“What did these men look like?”
“One of them was old, the other was young. Father and son, I think they were. Sure of it, from . . . from their conversation. The father was short and thin, had a dark tan. His hair was white and cut in a butch. He was maybe sixty years old. His eyes, I noticed his eyes especially . . . they were set close together, and dark. His son had the same eyes, but not so . . . so frightening. The son was light-complected, skinny, his hair was sort of long, and, brown, I think. His hair wasn’t as long as . . . as Jon’s, but it was longer than his father’s.”
“Did they use any names?”
“The son’s name was Walter. I think. I only heard the name used once, and I can’t be positive about it. The father’s name was . . . it was Charlie. At least that was what . . . what Jon called him.”
Nolan sighed. “You better tell it all.”
“The older man had been shot in the thigh. It wasn’t a bad wound, but he passed out from it and that scared his kid enough to bring him to me. While I was treating the older man, Jon showed up . . . we had some papers to fill out, regarding Planner’s death, you see, and . . . well, he just showed up. It was a coincidence that they were here at the same time, you have to believe that! I didn’t . . . betray Jon, you have to believe that! I like the boy.”
Nolan put his hand on Ainsworth’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, or grip the flesh; he just laid his hand alongside the doctor’s throat and said, “What happened to Jon? What did they do to him?”
“They . . . they took him with them.”
Nolan removed his hand. He took a step back, then another. He began to pace for a moment. He was stunned by what the doctor had told him. He was also somewhat relieved, as it meant Jon was maybe still alive. But it made no sense. Charlie should have shot Jon, should kill him, and then take right off. Get the hell out of the country. Now.
But this was no ordinary man. No sane, reasoning mind.
This was Charlie.
Nolan walked back over to Ainsworth and slapped him hard. “Is that the truth?”
Ainsworth’s eyes teared, and his tongue licked feebly at blood in the corner of his mouth. “Why . . . why’d you hit me?”
“Is it the truth?”
Ainsworth nodded and kept nodding until Nolan took Ainsworth’s chin in one hand and looked at him, like an archeologist studying a skull.
“Was Jon all right when you saw him last?”
“Yes. Yes he was. Well, he was unconscious, but . . .”
“Unconscious?”
“Yes, you see I gave the boy something to put him out, so he wouldn’t be any trouble to them in the car. The older man . . . Charlie? The older man, Charlie, said he wanted me to give Jon something that would keep him out for four hours . . . which I assume was the approximate length of time they had to travel.”
“You saw them put Jon in their car? What kind of car was it?”
“I . . . I helped them. We wrapped him in a blanket and put him on the floor in the backseat. Of an Oldsmobile, last year’s model, I believe, blue, dark blue. It . . . it was a good thing that I gave him a shot and put him out, you know.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that . . . that older man, Charlie, he . . . didn’t seem to like Jon much. Jon . . . sassed him. And the one named Charlie was . . . was rough with the boy.”
Nolan heard Karen make a noise behind him. He turned and she was crying. He should have thought about that before, should have known her emotional attachment to the boy would make this hard for her. He should’ve had her leave the room. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought of anything, really. Just get to Ainsworth and shake the truth out of him.
“Are you . . . are you going to let me go, now?” The doctor was much more calm now; his face had returned to its natural color.
“Not just yet,” Nolan said.
Greer was lighting up a cigarette. “You want one, Nolan?”
“No thanks, I gave it up.”
Greer shrugged. “Thought you might have some other use for it.”
Ainsworth’s face turned pale again.
Nolan said, “No. I can do fine with just my hands.”
All at once the doctor began to shake and sweat, as though he were going into a dance routine. “I told you everything, Nolan! Those men forced me to help them, at gun point! I wouldn’t . . .”
“How much did they pay you?”
“Nothing. I assume I’ll be paid through . . . nothing.”
“You assume what?”
“Nothing . . . nothing. I just meant to say I . . . assumed I was lucky to get off with my life.”
“You said you assumed you’d be paid through somebody. Who?”
“Nolan, please . . .”
“I don’t want to hit you, Ainsworth. I’m not the sort of guy that gets his rocks off hurting people. Don’t make me do something I find distasteful. That’ll just make me mad and you’re the only one around I’d have to take it out on. So tell me who.”
“His name is Sturms.”
Karen said, “There’s a Sturms in town who has an insurance agency. I’ve heard some rumors about him. Having to do with drugs.”
Nolan turned to Ainsworth. “Well?”
“It’s true,” he admitted. “Sturms is . . . important in town. I help him out with things. He’s the one that sent those two men to me.”
Nolan turned to Greer. “Untie him.”
Greer nodded and went over to Ainsworth and did so.
Nolan said, “Karen, how you doing?”
She smiled and said, “At least Jon is alive.”
“That’s how I look at it.”
“Do you think you can find him?”
“Yes.” He went over to Ainsworth and picked him up by the lapels. He dragged him over to the couch and plopped him down, kicking the kitchen chair to one side. He picked up the phone from off the end table and tossed it on Ainsworth’s lap. “Call your Sturms. Get him over here.”
“I . . . I can’t do that.”
“Ainsworth.”
“Okay. Okay, okay, just give me a moment to . . . compose myself.”
“If you try anything, I’m going to feed that phone to you.”
“Listen, I’m scared of you, all right? Does that satisfy you, Nolan? I’m scared to death of you, is your ego satisfied? I’m scared to death and I’m going to do whatever you say so . . . so don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.”
Ainsworth swallowed. He picked up the receiver and dialed. It took a while to get an answer, but finally the doctor said, “Sturms? Ainsworth . . . I’m sorry, really I’m sorry, but we got a problem . . . you got to get over here right away, I can’t talk about it on the phone . . . I can’t . . . I can’t handle it, I don’t have my bag with me. Okay.” He told him the address and hung up.
Ainsworth smiled and Nolan said, “What did you tell him?”
“What?”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you mean, what did I tell him? You were right here, you heard what I told him!”
“You said, ‘I don’t have my bag with me.’ What’s that, some kind of signal, some goddamn code, what?”
“I . . . I . . . I just meant, I couldn’t handle it, I mean, you, uh . . .”
“Do you remember when you were treating me?”
He swallowed again, touched his face where Nolan hit him, his mouth where the blood had been. “Sure I remember.”
“What d’you treat me for?”
“You’d been shot. I . . . I took care of you after you were shot.”
“And what did you do for Charlie?”
“For Charlie? I . . . patched him up. Patched up a bullet wound.”
“Let me ask you a question, then. You’re a man of science, you’re a man of logic. What do you suppose happens to people who fuck around with people like Charlie and me?”
Ainsworth said, “I told Sturms he should bring a gun with him.”
“You asshole,�
� Nolan said, and hit him in the face.
“My nose,” Ainsworth sputtered. “My nose, you broke it, I think you broke my nose, I told you and you hit me anyway, broke my nose. What am I going to do?”
“Heal yourself,” Nolan said. “Karen, get him a towel or something. Greer, get that bag of his, look in it.”
Greer went after the bag, fished around inside, held up a small low-caliber automatic, the sort a woman might carry in her purse.
“Toss it here,” Nolan said.
Greer did, and Nolan caught it in his left hand, without looking. He dropped the little gun into his sports coat pocket.
The doctor’s self-diagnosis proved incorrect; a simple nosebleed was all it was, and after it subsided, Nolan tied Ainsworth back up to the chair and dragged him into the kitchen, where Karen found herself a carving knife and sat watch over him.
Nolan and Greer positioned themselves the same way as before, except this time Nolan had his .38 in hand, and when the knock came at the door, Karen did as she’d been told and held the knife to her charge’s throat and Ainsworth yelled from the kitchen, “Come on in, it’s open!”
He may have been important in Iowa City, but Sturms wouldn’t have been shit elsewhere. His arm, extended awkwardly, came in first. He had the silenced automatic clutched tight in a whitening hand, his gun arm held straight out in front of him, elbow locked, like a man groping through the dark, trying not to bump into furniture. All but smiling, Nolan grabbed Sturms by the wrist and shook gun from hand and held the four-inch barrel of the .38 against the man’s temple.
“I’ll do whatever you say,” Sturms said.
3
Nolan bit into the cheeseburger.
Angello said, “Why be pissed at me? It’s not my idea.”
Of course not. It was Felix’s idea. But that didn’t make it any more palatable. Nolan chewed the bite of cheeseburger, dragged a French fry through ketchup.
Angello sat across from him in the booth, wearing a light blue sports jacket and dark blue shirt and light blue tie, also Felix’s idea. The thin gunman with the fat face sat and stuffed himself with a big plate of pancakes, saying, “My wife’d kill me if she found out I gone off my diet.” It was nearly dawn, and breakfast had seemed in order to Angello, though Nolan had gone for cheeseburger-in-the-basket. They were in a truck-stop restaurant on the tollway, not far from Milwaukee.
Angello said, “Anyway, here are the addresses Felix sent for you. He said you’d be needing them.”
Nolan put down the sandwich and took the piece of paper. He looked over the names, addresses, and phone numbers and thought, well, at least Felix did a good thorough job of it. He folded the paper and slipped it in his sports coat pocket and said thanks to Angello.
“You’re welcome. And look, I’m as sorry as you are I got to tag the hell along.”
“You’re not tagging along.”
“An order is an order, Nolan.”
“An order is a bunch of words.”
“And those words got meaning, and this order means I got to stick to you like batshit, Nolan, like it or not.”
“Angello, it’s a shame you lost all that weight.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s good to have some weight on you when you’re trying to get over a bad injury.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nolan shrugged.
Angello’s round face showed irritation, his big bump of a nose twitching like an animated lump of clay. “Hey, you make me tired, all that tough-guy stuff. How do you keep it up, all day long, the tough-guy stuff? Don’t you know some of us go home to the wife and kids, and live, you know, pretty normal lives, and all this tough-guy stuff just doesn’t make it, it isn’t real life, you know?”
Nolan leaned close to the chubby face and pointed with a French fry. “You want to hear about real life? I’ll tell you about it. Real life is you in a ditch with your arms broken if you think you’re coming with me.”
Angello grinned suddenly, scooped a tall bite of pancakes into his mouth and chewed while he said, “You don’t frighten me. I don’t pee my pants when you say boo, Nolan. I’m not a fucking kid like Greer. You shook him up with all that taking his gun away nonsense, back with Felix at the Tropical yesterday, but your show, it doesn’t move me. That’s what it is, you know, a show, a act, and I know it, so drop it already. Your type, Nolan, your type talks a hell of a show but you die like everybody else.”
“I’m alive,” Nolan said.
“Today. How’d you do with Greer, anyway? You slap the kid around and make yourself feel like a champ, or what? Jeez.”
“We got along okay,” Nolan said, softly, not knowing quite how to react to this guy. “I’d trade you in for him gladly.”
“I bet you would. Rather have somebody you can push around, right?”
No, Nolan thought; that wasn’t it, not quite. Maybe Angello wasn’t scared of Nolan, but the reverse was equally true. But Nolan did prefer dealing with someone more predictable. He didn’t know what to make of this chubby-faced thin man, who talked about the wife and kids and hinted at guns and death out on the edges of his conversation.
Nolan liked known quantities. He didn’t like the idea of taking any Family man along on the very delicate calls he was planning to make in Milwaukee these next few hours, but at least with Greer he would have been able to depend on unquestioning workmanship. Greer had shown himself to be an unobtrusive pro back at Iowa City, with Karen, Ainsworth, and Sturms.
Sturms had been no problem, none at all. He came in and, in spite of a slight case of nerves because of the guns pointed at him, the well-groomed glorified drug peddler told Nolan everything he knew of Charlie’s trip to Iowa City. Told Nolan about the phone calls from Charlie’s son, and how cautious he, Sturms, had been about helping the pair, insisting on the son calling Harry in Milwaukee for confirmation.
Nolan felt now that his initial appraisal of Greer had been hasty. Greer hadn’t done anything especially noteworthy in Iowa City, but he’d provided good solid backup, and when Nolan suggested that Greer stay behind to watch over Sturms and Ainsworth, there’d been no smartass arguments or indignant refusals. Greer had just accepted it, without making necessary Nolan’s going into the obvious need for keeping the two men from getting to a telephone to warn Harry that Nolan was on his way to Milwaukee. Greer had only said that he’d have to call and check first with Felix, and Nolan had said go ahead.
But Felix hadn’t taken Nolan’s leaving Greer behind as graciously as had Greer himself.
“You knew this before you left,” the shrill voice had said from over the phone, “you knew then that you’d be leaving my man behind. That’s why you insisted on his taking a separate car, isn’t it? You want to shake loose from the Family on this, don’t you, Nolan? You see this only as a personal vendetta, and insist on ignoring the more far-reaching consequences.”
Nolan had denied the charges, but allowed Felix to carry on with his summation to the jury a while longer before interrupting to remind the lawyer that that list of addresses and phone numbers promised earlier would come in handy now. Felix had agreed and set up this meeting at the tollway truck stop, where Angello was to deliver the list.
Nolan sipped his coffee, his second cup, and hoped things would be okay in Iowa City. He had confidence in Greer, now, but soon Greer would be leaving Karen’s apartment, releasing the two men, and Karen would be left to live in Iowa City, where Ainsworth and Sturms both resided, and the two of them might bear the girl a grudge.
But they wouldn’t do anything about it. Before he’d gone Nolan had explained to them that after their release they would be expected to stay out of Karen’s hair. If, in fact, one hair on her head was touched, Nolan promised he’d come around and cut their balls off. Whether they were responsible or not.
“If you don’t think I’m serious,” Nolan had said, “check with Charlie’s brother Gordon.”
And Sturms had said, “I thought Charlie’s
brother Gordon was dead.”
And Nolan hadn’t said anything.
Reflecting on that, he smiled a little, and thought that perhaps this Angello was right about the hardnose routine; maybe it was just a routine, which he’d put into use now that he was getting old—fifty!—and perhaps didn’t have the stuff to back himself up anymore. An aging hoodlum, propped up on verbal crutches.
But that wasn’t right either, because he’d always found that saying things for effect was a powerful tool, when used with restraint, and he’d handled that tool long and well. If people think you’re hard, they’ll leave you be, and save you needless grief—not to mention energy and ammunition.
Not that he was the melodramatic son of a bitch Charlie was.
The old bastard. Now there was a guy who talked tough, always had, and was no fake: Charlie backed it up, every time. Nolan had never feared Charlie—but he knew enough to respect him. Not his word, which Charlie kept only when it was to his advantage to do so, but respect his threats, no matter how ridiculous they might seem. Charlie would hang a man by the ass from the ceiling of a warehouse with a meathook, in a day when such tactics were thought to be long dead and almost quaint memories of the Prohibition era. Charlie would have a man taken to a basement somewhere and tied to a stool and a dead bird shoved in his mouth and two men shooting behind either ear of the “stool pigeon” in a ritual that in being a cliché was no less terrifying and, well, efficient. Charlie might lie to you, but never in his threats, because Charlie was a melodramatic son of a bitch, who took delight in seeing his melodramatic notions brought into play, and that was probably part of why he snatched Jon.
Nolan got up from the booth without excusing himself and felt Angello’s eyes on his back as he headed for the cash register where a girl broke several of his dollars into change. He headed for the phone booth in the recession between two facing restrooms and closed himself inside the booth. A light and a fan went on and Nolan sat and looked over the list, though he knew already the best place to start.
Tillis.
Tillis was an enforcer who had worked for Charlie for the last five years or so, and was presently working for Charlie’s late wife’s brother Harry in Milwaukee. Tillis was one of a select few blacks serving the upper echelon of the Chicago Family, and had broken the racial barrier in a time-honored American way: he was an athlete, and a good one. The six-three, two-seventy black had played pro ball in the NFL, but left early in a promising career because of a bum knee, and it was long-time football buff Charlie who gave the ex- guard a new team to play for—the mob.
Two for the Money Page 30