding another shot - being careful that my thumb was resting on the correct holes for each.
I let the flask rest on the table, freeing my hand to push the first glass toward Toland while lifting the second to take a sip. I made it look like I drank more than I actually did, blowing a measure of air back through the amber fluid to make it burble as if I had taken a long drink.
Toland responded better than I'd hoped, knocking back most of the glass with a single gulp. Heaven knows, he needed it - he'd certainly suffered a major shock a short moment before.
"H..h..have s..s..some m..m..more," I set mine down to reach for his glass with my right and the flask with my left. Working the gimmick had seemed to come more naturally to my left hand than my right. Maybe I was simply a left-handed magician and right-handed for everything else.
I poured a second shot, emptying that section of the flask. One shot should be sufficient - two should be enough to knock one of the Captain's elephants out.
Toland's hand wavered slightly as he accepted the second glass. It had to be nerves - I didn't think the drugs had had time to take effect yet. It was time for another distraction.
"I..i..i c..c..ame h..h..here t..t..to s..s..ssseee y..y..you," I waved my glass upwards.
Joseph raised his own in automatic response, then took a shorter drink than his first. I could see calculations in his eyes ... then he blinked ... twice ... and a third time, more slowly. The rohyrol was taking effect.
I set my glass down, a genuine smile finally crossing my face as I sat up straighter. "Bon voyage, Joseph," I addressed him clearly, abruptly dropping the stutter, the facial twitch and the jerky gestures.
A look of horrified comprehension appeared on Toland's face ... just for a instant, before the glass fell from his grasp and rolled across the floor, spilling a trail of doped cognac. The expression on Toland's face faded to blank as his eyes closed and he slumped forward on the table.
I took a deep breath, plugged the flask, replaced the cap and dropped it back in my pocket before standing up and producing a pair of cheap plastic gloves out of another pocket. With my hands covered, I used a wad of paper towel to mop up the spilled drink, then washed both glasses and returned them to the cupboard using more paper towels to dry them.
I wadded all the towels together on the table while I fished a plastic bag from my hip pocket, then added the wad to the bag.
Next, I went though Toland's hip pockets, extracting a handkerchief - which I returned - and a wallet - which I added to the trash bag.
Joseph's front pockets yielded a handful of change, a pocket knife, and a key ring. I pocketed the keys, placing the rest of the booty in the trash bag.
His shirt pockets were empty except for a pen, a laundry receipt and a lotto ticket. All three were added to the debris. Leaning Joseph back in the chair, I removed his belt, adding it to the bag.
Last, I searched him for anything concealed - including his shoes - and removed the stiletto blade strapped to his ankle, tossing blade and sheath in the bag. I checked between his shoulder blades and then, responding to an old memory of uncertain origins, checked his crotch. No more weapons.
Straightening up, I checked Toland's pulse, feeling the large vein in the neck. Strong and steady. His breathing was slow but regular, his pupils were dilated slightly.
I produced a length of nylon line from my pocket, passing it through his belt loops before knotting it around each arm just above the elbows so that the arms were held at his side. It was tight enough to hold him but not tight that circulation was cut off. The final knot - tied in the small of his back - I softened with a disposable cigarette lighter, using the lighter to spread the melted ends of the nylon rope back against the main rope. It wasn't elegant ... but it would only come loose by cutting.
I used a shorter piece to bind his wrists together, carefully melting the ends the same way.
The scraps of rope and lighter were added to the bag.
I checked my watch - eleven minutes since I'd entered.
I walked back to the front door and found the switch for the porch light, flipping it off, then on again and finally off. That was the signal to tell Dan that everything was on schedule ... and that I was fine.
It had taken some persuading for him to give me fifteen minutes in the first place. And, if he hadn't seen the signal from the porch light in that time, he would have called Toland's number to see if I answered - not that I'd have said anything until I'd heard him speak first - then, if I hadn't answered, he'd have called the police to report a burglary, the fire department to report smoke and, probably, have come busting in himself.
Instead - Dan was supposed to be watching from the corner bus stop - all he needed to do was return to the van and wait for me to drive out. We were scheduled to rendezvous at the far end of a shopping center parking lot about two miles away.
Before leaving, however, there were two chores I still needed to do.
One was to remove one of the brick from the freezer and leave it lying on the kitchen counter ... after making sure that a few of Toland's fingerprints were pressed firmly in the plastic material.
The second was to find Toland's passport.
The passport had been easy - I'd found it in his bureau drawer, upstairs in the bedroom. I'd found a few other items too - like a false drawer bottom concealing a small armory - but I'd left everything else where it was. The passport was in the bag with the rest of the debris. And the bag was on the floor of the car - under Toland's feet, where he lounged in the passenger seat.
Joseph's seatbelt was fastened along with the shoulder strap and, to an observer, he looked like he'd fallen asleep ... which, essentially, he had.
I'd left the front and back doors locked, turned off the TV, checked his answering machine and locked the garage door to the kitchen before using the remote on the car's visor to open the overhead door and back carefully out into the street, checking to make sure the garage door closed again.
A block and a half further, I flashed the headlights as I passed the parked van and continued to the shopping center - carefully, obeying all traffic signs and signals and keeping a watchful eye out for other drivers.
In the corner of the parking lot, where the van shadowed us from the streetlights, Dan and I moved Toland from the front seat, laying him on the floor in the back of the van. The plastic bag was tucked in the compartment behind the driver's seat. The brown manila envelope - with the literature from Cuba Libré to go in the attaché case - was already there.
"Oakland International?" Dan asked.
"Next stop," I confirmed.
Toland's car was legally parked in the long-term lot about three miles from the main terminal at Oakland International. The doors were locked and a sunshield - which had been folded behind the seat - was spread across the inside of the windshield, held in place by the visors. It's the little touches which make the difference - suggesting that the car had probably been parked here during daylight hours, not at night.
Climbing in the van, I reached behind the driver's seat and added the parking lot ticket to the plastic trash bag. "We're out of here," I commented unnecessarily as Dan drove us though the exit.
"We'd better find a phone," he suggested. "Let the Captain know we're ready."
Captain Donavi met us at a convenience store a short distance from the docks. He was accompanied by one crewman and the two of them immediately piled into the van. I'd moved from the front passenger seat, leaving it for the Captain, and shifting to the rear where the Captain's second joined me.
Up front, the Captain was giving Dan directions. Our destination was a different gate - different than the one the Captain and his crewman had exited by - for our entrance ... a matter of a few blocks.
"See you in Tampa, eh?" Captain Donavi waved from the gangway. He and his partner - no introductions had been offered - were support their new passenger between them. The Captain was also carrying a plastic trash bag. In a day - maybe two - the bag's contents would vanish somewhere out at sea.
"Tampa," I agreed. "Let me know your ETA and berth." In a few weeks - when the Andromea made port in Tampa - I owed the crew a dinner ... and I was going to see that it was a proper feast. Besides, I wanted to hear - first hand - how things had gone from here out.
Finally, with the last of their cargo aboard - even if not all of it appeared on the manifest - the Andromea would leave port in a few hours.
And, tomorrow morning, Dan would be busy ordering wire transfers from Toland's overseas accounts back to his U. S. bank.
And I? Well, depending on Ms Gotlieb's requirements, I needed to fly down to Los Angeles - for a new passport - and then to Phoenix - to start wrapping up 'Sucker Game'.
More immediately, there wasn't anything left to do ... except, maybe, share a drink and talk about plots for mystery stories ...