‘My men will get you unloaded.’
Mason glanced over at the car which had brought him and made a gesture. Two men stepped out, not exactly threatening, but not exactly meek either. Abe watched them come.
‘Where do you store it?’ said Mason.
‘If I take you this time, it’s the last time, OK? I got people who rely on me.’
‘I get it.’
‘And it’s two hundred.’
‘OK.’
Abe spun his reluctance out another second or two, before pointing at the little locked shed, where he kept the bits and pieces he needed to service Poll. ‘In there. And your guys had better break a sweat, unless you want to try a landing by moonlight.’
‘OK.’
Mason handed over a further fifty dollars, gave brief, precise instructions to his men, then chuckled to himself as the booze was unloaded. And it was true: ever since beginning the mail flight, Abe had been transporting six cases of alcohol a flight, every flight. He bought the stuff from a wholesaler in Havana. He sold the stuff to a poxy little Miami bootlegger, named De Freitas. The booze came in wooden cases, nailed shut and sealed with the manufacturer’s mark. To begin with De Freitas hadn’t believed the stuff was unadulterated, but as time had gone by, he’d changed his mind. De Freitas paid good prices. Abe’s costs, gasoline mostly, were low. Each and every trip he cleared around a hundred bucks’ profit.
Mason supervised his men, but didn’t help. He jigged up and down, enjoying himself.
‘You got Gordon’s on the box. I like that. Booze you can trust.’
Abe said nothing.
‘You ain’t worried about the good folks from customs?’
Abe jerked his thumb at Poll’s fuselage, with its stencilled mail logo. ‘Interference with the mails. It’s a federal crime. Besides, why would Uncle Sam want to stop his own airplanes?’
Mason stared at the logo an instant, transfixed by the sight. Then his face creased into a bellow of laughter. ‘Ha! You got it figured out there, pal! Good ol’ Uncle Sam, huh? Looks after his own, hey?’ He laughed some more and shared the joke with his two pals, who had got the last case unloaded. They laughed too, but were sweating too hard to laugh loudly.
‘OK, hurry it up,’ said Abe tetchily. ‘You want to go to the can, go now. Otherwise, get in. There’s a helmet and goggles behind the seat. Put ’em on. Keep ’em on. Sit still. Don’t touch anything. Miami in three hours. Got it?’
Mason nodded, still chuckling, and complied. Abe got Poll started, and bumped across the airfield until he was downwind of the sea breeze. Then he opened the throttle and let her roar into flight. Abe pushed her upwards at two hundred feet a minute, until he hit her ceiling, seven thousand feet or so. He kept her pushed up against the ceiling all the way to the Florida coast, raising the altitude as the fuel load lightened. Up at those heights, the air was icy, the cold multiplied by the hundred-mile-an-hour wind.
By the time Abe set Poll down in Miami, Mason was half blue with cold, his hands shaking, his face pinched and tight.
‘You have to fly her as high as that?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then why the hell did you?’
‘I run a business, but it’s not a passenger business. Next time take the boat.’
Mason left, heading off towards town, flexing his fingers to get them warm.
Abe watched him go. It was his first serious contact with the gangsters of Marion. But it wasn’t too late to quit. He was committed to nothing, he had promised less. Few people knew where he was, and no one knew what he was doing. Abe stood watching, ’til Mason had long passed out of sight. But the hesitation that had gripped him since the moment when a lanky storekeeper in Independence had asked him for help still gnawed inside. Should he fight or quit, stay or run?
He didn’t know. He still hadn’t made up his mind.
One Friday afternoon, Willard had had business with the bank’s archive on the twentieth floor. He’d deposited one file, collected another and was just about to leave, when he happened to see Leo McVeigh and Charlie Hughes through the glass-paned door. McVeigh had Hughes pushed up against the wall. Hughes was white, obviously terrified. McVeigh was standing too close, speaking intently, his big hands half-curled into fists.
Willard stared for a second, then banged the door open. McVeigh stepped back. Charlie Hughes put his hand to his face, checked his tie, began muttering nervous hellos. Willard already loathed McVeigh and was angry enough to welcome a confrontation.
‘Hello, McVeigh,’ he said icily, before turning to Hughes. ‘You all right, old chap? You’re looking rather blue.’
‘I’m fine, honestly, Will, please don’t worry.’
‘I do worry. You’re not looking at all well.’
‘Spot of tummy trouble. Maybe something I ate. I’ll be OK.’
‘Have you drunk some water?’
‘Water?’ Hughes repeated the word as though unfamiliar with the substance.
‘Water. You ought to drink something. Maybe go home and lie down.’
Hughes caught McVeigh with his eyes. He’s asking that bastard for permission, thought Willard angrily. McVeigh nodded slightly and stepped away.
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Hughes. ‘I’ll drink something. That should help.’
He made no move to come with Willard, as though still spellbound by McVeigh’s presence. The big one-time football player stood a pace or two back, kneading his hands and breathing silently through his mouth.
‘Good. I’ll walk you to the bathroom,’ said Willard firmly. He put a hand on Hughes’ shoulder and steered him away. In a deliberately loud voice – loud enough that McVeigh would be sure to hear it – he said, ‘You always feel free to come to me if you need help, anything at all.’
‘Yes, of course, thanks, Will-o.’
Feeling distaste for the man he’d just rescued, Willard turned and stared McVeigh straight in the face. For a second or two, their gazes locked. Hostility flickered in the air. Then Willard, pulling some of his Hollywood moves, curled his lip, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Speaking about it later with Larry Ronson, Willard said, ‘I’d swear he was threatening Hughes. The poor chap looked white as a sheet.’
Ronson was sympathetic. ‘He’s an ugly sort, McVeigh. He’s never even attempted to join in with things. I mean, at least Hughes tries.’
‘Yes… Look, you probably think I’m being absurd, but you don’t think … Look, I don’t even know what I think, but have you ever wondered if there’s anything strange going on at times? You remember that business with the Orthodox Synagogues?’
‘Irish rabbis. That’d be something.’
‘McVeigh threatened me in the elevator. Told me not to ask questions.’
‘He did? He did that? Jesus! Have you told anyone else?’
‘No. I’m not quite sure who I would tell.’
‘There’s Grainger, I suppose. Or Barker.’
‘Yes, but what if they’re in on it too?’
‘In on what?’
‘I’ve no idea. None at all.’
‘Look,