The Girl, The GoldWatch & everything.

John D. MacDonald.

1962.

The young women came running along the public beach in the sunlight. First one would hold the lead and then another would make a special effort and forge ahead. They were young women of generous construction, naked as eggs. They were in panic and seemed to be heading toward the parking lot.

The old tourist in the patterned shirt came to a dead stop and stared at the women. After they pa.s.sed running he shook his head, sighed, turned, and peered at Kirby and said, "When I was your age, sonny, I would be right with 'em, matching 'em stride for stride, running like a dang deer. You took sick? Or does this happen all the time in Miami maybe?"

Dear Fred, You didn't tell me it was going to be easy. But you didn't tell me it was going to be like this. Find Kirby Winter. Bring him back. Spare no expense. And you a.s.signed me a good man to help out. At least Huddleston used to be a good man. Today you wouldn't know him. He stares into s.p.a.ce and he sighs, and all I can get out of him is sometimes an aimless giggle.

We found Kirby Winter, boss. We found him twice. And if you want him found a third time, you better send somebody else. But it will be a waste of money.

In fact, Fred, I think you better tell the client to give up. If this Kirby Winter did hold out a couple of million bucks from his Uncle Omar's estate, n.o.body is going to get if away from him.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Kirby Winter bought me off, and Huddleston too. I wish to G.o.d he had. I'd sleep better.

All I can do is tell you just what happened. The tip-off was absolutely correct. We found him right here in a big suite in the Del Prado, and he'd been right here in Mexico City registered under his own name for two weeks. He's not trying to hide, at least not very much, Fred. Kirby Winter and party. The party is a party of one, exactly the same broad that was with him in Sao Paulo three months ago, that gorgeous hillbilly broad that looks sweet as angels; but don't let that fool you a minute.

What I can't understand, Fred, is how both you and the client got the feeling this Kirby Winter is sort of innocent and helpless. Maybe that's his past history, but he got over it. This is a very self-confident guy, believe me. And as far as style and dash are concerned, Ona.s.sis should have it so rich. He and his hillbilly broad, they have a very fine time. If he's scared of having somebody show up and fake some of that money away from him, he doesn't show if a bit. Well, once we had them located, we figured out how to get them back info the States. I had to do most of the arrangements myself because ever since all those funny things happened in Sao Paulo, Huddleston has been a little unsure of himself.

I set up a private plane, big enough for the four of us and the pilot, with enough range to get us over the border. As you suggested, it seemed best to bring the girl along too. Then the problem was get them from the hotel to the airport. I decided we'd make it fast and simple. Bust in, hold a gun on them, give them each a big enough shot to keep them very, very quiet and humble and eager to please. In that condition we could walk them down to a car and be off. And I'd let you know where to arrange to have us met.

I bought a pa.s.skey. They went out about nine last night, and Huddleston and I decided we'd waif and welcome them when they got back. So we let ourselves in and settled down to waif. We both had guns. I had the hypo all ready. I had a man ready to pull up out in front as soon as I gave the word. And the pilot was standing by.

They came in about midnight, laughing and talking. As soon as they were far enough into the room, we stepped out and covered them. I ask you, Fred, how could anything go wrong? I am not a careless guy.

But it went wrong, Fred. All you can do is try to believe what I'm going to tell you. They jumped a little and stared at us, and then they started acting as if it was the biggest joke in the world. If reminded me so much of Sao Paulo, I felt very nervous. And Huddleston's color wasn't very good. I told them that if they co-operated, n.o.body was going to get hurt. This Kirby Winter, and he is sort of a mild-looking guy, stared at me and shook his head sort of sadly and said that after Sao Paulo, they thought we'd give up, so that meant they hadn't made their point clear enough, so they'd make it a lot clearer this time. Huddleston told him to shut up. I went toward them with the hypo, figuring to take care of him first. Fred, I was being very careful.

Suddenly the hypo was gone. I stopped and looked at my empty hand. Kirby Winter and that tow-headed hillbilly girl were smiling at me. I looked at Huddleston. Fred, I swear, in the twinkling of an eye he had taken off every st.i.tch and he was wearing a big blue sash tied with a bow around his waist, and printed on his chest in lipstick it said "Surprise!"

Remembering Sao Paulo, I decided that if things started to go wrong, I'd even them up by shooting Kirby Winter in the leg. As you know, I am fast and accurate, and I probably would have hit him just where I wanted to, except that when I tried to fire, I had a perfume atomizer in my hand instead of a gun.

Just as I stared at Kirby Winter, in that very same instant, Fred, without any warning at all, I was in the elevator and the door was closing. There was an elevator operator and three middle-aged tourist ladies and Huddleston in there with me. The door closed and we started down and the ladies started screaming and fainting. It was a mess in that elevator, Fred. Just like Huddleston, the only thing I had on was a sash, only mine was pink. And on my chest it was printed "Adios, amigo!" And we were both shaved absolutely bald and soaked in perfume, Fred. And that hysterical elevator operator ran us right down to the main lobby and opened the door. And Huddleston was so shook up, he tried to run.

Anyway, the wheels are turning, and if everything goes well, and if you send the money I wired for, they may let us out of here by tomorrow. Our lawyer says there aren't any major charges, but there sure are a lot of small ones. And he checked and found out that Kirby Winter and party checked out about noon today.

Personally, I don't think Huddleston is going to be of much use to anybody from now on. And I can't vouch for myself. If you think we were bought off, you'll have to admit it was a pretty strange way of covering up.

As I said, if your client wants Kirby Winter found again, you can send somebody else. I have been trying to examine what happened to us with a completely open mind. The easiest answer is to say that it is hypnosis. But Fred, I think it is just plain old-fashioned magic like we used to read about when we were kids. Why not? If there's magic in the world still going on, the ones who can do it won't let it get into the papers, will they?

And that uncle of Winter's, that Omar Krepps. Wasn't he supposed to be a very mysterious guy? A wizard, sort of? Maybe before he died he taught Kirby Winter how to use the spells or rub the lamp or whatever the h.e.l.l he does.

And look at Sao Paulo. Winter and that nifty little broad of his took six of the biggest casinos for about seventy grand apiece while they were there. And if that isn't magic, Fred, tell me what it is? An invention they're using?

Honest to G.o.d, Fred, the way I feel right now, if that little hillbilly girl should suddenly appear right in this cell and turn into a purple kangaroo, it wouldn't shock me a bit. You take so much and you come to the end of being shocked. You know what I mean?

Maybe the client believes and maybe you believe that this Kirby Winter used to be sort of a goof. But, believe me, something changed him. And unless you find out what it was and how if happened, there's no use sending anybody else after him. The way they looked at us, Fred, honest, it was like they were a pair of Martians. Or the way you and I would laugh at a puppy that growls at you. Fondly, you know. And superior.

I hope the money is on the way, because if it isn't, we might be in here a long, long time. No matter when we get out, I'm thinking I might go info some other line of work. I've sort of lost my confidence.

Very truly yours, Sam Giotti.

Chapter One..

Slowly, with a dedicated effort, Kirby tipped the universe back into focus. He heard the after-image of his voice going on and on, a tiresome encyclical of complaint, a paean to the scuffed spirit. The woman across the table from him was in silhouette against the window, a window big as a tennis court on edge, and through the window was an ocean, rosy with dusk or dawn. It made a peach gleam on her bare tanned shoulders and backlighted a creamy weight of blondness.

Atlantic, he thought. Once he had established the ocean, he found the time relationship simplified. Looking from Florida, it had to be dawn.

"You are Charla," he said carefully.

"Of course, dear Kirby," she said, amused, slightly guttural, almost laughing. "Your good new friend, Charla."

The man sat at Kirby's left, a solid, polished man, tailored, clipped, manicured. He made a soft sound of amus.e.m.e.nt. "A Spanish verb," he said. "Charlar. To chat. To make meaningless talk. An irony because her great talent is not in talking, but in listening."

"My great talent, Joseph?" she said with mock astonishment.

"Your most unusual one, my dear. But we have both enjoyed listening to Kirby."

Kirby nailed it all to a wall inside his head, like small signs. Charla, Joseph, Atlantic, dawn. He sought other clues. It could be Sat.u.r.day morning. The burial service had been on Friday at eleven. The conference with the lawyers had been at two in the afternoon. And he had begun drinking at three.

He turned his head with care and looked at the empty lounge. A barman in white jacket stood under prism lights paled by the dawn, arms folded, chin on his chest.

"Do they keep these places open all night?" Kirby asked.

"Hardly ever," Joseph said. "But they respond nicely to any small gift of money. A gesture of friendship. At the official closing time, Kirby, you still had much to say."

It was brighter in the lounge. They looked at him fondly. They were mature, handsome people. They were the finest two people he had ever met. They had slight accents, an international flavor, and they looked at him with warmth and with love.

Suddenly he had a horrid suspicion. "Are you, are you some kind of journalists, or anything like that?"

They both laughed aloud. "Oh no, my sweet," Charla said.

He felt ashamed of himself. "Uncle Omar is, was, death on any kind of publicity. We always had to be so careful. He paid a firm in New York thirty thousand dollars a year to keep him out of the papers. But people were always prying. They'd get some tiny little rumor about Omar Krepps and make a great big story out of it, and Uncle Omar would be absolutely furious."

Charla put her hand over his, a warm pressure. "But dear Kirby, it does not matter now, does it?"

"I guess not."

"My brother and I are not journalists, of course, but you could speak to journalists, you know. You could let the world know what a vile thing he did to you, what a horrid way he repaid your years of selfless devotion."

She was so understanding, Kirby wanted to weep. But he felt an uncomfortable twinge of honesty. "Not so selfless. I mean, you have an uncle worth fifty-million dollars, there's an ulterior motive."

"But you told us how you had quit many times," Joseph said. The warmth of Charla's hand was removed. Kirby missed it.

"But I always went back," Kirby admitted. "He'd tell me I was his favorite nephew. He'd tell me he needed me. For what? All he ever did was keep me on the run. No chance to have a life of my own. Crazy errands ail over the world. Eleven years of it, ever since I got out of college. Even there, he told me the courses to take. That old man ran my whole life."

"You told us, my dear," Charla said, her voice breaking. "All those years of devotion."