Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle Read Free Page A

“Of course. There is nothing to prevent you from this terrible deed, nothing but your conscience.” He admired Harry through a single, loving eye. “Dear, dear boy. You would never do such a thing in a thousand years. You don’t have it in you.”
    It was a postcard Miami evening. Palm trees rippled with the breeze, the scent of salt water on the air.
    At the wheel of Manfred’s rented Mustang, Harry hadn’t counted on this traffic: Tourists captained convertibles idling alongside hot rods cranking brass-brittle Latin tunes; family wagons stuffed with dusky chiquitas, lacquered and spritzed for a night of clubbing. Waiting through three light changes at Espanola, Harry saw the same valet jog past him twice, once coming, once going, and it took half an hour to drive ten blocks.
    Traffic didn’t start to flow till Harry hit the mid-20s, rolling past hotels that lodged legitimate Manfreds. He cruised into the 40s, where non-divorced Manfreds lingered whole seasons. From there it was another ten or fifteen minutes, prowling a hushed suburb, before Harry had to pay attention to the street signs. The address wound up being an efficiency motel designed in the classic South Florida style, an L-shaped two-level affair that boxed a drained pool and parking spaces.
    Neon letters spelled out CANCY. The building was a charmless knock-off on the Fiorella theme. Harry headed for the north wing of the L and scaled a staircase to a catwalk, pink and pea-green paint chipped off in splotches. Where they weren’t flickering or blown out, florescent tubes crackled outside each room. The door to 206 was thrown open. Harry flinched behind TV gunplay, glanced at a man in Bermudas, smoking and watching a cop show. He didn’t look up as Harry walked by.
    Room 202 occupied the northernmost tip of the L. Electronic disco thumped behind the door. Harry gave it three sharp raps. The noise cut out and the door flew open on a muscular man about Harry’s age.
    His arms and shoulders were swollen like a lot of guys in the joint who pumped massive iron. If there was ever any hair on his chest he’d had it shaved smooth. He knew what Harry was there for, but his eyes betrayed a nervous, scheming gleam. He was obviously expecting somebody else.
    “You are not Leo,” he said, in some kind of accent from Scandinavia. The guy could’ve been a Swede. Possibly a Dane. He had both nipples pierced with thickgauged pewter rings.
    “You got me there, pal. I’m not Leo. My name is Harry. Manfred sent me.”
    “We don’t know you.” He skipped a beat. “Did you bring the stuff?”
    Harry had the package hidden under his jacket, rewrapped in a brown paper sack. He showed it to the guy. “Be better if we did business indoors, wouldn’t it?”
    The Swede stepped aside, wearing leather hotpants that laced up the crotch. He had a partner, a bald black man with a charcoal complexion who must’ve gone 6’6”. He was built like an unraveled wire hanger and sported a baby-blue negligee over a matching bra and briefs. He gave Harry the up and down and said, “Bon soir.”
    Harry said, “How you doing.”
    The black guy told him his name was Javier, and introduced the Swede as Sven. Sven. Harry bit back a laugh.
    Sven was tugging a nipple ring, antsy. “Let’s have the stuff,” he said.
    “You have to forgive my husband,” Javier said, “for being so impatient. You are quite late, but I understand South Beach traffic is positively murderous, especially on these high season evenings. Make yourself at home.”
    Harry scanned the room. He would’ve sat on one of the two chairs, but both were stacked high with laundry, some of it clean and, from the smell of it, some from an afternoon at the beach.
    “You know, I’d stick around, but with that traffic, I should get back to Manfred. He’s probably already wondering what happened to me.”
    “Manfred can wait,” Sven said. “He can wait and so can you.”
    Okay, so he’d caught a pair of aces. Leo