Alligator Read Online Free Page B

Rye relaxed into the plush leather seat and pressed the intercom. "Rodriguez?"
    "Yes, sir," answered his chauffeur, a small, wiry Cuban with thick black hair and a sly, slow smile.
    "I still expect to make Everglades City by dawn."
    "I no think we can." Rodriguez's accent was so thick, it sounded like he had just swum over the day before.
    "I ain't payin' you a hundred fifty a week to think."
    "Yes, sir."
    Rye smiled. He loved putting Rodriguez on. "Matter of fact, I don't know what I am paying you one hundred fifty for. From now on you're gonna get one twenty-five."
    Rodriguez almost lost control of the car. He swallowed hard and whined, "Mr. Whitman.... I..."
    "Relax. Just joking," said Rye. "But, Rodriguez...?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "I still expect to be in Everglades by dawn. I got an important date with an alligator."
    As he rode through the empty Miami streets, Rye Whitman was thinking about alligators. He was also ruminating about a new land deal he was cooking up. At the same time, he was amusing himself with the thought of Maurice and John, two city boys, going on a gator hunt.
    Rye never thought about one thing at a time, but, like a computer, calculated one thing in one bank and something totally different in another. This ability to plot and scheme in several directions at once had helped make Rye the awesome success that he was. Rye could size up an opponent while he read a complicated contract. At the same time, he would know what everybody else in the room was doing and thinking. There was nothing that passed over him, no word, no glance, no gesture, that Rye didn't see and add to his mental file.
    Remembering a bit of unfinished business, he turned to Maurice and said, "Get hold of that faggot Masters."
    "But, Rye, it's three o'clock in the morning."
    Rye checked his wafer-thin gold wristwatch. "It's only two fifty-eight."
    "Terrific," said Maurice, but he picked up the car phone and dialed. He knew better than to argue. It took six rings before Walt Masters answered.
    "Walt, you old son of a bitch," said Maurice, giving Rye a wink, "how in the hell are you? No, it's two fifty-nine... Listen, I wanted to talk to you about this land business. Rye is angry, Walt. I mean, he's yelling for your head." Maurice pointed to the receiver and made the jerk-off sign. He watched to make sure Rye laughed; then he continued, "You have to see his position. We can hardly cram one hotel in that space, let alone five."
    Rye reached over and made himself another martini. Maurice had stopped talking, and when Rye glanced at him he noticed that his face was growing redder and redder, until he looked like he was about to launch himself out of the seat. The turkey, Rye thought.
    Maurice covered the receiver and whispered to Rye, "He won't go a penny lower than twenty-five hundred."
    Rye shook his head.
    "But, Rye, it's still worth twice that," Maurice persisted, knowing it was a lost cause.
    John laughed. "Land is only worth what you pay for it."
    Rye looked from John to Maurice, the one vice-president in charge of hatchet jobs, the other, similarly, a vice-president on the stationery, but in fact a white Stepin Fetchit. He often told them he couldn't remember why he had hired either of them. Sometimes he meant it.
    "What do I do?" repeated Maurice.
    "Nothing," said Rye. "Call Daggart and tell him Walt bit at two grand." He winked. "We don't have to worry about them checking with each other. They don't talk, since Daggart put it to Masters's wife."
    Maurice smiled at Rye. He loved watching him in action. To Maurice, he was like a great quarterback, the Joe Namath of big business. He hung up on Masters and dialed Daggart.
    The bright lights of Miami receded behind them as the Mercedes turned onto the highway and picked up speed. It was too late for there to be much traffic. Only a few camping vehicles and several large semis shared the road with the men.
    It took Maurice several calls before he located Daggart. He was shacked up at the Jersey