However, he liked the feel of her in his lap, and before long Sherry was back on the carpet, but in a different sense, and out of her waitress uniform both temporarily and permanently. By that afternoon her name was listed on the payroll as “Social Consultant.” And so began a relationship that was clearly immoral, entirely corrupt and wholly enjoyable.
“Unnngghhh,” she said. Her eyes were still closed.
Nolan said, “Did you say something?”
“Ungh . . . what time is it, honey?”
Nolan looked at his wristwatch. “Five after two.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon.”
“We miss breakfast?”
“And lunch.”
“I’m hungry, honey.” Her eyes were open now; half open, anyway.
“That’s understandable,” Nolan said.
“What do they call it when you mix breakfast and lunch together?”
“A goddamn mess.”
“Don’t tease me, honey.”
“You call it brunch.”
“That’s right. Brunch. Let’s have brunch.”
“Good idea. Scrambled eggs and bacon and toast?”
“Good idea, honey.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and used the phone. “This is Logan. Put Brooks on.”
Logan was the name Nolan was using right now.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Logan.”
“Good morning, Brooks. Send my usual breakfast over, will you?”
“For two?”
“I said my usual breakfast, didn’t I? And Brooks?”
“Yes, Mr. Logan?”
“You scramble the damn things, this time. With milk and some grated cheese the way you do. Don’t put one of those half-ass college kids on it, for Christ’s sake.”
“When did I ever do that to you, Mr. Logan?”
“Yesterday.”
“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Logan.”
Sherry was getting out of bed, jiggling over to the dresser where she’d left her bikini. He watched her get into it. The bikini was innocence-white and Sherry was berry-brown.
Happy birthday, you bastard, he said to himself, grinning. You’re finally getting there. He was really enjoying this job, even though it was only temporary, only a trial run. The place was called the Tropical Motel, and consisted of one building, half restaurant and half bar-with-entertainment, and four buildings with sixteen motel units in each. There were also two swimming pools, both heated, one indoor, one out. The Tropical was located ten miles outside of Sycamore, Illinois, and was devoted to serving newlyweds of all ages, regardless of race, creed, or actual marital status. Nolan had known nothing about running the hotel end of it, but had been given sufficient help, so no sweat. What he was good at was running nightclubs and restaurants, that was something he’d done for years, though admittedly it had been years since he’d done it.
Seventeen, eighteen years, in fact, since the trouble with Charlie put an end to his career as a nitery manager. Nolan had managed several Chicago clubs to great success, but those clubs were owned by the Family. Of the many Families around the country (loosely united and known by various names—Syndicate, Mafia, Cosa Nostra, etc.), the Chicago outfit was the single biggest, most powerful Family of them all, and was in a very real sense the Family. And Charlie was one of the most powerful men in the Family.
It was after a violent clash with Charlie that Nolan had turned professional thief, using his organizational ability to put together strings of specialists who under his command pulled off one successful robbery after another. The world of organized crime and professional thievery don’t intersect as often as you might think, and Nolan steered clear of his old enemy Charlie for many years, without much trouble, just by staying away from places owned or controlled by the Family, avoiding Chicago itself altogether. Besides, a pro thief generally shied away from hitting any Syndicate operations, anyway, out of interprofessional courtesy.
Last year, though, Nolan had returned to the Chicago area, thinking that after sixteen years the feud with Charlie was past history. That led to the first of his two injuries: one of Charlie’s men had spotted Nolan in Cicero and tagged him with a bullet. Later, Nolan and Charlie met for a meeting of truce, in which Nolan agreed to pay Charlie a set amount of money to repay past damages. The treaty was signed but broken by Charlie, and that had led to Nolan’s second and near-fatal trial by gunfire.
And then, after months holed-up recuperating, word filtered down to Nolan that the Family wanted to send a representative to meet with him. The representative was to be Felix, counselor in the Family, a lawyer with a single client. Sending the legal arm of the Family meant reconciliation was not only possible, but imminent.
Which was beautiful, because Nolan had nearly four hundred thousand dollars and the inclination to set himself up in business with a restaurant or nightclub or both, but he wanted all past wounds with the Family to be healed before making a move.
Nolan had conferred with the man named Felix in a room in a motel at the LaSalle-Peru exit on Interstate 80. Felix had said, “We want to thank you, Mr. Nolan.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “What for?”
“For exposing that idiot for the idiot he was.”
“Charlie, you mean.”
“Yes,” Felix had said. Felix was a small man, about five-four. His hair was gray and modishly long and his face was gray and he wore a well-cut gray suit and a tie the color of peaches. Felix could have been thirty or he could have been fifty or anywhere along the road between.
“You said ‘was,’ž” Nolan said.
“That’s right. Charlie is no longer a problem.”
“You mean Charlie’s dead.”
“Excuse my euphemism. Force of habit. Charlie is most certainly dead.”
“Maybe we ought to have a moment of silence or something.”
“The news hasn’t broken yet,” Felix said, pleasantly, “but you should be seeing something about the tragic event in the papers and on television this evening and tomorrow morning . . . though a ‘gangland leader’ who dies in an automobile mishap does not make nearly as good copy as one who dies by the gun.”
Nolan began to understand Felix’s friendly attitude. Nolan knew that the Family in Chicago had been much torn with political maneuvering within ranks, as for several years now the Chicago Boss of All Bosses had been living in Argentina in self-imposed exile to avoid prosecution on a narcotics charge. With the top seat vacant but still unattainable, underboss Charlie was the man with most authority, though even he was not wholly in command, as the exiled overlord had (perhaps unwisely) spread his authority out among a number of men, unwilling to see anyone gain total control. Nolan looked at Felix and realized that the lawyer was representing an anti-Charlie faction, which had apparently won their power struggle, having just pulled a relatively bloodless coup.
Which was no doubt supported by members on the executive council of the national organization of Families, who sympathized with these younger, anti-Charlie forces in the Chicago outfit. The sympathy was a chauvinistic one, as the other Families throughout the nation weren’t nearly as strong as Chicago. New York alone had five weaker, sometimes warring Families to Chicago’s powerful, monolithic one. Dumping Charlie would further destroy the strong center of power in the windy city, spreading the biggest Family in the country out among younger, less dominant gang leaders. It was all very similar to chess, or Cold War politics.
“I think we could find a place for you in the Family, Mr. Nolan,” Felix was saying.
“Like you found a place for Charlie?”
“Please. I would hope we’re here in mutual friendship, and good will.”
“Anybody who tells me Charlie is dead is a friend of mine.”
“I must say you exposed him ingeniously, and I’m sure if I knew all the details, every twist and turn of the scheme, I’d be all the more impressed.”
What Felix was referring to was something Nolan had
done to countercheck Charlie in case of a double cross. When Charlie had agreed to make peace with Nolan—for a price—Nolan had included “bait money” in with the payoff, that being the marked bills from a recent bank job. Nolan’s intention had been to see if Charlie stuck by his word, and then if so, tell him about the marked bills. Charlie hadn’t, and months later, when one of the Family fences had tried to circulate those bills for Charlie, bad things started happening. Lawyers and judges-on-the-take got the trouble cleared up, but the anti-Charlie forces in the Family (with the support of the national Executive Council of Families, no doubt) had evidently seized upon the incident to depose the longtime underboss, since Charlie’s dealings with Nolan had been behind Family backs and in violation of several council rulings. It had all worked pretty much as Nolan had intended it to.
“What about the others?” Nolan asked. “Werner? Tillis?”
These were two other men involved in Charlie’s plotting. Werner was a major cog in the wheel; Tillis was a black gunman Nolan rather liked.
“Werner is no longer a problem. And Tillis has proved helpful in Charlie’s removal. He’s working in Milwaukee now.”
“Tillis is a good man. I’m glad he’s still around.”
“And what are your plans?”
Nolan told Felix of his vague notions to start something up . . . a nightclub, a restaurant, something.
“We have several openings along those lines ourselves.”
“Strictly legitimate or I’m not interested. I’m retiring. I’m an old man.”
“Old? You’re scarcely fifty.”
“I’m forty-nine and I feel eighty. You ought to see my fucking side. I’d show it to you only I got to keep the ban-dage on because it’s draining pus. It’s a twisted bunch of stitched purple skin from where I took three bullets that by all rights should’ve killed me. Sometimes I think I did die and was resurrected and I’m Jesus Christ. But I’m not. What I am is skinny and sick and I want out of that life.”
“Strictly legitimate. We have some big openings.” Felix mentioned several of them; one was a major resort, a multimillion-dollar operation; another was a huge, beautiful, fantastically successful combination restaurant and nightclub.
“I was thinking something smaller,” Nolan said. He was stunned but he kept it inside. “Why would you put me into something as major as those places?”
“It would require an investment on your part. An investment as major as those places I mentioned.”
And then it was down-to-brass-tacks time. After much further conversation, the bottom line was this: if Nolan would invest $250,000 in the operation of his choice, he would gain twenty percent ownership and a managerial salary of $60,000 per annum with a five-year ironclad contract. It was the dream of his life, but he held back his enthusiasm. He insisted on some assurance of the Family’s good faith and intentions; perhaps a period of time during which he could prove himself to them, in some managerial capacity, while they in turn proved their trust in him. Felix said that not only did he concur with Nolan’s suggestion, but that such an arrangement was a stipulation of the agreement. Nolan would take over management of the Tropical Motel for one year, as a trial run.
“Are you tired of this bikini?” Sherry was saying.
“No,” Nolan said.
“You’ve been looking at it all summer.”
“I’m not tired of it. It’s terrific.”
“Well, if you’re tired of it, I’ll have to go get a new one. That’s all there is to it.”
The phone rang on the nightstand and Nolan picked off the receiver and said, “Yeah?”
“Mr. Logan. Good afternoon.”
It was Felix.
“When did you get in?” Nolan said.
“Half an hour ago. Are things in order for the switch?”
“I’ll just want to get together with you and see what you have in mind.”
“Fine. Is the man in Iowa ready?”
“I’m sure he is. I’ve been waiting for your call, so I can call him.”
“Good. I’m in building three, room one. Come over in ten minutes and we’ll make final arrangements.”
Nolan said fine and thumbed down the button on the phone, let it up and got the switchboard girl. He asked her to get him long distance and had a call put through to Planner. He listened as the phone rang and rang. He waited a long time. The store is long, he thought, and Planner is old; he could have customers. He waited and waited, then finally gave up. The old guy probably just stepped out for something. Across the street for an ice cream cone, maybe. And that damn Jon’s probably buried in his room reading comic books, Nolan thought, gone to the world. He smiled in spite of himself. He hung up the phone.
Sherry said, “Brunch is at the door, honey.”
“Let it in,” he said, grabbing his trousers off a chair and pulling them on. He would have his breakfast now and phone Planner again later.
2
Greer hadn’t killed anybody for two years now. He sat on the edge of the bed, arms dangling at his sides, and looked at the snub-nosed .38 Colt in his lap. He studied the gun, regarded it curiously, as though he expected the object to speak. “I wonder,” he said aloud. He was wondering if he was losing his edge.
He was a small, dark, babyfaced man. He’d been told by more than one woman that he looked like the late Audie Murphy, famous war hero and actor, the main difference being Greer was balding and his chin was sort of weak. He had the build of a fullback, scaled down somewhat, and the arms hanging loose at his sides were heavy with veined muscle.
He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a dark green tie and white trousers. Under his arms were sweat stains and the loops of his shoulder holster, which X’ed across the back of the white shirt. On the bed beside him was a light green sportcoat, cut especially to accommodate a shoulder-bolstered gun. He had never gotten used to this year-round, constant wearing of suits and sportcoats, though he’d been doing so since starting with Felix two summers ago. He was glad the motel room was air-conditioned, and even the blue stucco walls were cool, cooling to the sight, as was the light blue shag carpet.
The door opened and Angello came in, carrying the room key in one hand and two ice-cold Pabsts by their necks in the other. He was six feet tall, a thin man with a round lumpy face; it was a fat man’s face, because up until recent months Angello had been fat, and while he was trim everywhere else, he still had his double chin, puffy cheeks, and a bumpy, thick nose that all the dieting in the world wouldn’t do anything about. Angello kicked the door shut. He was wearing a pink sportcoat and white shirt and red tie and white trousers.
“Just two beers, Ange?”
“Hey, baby, we’re on call, right? Just wet the whistles, that’s all. Never mind the good time.”
“Toss one here. Where’s the opener?”
“Don’t need one. Twist-off caps.”
“Ain’t science grand.”
Angello sat on the twin bed opposite Greer’s. Angello looked strange, fat head on skinny body, as if one person’s face was being superimposed somehow over the body of another. Greer twisted off the cap and swigged. So did Angello.
Angello said, “Hey, Greer.”
“Hey, what?”
“What d’you think of these clothes we’re wearing?”
“What d’you think?”
“I think I feel like a fairy.”
“You look like one.”
“Shit, cut it out. What d’you suppose people think when they see a couple guys dressed like us going into a motel room together?”
“I don’t know what they think. They think to each his own, I suppose.”
“Well, I feel like a fairy. Why does Felix dress us up like this, I want to know.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Funny man. I’ll tell you why, it’s because he thinks we look less conspicuous dressed like this. Because we got to wear coats to cover up our guns and since it’s summer he doesn’t want us to look like pallbear
ers in black or something, so we walk around instead like a couple of fairies.”
“Golf pros dress like this,” Greer said. “Golf pros are athletes, aren’t they? You know any fairy athletes?”
“Golf pros aren’t athletes. Football players are athletes. Hockey players are athletes.”
“Drink your beer, fairy.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Just next time you go into the bar after it, okay? Greer.”
“Huh?”
“Greer, what you doing with your gun in your lap?”
“Nothing.”
“Beating it off, or what?” Angello laughed and swallowed at the same time and it sounded like something going down a drain.
“You’re funny as a crutch, Ange.”
“Hey, you uptight today? Something on your mind today, Greer? Your forehead’s all wrinkled up. You been thinking again?”
“Look,” Greer said, “quit being cute long enough to tell me something. How long you been doing this bodyguard thing for Felix, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three years. Yeah, three years, a year longer than you.”
“What were you doing before that?”
Angello smiled. “People borrow money they sometimes forget to pay back and somebody’s got to remind them of their obligation. You know.” Angello laughed and swallowed again.
“Backing up the shylocks,” Greer said. “Pretty tough work. You have to kill guys sometimes doing work like that.”
Angello nodded. “Not often, though. It’s bad business. How you going to get money out of a dead guy?”
Two for the Money Page 21