Kill the Boss Goodbye

by Peter Rabe

  He caught himself short then. It felt almost like giving up. He even took in a man like Pander, showing him all the angles, knowing why Pander was sent to him, why the syndicate always groomed the next man when the old man was getting tired. They thought he was getting tired because he checked himself back to a slow pace for fear of going too far in the other direction. Only an old man would do that. But Fell wasn't old. It was the strain of that contradiction—even Emilson seemed to think so— that made Fell give.

  Tom Fell knew all this. He did not like to think about it. He lay back on the pillow and ran one hand over his face. He didn't like to think about it because it didn't help.

  “Jan,” he said, “turn your back.”

  Janice turned her back. Then she dropped the nightgown down to her hips and looked at Fell over her shoulder.

  “Like always. The most beautiful back ever.”

  She liked hearing it, and sat still while Fell looked at her back. It was neither lean nor fleshy, and since he thought it was beautiful but could never describe it to himself he had to look at it as often as he could.

  “Are you drinking the chocolate?” she asked.

  But he wasn't because then she felt his hand stroke down her spine.

  “I don't think I want it any more,” he said.

  She got off the bed and pulled her nightgown back up because it wouldn't go over her hips. Then Fell turned the lights off and they both lay down.

  Actually the first morning light was already on the plains outside of town—but when they fell asleep it could have been any time, or the first time they had been together.

  Chapter Seven

  He woke up as if sleep had interrupted nothing. What sleep did to him was to stop still, like a dive straight down, and when he came up again it was the exact spot he had left.

  He was ready to leave at seven in the morning, Janice still asleep and Rita puttering sleepily in the kitchen. She made him some coffee and when he sat down to drink it at the kitchen table they didn't talk. Rita never talked much. She was a small-boned Mexican with a tight-skinned face and shining black hair.

  He finished his coffee and phoned Cripp. He had to wake Cripp, but that happened often.

  When Fell drove past his front lawn the automatic sprinklers were already on, making mist and rainbows over the grass. Fell looked at it, but didn't remember about the Desert Farm lawns. He left the sprinklers on and drove through town, out to the motel that looked like the Alamo. It was called Alamo and the big neon sign was still on with a small Vacancy underneath that went on and off.

  Fell parked by the coffee shop and went in. Phido was at the counter slurping coffee and Pearl stood opposite leaning her hip against the push-button box which worked the jukebox. They both looked sleepy. Fell stopped before walking around the counter.

  “What in hell are you doing here?”

  Phido snapped around as if the voice had waked him up. He sloshed coffee, dropped the cup, and started shaking his burnt hand.

  “It's Mr. Fell, honey,” said Pearl.

  “You work out of the place on Yucca Avenue, don't you, Phido? What are you doing here?”

  “Morning—good morning,” said Phido. He kept shaking his hand. “Gee, Tom, I didn't know you was back. Nobody told me you—”

  “That figures. Since when are you working out of this office?”

  “I wasn't. I just—”

  “He just got up,” said Pearl. “He sleeps here.”

  “How come you can afford fifteen bucks a night, Phido?”

  “My land,” said Pearl and looked down herself, “Phido and me is friends.”

  “I meant the price of the room,” said Fell. “How come you can afford the price of the room, Phido? Business that good?”

  Phido got up and hit his thigh on the edge of the counter. Everything shook.

  “I'll pay for the room,” he said. “Honest, Tom, there was no guests anyway on account of the season...”

  “How long you been staying here, Phido?”

  “Two nights, Tom. Just two nights.”

  “Without paying.”

  “Honest, Tom, I can pay it. Just give me a few days—”

  “Business bad, Phido?”

  “Bad? We had raids!”

  “I hear that was days ago,” said Fell.

  “So?”

  “So how's business now?” said Fell.

  Phido sighed and let his arms drop against his legs with a loud slap.

  “I been forgetting, Tom, you musta just come in. All the bookie joints that got raided are closed.”

  Fell took his upper lip between his teeth. It made his jaw come out sharply and gave him a strange look because of the way his eyes stayed soft, with the long lashes halfway down.

  “They never opened again? Pander never opened them up again?”

  “That's right Tom. Pander never opened them up again.”

  Fell turned and went to the kitchen. Before he got through the swinging doors Phido called after him, “Honest, Tom, just gimme a day or so and I'll pay you the—”

  “On the house, Phido.” Fell let the doors swing shut.

  He walked down the corridor and stopped at the door where the first raid had been. There was a seal hanging across the door jamb. Fell flipped it with his finger and walked on.

  He had an office in the back, a little room with expensive wallpaper, an air conditioner built into one window and another window with plants and a view of the motel's swimming pool. The prairie showed, further back. The nicked desk by the window was almost bare—just a phone and some pencils. Fell took the phone and called his office in town.

  “San Pietro Realty Company,” said the voice.

  “Give me Pander.”

  “Pander ain't in, and besides—”

  “Where in hell is he? It's after eight.”

  “Look here,” said the voice, but Fell interrupted.

  “Where can I reach him?”

  “Who are you, buster, the police?”

  “Worse, you son of a bitch. This is Thomas Fell. Now let's have it. Where's Pander?”

  The voice gagged a little and Fell waited.

  “Home—I guess. He doesn't show here very often, uh, Mr. Fell.”

  “What's he doing, taking a holiday?”

  “He does business from home, mostly. I didn't know you were in, Mr. Fell. Let me call Pander and—”

  “Never mind. Besides, I'm calling from Washington.”

  “Washington?”

  “Yeah. I just bought the Capitol Building.” Fell banged the phone down, but he wasn't really angry. He just felt active, very active, and he wondered for a moment why he had made that crack about the Capitol Building. He didn't often waste time on jokes but he thought it was pretty funny. A capital joke, and he laughed to himself. Fell got up and looked out the window at the empty pool. He would have liked to see some activity there. The door opened in back of him and Cripp came in.

  Cripp looked sober, concentrating on walking because it was such an effort. Cripp sat down and said good morning.

  “You look sleepy,” said Fell. He kept looking at Cripp because it did something to his mood. He liked Cripp, and now that he was here it meant work for Fell, step by step work without crazy distractions and the kind of sober thing that had gotten away from him, just a month ago, when he had gone to Desert Farm.

  “I am, kind of,” said Cripp. “I didn't think you'd be up early today.”

  Fell sat down and asked Cripp for a cigarette. He smoked slowly, then put it down in an ashtray.

  “You told me about the raids,” he said. “Did you know the places were never opened again?”

  “Yes. That's why I came to see you at the sanatorium.” “You sure broke it to me gently. In fact you never said a word.”

  “Well, you know how things were. And then you decided to come back anyway.”

  “Good thing I did.” Fell picked up the cigarette, took a puff, put it down again. “We got to see Sutterfield, and then P
ander. Before seeing Pander I want a picture of how the money's been coming in. How much have we lost?” Cripp squirmed his leg around and looked at Fell. “That's what I don't get. We lost nothing.” Fell frowned.

  “Pander never gave me any trouble checking the daily tallies. We lost nothing.”

  “What did he show you—daily totals or the lists of bets collected that day?” “Totals.”

  “Perhaps that's where the bug is, Cripp. Pander hasn't been paying protection for a whole month or more.”

  “That's not it, Tom. The month's total is just about the same as always,plus the protection Pander didn't pay.”

  “I'll be damned!” said Fell.

  “Now there's this,” said Cripp. “I tried checking around because the bets must come in somewhere, but I had kind of a hard time. Pander's got lots of new help, you know, the old guys didn't know from nothing or just wouldn't talk to me. And I didn't get anywhere trying to talk to some of the customers. They pretty well know me around town and I guess most everyone smells there's something going on and wants no trouble. But here's what it looks like, Tom, and—”

  “Never mind. Let Pander tell it. You got your car?”

  “Sure. How else do you think—”

  “Hell, I forgot, Cripp,” and Fell leaned forward to give Cripp a pat on the shoulder. Then he got up. “Let's take your car. You drive better,” and they went out.

  They walked through the coffee shop. Nobody was there except Pearl, and when she saw Fell she smiled at him and walked up.

  “I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Fell, I think you're swell And thanks for the thirty dollars you give me.”

  “I gave you—”

  “Fifteen a night, you know. Two nights.”

  Fell had stopped and looked at the girl without having heard one sensible word. He was just going to say you're welcome and let it go at that, when Pearl saw that she hadn't explained herself.

  “The thirty dollars you told Phido was on the house, you remember? He's going to get the thirty dollars anyway, and seeing how you said you didn't want it. Phido says he's going to give it to me. And I want to thank you,” she added, looking down.

  Fell grinned and gave Pearl a pat.

  “You're welcome,” he said. “And let me know if Phido doesn't come through.”

  Cripp and Fell were at the door when Pearl called after them, “And any time you want a cup of coffee for free, Mr. Fell—and your friend too—you just come here.”

  Driving in Cripp's car, Fell commented, “There's your chance, Cripp. Free coffee.”

  Cripp looked back at Fell.

  “Doesn't she know you own the place?”

  Fell grinned. He said he didn't think it made any difference.

  Chapter Eight

  In one way San Pietro was wide open, but in others they liked a certain formality. So Fell didn't walk into the Town Hall and ask for Commissioner Sutterfield. He didn't even park in the closed lot where the officials had their cars, and when Fell and Cripp happened to see the mayor pass on the street they nodded, said hello, sir, and walked on. Then Cripp and Fell walked to one side of the Town Hall and went into the basement. They stopped in the record room and looked at one of the volumes with lot numbers and subdivisions.

  “Would you like to come this way?” said a woman attendant wearing pink-tinted glasses.

  They did, and then through a door in the back, up an iron staircase and through Sutterfield's office, to the commissioner's front room. That's where the file cabinets were, the group photos of cops for the past fifty years, and another woman attendant. She also wore glasses, rimless, and her lenses also were pink.

  “He's very busy,” she said to Fell. The rose-colored glass made her eyes look ugly.

  “Sure,” said Fell. “Tell him we're here.”

  “They called from downstairs,” she said. “You may go in now.”

  That's when Sutterfield opened the door, held it for them.

  “How are you, Mr. Fell?”

  “Thank you, fine, Mr. Sutterfield.”

  Sutterfield closed the door and watched Cripp sit down. Then Fell sat down. Sutterfield remained standing.

  “All right, Fell. What is the meaning of this?”

  It came out so cold that both Fell and Cripp looked up.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Sutterfield,” said Cripp. He looked over to Fell.

  “I'll take it easy when I've been given an adequate explanation for—”

  “That's why we're here, Mr. Sutterfield,” Cripp said quickly, because he was watching Fell get up and walk to the window where he stood and looked out. “Don't get excited, Herbie,” Fell said to the window. “Just hold still till we get something straight.”

  “Now you listen to me, Fell. You seem to have the idea—”

  Fell cut him short but talked very quietly. He turned back to the room, sat down, looked at his shoes. Fell's long eyes made him look almost sleepy. “I have no idea, Herbie. One reason we're here is to get an idea, to find out what goes on.”

  “Very well,” said Sutterfield. He was rubbing his hands together. “It's very simple from where I'm standing. You disappear—for your health according to Janice—and leave matters in the hands of some incompetent, self-seeking assistant who seems to have the idea—”

  “Mice will play while the cat's away,” said Fell. Both Sutterfield and Cripp looked startled. “Go on, Herbie.”

  Sutterfield finally sat down.

  “Now listen to me, Fell. Perhaps you have the notion that I have time to waste, or money to throw away, or perhaps that all of this is just some friendly misunderstanding.” Sutterfield stopped to gather breath. Then he almost shouted, “I'm a businessman with obligations and a strong sense of what's proper. For allowing you to operate in this town—”

  “Allowing me, Herbie?”

  “Yes, allowing you! And for that I expect to receive consideration as arranged.”

  “Say it, Herbie. You mean ice.”

  “Your language doesn't—”

  “Payoff money.”

  Sutterfield's sour face got livid. “I'll order raids that will ruin you! I'll get the state police and the district attorney! I'll—”

  “You'll have a fit, Herbie. Any minute.” Fell used the pause to say more. “I just want to straighten this out, Herbie, And then everything will be as it was before. Okay?”

  “What did you say?”

  “How much ice do I owe you?”

  Sutterfield was quick to answer.

  “Four weeks. Eight thousand.”

  “Cripp?” Fell looked at him.

  “That's right.” Cripp nodded.

  “Write a check, Cripp.”

  “Now, just a minute,” said Sutterfield. He had got over his surprise. He leaned back in his chair and felt very much on top. “Because of your inefficiency I had to handle unpleasant, unexpected incidentals which are not part of our arrangement. For example, I paid a number of functionaries, who also did not receive their due, out of my own pocket.”

  “That comes out of the two thousand per week,” said Cripp. “Five hundred to—”

  “I know our arrangement!” said Sutterfield. “I know it better, I might add—”

  “Dry up, Herbie, will you, please? Cripp, who else didn't get paid, besides the guys who get theirs through Sutterfield?”

  “Except for the beats, nobody got paid. The beats are paid by our bookies direct. So that makes another six thousand per week all around. Nobody got paid from Sutterfield, by the way,” Cripp added.

  Fell smiled. “Are you trying to cheat me, Herbie?”

  “Fell, your two thousand per week is not all mine. I distribute that. Naturally I was holding—”

  “So what are these expenses you keep talking about?”

  “Do you think raids cost nothing? Do you think it's not going to cost something to reverse my orders, to calm down feelings which have been aroused by this entire mismanagement which forced me to expend efforts in our behalf?”

  �
�How much, Herbie? You got any idea?”

  Sutterfield certainly did. “An additional eight thousand.”

  “Cripp,” said Fell as if he hadn't heard, “what's our average take for this time of year?”

  “That's hard to say, Tom. We never worked out an average figure for the weeks just before the season.”

  “What was our actual take for the four weeks just before I left?”

  “From bookmaking?”

  Fell nodded and before he was through nodding Cripp said, “Month's average per week twenty thousand, eight seventy-two.”

  “And how many offices did Herbie close?”

  “Ten,” said Sutterfield, and Cripp nodded.

  “What proportion of the weekly take did we get from those?”

  Cripp thought a moment, said “About thirty per cent.”

  “What's thirty per cent of that weekly figure you just gave me?”

  Cripp said, “Six thousand, two sixty-one.”

  “So we lost six thousand a week, for which you want a two thousand bonus, Herbie. That doesn't make sense.”

  Sutterfield pinched his lips together and looked mean.

  “Or looking at it another way, Herbie, I'm going to pay you eight thousand for losing me more than twenty-four thousand. So Cripp will give you a check for the last four weeks, for the time you didn't get paid. And for that price I want you to keep things as is, Herbie—normal, friendly, and smooth.”

  Sutterfield seemed to shrink behind his desk, holding himself that way as if he were getting ready for something, but when Cripp gave him the check Sutterfield took it and said nothing.

  “All fixed, Herbie?” Fell got up.

  “Just a minute.”

  The both looked at the old man behind the desk.

  “I'm taking this money as a gesture of good will. That's all. It pays for nothing, Fell, remember that. The only way we can run this thing is by doing it with no flaws and no hitches. I'm going along with you because—” Sutterfield never batted an eye, “—because we're old friends. If you cause a stink in this town, if you start losing control —and that's what it looks like—no amount of protection can hold this business together. And remember this, Fell. I'm watching the scene, just as I think your friend Pander is doing. And I don't do business with losers. Is that clear?”