Two for the Money

by Max Allan Collins

  Nolan sat back down and finished his beer in one long swig. He was getting surly and he knew it. He supposed he ought to stay nice and businesslike around Felix, but the pompous little prick was getting to him. Nolan put the empty can on the floor. He said, “Greer? Is that your name?”

  Greer nodded, sitting forward in his chair. Greer sensed Nolan’s hostility and unbuttoned his green sportcoat.

  “You good for anything, Greer?” Nolan asked.

  Nolan watched the hood bristle, then he said, “Greer, get me a Schlitz.”

  Greer got up slowly, a pained look on the babyface, and went over to the cooler of ice and beer and got one.

  Nolan said, “Well, Felix, I suppose if you insist he go along . . .”

  Greer handed Nolan the beer and Nolan reached inside Greer’s coat and took the .38 from out of the underarm holster and pushed the snub-nose up under Greer’s Andy Gump chin.

  “You son of a bitch,” Greer hissed.

  “Shut up,” Nolan said, pushing him backward, toward the straightback chair. Greer crouched and got a fierce expression on his face, as if he was thinking of doing something. Nolan gave him a look and the hood sat down. Over on the other side of the room Angello was smiling.

  Nolan said, “Felix, is that who you want to go along and protect me?”

  Greer waved his hands and said, “I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “You weren’t expecting,” Nolan said. “I suppose if somebody wants to hit us en route, they’ll announce it.”

  Greer said, “You fucking son of a bitch . . .”

  Felix said, “Greer.”

  And Greer got quiet.

  Nolan examined the gun. “I got no respect for a man who carries a snub-nose,” he said, tossing the gun back to Greer, hard. “You can’t aim the damn things, they shoot different every time. And all that damn fire coming out of the muzzle, and noisy, shit. What kind of bodyguard are you, anyway, carrying a snub-nose?”

  “You’ve made your point,” Felix said. “You’ll go alone.”

  “Fine,” Nolan said.

  Felix was explaining to Nolan how to get to the Riverside bank, drawing a little map on note paper, when the phone rang. Felix told Angello to answer it and Angello did, then said, “It’s for somebody named Logan.”

  “That’s my name here,” Nolan explained, and went to the phone.

  “Nolan?” the phone said. “Nolan, Christ, Nolan, is it you?’

  “Jon?” Nolan said. “Calm down, Jon, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Planner, Nolan . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “They killed him, Nolan, somebody killed him.”

  “Jesus, kid. Stay calm. Don’t go hysterical on me. Jon?”

  “Yes. I’m okay.”

  “Now tell me about it.”

  “He’s dead, Nolan. Planner’s dead.”

  “You said that already. He’s dead. Go on.”

  “He’s dead, and the money . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s gone. All of it.”

  Nolan drew a deep breath, let it out.

  “Nolan? You okay?”

  Suddenly he felt old again.

  “Yeah, kid. Go on.”

  4

  Joey ordered lobster. He sipped his white wine as he watched the waitress sway away, a college girl in a yellow and orange Polynesian-print sarong. Nice ass on the kid, Joey thought, nice ass.

  He was a fat, dark little man in a two hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit, a dollar for every pound he weighed. The suit was tan, its coat wide-lapeled, trousers flared. His shirt was rust color and his tie was white and wide and thickly knotted. His hair was black, brought forward to disguise a receding forehead, but skillfully so, by a barber who had shaped the hair well, leaving it long on the sides, partially covering Joey’s flat, splayed ears. Lamb-dropping eyes crowded the bridge of his narrow, hooking nose, and his teeth were white as porcelain. He wore a one-carat diamond pinkie ring on his left hand, and a two-carat diamond ring on the third finger of his right hand.

  The wine was calming him down. This was his third glass and his stomach felt pleasantly warm. Not fluttering, as it had when he’d gotten Felix’s call, asking (demanding) in that soft Felix voice for Joey to come down to the Tropical for the evening. Joey’d been angry and afraid, but had shown neither emotion to Felix (hope to God!) and of course had said, yes, yes, sure. He was pissed off, but he said yes, Felix. He was pissless scared, but he said, what time should I be there, Felix?

  He’d been angry because it was four o’clock in the damn afternoon when Felix called to say come spend the evening with me. It was what, sixty some miles to the Tropical from the city, and all the rush-hour traffic to contend with on the expressway. And what kind of notice was that, anyway, four fucking o’clock in the afternoon, come down tonight, Jesus.

  He’d been afraid because his life had taken on a constant undercurrent of fear since the fall of Charlie, and it took very little to bring that fear bobbing to the surface. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way, but there it was. He knew he was secure in his position. So what if he got his start with the Family because he was Charlie’s cousin, that didn’t mean there was anything to worry about now. He was too high, too big, too important, too valuable. It was unthinkable, Jesus.

  After all, think of how much money he’d made for the Chicago Family these past years. How many millions had the housing project shuffle brought the Family coffers? He smiled, sipped the wine. And that was nothing next to the cigarette stamp dodge. When he was fronting that tobacco distributing company, the boys must’ve made fifteen million on the counterfeit tax stamp angle, and when it did fall through and went to court, the judge, being a Family judge, dismissed the case for lack of evidence.

  And now, why, shit, he was a public figure. You can’t do nothing to a public figure. He was Joey, for Christ’s sake, not just any Joey, but the Joey, his name up in glittering lights for the whole goddamn town to see. The opening, last year, had been fabulous, greatest day of his life. All the big-name stars and the TV cameras and the reporters, it was something. One of the columnists had said, “Mannheim Road, the West Side’s answer to Rush Street, was the scene of Chicago’s biggest happening since the Fire: the opening of reputed gangland protege Joey Metrano’s $11-million-plus hostelry, Joey Metrano’s Riviera.” And that famous one, Kupcinet (Kup himself!) said, “Joey Metrano, called by some a ‘cheap braggart of a hoodlum,’ has brought Vegas to Chicagoland with his Riviera.”

  The lobster came, two nice tails surrounding a butter pot. And speaking of nice tails, that waitress was giving him a honey of a smile as she put the food in front of him. He smiled right back at her, getting mileage out of the caps. She was blonde, or sort of blonde, having kind of light brunette hair streaked or tipped or whatever the hell they called it. When she served his iced tea, she spilled some of it in his lap, and be damned if she didn’t dab it up with a napkin, oh, sweet Jesus. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, and he told her the pleasure was all his. When she gave him the baked potato, she brushed a pert breast against his shoulder, and Joey couldn’t help but wonder if it was an invitation, especially the sexy damn way she said, “Sour cream on your potato, sir?”

  Jesus, Jesus, what he’d give for some of that stuff tonight. The little broad had a fresh look to her, not like the Chicago meat—lookers, sure, but it seemed like every one of them been giving head since they was ten and humping since eight, and it would be something to get a piece of something that wasn’t up the ass with experience.

  But he had little hope for any action in this dump. In fact, using college girl help was just one sign of this being a half-ass operation. Look at the place, just fucking look at it. The room was so tasteless, with fishnet on the phony-bamboo walls, and Hawaiian and Caribbean and African and Oriental and all sorts of mishmash goddamn stuff hanging on the walls. What’d they do, bring in some guy from Nebraska who saw a travelog once and give him fifty bucks and say, “Do it up exotic.” Tro
pical, my ass, he thought. No taste.

  Now his place, Joey Metrano’s Riviera, that was a different story. (About $10 million different!) Take just one of the things he had going there. Take, for example, the lounge, the Chez Joey (just like in Sinatra’s movie) with its gold-brocade walls and the plush gold carpet, and the gold chairs and gold tablecloths and gold drapes and the girls dressed in Rome-type minitogas, gold also. Now there was class. Take the food, for instance. He forked a bite of lobster and studied it. This lobster was good, but the lobster he served, why, it made these suckers look like shrimps. What did Nolan know about running a restaurant, anyway.

  The bit of lobster went down the wrong way, and, for a moment, he choked.

  Nolan.

  He shivered. (It was cold in here, damn air-conditioning.) Joey hadn’t wanted to think about Nolan, about Nolan being under the wing of the Family, about Nolan running this place here, this Tropical, for the Family. Word had it Nolan was going to move up, and fast. It was spooky, after Charlie and Nolan hating each other for so long, and an open Family contract out on Nolan for all those years. But times change, and Charlie the powerful underboss was now Charlie the deposed underboss.

  And Joey? Joey was Charlie’s cousin.

  Nothing to worry about, shit. Not a thing. Felix wouldn’t let Nolan do anything. Nolan was nothing to the Family, and Joey was so much.

  Like the Riviera. Think how much money the Family made off just building the place, never mind the profit it was turning now. And he, Joey, was the one who wined and dined the various savings and loan guys, one firm anteing up $6 million (for an under-the-table inducement of a mere hundred grand). The rake-off for the Family from these multimillion buck loans was simple and immense. Family construction and supply outfits handed in inflated estimates of cost, and so Joey Metrano’s Riviera (which an appraiser today might put at, say $5 million) had had a provable projected cost of over $11 million.

  After dinner he copped a few more feels from the waitress with the nice ass, then settled back with one last glass of wine. He was just starting the second one last glass of wine when Nolan came out of somewhere and approached Joey’s table.

  “Hope you enjoyed your dinner, Joe,” Nolan said.

  Why did Nolan look so tall, Joey wondered, when he couldn’t have been more than six foot or so? He supposed it was the long, hard lines in his face, the prominent cheekbones, the narrow, almost chink-looking eyes.

  “How you doing?” Joey asked, motioning for Nolan to sit down.

  Nolan sat.

  “What are they calling you here?” Joey asked, in a whisper. “Felix told me but I forgot.”

  “Logan,” Nolan said.

  “Listen,” Joey said, “where is Felix, anyway?”

  “Felix got called back to the city,” Nolan said. “He said I should put you up for the night. He’ll be back early tomorrow morning.”

  “Aw, shit,” Joey said, unable to keep the infuriated feeling down inside him. “Aw, shit, goddamn shit. I come all the way down here, I cancel my goddamn evening, and aw, shit.”

  “It’s not my fault, Joe,” Nolan said. “I’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”

  “I know it’s not your fault, No . . . Logan. And listen, I want you to know something. Just because I was Charlie’s cousin, well, it doesn’t mean, you know.”

  “Sure,” Nolan said. “No reason for hard feelings between us. You weren’t your cousin’s keeper.”

  “Ha, that’s a good one. Uh, Logan, nobody was Charlie’s keeper, all right. He had a mind of his own, all right.”

  “Too bad how he died.”

  Joey swallowed. “Uh, yeah, real tragic is what it was.”

  What was Nolan fishing for? Joey could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Surely Nolan knew Charlie’s “death” was a Family coverup. Surely Nolan knew Charlie was spared the usual blow-him-apart-and-stuff-him-in-the-trunk-of-a-car gangland execution, because Charlie was too high up for that. Charlie was a goddamn underboss.

  Nolan said, “He was disfigured in the accident, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah . . . yes,” Joey said. “Burnt up. Both burnt up. He and . . . his son. They were in the car together.”

  “Was quite a dropoff, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, it sure was.”

  “Not much left of the bodies.”

  “No . . . burnt to a crisp, like I said. No doubt it was Charlie, though.”

  Did he know? Did Nolan know?

  “I never doubted it was Charlie,” Nolan said.

  “They could check it out through Charlie’s bridgework, through his dentist, you know. And rings and other identifying things like that.”

  “Well, Joe, it’s not really a pleasant after-dinner topic, is it? Let’s let it pass. Let me just assure you I hold you no grudge, just for being blood kin of an old enemy . . . and let me say, too, that I hold no grudge for that old enemy, either. I’m not one to speak bad of the dead. Rest in peace, I always say.”

  “R—right. Some wine, Logan?”

  “No thanks.” Nolan bent close, like a conspirator. “Listen. I saw you flirting with Janey.”

  “Janey?”

  “The waitress.”

  “Well, hey, I mean Christ, uh, I didn’t mean anything by . . .”

  “Cool it,” Nolan said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, then, uh, why . . .”

  “Why mention it? Now listen, Joe, just between the two of us, I mean, we’re two of a kind, right? You run a hotel; I run a motel. The only difference is you’re in the city and I’m in the country, right?”

  “Uh, right.”

  “Now tell me, you have some pretty foxy chicks working in that Riviera of yours, don’t you?”

  “Well, sure, sure I do.”

  “And sometimes you, you know, dip into the old private stock, know what I mean?” Nolan grinned, the grin of lech.

  “I know what you mean,” Joey said, returning the grin.

  “So if you like Janey, I think maybe I can work something out for you.”

  “Oh . . . terrific, I mean, Christ, would you do that for me, Nolan? Er, Logan? I never expected . . .”

  “Forget it. You just return the favor for me sometime, okay? Next time I’m in the city for an overnight, just fix me up with one of those foxy ladies in a Roman toga.”

  “Hey, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, right?”

  “Right, Joe.”

  “Listen, I’m not checked in or anything.”

  “I already took care of that,” Nolan said. “I sent your driver, Brown, back to the city to get a change of clothes for you.”

  “Oh . . . well, Brown is . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s sort of a bodyguard, too, I know, but don’t worry. You’re on vacation here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Nolan grinned again and whispered. “Unless some foxy chick bites you on the ass, you know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Nolan got up. “Enjoy yourself, Joe.”

  Half an hour later, Joey was in bed under the covers in his room. He was naked. He was waiting.

  Too good to be true, he thought. He’d really misjudged Nolan. Back in the old days Nolan had been a tough customer, but the years must’ve softened him up. All those stories about Nolan being such a hardass, why, shit. He was friendly, would you believe it, and not just a little naive. If Nolan really thought Charlie could die accidentally, in a car crash, well . . .

  A knock at the door.

  “It’s open,” he said.

  She came in.

  “Lock it, will you, sugar?” he said.

  She did.

  “It’s dark,” she said.

  “I’m over here.”

  “Don’t you want to see me?” she said.

  “I . . . I don’t know if you’ll want to see me. I . . . I could stand to lose some weight, sugar.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she said.

  “Turn on the light then.”
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  She was in a flowing red silk robe, tied at the waist, brushing the floor. She undid the belt. The robe fell in a red silk puddle at her feet.

  “My God,” Joey said. “You’re beautiful.”

  She was beautiful. She had brown skin, coffee-skin, ivory white where some wisp of a bikini had done its enviable job. Her nipples were large and copper-colored and as yet soft, but he would see to that; they would soon be as erect as he was. Her legs were long, muscular, tapering. She smiled at his appreciation. She turned in a circle, like a model, saying, “See anything you like?”

  Her ass was perfection. Oh, that dimpled ass! Oh my God.

  She stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, legs spread, that tangle of hair between them open and inviting and she said, “Anything I can do for you?” and she pulled the covers off him.

  Joey patted the bed beside him. She crawled onto the bed like a cat, and wiggled into his arms, and he turned her on her side and he eased himself up against her, gently ever gently, saying, you sweetheart, oh honey, oh sugar, and the guy with the camera came in and the flashbulbs started popping.

  “Jesus fuck!” Joey said. Spots in front of his eyes.

  Blinking, Joey reached for her. She was gone. Where was she?

  She had the robe on again, how could she have the robe on again so fast? She was standing back beside the door, which was closed, and Nolan was there.

  Nolan was there.

  Oh, God. Nolan was there and some guy with a camera. Oh God, some guy with a camera and . . .

  And so what? Joey wasn’t married. Joey never had time for that. So, so what? What did he care? Scandal? A damn laugh. Nolan was an asshole.

  “You’re an asshole, Nolan,” Joey said, “if you think those pictures are worth a goddamn.”

  Nolan said, “How many shots did you get?”

  The guy with the camera said, “Six. Six good ones. I got more than butts, too. I got faces plain as day.”

  “Okay,” Nolan said. “Now get out of here.”

  The guy with the camera did.

  Joey got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. His dignity was ruffled, and he was a little confused, flustered, but that was all. He said, “Nolan . . .”