Jeopardy Is My Job by Stephen Marlowe

Author:Stephen Marlowe [Marlowe, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detective, mystery, noir
ISBN: 9781453252512
Google: bjjaKqCLArYC
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2012-04-17T19:47:38+00:00

chapter eleven

“Clever. Real clever,” croaked a tired old voice like the cawing of the seagulls that had come to watch. “MacPherson they had slated for death, and then you poked your proboscis in. Why not take care of both of us at once? You paid them two thousand bucks to have yourself killed.”

I groaned and sat up. I felt as if I had run a three-minute mile—on my hands. Every muscle in my body was stiff and my throat hurt where the tough Spaniard had chopped at it with his fingers. My mouth was gritty and tasted like rotten fish. I gazed around. The gulls took off over the water. Outcroppings of rock, like the one I had slept behind, poked up from the sand of the beach. Behind me was a cliff like the one the Lancia had gone over. When was that, thirty-six hours ago? It didn’t seem like more than six months.

A shadow moved over my face. I wasn’t alone. The sun was low and the big shadow belonged to a small burro and two small boys shyly peering at me from the other side of the rock. They were up with the dawn collecting driftwood. The baskets hanging down the burro’s scrawny flanks were almost full.

“Good morning,” I said in a cheerful croak, and they retreated behind the rock again. I reached for my clothes. They were still wet. I spread them out on top of the rock, said, “Don’t go away,” and walked down the beach into the sea. I waded some and swam a little and returned dripping to the beach. The boys and their burro were still there. I found some change and sodden peseta notes in my trouser pocket. “Can you get me some coffee and something to eat?” I said. “Churros maybe?”

One of the boys nodded gravely. He didn’t take the money, he just held out his hand for it. When I gave it to him the two boys and the burro paraded off down the beach toward Fuengirola.

I leaned against the rock, turning my face to the sun. Not only had the machine gun killed MacPherson, I thought, but first it had surprised the hell out of him. It wasn’t the way the highjackers operated, but still he had recognized their boat. Which meant that their mission last night was not merely to lift his cargo but to kill him. He was armed, and Pez Espada hadn’t liked that. Not only was he armed, but he had tried to talk the other contraband-runners into carrying weapons. Pez Espada had liked that even less.

Why? He sliced his one-third off the top of what MacPherson and the other captains made, and he sold shares to pay for that part of their cargo they couldn’t afford. He made a profit there too, charging whatever commission he would charge. But investing in smugglers’ contraband was like investing in stocks—you could sink your money into Lunar Gold Mines, Inc. and watch it skyrocket to a

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