Cinderella by Ed McBain

them with a sledgehammer. Also, they knew how to fly. Staying with Molly the first few weeks she was in Miami, she almost wet her pants when one of them flew right up into her face.
        That had been back in January.
        By the beginning of March, she was sitting by a swimming pool and listening to talk about a quarter of a million dollars for a single night's work.
        What she usually got for an all-night stand in L. A. was five hundred, sometimes only four if things were slow.
        This was a quarter of a million.
        Split it with him, it still came to a hundred and a quarter.
        That's if there were only two kilos in the safe. If there was more…
        How do I get in that safe? she asked him.
        Because this was her way out.
        

6
        
        Matthew disliked him on sight. Big beefy man with a wide forehead and prominent nose, coming across the deck to greet him, hamhock hand extended, blue jeans, and a T-shirt that had "Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water" printed on its front. The man was probably a saint, and yet-instant animosity. That happened sometimes. Even with women. Even with gorgeous women. Something clicked in the unconscious, who the hell knew? Maybe Larkin reminded him of a high school geometry teacher who'd giver him an F. Or maybe there were just certain combinations of sights and smells that signaled to the brain and triggered defense mechanisms, watch out for this guy. Whatever it was, he didn't like Larkin.
        But there were some questions he needed to ask him.
        And, after all, when he'd called, the man had been gracious enough to invite him to his home for an early afternoon drink, hadn't he? Instead of asking him to stop by at his place of business. Gorgeous house on Fatback Key, all wood and glass and stone, sitting right on the Gulf. Matthew and Larkin sitting on lounges facing the water. Thunderheads building up out there the way they did every day at this time.
        "It wasn't Otto started calling her Cinderella," Larkin said. "It was me."
        "When was that?" Matthew asked.
        "When I hired him."
        "Which was when? I'm sorry to be asking all these questions, Mr. Larkin…"
        "No, no, listen, I'm happy to help. What happened was I went to this ball in April sometime… well, down here there are more balls than you can count, I'm sure you know that."
        "Yes," Matthew said.
        "Over on the East Coast, in Miami, it's your Cubans throwing a ball every time one of their daughters turns fifteen. That's a custom with Spanish-speaking people," Larkin said, educating Matthew. "The daughter turns fifteen, they dress her like a bride and throw a ball. All the friends rent lavender tuxedos and come to the party to wish the kid well on her fifteenth birthday because pretty soon she'll be on her back on the beach with her legs spread and not too long after that she'll be a fat old lady with a mustache."
        Larkin laughed.
        Matthew said nothing. He was not liking Larkin any better.
         "La quinceanera they call her," Larkin said, "a lot of bullshit. Anyway, here in Calusa, we got balls to mark the seasons of the year, which is even more bullshit. Around Christmastime, you have your Snowflake Ball for the American Cancer Society, and in the spring, when the purple jacaranda trees are blooming, you got your Jacaranda Ball for Multiple Sclerosis or Muscular Dystrophy, I always mix them up. That's where I met her. At the Jacaranda Ball."
        "This was…?"
        "In April."
        "When in April?"
        "Beginning of the month sometime. The jacarandas were just starting to bloom. In she walks, a pretty young thing in a blue gown the color of her eyes, slit high up on her right leg and scooped low over a very good chest. Danced with her all night long. Had her picture taken by a photographer who was charging fifty bucks a pop for charity. That's the picture I gave Otto. The