Lone Wolf #9: Miami Marauder by Mike Barry Page A

Calabrese smiled, went into his desk drawer and emerged with a large gun and with a key. It was the key he showed to Wulff.
    “It’s locked from the inside now,” he said. “The only way we can get out is to use this key.” He put it on the desk within easy reach and then held the gun on Wulff. “I guess you might as well put yours away,” he said.
    Wulff looked at the gun in his hand and at Calabrese and said, “Why bother? You hold on me, I hold on you.”
    “Yes,” Calabrese said, “but that doesn’t do either of us any good.” He put the gun down on the desk delicately, and spread his palms. “All right,” he said, “have it your way. Go on and shoot. Do you feel any better now? I’ve got the girl and I’ve got your partner. If you shoot me, they go down. It’s as simple as that.”
    Wulff held the gun on the old man. “Why do you think that’s any hold?” he said. “He’s not my partner; I’ve never had a partner. And she’s not my girl.”
    “She seems to think she is.”
    “She’s wrong.”
    “And what were you doing with that guy in Los Angeles if he wasn’t your partner? You don’t understand, Wulff, I’ve been watching you very, very closely.” Calabrese coughed delicately, reached into a pocket, brought out his pack of cigarettes. In just a moment, Wulff knew, the old man would start to break them. A reformed or at least controlled chain-smoker, he seemed to get his satisfaction that way. All right. Let him do it. “I think it’s time we talked,” Calabrese said, “just talked very reasonably man to man without guns or demonstrations. This has been building up a long time.”
    Wulff looked at the gun in his hand, then he looked at the old man yet again and then, slowly, he put the point thirty-eight into his inner pocket, went back to the wall, pulled out a straight chair from there in front of the desk and sat down. “All right,” he said, “talk.”
    It was remarkable how Calabrese had aged. He was simply not the man Wulff had dealt with in Chicago. It was not a failure of the will he could see so much as a simple collapse of the flesh; peering out through the thin folds of the face was the death’s head that Calabrese would someday become. The death’s head had a kind of ageless perception and resignation even more profound than that of the man who surrounded it; if Calabrese had himself been a man whose perception encompassed almost to the center, then the death’s head had moved beyond that, it was the aspect of a creature who could no longer be misled, goaded, misdirected by anything. Looking into that face Wulff saw his own future. It was not only the death, the fact of his own death which he saw there … no, it was a certainty he glimpsed in that face which he had only dimly felt himself, driving on those roads, perhaps, in the American night. “Talk,” he said again, his voice hoarse and strangely trapped within his throat, the gun hanging heavy within his jacket and he thought, what has happened here goes beyond guns, what is happening now goes beyond words. There is nothing to talk about. “I want the girl,” he said, “and I want Williams. That’s all. I want them now.”
    “In time,” Calabrese said, “but I have certain requests of you as well. I want the drugs.”
    “The drugs mean nothing to you.”
    “On the contrary,” Calabrese said, “very much to the contrary. That was my shipment. I worked on it very carefully. I made it possible for those goods to be gathered, they were prepared by my man to leave the country in his possession, I invested a great deal of time and effort to get them into my hands and I want them. I deserve to have them. That’s a major shipment, it’s not nickels and dimes, it has to do with keeping things afloat here for the next couple of years and a lot of people are depending on it. So you will please give it to me or tell me where it may be gotten. That is the first thing, the rest will then come into