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Carter found the car, a plain, gray, four-year-old Olds,
right where it was supposed to be in the Miami airport
parking lot. The keys were taped under the left front fender.
He took a quick check of the area and opened the trunk.
Inside was a sawed-off shotgun, a box ofshells, a silenced
Beretta, loaded, and a paper sack. In the sack was a glass
cutter, four rolls of adhesive tape, a suction cup, a ski mask,
and a map of the Miami—Miami Beach area.
Caner put the map in his pocket and closed the trunk. At
the parking lot gate he paid the chit that he found over the
visor and headed for the city.
It was just after eight, and the atmosphere on the streets
was building up to its peak of nighttime activity that would
last into the wee hours. The neon signs in the central city
blazed with light and the sidewalks moved with a sea of
people.
On the southern fringes of the Little Havana area, it was
quieter. Here Carter parked by a gutter drain a block from
a blinking red neon that outlined two dancing nudes. Be-
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tween their flickering bodies it read LOUIE'S. with a yellow
harpoon through the letters.
Carter locked the car and whistled as he approached the
lounge. He hadn't talked to Harpoon Louie Cruz for almost



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tween their flickering bodies it read LOUIE'S. with a yellow
harpoon through the letters.
Carter locked the car and whistled as he approached the
lounge. He hadn't talked to Harpoon Louie Cruz for almost
two years until the previous afternoon, during the stopover
in Caracas.
It would be nice to see the old gangster again.
Louie, in his day, had been a good thief, an even tEtter
smuggler, and he had even tried his hand at passing some
bad paper now and then. But in twenty years of operation
he had never once run afoul of the law. Louie was smart,
A fifth-grade dropout. he was nevertheless possessed of a
pungent native intelligence and a superlative IQ. Louie,
therefore, had not pushed his luck. Too far, that is. He had
realized that twenty years in a precarious profession—un-
trammeled by the law—was pushing luck right up to the
edge of a crash to disaster. So, summarily, he quit.
He invested in a fleet of fishing boats, which only occa-
sionally strayed from the law, and a nightclub. The club
was a little seedy. featuring nude dancers and a card game
upstairs. But this was the environment Louie knew.
He had gotten the nickname "Harpoon'S because legend
had it that it was a harpoon that had brought about the
demise of a great many of Louie's competitors in his early,
more reckless years.
The club wasn•t too crowded, There were about twenty
men sitting around the big horseshoe bar ogling the four
topless and almost bottomless dancers on top of it. and a
few couples scattered around the tables. It was that kind of
a joint, a workingman's bar, yet a great place for tourists
from Miami Beach to go slumming.
Louie himself sat in a dark booth in a corner. He spotted
Caner at once, and held up a finger. By the time Carter hit
the table, a girl in a G-string and high heels was sliding a



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glass in front of him. She smiled and split.
"Still Chivas?"
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"Still Chivas," Carter said with a grin, raising the glass.
"Salud. "
Louie raised a glass of mineral water. "Up yours, too."
Harpoon Louie, at forty-fives didn't look like his illustri-
bus reputation. He was a little jockey of a man, with gray
hair, gray eyes, a gray face, and he was dressed in a gray
suit. Carter absently wondered if he wore gray underwear.
In the old days, a joke had made the rounds that if Louie
were put up against a gray wall facing a ten-man firing
squad, all ten would miss.
But then Louie was a man whose forte had always been
a propensity for being invisible. He could merge, a human
chameleon who could blend with any background.
Carter finished half the drink and set the glass down to
light a cigarette. "Business good?"
"Always, Nicky. You should quit spookin' and come in
with me."
Carter chuckled. "Maybe I'll do that some day. Did you
do any good, Louie?"
The little man sipped his drink and let a frown make a
few hundred lines in his forehead as he leaned forward and
lowered his voice. "You could be in deep doo-doo, Nicky,
pissing around with Gordon Channing."
"My problem, Louie."
"I mean, this guy is well connected, and he's the bank
for a lot of those Latin hotheads."
"That's why I need it, Louie. I need to know some of
his connections."
"Okay," he replied, the gray shoulders shrugging, "you
know I'll help you all I can. It's on Roxbury Estates Road.
Here's a layout of the house and grounds."
He slipped a three-by-five index card across the table.
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Carter studied it for a few minutes and bumed it in the



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glass in front of him. She smiled and split.
"Still Chivas?"
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"Still Chivas," Carter said with a grin, raising the glass.
"Salud. "
Louie raised a glass of mineral water. "Up yours, too."
Harpoon Louie, at forty-fives didn't look like his illustri-
bus reputation. He was a little jockey of a man, with gray
hair, gray eyes, a gray face, and he was dressed in a gray
suit. Carter absently wondered if he wore gray underwear.
In the old days, a joke had made the rounds that if Louie
were put up against a gray wall facing a ten-man firing
squad, all ten would miss.
But then Louie was a man whose forte had always been
a propensity for being invisible. He could merge, a human
chameleon who could blend with any background.
Carter finished half the drink and set the glass down to
light a cigarette. "Business good?"
"Always, Nicky. You should quit spookin' and come in
with me."
Carter chuckled. "Maybe I'll do that some day. Did you
do any good, Louie?"
The little man sipped his drink and let a frown make a
few hundred lines in his forehead as he leaned forward and
lowered his voice. "You could be in deep doo-doo, Nicky,
pissing around with Gordon Channing."
"My problem, Louie."
"I mean, this guy is well connected, and he's the bank
for a lot of those Latin hotheads."
"That's why I need it, Louie. I need to know some of
his connections."
"Okay," he replied, the gray shoulders shrugging, "you
know I'll help you all I can. It's on Roxbury Estates Road.
Here's a layout of the house and grounds."
He slipped a three-by-five index card across the table.
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Carter studied it for a few minutes and bumed it in the




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Carter studied it for a few minutes and burned it in the
ashtray.
"Safes?" the Killmaster asked.
"Two. One in the study, behind a Picasso drawing, the
other in the basement, under a phony drain in the laundry
room."
Carter nodded. "That's probably where the real goodies
will be. What about servants?"
'Three two women—a maid and a cook—and a guy.
The guy's gay. runs the house accounts and pimps young
studs for Channing's wife when Channing's out of town,
which is most of the time. My contact says he does her hair
on the side."
"Busy little man. Anything on tonight?"
"Yeah, you're in luck. Channing and his old lady are
goin' to some celebrity charity bash over on the beach. My
man says midnight, maybe one in the morning they
get back."
"No driver, no bodyguard?" Carter asked.
Louie chuckled. "I tol' ya, Nicky, this guy is well con-
nected. He can afford to be cocky. Nobody would dream
of hittin' him and live."
Carter squeezed the other man•s arm. "Louie, I love you
like a brother. You still think you can break the bank code?"
"Hell, yes," he said. ' 'The guys that run these banks got
so many figures to keep track of, they got to keep their
books simple. Use this."
Carter felt what he knew would be a camera drop into
his lap. He pocketed it. "Half is yours, Louie."
"Nah, Nicky, I got all I need. Tell you what, though ..
"Yeah?"
"See the one dancin' up there on the end, the cocoa-brown
one with the body?"
Carter swiveled his head. She was tall, but a long way
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from gangly, with glistening brown skin and luscious breasts
that matched the rest of her size. From the neck down she
cozed pure sex. From the neck up she had soft brown eyes




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"See the one dancin' up there on the end, the cocoa-brown
one with the body?"
Carter swiveled his head. She was tall, but a long way
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from gangly, with glistening brown skin and luscious breasts
that matched the rest of her size. From the neck down she
cozed pure sex. From the neck up she had soft brown eyes
and a sad smile.
"What about her?"
"Name's Anita, she's good people. She's got two kids,
babies. Her old man's dead, got spaced with a coke and H
habit and tried a nickel-dime heist. Cops offed him when
I he tried to run for it.'
Carter smiled. "I thought you never got involved, Louie
"You know I don't. This one's different. She's got tal-
. sings, plays a hot jazz piano. She shouldn't be up
ent .
there shakin' her tits."
Carter squeezed the little man's hand again, and stood.
"We'll see what we can do about puttin' her kids through
college, Louie. Later,"
"Later, man. Watch yourself."
In the parking lot, Carter memorized the route to Roxbury
Estates and stuffed the map under the seat. Then he took
out a pocket knife and pried all the plastic covers from the
courtesy lights in the car. When the bulbs were removed so
the interior wouldn't light up when the doors were opened,
he moved out.
The side-by-side houses grew into mammoth homes on
acres of land as Carter drove to Roxbury Estates. He found
the smaller road and turned, leaving the wide main boulevard
with its sodium arc lamps behind.
A low stone wall bordered both sides of the street, and
bulky stone gateposts were on each side of entrances to
drives leading to the houses. fie houses were two- and
three-story, the light from windows flickering through the
branches of trees in the front yards. A nimbus from flood-
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branches of trees in the front yards. A nimbus from flood-
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NICK CARTER
an occasional house. The street curved slowly to the right
and to the left, then there was an intersection with another
wide street, Roxbury Estates Road.
A block farther on and the headlights gleamed on the gate
of 11401. The Killmaster dropped the Olds into low-drive
and e{Fed on by. Light from a couple of windows on the
side and the porch light in front of the house shone through
the forest that was the front yard. There was a haze of light
from the adjacent house on the right, behind. The house on
the left he was just coming to was dark.
Caner had already seen the wide riding trails that wound
through the complex. Around the next corner he found the
one he wanted. He killed his lights and turned in. Five
hundred yards back up the trail toward the Channing house,
he let the Olds glide to a stop so the brake lights wouldn't
come on.
Quickly he gathered his gear and was over the wall,
moving in a low crouch through the shrubbery, cradling the
shotgun across his chest.
He could see vague movement now and then through the
lighted windows. That would be the kitchen and, hopefully,
all three of the servants. Ten to one. with the servants in
the house, the alarm system had been cut off, but he couldn't
chance it.
He kept moving along the rear of the house where all the
windows were dark. When he found the telephone terminal
box, electric meter, and circuit breaker box, he examined
them with a shielded penlight. A smaller black box was
attached to the circuit breaker.
Gently he opened it and found the outside power supply
for a central burglar alarm system. loaded with mercury
switches that would trigger if they were removed or tampered
with in any way.
He would have to slip through the system on his wits.
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Killing the light, he moved back toward the rear patio.
The thin, blanched light of the moon gleamed down on
the expansive patio and the deck chairs, tables, and benches
scattered around it. It sparkled on tiny ripples in the large,
kidney-shaped swimming pool. Carter worked his way along
the windows at the rear of the house, shining the beam of
the penlight around the edges of them.
Tiny, almost invisible wires were on the inside of the
panes of each one. Those around the glass patio were flat
metal ribbons, and the doors also had frame contacts that
were wired into the burglar alarm system.
The windows on the second floor were alternating pairs
of large and small windows. with a round window in the
center to illuminate a hallway. The round window was an
elaborate design in stained glass. A narrow, omamental
ledge ran across the back of the house, five feet below the
level of the second-floor windows. Carter stepped back to
the corner of the house and tugged on the gutter drain. It
felt solid. He slipped the strap of the shotgun over his head
and hung it across his back, and began climbing the drain.
In no time he was on the ledge and checking the smaller
windows. Sure enough, they were also wired. buts just as
he'd guessed, the stained-glass window was clean. The lead-
ing of the stained glass would have obstructed the current.
He went to work with the glass cutter and the suction
cup. He attached the cup with his left hand and scored a
circle eight inches in diameter. When it was done, he popped
it with the suction cup and threw it as far as he could to
settle silently in the backyard grass.
Then he pulled the ski mask over his face and skinned a
pair of thin surgical gloves over his hands. He reached
through the opening. unfastened the catch, and lifted the
window until he could roll under it. He then dropped like
a cat to the soft carpet.
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NICK CARTER
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The window was at the end of a short hallway that
branched off the main hallway across the upper floor of the
house. There were several guest bedrooms furnished with
expensive furnitUre, then there was a woman's bedroom. It
was a larger room with a strong, fresh scent of perfume and
powder. Dresses were tossed over the foot of the canopied
bed, and shoes were scattered in front of the open closet door.
The adjacent bathroom had gilded fixtures and a sunken
tub, and the walls were covered with mirror tiles. The man's
bedroom was through a connecting door, filled with an
aroma of talc and after-shave lotion, and with shoes and
clothes scattered about.
Carter checked the other rooms, shining the beam of the
penlight ahead of him as he walked silently along the hall.
Then he tumed back toward the stairs.
The light in the entry hall was glaring and painfully bright
after the darkness. A night light was on in the hallway
leading to the rear of the house and the kitchen.
Carter moved down the stairs and to the dual swinging
doors of the kitchen. Through a narrow glass window he
could see them, a slender little man with a thin mustache,
a blowsy blonde who needed to lose thirty pounds, and a
young Mexican girl. All three of them were sitting at the
table drinking coffee.
He parked the shotgun by the door, pulled the silenced
Beretta from his belt, and pushed.
The little man looked up and cried, "Oht dear God, my
he art
The two women saw Carter, and their mouths dropped
open as the color drained from their faces.
s 'No talk," Carter growled. "Do as you're told, you might
live. Down on the floor, on your bellies, hands behind your
back."
The two women prayed as Carter applied the wide surgical
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tape to their ankles, wrists, and mouths. The little man peed
his pants.
' 'Can you all breathe?" Three heads nodded. "Good,




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s 'No talk," Carter growled. "Do as you're told, you might
live. Down on the floor, on your bellies, hands behind your
back."
The two women prayed as Carter applied the wide surgical
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tape to their ankles, wrists, and mouths. The little man peed
his pants.
' 'Can you all breathe?" Three heads nodded. "Good,
•cause I don't want to hurt nobody, just buy my baby some
new shoes."
Back upstairs, Carter went through the bedrooms. From
a linen closet he got a monogrammed pillowcase and started
on the woman's bedroom first.
Just like the idle rich, he thought, going through the jewel
boxes on top of and inside the woman's vanity, careless.
There were several good pieces ... diamonds. emeralds.
and a big ruby ring. The six diamond-encrusted platinum
dress watches would feed a small city for a month. If that
wasn't enough, he found nearly six thousand dollars in cash
carelessly dumped in a drawer.
Gordon Channing's bedroom was nearly as lucrative. By
the time Carter got downstairs, the pillowcase was heavy.
On the first floor he took only the smallest, most expensive
objects. mostly gold, that Louie could dispose of without
trouble in the Caribbean islands.
When the house, except for the two safes, was thoroughly
raped, he poured himself a scotch from Channing's bar and
made himself comfortable in the study.
An hour passed, and then Carter heard a car come up the
drive. When he heard the rumble of the garage door opening,
he moved into the hall. The garage connected with a large
recreation room. The Killmaster stayed in the dark hall just
outside the room.
The garage door lowered and he heard voices. he outside
door opened and they entered, the woman's heels clicking
on the parquet floor.
Channing was tall, aristocratically handsome in a five-
hundred-dollar tux and a million-dollar tan showing off a
head of steel-gray hair.




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NICK CARTER
In spike heels and a ton of platinum hair, Mrs. Channing
was a couple of inches taller than her husband. She wore a
slinky green gown cut low enough to advertise her two
biggest charmS. She could have stepped right out of a Vegas
chorus line.
"I don't know what you're bitching about . . e"
"I'm bitching about you shoving your cleavage at every
man in the room!"
"At least they're men . . . Jesus Christ . . . "
Carter had stepped into the room just as Channing snapped
on the lights. The woman's mouth dropped to her cleavage.
Channing jerked convulsively his eyes wide with surprise.
"I don't believe it . . g"
"You'd better believe it," Carter rasped. "This way!"
Neither of them moved.
Suddenly Channing laughed. "A thief? I don't believe
this. Do you know who I am?"
"Yeah," Carter said, nodding, prodding with the shotgun,
"you're one rich bastard. Now, move!"
"You're going to end up in cement, punk."
"Shut up and move : ' Carter said, his palm cracking across
the man's face.
"Do as he says, Gordon, for God's sake!"
The Killmaster shuttled them into the study. "Down on
the floor, hands behind your back."
'*GO to hell," Channing hissed.
Caner dropped him with a pulverizing right to the gut.
The woman screamed and went down like a rock beside her
husband. The Killmaster taped Channing's hands and moved
to the woman.
"Don't hurt me," she whined. "I'll give you anything not
to hurt me. I can't stand pain. Anything, anything at all!"
The way she looked at Carter over her shoulder left little
doubt what she was offering.




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Carter patted her ample backside. "No, thanks, lady, I
got all I need at home. I just rob, I don't rape."
"It wouldn't have to be rape .
"For Chrissake, Celeste, will you ever quit playing the
w h ore
"You cheap bastard, you'd rather die than lose ten bucks!"
"Shut up, both of ya," Carter said, going through her
Vurse and Channing's wallet and dumping the goodies into
the pillowcase. "I'm just makin' a livin'. So far I got some
baubles. It ain't enough, not for a pair like you. Where's
the safe?"
"It's right there . . ."
'SShut up, Celeste! I swear, you open your mouth again,
I'll break your arms."
"She don't open her mouth," Carter growled, "and I'll
break her arms. Lady?"
"Behind that sketch, there on the wall."
Carter moved to the wall and tugged on the frame. He
ran the tips of his fingers around the frame until he found
a slight projection. He pushed it, there was a click, and the
sketch and frame swung out, revealing the safe.
Just as Carter had expected. It was a Swiss mechanism,
a double-combination Magnalock. He could have played
with it for a week and never gotten it open. And if he had
blown it, there was a good chance everything inside would
be destroyed.
'A,Vhat's the combination?"
Channing just stared, Carter glanced at the woman. Her
face was white now and her lips were quivering.
"I don't know," she said.
Channing smiled. Carter sighed. The woman growled.
"Dammit, tell him!"
"She's right. buddy. I ain't got all night."
Silence.
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Carter recrossed the room and crouched in front of Chan-
ningi ' •Look, I'm just a thief tryin• to make a living. I ain't
a killer and you know it. I won't kill ya. an' you know that.
But I will make things very messy."
"Gordon, for God's sake, tell him!"
Carter flipped the Beretta around and held it by the barreL
"You got a pretty face, Gordon. Know what it'll look like
after I use this?"
"All right."
"Good boy."
Carter went back to the safe and dialed as Channing gave
him the combination. He knew he wouldn't find what he
wanted, but he had to go through the motions. The whole
scene had to look like a gutsy robbery and nothing else.
A revolver was on top in the safe, and a metal box was
next. It was full of jeweler's bags filled with cut, sized, and
unmounted diamonds that ranged up to three carats. Another
metal box was very heavy, containing Krugerrands. Two
heavy manila envelopes were filled with Treasury bills in
denominations of five thousand, redeemable at any Federal
Reserve Bank for cash with no questions asked. There were
several bundles of bills in denominations of fifty and one
hundred.
Carter dumped it all, includihg the .38 revolver, in the
pillowcase and rejoined the couple.
"So far, so good," he said. "Now, where's the rest of it?"
"The rest of what?" Channing said, the color now draining
from his face.
"Her stuff. What I got upstairs in her bedroom was trin-
kets. Yours, too. Hell, I didn't even find a pinky diamond.
Where's the good stuff?"
"In a safe-deposit box in a bank," Channing replied in a
dull monotone.
"Bullshit," Carter said, his eyes flicking to the woman.
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Both their faces were gray and lifeless now, and a sheen
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Both their faces were gray and lifeless now, and a sheen
of sweat covered their features. Evidently Celeste Channing
knew about the dopers' bank records.
Caner untaped her ankles and lifted her. '*C'mon, lady."
They were atthe door when Channing spoke. "Celeste ... "
The woman dropped her face and began weeping. Carter
tugged her along the hall. When they were out of earshot,
stopped.
"Look, lady, I got inside info. I know you got some big
pieces of ice. I mean, big. Now, I could snatch you until
he comes across, but for you I don't think he would, Right?"
She was really crying now, her whole body shaking.
Carter almost felt some pity for her, until he remembered
all the school kids who saved up their lunch money so they
could get hooked on dope.
"Whaddaya say, lady?"
She looked up, eyes wide with fear, her running mascara
making a clown mask out of her face. "Look, you got
enough already." She moved forward until her breasts
crushed against his chest and ballooned up over the bodice
of her dress. 'Take me. I'm good. the best. Two hours up
in my bedroom and you'll think you died and went to heaven.
I can do things—
'*Lady, I'm not interested."
She shook her head. s 'I can't. He'll kill me."
Carter didn't want to, but she was leaving him no choice.
Flipping the Beretta again, he placed his hand on her throat
and put her against the wall.
"Remember what I said about your hubby's face?"
He left it at that. It didn't take long. Without her face
and figure she might as well be dead anyhow.
Carter retaped her ankles and ran for the basement. The
combination to the safe under the phony drain would be
some variation of the combination of the study safe; since
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NICK CARTER
Channing wouldn't write them down anywhere. it would
be easier to remember it that way.
At least that was what Carter was hoping.
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Carter retaped her ankles and ran for the basement. The
combination to the safe under the phony drain would be
some variation of the combination of the study safe; since
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NICK CARTER
Channing wouldn't write them down anywhere. it would
be easier to remember it that way.
At least that was what Carter was hoping.
And he was right. It was the exact reverse, and he nailed
it on the third try.
Inside, he found fifty thousand in cash, what seemed to
be the entire stock of Cartier, Bulgari, and Van Cleef &
Arpels, and the bankbooks, four of them.
Quickly he laid them out, put the camera on automatic—
two seconds between exposures and started flipping pages.
In twenty minutes he was through and everything was
back in the safe just the way he had found it.
He sprinted back to the first floor, checking his watch.
It was seven minutes shy of four in the morning.
Outside the study, he composed himself and entered like
a bull.
"Okay, bastard, I'm through screwing around. I got the
basement location from your old lady. Now, what's the
combination?"
Carter could tell from Channing's eyes that he could kill
the man and he would never get the combination. The
bankbooks were worth more to him than his life. That was
because if they ever got out, if the big suppliers he banked
for, paid off distributors for, and invested their offshore
money for, ever found out that their records got out of
Channing's hands, he was a dead man anyway.
For six minutes and fifty-nine seconds, Carter rearranged
Gordon Channing's face, and threw in a few kicks elsewhere
for good measure. The man took it without a whimper or
a word.
At four sharp, the phone rang three times and stopped.
When it rang again, Carter grabbed it.
"Yeah
not all of it .
. enough, yeah .
okay






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okay, but your split's gotta be less, hear?"
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On the other end of the line. Harpoon Louie was laughing
his head off.
Carter slammed the phone down and turned to the now
moaning man on the floor.
"You're one lucky son of a bitch. I gotta go. I'm outta
time."
Gordon Channing closed his eyes and passed out.








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Carter paced the bedroom above Louie's lounge like a
caged tiger. It was nearly eight in the evening, fifteen hours
since he had returned from Channing's, handed the camera
over to Louie, and fell wearily into bed.
At around fives the cocoa-brown dancer had
brought up a tray of dinner for him. Carter had showered,
shaved. and eaten. Then he had called Louie on the intercom
line.
"How's it goin'?"
"It's goin', Nicky, but it's tough—a lot harder than I
thought it would be. but we'll break it. Just take it easy and
give us time."
At seven-thirty, the girl had returned with a full ice bucket,
glasses, and a bottle of Chivas. Before, when she had
brought the dinner, she had set it down and run like a skittish
colt. This time she lingered. She seemed as if she wanted
to talk.
'AMY name is Anita."
Carter just nodded and poured. His mind was full and
jumping.
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"Louis says I don't go to work anymore."
'*He says I'm not fired, but I don't have to take my clothes
e mv tits anymore."





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"Louis says I don't go to work anymore."
'*He says I'm not fired, but I don't have to take my clothes
off and shake my tits anymore."
Carter drank and smiled. ' 'Louie has such a wild way
with words."
"I don't get it."
"You don't have to."
ain't dumb. I think you got something to do with it.
What is it? You some kind of a slaver or somethin'? You
think you're buyin' me? Well, listen-—
"Take it easy, Anita," Carter said, and her a drink.
"Louie will clue you in when he gets something else out of
the way."
Now she sat, the drink in her lap, by the window. She
wore a catalogue-model housedress in a flowered print. Her
hair was natural now instead of greased. and she wore none
of the layered makeup she had worn when she was dancing.
The dress still couldn't hide her lavish figure, and he
thought she looked even more beautiful with less or no
makeup.
She started to talk. For a while Caner didn't listen. He
just drank, and planned. and figured. But then, after a while,
he had to listen. There was something in her voice, the
tone, that made him listen.
From the time her figure had started expanding, she had
been the belle of many balls but the queen of none. To be
the belle of many balls meant nothing, especially when two
dudes had raped her while they were high on dope that her
own father had sold them.
That's when her white mother had taken her and run away
to New Orleans. In New Orleans she really blossomed and
learned. Learned that she didn't fit. Black and white,
chiaroscuro, that was little Anita Washington.



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chiaroscuro, that was little Anita Washington.
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The glistening hair framing her exotic face was jet black.
as was the curly triangle between her legs. But everything
else was light, a smooth cocoa brown. Her mother thought
she could pass for white. •n)at way she could meet a nice
white boy and be happy.
Boy, was her mother dumb.
It was her mama who had decided that she should be a
ymodel. At fifteen it looked good. But then Anita had kept
growing.
She got too tall. with a figure that was too full. And it
was that voluptuous figure that became her downfall, in
more ways than one.
Men loved her full figure, but photographers detested it.
Back then, they wanted their models skinny and nat and,
of course. tall; tall but not in the stratosphere, like Anita.
Anita was not skinny and flat.
She had big, firm, full breasts, and a big, firm, full
behind, the splendid curves of which pleased the men her
mama found for her but vexed her photographers. Therefore,
she was an ordinary model earning a living rather than an
extraordinary model earning thousands a day.
white, handsome,
Then she met Jason Kimberly
from a good family. Her mother loved Jason. Her mother
didn't know Jason was a pusher.
"You've got everything, baby, you've got it all." Jason
had said. "But so far, what good has it done you?"
No good, Jason. nothing.
She was twenty going on twenty-one and did have it all ...
except money. And, God knows, her mama loved money.
She just didrCt know how Jason made it.
So Anita had started dealing for Jason. It was easy, with
all the contacts she had.
Her mother died six weeks after Anita mamed Jason.
Two months after her mother died, Anita found out she was
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pregnant. A month before the first baby was born, she found
out who she was really married to.
Jason was a weakling; that, first and foremost. was his
chief characteristic. But he covered with a quick tongue,
an insouciant manner, a gay sophistication, and a world of
worldly charm. He was an opportunist with style, brains,
and no morals at all. He was descended from an excellent
family, but he was the last of it; Jason was the dregs. He
was tall and slender and blond and handsome and a lousy
lay. He knew everybody and everybody knew him; he was
invited everywhere where it meant anything. He had been
a glamour boy all his life and he knew nothing else.
Between kid one and kid two, Anita found out that Jason
was not only a pusher, he was a user. He got himself killed
two weeks after kid two was born.
When she finished, Caner poured agaim He stood beside
her chair, both of them sipping the good scotch.
"You're probably wonderin' why I'm tellin' you all this."
Carter didn't reply. "It's 'cause Louie says you're one mean
son of a bitche But he says you wear a white hat and you're
goin• to bring a whole big bunch of 'em down. Well, man,
I hope you do. My kids gonna be growin' up someday. I
hope you kill every one of the motherfuckers."
The door new open and an elated Louie Cruz swept into
the room. "We got it!"
Anita exchanged a solid look with Carter, squared her
shoulders, and walked from-the room.
Louie had broken the code in all four banks. Each of
them was for a separate, big supplier. In tum, it pinpointed
ten or more distributors for each supplier.
Channing was a huge bank. Every penny paid for dope—
where it was invested, and where the deposits were placed—
was in the books.
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The four suppliers were in Montreal, Salerno, Istanbul.



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The four suppliers were in Montreal, Salerno, Istanbul.
and Mexico City.
The supplier in Mexico City was Pepe the Butcher, There
was no key for the code name: that was in Channing's head.
"The DEA boys can break the names down by tracing
the money routes. But that will take time."
"I don't have time," Carter said.
Louie shrugged. "Then you'll have to break one of the
distributors. He'll have to order, It's a cinch he doesn't
know who Pepe is, but he can get in touch with him."
Carter looked over the list of Pepe's North American
distributors. They ranged all the way from Spokane,
Washington, to Miami. He flipped it back to Louie.
"You checked 'em?"
"Yeah. "
"Which one's got the loosest spine?"
Louie didn't hesitate. "Tampa, His name's Earl Gorshen.
They call him sthe Doctor,' which he is. That's his front.
He's always been a rummy, but he sobers up long enough
every day to do business. He's a slimy bastard, and he
should break easy, Here's the address."
"How did I do at Channing's?"
Louie passed across a thick manila envelope. "l already
passed the securities. All the cash comes to one hundred
and sixty grand." He laughed. "That should defray Uncle
Sam's expenses,"
"It will," Carter agreed. "The rest?"
'*Around three mil. With the right people, I think I can
get about twenty-five percent. Should come out to around
seven hundred grand."
"You know what to do with it."
"Yeah. I know. Can I tell her now?"
Carter shrugged. "Suit yourself."
It took him nearly an hour to gather everything he would
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NICK CARTER
need and make the proper phone calls. first to set up his air
reservations, second. to a man named Frank Norris.
He reached Norris at his home after three calls. In the




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"You know what to do with it."
"Yeah. I know. Can I tell her now?"
Carter shrugged. "Suit yourself."
It took him nearly an hour to gather everything he would
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NICK CARTER
need and make the proper phone calls. first to set up his air
reservations, second. to a man named Frank Norris.
He reached Norris at his home after three calls. In the
background Carter could hear a television and kids,
"Frank Norris." The voice was weary and not too in-
terested.
"You were told you might get a Q-Five Red call?"
"Yes. yes, I was."
"This is it. Do you know Porfino's, just off the causeway
on the beach side?"
"J know it."
"A half hour."
"How will I know you?"
"You won't," Carter said. "I've got your description."
He hung up, gathered his gear, and headed for the car in
the alley behind Louie's. He was about to climb in, when
she stepped out of the shadows.
Even with the tears welling from her huge brown eyes
and the streetlight throwing strange patterns on her face,
she was still exotically beautiful.
She took Carter's face in her hands and kissed him gently
on the lips.
No words. just the kiss, and she was gone, back into the
club.
Carter drove to Porfino's thinking that, for the first time
in a long time, he liked his profession.
It was good timing. The floor show was just starting as
Carter entered Porfino's.
"Yes. sir?"
Carter slipped a twenty to the maitre d'. "I see my friend.
Send over a double Chivas."
"Yes, sir."



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Carter made his way around the huge room toward a dark
table far from the stage.
A huge crystal ball came down slowly from the high
black ceiling, dazzling the eyes as spotlights flashed over
it while the orchestra played. As the ball, with its thousands
of big crystals neared the floor, it opened up like a flower.
There were six nearly naked girls posed inside it, their lithe
young bodies gleaming with gold paint. They jumped to the
floor and began whirling to the music, flashing their gleam-
ing gold buttocks and breasts at the customers jamming the
ringside tables around them.
Suddenly the tempo of their dancing changed as the or-
chestra shifted into a circus number. Six white ponies came
prancing out of the wings. wearing silver saddles. The gold-
painted girls vaulted into the silver saddles and rode them
in crisscross patterns as the audience applauded.
"Norris." Carter offered his hand and the other man shook
it. He didn't ask the Killmaster for a name; none was needed.
"Sorry I wasn't in the office. Something as big as Q-Five-
Red . . . well. I thought it would be several days."
"No matter. I had to move a little fast myself."
Carter's drink came. He glanced toward the stage, keeping
Norris in sight out of the corner of his eye.
He was about thirty-three, young to be the head of the
biggest drug enforcement team in the country. But Carter
liked his style. The man didn't know from apple butter what
was going on, but he didn't rush things. He just sipped his
drink and waited for a move.
On the stage, four full-size horses had joined the dance.
They were ridden by showgirls wearing green-plumed hats
and black cowboy boots and nothing else. Ten girls in
sequined panties, bras, and shoes came cartwheeling out of
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doing cartwheels in the opposite direction. An unseen singer
blared into a microphone somewhere. More dancers kept
pouring onto the stage.
nere wasn't an eye in the house—including the helps'—
that wasn't on the stage. Carter passed over a thick sheaf
of papers and nodded at Norris's inquiring look.
He read every word for five minutes and skimmed for
another ten. When he looked back up, his face was that of
a fifteen-year-old boy who was about to score for the first
time.
"Jesus. I couldn't get this kind of stuff if I was in their
pocket for ten years!"
"My methods aren't exactly standard," Carter replied
dorly. "But it has strings."
Norris shrugged. "Anything, my firstborn child. You
name it."
"You can set up, put people in place, but nobody moves
until you get another Q-Five Red call from me. And don't
disburse that stuff in anything but pieces, and then only on
a need-to-know. You do. I'll be dead. And believe me. I
can come back from the grave to get you."
"Done."
'*Now. there are a couple of other things. Here's what I
want available, and here's how I want it used . .
An hour later, Carter left a bewildered but delighted Frank
Norris and headed for his car and Tampa.
The telephone didn't answer at the house, so Carter drove
to the downtown offices of Dr. Earl Gorshen.
Getting in through a delivery entrance in the rear of the
building was a piece of cake. Gorshen had half the fifth
floor. The offices and equipment were impressive, but there
was something wrong.
And then it hit him. Nothing looked used. It was like the
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good doctor and his staff dropped by each day, sipped a
few cups of coffee, passed out a few aspirins, and split.
nie Rolodex and the secretary's desk and Gorshen's ap-
pointment book bore out the fact that he didn't have a huge
practice that would warrant the elaborate offices. This was
reinforced when Carter went through the patients' case files.
His patients didn't display many symptoms beyond sore
throats, arthritis, and hypochondria.
A further search turned up nothing more than a few dozen
half pints of Jim Beam whiskey in selected hiding places.
Carter called the residence again, got no answer, and left.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the exclusive Burgun
Hills section and Gorshen's million-dollar pad.
Carter turned up a gravel drive that wound through shaggy
cypress trees and an untended lawn. The house itself was
unimpressive. It was three stories, stuccoed, and badly in
need of paint with ivy wildly crawling up the walls.
It might have been worth a million, Carter thought, but
only because of the locatiom God knows. Gorshen sure as
hell didn't put a dime into maintenance.
Somebody must be home. Every window blazed with
light.
Carter rang the bell and Big Ben went off somewhere in
the bowels of the house. He waited thirty seconds and rang
again.
"I'm comin'!" The door opened. "Yeah?"
"Mrs. Gorshen?"
"So . . . whaddaya want?"
She looked as though she had been blasted by the night.
The face was weary and it sagged under heavy, smeared
makeup. Stringy, unwashed hair hung over it. She was not
dressed. She wore an old wrapper, pulled open in the front,
and Carter could see the broad, dead-white veiny plateau
of skin above the bosom where it disappeared into the crum-
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NICK CARTER
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The face was weary and it sagged under eavy, smeare
makeup. Stringy, unwashed hair hung over it. She was not
dressed. She wore an old wrapper, pulled open in the front,
and Carter could see the broad, dead-white veiny plateau
of skin above the bosom where it disappeared into the crum-
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NICK CARTER
pled nightgown. Underneath the wrapper feet stuck out,
bare.
Worst of all were the eyes, red-rimmed and squinting.
The mouth was bitter and the hands trembled as they clutched
the beer. but the eyes were the worst. They were bleary and
she couldn't get them focused. The way they floated, Carter
was sure she would topple forward any second.
Mrs. Gorshen was drunk out of her mind.
"I'd like to SEEak to your husband."
"He ain't here."
She turned. leaned forward, and let her momentum carry
her back into the house. She hadn't bothered to close the
door, so Caner went on inside.
At one time it had probably been a haven of grace and
luxury. Now it smelled musty and a layer of dust covered
everything.
There was a teakwood staircase to the left of the hall that
rose to a balcony with rooms leading off of it. To the right
was a two-story living room furnished in dark leather pieces
in warm tones of brown and orange. "Ihe walls were deco-
rated with modem paintings and some Mexican folk art.
The woman staggered up about three of the stairs, realized
she was heading the wrong way, and reeled across Carter
into the living room.
She made it to a huge sofa behind a coffee table littered
with full ashtrays, spilled and broken glasses, and empty
bottles. A full bottle was in Mrs. Gorshen•s hand.
s checked at the office. He wasn't there. Do you know
where he is?"
'*Ain't here." She drank from the bottle, a lot of it running
down over her neck and into the housecoat.
"Do you have any idea where he might be?"
"Drunk, he's probably drunk." She took another pull from
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"Do you have any idea where he might be?"
"Drunk, he's probably drunk." She took another pull from
the bottle and rolled to her side.
BOLIVIAN HEAT
Carter checked. She was out cold.
107
He lifted her and carried her from room to room until he
found a shower, He turned the taps on full cold and shoved
her under it.
Then he headed for the kitchen and made some coffee.
When he heard the shower go off, he retumed to the bed-
room. She was naked and soaking wet, sitting on the bed,
Still drunk but awake. From somewhere she had found
another bottle.
"Where can I find your husband?"
' 'Goddamn, I'm naked . . ."
Carter found another housecoat in a closet and tossed it
to her. It fell across her lap. She looked at it, dismissed it,
and drank.
"Put it on."
"The robe."
She did, with difficulty. "I don't like him anymore."
"Your husband?"
"Yeah, he's a drunk."
She tipped the bottle again. Much more of this, Carter
thought, and not even a cold shower would wake her up.
He took away her bottle of whiskey. That immediately
started a scratching and kicking bout that he managed to
control by grabbing her wrists. Once she almost got to his
eyes.
Her housecoat came open, hiding nothing. She wasn't
bad-looking, but not too good, either. At last she calmed
down and retied the robe.
"Now, be good," he said, "and you can have your drinks."
"What's good?" she snarled. Her lipstick had smeared
onto her chin.
'*Good is answering my questions."
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and poured short drinks for her when she did. He got an-
swers.
"He's probably on the boat, humping one of his nurses."
"Which boat?"
need a drink."
He poured her a short one. It disappeared. "What's the
name on the boat""
"The Lady Belle. " she said, and then cackled. "Named
after me. My name's Belle. Ain't that a pisser?"
"Yeah. Where's it docked?"
"Gulfport Marina over in St. Pete. Got a cigarette?"
"No. What slip?"
"How the hell do I know? Gimme a drink."
He gave her the bottle and went through the house. It
didn't take long to find a receipt from the marina. It had
the slip number on it,
He picked up the phone and dialed the number he had
gotten from Norris in Miami.
"This is the Q-Five Red contact from Mr. N."
"Yessir."
"Pier five, slip two, Gulfport Marina."
"Yessir."
Carter hung up.
He checked her before he left. She was out cold again,
sitting straight up in the bed.
He knew she would never remember what he looked like.
Carter's hand touched the .38 in his belt as he reached
the end of the dock. It was the gun he had liberated from
Channing's safe.
He looked over Gorshen"s boat. It was a big one, a hell
of a big one: a seventy-footer with spacious cabins and twin
diesel engines.
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He stood there at the end of the night-shadowed dock and
studied it, listening. A hot breeze from the sea, the lapping
of water against dock pilings, the creak of rigging in the
marina's forest of masts, the groan of vessels pulling heavily
at their mooring lines.
He crossed the short gangplank onto the deck of the float-
ing home. Drawing the snub-nosed .38 from his belt, he
held it ready as he began exploring, every nerve and muscle
tensed in readiness.
He checked the wheelhouse first. It was equipped with
all the modern navigation equipment that could ever be
needed, including Decca radar, a depth sounder, and
radiotelephone. The steering equipment and engine controls
were positioned so that in a pinch one person could handle
the entire job of sailing the big yacht.
Aft of the wheelhouse, separated from it by a narrows
partially covered thwart-ships passageway, was the main
deckhouse. Carter prowled it silently. There was a big dining
salon with a well-stocked bar and fully equipped galley,
and two crew cabins separated by an alleyway.
He found them in the owner's cabin. The woman, a long-
limbed brunette who had seen better days, was stretched
out naked across the big king-size bed. She didn't move
when Carter pinched her, and he could smell the booze
rising in waves with her breathing.
The doctor was stretched out on a white leather massage
table, snoring. A half-filled quart of whiskey was balanced
on the table's equipment tray. Oddly, Gorshen was fully
dressed.
Carter looked down at the sodden, pale face of a man of
sixty who hadn't shaved for days. His straight gray hair fell
over his soiled collar. His breath made the area around him
smell like a bog.
Carter shook his shoulder. "Doc, wake up."
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Gorshen turned on his side and. groaned.
"Have another drink."
A hand automatically reached for the bottle and tcxt)k it
from Carter. The eyes opened and the body. came off the
table.
"Who the hell are you?" The colorless eyes swirled to a
rest in their watery, red sea.
"Sit before you fall," Carter said, and lit a cigarette as
he pulled a chair forward with his toe and sat down.
Gorshen spotted the .38 and drank. "What do you want?"
"Information. I want to do some business."
only do business during office hours. Right now my
office is temporarily closed. What's the gun for?"
"Part of my business. Gordon Channing gave me your
name.
Gorshen jumrd. thought about it for a second, and
seemed to calm down. Another long pull from the bottle
helped.
"I want some runs," Carter said. "Preferably out of
Mexico City."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Your ass you don't. I've got nine mules. I need to contact
your Mexico City suppliers."
One eye closed. "You a cop? Nah. you're not a cop. That
suit. Too nice for a cop."
"I'm not a cop."
"I'll call Gordon."
Carter sighed. He had really wanted to do it the easy
way. "I can't let you do that. Doc."
"Then hit the door." Gorshen was getting sober now and
the little black eyes were getting mean.
s know you order from Pepe. I want to know how."
"Fuck you."
The bottle flew toward Carter's head, with Gorshen right
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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behind it. The Killmaster avoided the bottle easily. The
man's body was another matter. A shoulder caught him in
the chest and over they went together.
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e Itte ac eyes were getting mean.
s know you order from Pepe. I want to know how."
"Fuck you."
The bottle flew toward Carter's head, with Gorshen right
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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behind it. The Killmaster avoided the bottle easily. The
man's body was another matter. A shoulder caught him in
the chest and over they went together.
But it was no match. Carter elbowed himself free and
cuffed the other man a few times until he was begging. lhe
Killmaster set him up against the bulkhead and crouched in
front of him.
"I got the names of all of Pepe's distributors, noc." As
he talked, he played with the heavy .38. "I can use this to
break your collarbones, or maybe some ribs. If that doesn't
work, I blow holes in your kneecaps .
"Who the fuck are you?"
"I am a very mean man, Doc. a lot meaner than you. If
I don't get what I want out of you after I massage you, I
just go on through the list. SOmeone will talk, Doc."
Caner paused to let his words sink in. Gorshen's face
had gone pale, drops of sweat forrned a shimmering mus-
tache on his upper lip, and his watery eyes were wide with
terror.
"It's done by phone."
'Twice a week . . . Tuesdays and Thursday mornings at
ten sharp. Every month I get new numbers from Channing."
"What are the numbers this month?"
"Tuesday is 844-916. Thursday is 914-800. Both in
Mexico City."
"No backup?" Carter asked.
'*No, none. If the Tuesday doesn't answer, you wait till
Ihursday."
Carter nailed him, right on the point of the jaw. and he
went out like a light.
He spotted the car halfway back up the pier, a new four-
door Ford. Two men in the front. The driver rolled down
the window as Carter approached.




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the window as Carter approached.
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"You got it?" Carter asked.
The driver a briefcase on his lap. Inside were two
large glassine bags, kilos of cocaine.
The Killmaster nodded. "Keep moving him around for
at least a week, no phone calls, nothing. Can you do that?"
"He won't even see daylight for seven days."
Carter handed the man a slip of note paper. 'These are
in Mexico City, probably pay phones. Get them to Norris.
I'll be at the Conquistador. He's got the name."
Carter moved on to his own car: By the time he had it
fired up. he could see the two agents boarding the Lucky
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ELEVEN
It was Sunday in Mexico City, two days before Tuesday
and the telephone booth connection that Carter hoped would
pay off. In those two days he hoped to line up everything
necessary for the coup.
Using the Nick Houston alias, he checked into the Con-
quistador. There was no message from Norris, so he was
obviously still checking the numbers. There was a message
at the desk from Miguela Obertez: I am in 1201.
'*It's me." Carter said, "I just got in. Any news?"
"Yes. lots."
"I'll be right up."
She met him at the door, and she was looking good, very
good. She was all in white— white shoes. and a white scoop-
necked dress that made the deep tan of her face and body
even more striking.
"Miss me?" she said. sliding into his arms.
He kissed her briefly. "Business before pleasure." There
was some fruit on the table by the couch. He picked up an
apple. "Gordo?"
"I met with him, told him I had made a contact."
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"Was he interested?"
She sat at the opposite end of the couch, dropping her





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"Was he interested?"
She sat at the opposite end of the couch, dropping her
shoes and curling her legs under her, the stockings that
covered them glistening in the light.
"Very. He gave me the go-ahead to meet you and work
out a deal. He hinted that Mercado would pay top price.
I'd guess the Charcas Man is on their backs. You?"
Carter took a bite of the apple, the fresh juices of it
springing into his mouth. Briefly he told Miguela what he
had accomplished, and sketched out the plan if all the con-
nections were made.
"What's next?" she asked, rising, stretching like a cat,
and moving to stand directly in front of him.
"We wait. Louie Cruz is trying to make a connection to
get us neutral help." He ran his hand up to her neck, fingers
caressing its nape.
"And in the meantime?" she murmured, trembling a little
as his fingers moved along her face, tracing it lightly, linger-
ing near her lips then moving off.
"Pleasure." he replied with a smile.
Her lips parted a little, and this time he ran his fingers
over them. *Ihey were soft and smooth and full, and in a
moment they closed on his fingertips, briefly, then opened,
then closed again.
"Touch me," she breathed. "Touch me wherever you
like."
His arm went around her back and pulled her to him. Her
breath went deep, and her breasts felt warm against him.
He kissed her again, lightly, his lips leaving hers and
slowly. caressingly, exploring her face. Her body tightened
against his, and his lips once more sought hers. a little more
urgently.
Her body undulated against his for a moment, her lips
matching its movement. A button had opened on her dress,
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and her breasts rose and fell as he watched them, the skin
firm and almost glowing, His hand left her back and brushed
down her breast, along her side and down her outer thighs,
She tightened her eriD on him.




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urgently.
Her body undulated against his for a moment, her lips
matching its movement. A button had opened on her dress,
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and her breasts rose and fell as he watched them, the skin
firm and almost glowing, His hand left her back and brushed
down her breast, along her side and down her outer thighs,
She tightened her grip on him.
"Bedroom?" she asked.
"Why bother?" he replied.
Both hands clutched at his back, searching. feeling. pull-
ing. He opened another button on her dress and bent down
and kissed the tops of her breasts, Little sounds of pleasure
tkgan to escarx her.
He unbuttoned the sleeves of the dress, then the front of
it, and slowly it fall off her, till she half sat, half
lay against the arm of the couch.
"Do the same for me," he growled huskily.
For an instant she hung back. Then, her graceful, whisper-
light hands delicately undid each button. eyes on his, lips
full and yearning.
The dress off, she pressed hard against his chest, her
hands exploring his back, wonderingly tracing each muscle,
exploring it for a while, leaving it and then returning, her
lips flush against him, losing herself in the hairs of his chest.
He kissed her, running his heads over her back, and finally
she drew away from him, her eyes unblinking. watching
him as she undid her bra and slipped it off. She came back
to him, and he cupped one breast in his hand. It was beau-
tifully shaped, and it felt right. Slowly he pressed it, and
released it, pressed it, and released it, and her breathing
quickened.
There was a faint warm dew on her now, and her eyes
swam as he tilted her head back and kissed her again. Her
hand fell lightly on his groin, and moved away. His hand
gripped her wrist and returned it. This time she caressed him.
"I want you," she whispered. He said nothing, but plunged
his hand down along her spine, laying claim to her smooth,




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e sala notntng,out pun
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his hand down along her spine, laying claim to her smooth,
NICK CARTER
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firm buttocks, stroking them, kneading them.
He pressed his body over hers. carefully, keeping most
of the weight off, his hand behind her back pulling her up
against him. She was feverishly tugging at his trousers,
hands now awkward in their haste, darting over him like
birds, feather-winged and ecstatic.
She kneaded him for a moment, then stopped and leaped
off the couch. Startled, he watched and saw her strip off
the rest of her clothing. Then she jumped onto him, her
thighs around his waist, her lips full on his, pushing and
pulling, tongue plunging into his mouth.
He rose up and lowered her onto the couch, his body
following hers all the way.
"Now," she begged, but he held off, caressing her again,
running his lips and tongue and hands against her. all over
her. She was like some delicate confection, delectable in
her femininity and her lust. Her head was tossing from side
to side, thrashing in passion, hungry with impatience, as
she begged him to mount her.
His finger found her and stroked lightly, and she pressed
herself against him until they were almost a single mass of
flesh.
"Please," she implored, her voice husky, perspiration
moistening her upper lip and the sides of her beautifully
shaped nose.
He closed over her then, and slid inside her. They rocked
together, straining against each other, she wildly, urgent
and grateful, with total abandon, he passionate yet con-
taineds fully in control.
She began to shake. a little at first, then more, then
subsided, then began again, this time more intensely. He
picked up the tempo, and now her whole body began to
vibrate and press against him, harder and harder, quivering
like a piano string sounded by a master. Then came a giant
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cataclysm, and she seemed fora moment to melt into him,
her flesh his flesh, his flesh hers.
Then they parted, and her arnns dropped to her sides, a
deep sigh escaping her, He leaned back against the couch,
and in a moment the two of them were asleep.
It was dark outside when Carter slid from Miguela's arms
and moved through the suite to the bedroom. He closed the
door so the call wouldn't disturb her, and dialed Miami
direct. Louie himself answered.
"Anything?" Caner asked.
"Ohs yeah, better than we dreamed. Remember Valencia
are z
Carter smiled. "Oht yeah."
"She's still in business, caters to Mexican honchos and
big shots down from the States. She has a pad in the Zona
Rosa, number Five, Cavita."
Carter whistled. The Zona Rosa was Mexico City's high-
priced playground. "Valencia is doing well."
'*Doesn't she always?" Cruz replied with a chuckle.
S' You're expected."
Carter thanked Harpoon Louie for this last bit of help,
and hung up. He showered, dressed, and slipped back into
the living room. Miguela had one eye open.
"Business?"
He nodded. He carried her into the bedroom and slipped
her body under the bed covers.
"Shouldn't I come along?"
He smiled. "Not this time."
She pouted but didn't mean it. "Another woman?"
"Exactly, Carter said. "And if you came along. she would
probably try to get you to go to work."
He left her with a perplexed frown on her face.
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Valencia Juarez opened the door herself wearing a full-
length black lace dress and a luminous smile of expensively
jacketed teeth.
"My God, you haven't aged a day she said. "Come in."
"I have, on the inside," Carter said with a grin, following
her through the door.
The apartment was sumptuous and airy. A huge desk sat
in front of the balcony windows. On it was a large appoint-
ment book and a phone system with a dozen unlisted num-
t*rs. One of them was ringing.
"Excuse me for a second. Yes? . . . This is Valencia. I
am sorry, darling, we're closed for an hour. Call back..
Carter watched her as she carried on with the customer.
She was something to stare at. Valencia Juarez was a huge
woman with straight sturdy legs and a pair of breasts like
enormous pumpkins. She had a big round face and big round
eyes and a thick mass of black hair and a big wide enthusias-
tic smile. Everything about Valencia was big, including her
heart. She was fifty, looked forty, and had all the flair and
joie de vivre of a youthful thirty.
She finally hung up on the guy. Carter laughed. "Val,
you're beautiful."
She returned his laugh. "I was once, long ago and far
away. I weighed seventy pounds less then."
He sat on a high stool by the bar, lit a cigarette, and
sipped a drink. They were old friends, were in fact dear old
friends. Valencia, in the business of providing pulchritude-
for-pay, was honest as a clean salt breeze from the ocean,
as straight as a rapier, and fair and square. In her day, she
had been a ravishing beauty. Early in youth, she had married
a very rich man who had died, and had twice thereafter
married rich men whom she divorced.
After that. Valencia had given up marriage but not making
money. Becoming a madam had always intrigued her. Now
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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she looked on it as a true service. She got young Mexican
girls out of poverty, widened her own sphere of influence,
and got richer. She liked to brag that over fifty percent of




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a very rich man who had died, and had twice thereafter
married rich men whom she divorced.
After that. Valencia had given up marriage but not making
money. Becoming a madam had always intrigued her. Now
BOLIVIAN HEAT
119
she looked on it as a true service. She got young Mexican
girls out of poverty, widened her own sphere of influence,
and got richer. She liked to brag that over fifty percent of
her girls had married wetl when they retired.
"So, Nicky, what's up?"
Slowly. carefully, Carter told her what he needed. He
left out a lot that she didn't have to know and put in every-
thing she would need. When he was finished. she stared at
him slightly dumbstruck.
"Damn, what you need is a mercenary army."
"Not particularly," he said, smiling, "just the upper crust
piece of one."
Her forehead furrowed in concentration as she moved
behind the bar and poured herself a brandy. She sipped,
still in thought, and turned at last to face him.
"I do know someone who would fit the bill. He's semi-
retired, but there were rumors around a while back that he
was bored."
"Does he have r*ople?"
Valencia laughed. "Oh, yeah. Hell, in his head hess still
living back in the days of Zapata and the revolution! You
got cash?"
Carter lifted the briefcase to the bar and opened it. ' 'You
get yours off the top."
'*For you, Nicky, I don't need any commission."
"I insist."
Again the booming laugh, making her watermelon breasts
jiggle delightfully. "Okay, who am I to argue? Excuse me."
She crossed to the desk and took yet another telephone
from one of the drawers. She dialed, spoke to someone on
the other end, and hung up.
Two cigarettes and a brandy later, the phone rang back.
She grabbed it and a rapid-fire conversation started. She
kept her voice too low for Carter to hear any of it, but he



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She grabbed it and a rapid-fire conversation started. She
kept her voice too low for Carter to hear any of it, but he
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NICK CARTER
didn't mind. fiat was part of the business. If the person
on the other end didn't want to deal, it was better that Carter
not know who it was.
At last Valencia hung up and began to scrawl on a large
notepad in front of her. Finished, she returned to the bar.
"It's a little village, very little, about two, maybe three
hours northwest of here, Las Polpas. His name is Francesco
Prida."
"Where do I contact him?"
"The cantina. There's only one. He's expecting you."
Carter started to take bills out of the briefcase. "Don't bother.
Whatever you two settle on, he'll get my cut to me."
"Val, you're a princess,"
"I know," she chuckled, then wound her arms around
him and pressed him to her, nearly smothering him in her
incredible bosom. "Stay alive. Nicky. See you around."
Minutes later, Carter was tooling north out of Mexico
City toward Las Polpas.
The village of Las Polpas lay sleepily in the southern
foothills of the Sierra Madre. It was one of the countless
villages that had not changed a great deal in the last hundred
years. It had little need of the outside world. The village
was self-sufficient, albeit on the poverty level. Its people
led simple peasant lives revolving around their religion,
their children, and their goats and chickens.
If Las Polpas or its people laid any claim to a degree of
notoriety or different status than other tiny villages, it could
be attributed to Francesco Prida.
Prida was one of a dwindling but still active breed of
men whose prototype had flourished in the days before
Mexico's independence. The leader of a marauding bandito
army of some fifty men, he still preferred the life of a roving
bandit to any other he might have had, even if the choice




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prererreu me nre or a
bandit to any other he might have had, even if the choice
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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had been available. Running battles with the federales had
thinned his ranks, but government efforts to run down such
groups as his were halfhearted at best—unless the activities
of the bandidos involved the more urban areas or interfered
in any way with the prosperous tourist traffic of Mexico.
His heroes lay dead in the past and in the folklore of his
people, but Prida emulated them in dress and action as
though time had not passed them by at all. In Las Polpas.
where history had a way of blending with modernity to
create a condition that was really neither, the sight of the
bearrded Prida in his dirty white clothes, bandoliers of rifle
ammunition draped across his chest and weapon always at
hand, stirred little concern. He and his men were the town's
protectors, although no one was quite sure from what.
Now Prida and Las Polpas existed together, the former
realizing that the latter would long outlive him, and had
settled into a somewhat sedentary life.
But the call from Valencia Juarez had sparked the old
fire in him. That was why Prida and his two most trusted
men waited in the cantina for the rich man from el norte.
"He is late," said one of the men.
"No longer, amigo, " Prida replied. "Look to the door."
Carter entered, still carrying the briefcase. He stood by
the door, surveying the room's occupants. Prida and com-
pany were not hard to spot.
"Buenos tardes, " he said at last. "Seior Prida?"
"Si. Welcome to Las Polpas, seöor, the armpit of the
Sierra Madre. Sit. Luis, tequila."
After introductions were made, the men moved to a table
in a dark corner of the room. The bartender brought a bottle
of tequila and placed it in the middle of the table along with
a tray of narrow glasses, wedges of lime. and a shaker of salt.
Carter had been in many meets like this. There would be
small talk, then fringe talk, then big talk. During all of it
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they would drink. By the time a deal was struck. the bottle
would be "down to the worm." If the deal was acceptable,
the two agreeing parties would eat the worm.
A speaker across the room blared mariachi music. Patrons
at the bar and the other tables drank, conversed, ate the
snacks the bartender's wife occasionally brought from the
kitchen. and all the while kept their attention curiously half-
directed at Prida and the norteamericano at his table.
Ihe bandit chief lifted his glass. With a broad smile that
bared his amazingly white teeth amid the darkly tangled
rubble of his trard. he toasted his guest. The crossed ban-
doliers on his chest rubbed against each other. and their
strings of bullets had the kind of effect he intended when
he wore them.
"Salud, " he said.
The others lifted their glasses to him and drank.
It took only two shots around to get the small talk out of
the way. When Prida poured again, the altered expression
on his face told Carter what was coming next.
"We will talk of money, business, and how we may enjoy
the evening. in that order," he said. "You have the money,
"Yes," Carter replied. "Here in this briefcase. Do you
want to go somewhere so you can check it out?"
"Lay it on the table, amigo. We will examine it here."
Carter looked around the room, then lifted the briefcase
from the floor. He laid it flat and pushed it toward Prida.
The man rested his arms on it and clasFEd his hands. He
laughed again. "Do not be alarmed, my gringo friend," he
said. want all to see it. I want them to see with their own
eyes the wealth Prida brings to Las Poipas."
"The town knows about what we're doing?" Carter asked
incredulously.
'*No, no, no, my friend. I want them to know only that
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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Prida brings wealth, not how he brings it. The mystery loses
its value when it is no longer a mystery."



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Prida brings wealth, not how he brings it. The mystery loses
its value when it is no longer a mystery."
He flipped the catches on the briefcase and opened it.
Stacks of American currency filled it snugly.
Prida smiled broadly, and when he was sure everyone in
the cantina had seen the contents of the briefcase, he droprd
the lid.
"You are a man of honor, amigo. Now, what do you
require of me and my people?"
"In a few days, perhaps a week, there will be a cocaine
run from the south up to Mexico City. I want to hijack the
product."
Prida pushed the briefcase back across the table to Carter.
"Senor, I do many things. I am a bad hombre. I have killed
many times, but only with honor. This dope business hurts
many people. I want nothing—
S'Seöor Prida," Carter interrupted, "let me finish."
He went on with the last of the plan, the final resting
place of the dopes the transportation of Prida and his men
in and out of Bolivia. By the time he had finished, there
were no smiles but the frowns had disappeared.
"Excuse us, sefior."
The three men rose and moved to the front of the cantina.
They talked for several minutes in low tones with vigorous
gestures and what appeared to be anger. When they retumed,
the two lieutenants sat, Prida paced.
"I can put twenty men on the job, sefior. How many will
we be facing on the hijack?"
Carter shrugged. "I don't know that yet."
"And this raid on the refinery in Bolivia . . . how many
there?"
"I don't know that, either," Carter replied.
Prida sighed. "Senor, you make a decision very difficult,
even in exchange for the great amount of money you offer. "
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NICK CARTER
"We will have surprise, complete surprise, on our side.
And more than enough arms to do the job."
"Perhaps," theother man said, scratching his ratty beard,



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"I don't know that, either," Carter replied.
Prida sighed. "Senor, you make a decision very difficult,
even in exchange for the great amount of money you offer. "
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NICK CARTER
"We will have surprise, complete surprise, on our side.
And more than enough arms to do the job."
"Perhaps," theother man said, scratching his ratty beard,
"but my men do not trust you, a man who does not have
all the facts."
Carter lit a cigarette and slowly shifted his gaze around
the table. "And what would convince them to trust me?"
It was Prida's turn to shrug. '*Perhaps they would follow
you if they knew of your courage, seior."
"I have the courage to face both of them with my hands
and them with knives."
Prida chuckled. "No, sefior. that would be foolish for
both of us. I can see in your eyes .
I would lose two
good men. Can you stand pain?"
The other men looked at Carter with expectant faces. The
men at the bar began gravitating toward the table.
"As much as any other man," Caner replied.
The bandit leader leaned forward and pulled a knife from
a sheath at his belt. In the same motion he drove the point
into the table. It quivered, the steel blue, the edge like a
razor.
"It's sharp. Feel it!"
"l can see that it's sharp."
The bartender came over, smiling broadly. He grasped
the knife and yanked it from the table. Prida laid his right
arm out, the palm up. and held it with his left.
"Ready?" the bartender said.
"Si, amigo, " Prida replied. S 'Have the good eye."
The knife struck cleanly into Prida"s palm and through
to the table underneath. His fingers curled up reflexively,
then he straightened them. The hand was pinned motionless
to the table.
He looked up at Carter, his eyes gleaming. "See?"



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eta e.
He looked up at Carter, his eyes gleaming.
BOLIVIAN HEAT
"I see."
'Take it out, Luis, be quick."
125
The knife was yanked out in one quick jerk and the wound
doused with tequila.
"Well, seöor, what do you say?"
Calmly, Carter dropped his cigarette on the floor and
ground it out beneath his heel. "One thing. Luis?"
"Clean the knife."
Carter positioned his arm on the table much the same as
Prida had done, the fingers splayed, the vein at the wrist
rising blue under the skin.
'The knife is clean. Seöor?"
"Ready," Carter said.
The knife struck with incredible force, pinning his hand
to the table. There was no pain at first, only the shock of
impact. He moved his fingers and the pain carnes sharp,
darting up to his elbow.
"Good." Prida said. "Luis?"
The knife was removed and Carter looked around the
table and up at Prida. "Well?"
The bandit leader nodded and reached for the bottle of
tequila.
"Now, seöors we will eat the worm."









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TWELVE
Even at that hour of the morning the air lay stagnant over
Mexico City. The sun moved across the rooftops, garish,
like a strutting pimp, blinding Carter when he looked up.
Across the street emaciated dogs were loping across an
empty lot. They stopped to watch him. Four old men ap-
proached from the other side of the street, their laughter
loud with drink. The sidewalk was littered with broken
bottles, crushed pie plates, torn newspapers, and the air was
heavy with the odors of putrefying garbage.
It was that kind of a neighborhood, and Carter had dressed
accordingly. He wore an old, crushed felt hat pulled low
over his ears, a torn and filthy white shirt, and white, patched
trousers. With a bottle of cheap mezcal between his legs he
sat in the mouth of an alley that was about fifty yards from
the Tuesday pay phone.
Miguela Obertez sat in a third-floor room directly across
from the booth. She would have binoculars to her eyes and
beside her a powerful camera with a zoom lens. The camera
was in case they lost the message-pickup man and had to
find him by other means.
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NICK CARTER
Carter checked his watch. Two minutes. It was too much
to that they would make the contact today and not
have to wait until Thursday. But even as the Killmaster





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was In case t ey ost t e message-mc
find him by other means.
up man an
a
to
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NICK CARTER
Carter checked his watch. Two minutes. It was too much
to that they would make the contact today and not
have to wait until Thursday. But even as the Killmaster
looked up, an old gray Ford slid into a parking space across
from the booth and two men got out.
The tailer of the two, with a long face like a vicious horse
and long, apelike arms. lit a cigarette and leaned against
the fender of the car. The other. short and squat. with brutal
features under a low forehead, moved across the street to-
ward the booth. Both were well dressed, and if that didn't
tell Carter who they were. the notebook and pen in the short
one's hand did.
He hit the booth just as the phone rang. and he grabbed
it. Thirty seconds of clipped conversation and furious writing
in the book. and the conversation was over. Ihe receiver
had scarcely depressed the cradle when it rang again.
Ca.rter had seen enough. He rolled out Of sight into the
alley, got to his feet, and staggered to the other end. When
he hit the next street. he moved at a brisk pace toward the
rented Buick. He was barely inside the car when he shucked
the shirt. Beneath it he wore a garish T-shin. Jamming a
New York Yankees baseball cap on his head, he took off.
Two blocks down, he swung over to the street he had just
left, and parked.
Slouching in the seat as if asleep, he checked the side
mirror. Short-and-Squat was still taking dope orders in the
booth. Carter couldn't spot Miguela, but he knew she would
be in the other rental car, a dark blue Chevrolet, somewhere
on the other side of them.
Carter would take the first shot at them for a few bliXks,
turn off, and she would take over. Ihen. with a new hat
and jacket. Carter would fall in again.
Short-and-Squat was heading back for the car; the tall




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Short-and-Squat was heading back for the car; the tall
BOLIVIAN HEAT
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one was already behind the wheel. They passed Carter talk-
ing animatedly between themselves. He gave them a count
of five, and took off.
The side streets were jammed with peddlars and vendors
for several blocks. When they turned onto Calle Elias, Carter
passed them. In the rearview mirror, he saw Miguela fall
in behind them in the Chevy.
When they turned left, Carter took his own left two blocks
farther on, and floored the Buick. He struggled into a leather
jacket and replaced the baseball cap with a straw hat. At
the next main drag, Calle Tlalpa, he hit the light and waited.
If they didn't pass in one minute, going north, he would
turn left, south.
They did, with Miguela two cars behind them.
Carter pulled into traffic and kept them in sight.
Another turn took them toward United Nations Park. At
the traffic circle just before the entrance, Miguela veered
off and Carter took her spot.
Through the park they turned right on the wide Paseo
Alleman. Three blocks later, Carter saw Miguela move in
behind him. A block after that they turned into an under-
ground garage. The building was new. steel and glass. seven
stories.
Carter nosed out a cursing Volkswagen driver for a park-
ing space, and then immediately vacated it for Miguela.
She was out of the car and running for the main entrance
of the building before the motor died. Carter honked his
way into an outdoor parking lot, threw dollars at the atten-
dant, and sprinted for the underground garage.
He saw them just disappearing into the middle elevator
when he hit the lower level. Without breaking stride he
dashed to the stairs.
Miguela was waiting in the lobby in front of the three.
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elevator bank. She spotted Carter and he held up two fingers ,
indicating the middle door. She nodded and moved out of
sight.
Carter lit a cigarette and killed two minutes before peering
around the corner.
Ihe area in front of the elevators was empty.
He sidled onto a couch near the front doors. Five minutes
later Miguela emerged from the elevators. Carter caught up
with her on the sidewalk.
"Victor H. Santos, attorney at law," she replied with a
beaming smile.
nere were very few people in Mexico City that Valencia
Juarez didn't have some kind of a file on, particularly when
they traveled in the circles of money and power like Victor
H. Santos.
He was a genius when it came to matters of law and
money. He had a reputation as a good criminal lawyer, and
an appetite for big money and all it could get him. He was
forty-five years of age, a loner, tall, dark, and very hand-
some.
When Carter dropped the bomb on Valencia that Victor
Santos might be the legendary dope supplier, Pepe the
Butcher, she hadn't blinked an eye.
"Figures. He's defended half the growers and suppliers
in Mexico and parts of South America. It stands to reason
he knows them all and their methods. How better to move
in and squeeze them out?"
Through Norris, Carter got the necessary equipment: two
long-range receivers and six bugs. Three of the bugs would
go into Santos's offices, and three more into his luxury
apartment on the Paseo de Ia Reforma.
A dark blue van was rented and rigged with the receivers.
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BOLIVIAN HEAT
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Since the office and the apartment were less than a mile
apart, they could monitor easily by parking the van halfway
between the two.
It was simple to get into the apartment house and make
wax impressions of the apartment locks. This was necessary
t*cause Carter learned that the apartment had an alarm sys-
tern with a fifteen-second delay. If he had tried to pick the
!cxks, the alarm would have gone off before he could get
inside and kill it.
The office was another matter. It also had an alarm system,
but it was controlled, along with the alarm in all the offices,
from a master control in the basement.
Just before the mass exodus from the building in the
afternoon, Carter entered and hid in a second-floor rest
room. Here he waited until after midnight when the cleaning
staff had completed their chores and left.
Then he made his way to the basement and the master
control. It was an easy matter, using a portable power booster
and a few alligator clips. to keep a steady current in the
system no matter what lock was picked or door 01kned.
On the fifth he located the offices and went to
work. In minutes he was inside and prowling. One bug went
under Santos's desk, another under a conference room table.
'Ihe third was for Santos's private telephone.
Carter located the telephone connecting block on a
baseboard near the desk. Inside was a black plastic housing
that contained the phone's circuitry. He unscrewed the hous-
ing and replaced it with one that looked almost identical.
There was one big difference. The new one contained a
powerful pulsar miniature microphone. It would pick up
everything from the telephone wires and transmit it to the
receiver in the van.
Carter chuckled as he made the connections. "Thank God
for space-age technology
132
NICK CARTER
He made a quick check of files, desks, appointment books,
and even a microfilm library of Santos's case histories, just



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