Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(63)
“It’s not enough,” came a phlegmy old voice. “Double or nothing.”
“What? You from Las Vegas? All right.” Jack pulled out a second hundred, his last. “You’ve emptied the bank. Tell me.”
His bloodshot eyes focused on Cam. “You sure are pretty. I had a girl once who was pretty as you. I wonder sometimes what happened to her. I guess she isn’t so young anymore. I sure ain’t.”
“Thank you. Sir, this is really important. Have you seen him? He’s a seriously bad man, a criminal. We believe he might be coming back here.”
“I know who he is, missy. It’s that Manta Ray character. Sally over there”—he flapped a veiny hand toward a head of matted red hair hunkered down in a ragged bundle of blankets inside a cardboard box some twelve feet away—“I call her Dancin’ Sally. She used to be a stripper. She saw him first, told me while we were sharing a nice half bottle of bourbon that this here Manta Ray was about the cutest boy she’d ever seen. She said he was so bad hurt, he’d probably bite the big one.”
He waved a gnarled hand. “Then I saw him. He was dragging himself around, moaning and carrying on.” He looked at the photo again, turned his head and spit. “Don’t see it myself. He looked like another vicious mongrel to me. I haven’t seen him back here since all the cops took him away. I don’t remember when that was, a long time ago, maybe. Last year?”
“A long time ago,” Cam said. “So, you haven’t seen him? Maybe this morning?”
“Nary a glimpse. So he survived. I wondered, so did Sally. He get away from you guys? You’re cops, right?”
“Yes, we’re cops,” Jack said. “You haven’t seen anyone you don’t know drive up here this morning? Or maybe late last night?”
“Nope, just my usual neighbors, and the dealers meetin’ up with their fancy buyers, the putzes. All of ’em belong in jail, you ask me.” He turned his head away and coughed.
Cam felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up to see Agent Ruth Noble. She hadn’t heard Ruth; she’d come up so quietly. “Let me, Cam.” Ruth fell to her knees beside the old man. “Hello, Dougie,” she said, and gave him a Kleenex, waited until he’d wiped his mouth.
40
“Wow, that you, Ruth? You’re looking happy. What? Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. Or maybe longer. I can’t remember. How’s Dix and the boys?”
“They’re well, thank you.” She placed her fingers against the pulse in his dirty neck, counted, then nodded. “You told me you were going to stop the booze, Dougie.”
“Yeah, well, a man’s weak, ain’t he? That’s what Sally always says.”
“All of us are weak, Dougie. I heard you tell my friend you haven’t seen Manta Ray come around either last night or this morning?”
“That’s right.”
Ruth thought a moment. “Okay, then, have you seen anything odd, anything unexpected, since the police took Manta Ray away? Something that made you pay attention? Something that surprised you?”
“Well, yes, Ruth, all of us had a really big surprise, ended up with dirt in my hair until I pulled my towel over my head.”
“What did you see?” Jack was bending down close. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dougie cocked his head, said to Ruth, “Don’t know why he’s so pissed off, neither of these two kid cops asked me about nothin’ else but Manta Ray.”
Ruth pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Spill it, Dougie. No, no more, you’ve already fleeced us enough.”
He gave her a cunning look, but Ruth shook her head, stared at him and waited. He said in his scratchy smoker’s voice, “Well, all right, if you’re going to be a hard-ass. A fancy white helicopter came right down here early this morning, at first light. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sucker landed right over there.” When he shifted to point, the towel fell away from his dirty grizzled gray hair. “It ain’t all that big a place for a helicopter, but it set itself down nice and smooth, right there in front of that warehouse. Didn’t bother to turn off those noisy blades, either; they kept whirling and kicking up dirt.
“I couldn’t believe it, Ruth, I mean I hadn’t seen no helicopter ever land around here. The noise woke everybody up, scattered dust something fierce, like I said. Is that strange enough for you?” Dougie rearranged the threadbare dingy gray towel with a faded Marriott printed on it over his head. “If it was bigger, I could tie it under my chin, you know, if that chopper comes back and stirs up the dirt.”
Ruth smiled at him, her hand still on his arm. “You’re doing good. Tell me more, Dougie.”
“No one got out of the helicopter, but then I heard this guy shout, he was using a bullhorn, I guess, ’cause it was loud—he shouted for Humbug to get over there, quick. And sure enough, I look up and see Humbug staring down at the helicopter from out of his third-floor window, and he shouts back that he’s coming and waves. I don’t know how they could have heard him, what with those blades whirling around so fast, sounded like a war down here they was so loud, and enough dirt was kicking up to blind you. Got in my hair, right? Humbug had to bend over, cover his face with his hands and run, the dirt was so thick, like one of those African siroccos, got all over all of us. He trotted over to that helicopter and I couldn’t believe what he did—he climbed right in, and after a while he climbed back out again and the helicopter lifted right straight up. That’s why I’m wearing a towel, in case it comes back, I don’t want no more sand on my head.” And again, he patted the towel on his head.