Dancing Aztecs by Donald E. Westlake Page B

maroon Cadillac Eldorado across the urban and industrial sprawl of Connecticut, August Corella sat in back with his henchman bodyguard, Earl, thoughtfully puffing a cigar while considering the events of the day. Much had happened since Corella had met this noon with the financier, Victor Krassmeier, and not all of it had been pleasant.
    It had begun pleasantly enough. All in all, August Corella would rather deal with a top-level businessman than anybody else in the world. Patsies, pure and simple. In every corporation it was the same; the factory made the stuff, the salesmen sold it, and the executives sat around telling each other how smart they were. They were coasting, cushioned by a system they hadn’t invented and didn’t understand, and they were so sure they were bright and sharp and nobody’s fool that they were everybody’s fool.
    The result of today’s negotiation with Krassmeier? Another fifty thousand sliced out of his gut and if it actually cost Corella half that much to reclaim the statues he’d be astonished.
    His present plan was simple. Find the person in charge of the group with the statues, go to that person, and buy them all back. Offer three thousand to start, go to a top of ten thousand, and lead the seller to believe two things: first that there was heroin in at least some of the statues; second, that the Mafia owned the heroin and would kill the seller if he tried anything cute. Neither of those things would be said straight out but both would be gotten across. And then the seller would do the legwork, collecting the statues while Corella dealt with other things.
    From Krassmeier’s office, Corella had gone directly to the Goddess of Heaven restaurant where a five-dollar bill had bought him the information that today’s luncheon had been paid for by an outfit called Bud Beemiss Enterprises, at 29 West 45th Street Back in midtown, Ralph and the Cadillac had waited out front while Corella and Earl went up to have a look at this Bud Beemiss Enterprises, which turned out to be a public relations firm with a very snooty receptionist When Corella told her he wanted to see Beemiss, she said, “Did you have an appointment?”
    â€œNo, I just want to see him.”
    â€œI’m terribly sorry, but he isn’t in the office this afternoon. There was a special luncheon uptown today—”
    â€œThat’s what I want to talk to him about.”
    â€œWell, he decided not to come back after lunch but to go on home.”
    â€œThen I’ll talk to him there,” Corella said.
    â€œAll right,” the girl said. “I am sorry about the mixup, gentlemen.”
    Corella said, “What’s his address?”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t give out home addresses.”
    â€œThen his phone number,” Corella said. With the phone number, he could get the address himself.
    But the girl said, “I’m sorry, not those either. Would you like to talk to Mr. Beemiss’s secretary about making an appointment? He might have some time free tomorrow, I couldn’t be certain.” Her hand was resting on the complicated telephone console beside her.
    â€œIt’s today I want to talk to him,” Corella said.
    â€œThen I really wish you’d phoned this morning.”
    Corella stepped back a pace. “Earl,” he said. “Explain it to her.”
    Earl, who was very big and very tough and who had been Jerry Manelli’s contact in the Port Authority parking garage, flexed his shoulder muscles inside his jacket. He said, “We think it’s important we get Beemiss’s address.”
    The girl smiled at him. She said, “Do you know, when I first moved to New York I was afraid of muggers and rapists and all sorts of things, but for the last two years I’ve been studying at a women’s martial arts center down on Chambers Street, and it’s just built up my confidence