Hopscotch by Brian Garfield Page B

“That’s mighty kind of you.” He shook hands—Maddox didn’t get up—and went to the door; and hesitated with his hand on the knob. “My name’s not Murdison of course.”
    â€œDidn’t think it was, Mr. Murdison.”
    â€œJim-Bob likely never heard of anybody called Murdison from Topeka. If you were thinking of checking me out with him.”
    â€œI don’t guess that’ll be necessary now, Mr. Murdison.” Maddox smiled coolly and nodded and Kendig went out.
    They were shooting straight pool on a nine-foot table in a paneled room off the kitchen and he watched the play with a glass of bourbon in his hand. He wasn’t partial to bourbon but it went with the Murdison image. The two contestants were good, each trying to outhustle the other before the big money got laid down. Pool wasn’t Kendig’s game; it was too mathematical; but watching was a way to pass the time.
    By half-past eleven the two hustlers had concluded their ritual courtship dance and by general consent everyone took a break before the commencement of the big game. Kendig went back to the clubroom with the rest. Both players retired into the men’s room to spruce themselves like actresses before an opening curtain; the predictability of it amused him. He took a seat behind a lonely little table and a woman three tables away drew his attention because she was striking and because a curious defiance hung in an aura around her. One of the pocket billiard spectators was trying to joinher and she wasn’t having any; she didn’t look at the man. Kendig saw the man’s lips move: Could I buy you a drink ?
    I’ve got one .
    But the man stayed where he was and kept his hand on the back of the empty chair until the woman lifted her eyes slowly and fixed him with a flat stare of contempt that sent him away shaking his head.
    The waitress moved by, stopped at the woman’s table and spoke; she was indicating Kendig with a dip of her head; and the woman got up from her table and came toward him. She had a supple spider-waisted little body and short dark hair modeled to the shape of her Modigliani face.
    She let him have his look before she said, “You’ll know me again.” Her voice was cool, low in pitch—more smoky than husky. She pulled out the empty chair and sat down. He guessed she was thirty-five; she was attractively haggard. “You’re Murdison?”
    â€œCould be.”
    â€œMaddox said you want to hire a plane.”
    â€œDo you work for a charter outfit or are you just taking a survey?”
    â€œNeither. I fly my own airplane.”
    That made him readjust his thinking. She’d taken him by surprise and he rather enjoyed that. It didn’t happen to him very often.
    â€œI’m Carla Fleming,” she said. “It’s Mrs. Fleming.”
    â€œJim Murdison.”
    They shook hands across the table—rather like pugilists before the bell, he thought. “Did Maddox fill you in?”
    â€œRound trip to Saint Thomas, two or three weeks between, and very private. When do you plan to go?”
    â€œEarly October, I think. I can’t fix a date right now.”
    â€œIf you expect me to hang around waiting my time comes pretty high, Mr. Murdison.”
    â€œAll right,” he said. “The way we’ll do it, you’ll fuel up and draw your overseas papers at Miami International. File a flight plan to Charlotte Amalie. You fly out at not more than four thousand feet until you’re off the screen of their radar control. Then you swing down to the old landing field at Coral Key. You know it?”
    â€œI know where it is. I imagine it’s pretty overgrown.”
    â€œIt’s serviceable.”
    â€œThen I pick up you and a lady.”
    â€œAnd fly us to Charlotte Amalie. Your flight plan will check out—you’ll be about an hour late, that’s all.”
    â€œAnd the same number coming