Free The Consummata by Max Allan Collins, Mickey Spillane

People just don’t pass up forty million in beautiful U.S. currency.
    At least my pal would never spend another dime of it. My old buddy was good and goddamn dead, but if he only knew what was going down now for his old buddy, he’d be laughing his balls off, because my army buddy had wanted me dead in the worst way. He tried to make it happen several times... only I got him first.
    How’d you work it, Old Buddy? Like Hitler? Ol’ Shicklgruber had his submarines booby-trapped, so that no matter how many years after they were sunk, nobody dared touch them, because they’d blow up in their faces. They were still at the bottom, prizes of war, their locations marked SECRET and left alone for the sea to swallow in due course of time, maybe with a minor upheaval and some surface turbulence when one blew; but with nobody around to get hurt, at least. You do it that way, pal? When I finally find the loot, will it blow up in my puss? Did you...?
    “Morgan!” Gaita’s voice had a sharp ring to it, cutting through my thoughts. “We are ready.”
    I stood, uncomfortable in my clothes. “Sorry, kid. Just reflecting.”
    “At the wrong time, such reflection, it can get you killed.”
    “So can not reflecting at all,” I advised her.
    The briefing they had given me on the real Boyer covered him being a professional politician from an upstate county, a pol known for his indiscretions and peccadillos, but with enough votes in his pocket to keep him affluent. His sexual preference was young, dark-skinned girls, preferably of Latin ancestry, and he frequently visited Miami to patronize establishments that catered to his special tastes...and his former showgirl wife was known to just as frequently have to haul his drunken tail out of said establishments.
    The real Mrs. Boyer was more than a little protective of her current position in life, afraid that she might lose that position to some enterprising sexpot who could cut the pudgy pol loose from any family ties the way the current Mrs. Boyer had the former Mrs. Boyer.
    Apparently the woman had gone to certain lengths to avoid anybody recognizing her on these missions of wifely mercy, staying swathed in veils and always coming in a taxi; but her blonde hair and stripper’s body had always given her away. Not much of a disguise was required for Tami to fit the role.
    The taxi was supplied by a friendly Cuban exile driver. I played my part with my head down, doing a stumbling drunk act, careful to keep my face averted to avoid more than a casual scrutiny. Tami did the rest, and nobody paid any attention to us.
    Luck was on my side again: we made our exit on a night when the Mandor had a particularly high-profile clientele inthe house. If the cops had elected to pull a raid, they would have had one hell of a time in court, trying hard to find a judge who wouldn’t have to disqualify himself as a friend and associate of any of these potential defendants.
    Already the thing was almost put over. The taxi cut through the streets, heading toward the western section of town, and for some reason I got that funny feeling again. A long time ago I learned not to ignore it—a tightness at the back of my neck, and a clammy feeling there, my jaws clamped so tight, any more pressure would chip my teeth.
    It wasn’t intuition. Not exactly. And it wasn’t fear or nervousness. It was just this thing that had become my best friend.
    Call it instinct, or maybe luck again, whispering in my ear like a tender lover.
    I said, “Pull over at the corner.”
    The driver nodded and began slowing down, edging toward the curb.
    Tami looked at me curiously and said, “But we’re not near the Amherst Hotel yet.”
    “I know. But I get out here.”
    “That is not the plan.”
    “I know , kid. But I get out here—okay?”
    She swallowed. Nodded. “What about the clothes?”
    Even while she was saying it, I was busy shucking off the coat and pants that had been liberated off the doped-up politician. I got