Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,67

submissive behavior wouldn’t stop him. So I asked, “A Beretta?” Said it coolly to negate the way I’d almost thrown up my hands in surrender.

“Sig Sauer,” he answered, lowering the weapon. “Called a Mosquito—a stupid name for a piece that chambers twenty-two hollow-points as smooth as this little number. Care to try?” Diemer popped the magazine, cleared the weapon, then held it by the barrel for me to take. That quick, the real Vargas Diemer—the articulate killer—was replaced by Diemer the charming foreigner who had worked hard to learn English. His standby persona, I guessed, when dealing with those who might be of some use.

My fists relaxed, but I wasn’t going to let the man see me take a deep breath. “I need something to drink and a dry T-shirt,” I said, turning. “So go ahead . . . make yourself right at home.”

Diemer didn’t miss the sarcasm. “Americans are such a friendly people!” he said, then coughed. No . . . it was the way he imitated laughter.

18

I WAS STILL WONDERING, WHAT DID HANNAH SAY TO get the Brazilian off his yacht so fast? as the Brazilian said to me, “Call me Alberto . . . but not Al. The name makes me think of canned beer and condom dispensers. Doesn’t really fit with Sabino, either—lyrically, I’m saying. Not that I’m a snob, but one has the right to choose one’s own alias. Don’t you agree, doctor?”

The polished syntax again, which suggested a boarding school, or Jesuit, education and old Brazilian money. According to Bernie, though, Diemer was the son of a locksmith, born in a rural village. So it was another act. But maybe a man who’d finessed his way up the social ladder while amassing a fortune had earned the right to play a ruling-class Castilian. The role suited him: a member of the arrogant glitterati who was willing to bond with an inferior—me, in this case—if the inferior was deemed worthy.

Diemer and I had changed places, me sitting at my office desk, him in a metal chair, but the folder was still in his lap and the book They Flew Into Oblivion within reach. I hadn’t showered, but I had changed into sweatpants and a pullover before returning with a Corona for each of us and an extra Gatorade for me. “Most people call me Ford,” I said in reply to “Alberto.” “Or Doc.”

Beer in hand, the Brazilian nodded Salute, then placed the bottle near the pistol, which lay unloaded, still separated from its magazine. It was a quarter ’till eleven, the moon dazzling outside, where the retriever dozed after returning from the bushes.

The Brazilian wasn’t chatty, but he was comfortable saying whatever he pleased, which struck me as unusual for a criminal operative. Acting or not, he had an elevated sense of entitlement, the imperious Castilian who doesn’t socialize with the uncultured. The reason, I guessed, was that Diemer perceived us both to be isolates in the same lonely profession, which was accurate in some ways—not that I was going to admit it—and it explained why he was so forthcoming.

I reminded myself, He also wants something. The man hadn’t mentioned seeing me with Cressa Arturo earlier that morning, which was puzzling. The feral expression on his face had been intense, unmistakable. He couldn’t have forgotten the blonde in the lemon chemise.

So I played it loose by playing along, but paid attention. I hadn’t confirmed his suspicions by using Diemer’s real name, nor had we returned to the subject of me checking his background through intelligence sources. But the man knew it was true. In his mind, at least, it allowed us to explore safer topics, such as Flight 19, as well as other missing ships and planes that interested him—a B-25, flown by Captain Gene Nattress; a German sub loaded with gold bullion that had disappeared en route to South America. I was now convinced that World War II and its missing relics actually was one of Diemer’s passions. He had already told me about a DC-3 he’d helped salvage in the Bahamas and had mentioned details from a “drawer full of files” he’d collected on the gold-laden submarine.

“Is all of this information accurate?” he asked, taking several papers from the folder. “For instance, says here that parents of the missing men were convinced some of their sons survived and—most surprising—that they lived ‘like animals’ in the Everglades, according to this. In this newspaper . . . no, this one—have you read it? The story