Blood Money

1

The day he turned fifty, Nolan didn’t feel old anymore.

For the several years approaching this day — the day marking the start of his fiftieth year, the day he’d come to regard as the starting gun for senility — for these two long years he had become increasingly paranoid about old age. About becoming an old man: a codger; a coot. The time would’ve come for trading in his.38 Smith and Wesson for a cane and a spot on the bench in front of a court house in some small town somewhere.

Or in a rest home. In his nightmares he saw himself, a vegetable, a shell of a man, emaciated, sprawled on a bed in a ward full of other wrinkled husks of once men, tubes running into and out of his arms and nose and crotch, bottles of amber fluid hanging beside his bed, dangling like shrunken heads. The root of his dream came, no doubt, from the two occasions in the past two years when he’d been bedridden, the first time for three months, the second for six. Both times he’d been down with bullet wounds, the second time being the more serious, as he had been just barely healed up from the prior wound when these slugs entered his left side, the same approximate area of his body as before. It was during that second, more precarious ordeal that the rest home dream had begun, first as one of countless other feverish, delirious dreams, then as a recurring nightmare.

But that doctor had pulled him through, somehow, despite his great loss of blood. The doctor himself had said it was impossible to save him, but Nolan’s whispered, almost deathbed offer of, “Five grand extra if I live,” proved the trick. Money was indeed the world’s most potent miracle drug.

And now today, his birthday, fifty candles on his cake, today he felt fine, just fine. Emaciated? A shell of a man? He sat up in bed, patted his pot belly and laughed like Buddha getting his feet tickled. He felt young. He felt good.

He also felt tired, even though he’d just woken up.

But not very. He felt more good than he did tired, and why shouldn’t he feel tired? He had a right to be tired, damn it. He ought to be hung over as hell, after all that drinking last night, and he wasn’t. And he ought to be feeling physically drained, after the extended bedroom athletics with Sherry, but he didn’t. The way he acted last night you’d have thought he was a soldier on his last night before shipping overseas. Well, the morrow was here and the war had been declared over and he had his discharge papers and he felt fine.

He patted the ass of the sleeping girl next to him. She was a pretty thing, a sweet thing, a pleasant and very young plaything, who had made his summer pretty, sweet, and pleasant. And young. He knew now, in a sudden flash of self-awareness, his reason for choosing a girl, how old? Twenty? Nineteen? Better be eighteen at least. That would be the crowning touch, wouldn’t it? Of all the things Nolan had done in a long, enjoyable lifetime of crime, to get busted for statutory rape! He’d get laughed out of the business.

Right now, though, he was doing the laughing. At himself. For picking out a girl who was, yes, young enough to be his daughter. For all he knew she was his daughter; he’d never been one for keeping track of those things. He stroked her ass again and she groaned in her sleep and turned over, stretching out, her long, lithe, naked body pearled with sweat. Her legs were parted. The fountain of youth, Nolan thought, and laughed again.

He sat back in bed and listened to the girl snore. She snored like a man and he’d at first found it amusing and later it started to bug him; his present mood had him finding her snoring amusing again. She was a slender girl, with frosted hair that arced gently round a face that was all big blue eyes and pouty mouth and a semi-false look of innocence.

He thought back, with some affection, to the first time he’d seen Sherry. She was spilling coffee into a customer’s lap. The customer called her a stupid bitch and Nolan asked the man to please keep his voice down and watch where he was throwing his abusive language, and the customer had said he didn’t care, she was still a stupid bitch, and Nolan told him to get the hell out, which he did, and then Nolan took the shaken girl into his private office and sat her down and called her a stupid bitch and fired her.

She had started to cry, of course, and he’d given her a reprimand and let it go at that, since it was her first day on the job. That was his problem, Nolan knew. He was just too damn softhearted. Once on a bank job, a guy whom Nolan had jumped on for roughing up employees needlessly, had said to him, “Shit, man, you probably cry at Disney pitchers,” and though the remark wasn’t true, it had struck home. Also, Nolan had struck the guy.

But for the next week the reports continued. She spilled coffee, tea, and milk, and plates and trays of food constantly into customer laps. If just once she could have landed the crap on the floor, even, but no... into lap after lap after lap, and soon she was on the carpet again, getting one of Nolan’s lectures, and then she was crying and suddenly was on Nolan’s lap. Which was certainly an improvement over drinks and food, and as the tears welled out, so did a sob story about how much she needed this summer’s job to pay for her college. This was patently untrue, Nolan knew. She had dropped out of college, according to the data on her application form, and as far as he knew, her main reason for taking a summer job at the Tropical was to get a nice tan.

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 inter-professional 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,’ ” 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 under-boss, 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 bandage 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 multi-million-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 $150,000 in the operation of his choice, he would gain twenty percent ownership and a managerial salary of $40,000 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, baby-faced 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’d 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 Angelo 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 Angelo 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. Angelo 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.”

Angelo sat on the twin bed opposite Greer’s. Angelo 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 Angelo.

Angelo 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 pallbearers 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?” Angelo 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?”

Angelo smiled. “People borrow money they sometimes forget to pay back and somebody’s got to remind them of their obligation. You know.” Angelo laughed and swallowed again.

“Backing up the shylocks,” Greer said. “Pretty tough work. You have to kill guys sometimes doing work like that.”

Angelo nodded. “Not often, though. It’s bad business. How you going to get money out of a dead guy?”

“I used to hit guys,” Greer said.

“Yeah, you told me before. You were a real scary guy.”

“I used to do hits for Tony Action.”

“Sure, Tony Action. Mr. Machismo. They say he tied his wife to a chair in the kitchen and poured gas on her and gave her a light. That’s one way to duck divorce. Now me, my wife ties me up in the kitchen and feeds me her food and I get gas.” Angelo thought that was pretty funny. This time he devoted all his attention to laughing, no swallowing at all.

“Tony Action was really something,” Greer said. “You can laugh, but man, I mean to tell you. Really something.”

“Well, Tony is dead now, and I for one am never sorry to see one of those flashy tough asses get their ass shot off, they attract attention and give the rest of us a bad name, and you ought to be glad you had a reputation for being good help. Most of Tony’s guys got stepped down. You’re the only one who got fucking promoted.”

“I was lucky,” Greer said. “Don’t get me wrong. Working for Felix is good. It’s a good job. It’s just...”

“It’s just what?”

“I feel I’m getting soft in this job,” Greer said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s like you say... we wear pink coats and follow a lawyer around, that’s what I mean.”

“You rather lay your balls on the chopping block every day? You’re a fucking nut.”

“No, no... it’s just that even though we’re following a lawyer around, we’re carrying guns, and that means we’re here because there’s some chance something might happen. And when it happens, I don’t want to be out of shape, you know?”

“Hey, Greer, tell you what... let’s go sit in the bar and wait till some fruits pick us up and bring them back here and you can beat the fuck out of ’em. How does that sound?” Angelo laughed-swallowed. He couldn’t have been having a better time at a party.

“You got a warped sense of humor, Ange. You really do.”

“What is it? You think maybe something’s going to happen on that overnight hike you’re going on tonight? Don’t worry, that guy Nolan will be along to protect you. Or is that it? Is that who you’re nervous about?”

“Bullshit.”

“Say, Felix isn’t going to try and cross this guy Nolan, is he? Is that why you’re nervous, baby?”

“Why don’t you just finish your beer, Angelo.”

“They tell stories about Nolan. He never burned up any women in the kitchen, but they tell stories about him.”

“Look,” Greer said, “all Felix said was I’d be going along. My understanding is that the guy has some money stashed somewhere, and that I’m supposed to escort him and the cash to one of our Chicago banks. If I’m worried about anything, it’s that money. All that money’s a big responsibility.”

“How much is it, anyway?”

“Felix wasn’t specific. I’d guess a couple hundred thousand, at least.”

“That’s probably right,” Angelo nodded. “You know I heard Felix say Nolan was behind that bank heist in Iowa a year or two back. The one that came close to eight hundred thousand. There were three or four men in on the job, I think. So he ought to have a couple hundred thousand at least is right.”

“Should,” Greer said. He sipped the beer. “Uh, what kind of stories you heard about him?”

“You ever hear how the thing between him and Charlie got going?”

“That’s before my time.”

“Mine, too. But my older brother Vinnie... you know Vinnie?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s in his era. Told me all about it. Charlie had a brother name of Gordon, an asshole from way back, and Charlie set this asshole Gordon up with part of the Chicago action. A bigger part than Gordon could handle, according to Vinnie. Anyway, Nolan is managing nightclubs and making quite a rep. He takes over a loser on Rush Street and turns it into a moneymaker in two months. And he does his own bouncing, I might add. So this Gordon, not content to leave ride a good thing, tries to move Nolan out of the club racket into strongarm, of all things. Nolan doesn’t want no part of enforcer stuff, and tells Gordon so. Now Gordon was a lot like Charlie, see, only less brains. All the pride, but lots less brains. And so Gordon tells Nolan, look, he doesn’t care, if he says crap, Nolan is supposed to ask how high, and that line of garbage. He tells Nolan to kill a guy, some guy who’s a friend of Nolan’s who works in his club. Nolan says no way. A few days go by and this guy, this friend of Nolan’s, turns up in Lake Michigan and he isn’t swimming. Nolan gets mad. He goes to Gordon and shoots the asshole and splits with twenty grand of the Family’s money.”

Greer smiled. He put his gun in his shoulder holster. “So that’s why Charlie hated Nolan so much. Nolan killed his brother.”

Angelo smirked, batted a hand at the air, “Oh, hell, Gordon was no loss to anybody. Not even Charlie. It was pride. Keep in mind Charlie’s pride, Greer. That was one puffed-up son of a bitch. Nolan’s play made a fool out of Charlie. He killed Charlie’s brother, right? And he stole Charlie’s money. And he got away clean. Worst of all, he got away clean. For years Charlie had an open contract out on Nolan. Nobody collected. Made Charlie look bad. Real bad. When all this happened, nearly twenty years ago, Charlie was underboss in Chicago. The day Charlie died he was still the same damn thing.”

Greer nodded. “And he probably died blaming that on Nolan.”

“Probably,” Angelo agreed. He sighed. “I could use another beer.”

“Me, too.”

“But we’re on call, better not. And besides, I’m not about to go walking into that bar again. A guy practically whistled at me last time.” Angelo grinned, tried to drain one last drop out of the Pabst.

The phone on the nightstand rang. Angelo reached over and answered it. He said, “Yes, sir... yes, sir... right away, sir.” He hung up.

Greer said, “Felix?”

“Felix,” Angelo said. “I think we’re about to get a nice close look at this guy Nolan. Come on.”

Greer put on his coat.

3

After brunch, Nolan called the bar and had them send over some beer in a cooler to Felix’s room. Send over eight bottles, he said, five Schlitz and three German imported. Nolan didn’t know if Felix drank beer, but it seemed early in the day for anything else, and if Felix did drink beer, it would be German imported.

He pushed the tray of dishes aside, got up from the edge of the bed where he’d been sitting and eating, and went to the bureau where he took out a dark yellow short-sleeve Banlon and pulled it on. He got a brown sports jacket out of the closet and put it on.

“Doesn’t go with your slacks,” Sherry said.

His slacks were black.

Nolan nodded, took off the coat, and hung it back in the closet. He found a charcoal gray sports jacket and climbed into it. He turned to Sherry, who was still eating her eggs, for approval.

“That’s better,” she said.

“One thing,” he said, “I can’t figure out.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“What are you, my mother, sister, or daughter?”

She grinned, cheeks puffed with food. “Whichever’s dirtiest,” she said, not too distinctly.

He grinned at her, feeling affection for her against his best judgment. “See you later,” he said.

“How long you going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll be at the pool.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Your bikini.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m not going to swim, just going to sun.”

“You get much more sun you’re going to have to ride in the back of the bus.”

“I will? Why?”

“That was a joke.”

“Really? Must’ve been before my time or something.”

He sighed. “Everything’s before your time.”

“Don’t belittle me, Logan. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”

“Yes you were. Yesterday. Just yesterday.”

“Give us a kiss.”

He went over and pecked her forehead.

“A kiss, dammit.”

“You got egg on your mouth.”

“I’ll wipe it off.”

She did, and he kissed her, but it still tasted like eggs. Maybe it was just his imagination. He kissed her again. No, he thought, eggs, all right.

“Sorry I didn’t get your joke,” she said.

“It wasn’t much of a joke,” he said.

“Well, you can’t expect me to be looking for jokes from you. You don’t make jokes that often. Next time tell me first.”

“Are you saying I don’t have a sense of humor?”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t what attracted me to you.”

“I must have a sense of humor.”

“Why?”

“I put up with you, don’t I?”

She made a mock-angry face and said, “Happy birthday, you S.O.B.”

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“You told me last night, or I mean this morning. You were pretty drunk. You sang yourself the ‘Happy Birthday’ song.”

“Told you I had a sense of humor. Did I really do that? After a certain point things get a little hazy. Did I do it in front of anybody, for Christ’s sake?”

“Just me. We were back in the room by then, with the champagne.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

She pointed toward the corner by her side of the bed and sure enough, there was an empty bottle of champagne, lying on its side like a casualty of war. Two water glasses had in them each a quarter of an inch or so of by now very flat champagne. It was, unfortunately, all coming back to him.

“Do me a favor,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Don’t ever tell me what else I did. I got a certain self-image to maintain.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a tough guy. You told me that, too.”

“Please,” he said. “You’re twisting the knife.”

“Okay, okay. Logan?”

“What?”

“Are you?”

“Are I what?”

“A tough guy?”

“Sure. I eat babies.”

“I hope that’s another joke.”

“Well, it is. Sort of.”

“I been wanting to ask you something for a long time.”

“Ask.”

“Where’d you get all the funny scars?”

“Don’t ask.”

She accepted that graciously, taking a swallow of milk and smiling at him with a milk mustache. “See you later, Logan. I’ll be sunning.”

“At the pool.”

“Right.”

They said goodbye to each other.

When Nolan knocked at Felix’s door, somebody else answered. It was a balding, baby-face guy in a light green coat with a dark green tie. There was a dull hardness to the guy’s matching light green eyes, and he was packing a gun under his left arm, though the coat was cut to hide it. The guy looked familiar but Nolan couldn’t place him.

“Come in, come in,” Felix’s silky voice said, from somewhere behind the gunman.

Nolan came in and found Felix sitting on the edge of the big double bed, at its foot. Felix was wearing a lemon sports coat and lemonade tie. His trousers were tan. His face wasn’t gray this time, but brown, as brown as Sherry’s. Felix had evidently been to Miami recently. His graying hair was styled, covering one fourth of his ears, and he looked overall very with it. Beside him on the bed was an ashtray and a pack of Gauloises Disque Bleu and the ashtray had half a dozen of the cigarettes stubbed out in it. Though Felix wasn’t smoking at the moment, chain smoking probably explained the flaw in Felix’s well-groomed looks: his teeth were as yellow as his sportscoat.

To Felix’s left, sitting on a straightback chair, was another bodyguard, a tall guy with a round face that didn’t quite go with the rest of him. The tall gunman was wearing a pink coat and red tie, which made him look like a fag or something. Felix’s idea of class, probably.

“Shut the door and sit down, Greer,” Felix told the baby-face. Greer did as he was told. “Nolan, my friend, make yourself comfortable. Angelo, give Mr. Nolan your chair.”

Angelo did so.

“And thank you, Nolan,” Felix continued, “for being kind enough to send over some refreshment. Very thoughtful. Would you like something to cool yourself off, Nolan?”

Nolan said, “Get me a Schlitz,” to Angelo.

Felix said, “Lowenbrau, Angelo.”

“And,” Nolan said, “crack open a couple Schlitz for you and what’s-his-name, Angelo.”

Angelo looked to Felix for approval. He got it.

“Thanks,” Angelo said to Nolan. He had a gruff voice that didn’t fit the red coat and tie, as his head didn’t fit his body.

Nolan waited till everybody had beers and then figured all the bullshit preliminaries were over and said, “What’s the word, Felix?”

Felix smiled, turned to Angelo and said, “Bring me a glass,” and Angelo brought him a bathroom glass still wrapped in paper. Felix waited for Angelo to tear off the wrapping and hand him the glass. Then Felix poured the golden liquid out of the green bottle and sipped it and said, “Have you heard from your friend in Iowa?”

“I’m having trouble getting through to him.”

“Trouble?”

“I’ve tried twice. Nothing to worry about. He may try to call me. I told the switchboard girl to route the call to me here in this room if he does.”

“Do you think there could be a problem on his end?”

“No. It’s nothing. You got to understand he’s an eccentric old guy with a mind of his own. He feels like stepping out for a while, he steps out for a while.”

“I see. I hope everything is all right.”

“Everything’s cool. The money’s safe where it is, like it has been for almost a year now. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I wish I could share your confidence,” Felix said, wagging his head gravely. “I won’t feel safe until the money is in that bank of ours.”

“Me, too, but no sweat. I can’t see how anybody could know where the cash is. Do you know where it is?”

“No,” Felix said.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth,” Nolan said, “I don’t know.” He took a gulp of his beer, giving Felix a chance to say something, then went on. “You know enough to find out, that’s for sure. You know about the bank job, and I went so far as to tell you the money’s stashed in Iowa someplace. Send some boys snooping to find out about me, you could figure where the stuff is, easy enough. Charlie could’ve figured it out, if he wasn’t dead.”

Felix smiled meaninglessly, like a sphinx.

“But nobody else could,” Nolan said. “Unless you leaked what you know about me. Or unless you talked as loose as I am now in front of bodyguard clowns like these two.” Nolan caught out of the corner of his eye Greer narrowing his. “Nobody in my field knows I’m the one who pulled that particular job, and if they did, they sure wouldn’t figure I’d leave the money sit where I did. For this long especially.”

“What you’re saying,” Felix said, taking a genteel sip from his glass of beer, “is this hiding place is so stupid it’s smart.”

Nolan shrugged, took another gulp of beer. They’d been over all of this before, a lot of times. Nolan had resisted handing the money over to the Family immediately because he didn’t trust them, he wanted to fully understand their intentions before making any final steps. Now, after these months at the Tropical, he felt assured that the offer Felix had made in that other room in the motel at the LaSalle-Peru exit on Interstate 80 was legitimate. Of course, even by Family standards the amount of money involved was a sizable one, but it didn’t seem logical that they’d try to get at it through so elaborate a double cross. And why should they double-cross him? Nolan was convinced that the Chicago Family was grateful to him, glad to be rid of Charlie. After all, they had entrusted Nolan with the reins of the Tropical, an expensive bauble for even the Family to be tossing casually around, and had been paying him well for this “trial run.” But still he’d waited until recently to tell Felix he was ready to transfer the money, and it was only yesterday that he’d mentioned to the lawyer that Iowa was where he had to go to get it.

Felix said, “What I had in mind was this. You will leave here this evening, around eight or nine, and arrive in Iowa, wherever in Iowa it is, sometime after midnight, depending on how far you’re going. We have a car for you with a specially rigged trunk compartment, so that you can get stopped by the police, for God knows what reason, and still get by even a fairly thorough search. You will deliver the money to our bank in Riverside an hour and a half before opening — that’s seven-thirty, Daylight Savings Time — and the bank president, a Mr. Shepler, will be waiting for you.”

“Fine. What’s the name of the bank in Riverside and how do I get there?”

“Just leave that to Greer.”

“To who?”

“Greer,” he said, nodding toward the baby-face gunman.

“Why should I leave it to him, Felix?”

“He’ll be accompanying you, Nolan. You wouldn’t want all that money to go unguarded.”

Nolan sighed. He took two long swallows from the Point Special, set the half-empty can on the floor beside his chair and got up. Felix was starting to get on his nerves. Felix was starting to be a pompous ass. Nolan paced for a moment, till the urge to tell Felix those things went away. Then he said, “I don’t like muscle, Felix.”

“Nolan...”

“What do I need muscle for? I can take care of myself.”

“It’s a big responsibility for one man.”

“I’ll pick up somebody else when I get there.”

“Who?”

“Never mind who. The other guy who has a say in where this money is going, that’s who.”

“A partner of yours? Is he capable?”

“All my partners are capable,” he said, but that wasn’t quite true. It was Jon he was talking about, and Jon was just a kid, hardly a seasoned veteran. But Jon was who he wanted, not some mindless strongarm. And he didn’t want any Family accompaniment at all.

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 sportscoat.

“Are 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 baby-face, 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 Angelo 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 Angelo to answer it and Angelo 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-lapelled, 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.” Tropical, 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 mini-togas, 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 multi-million 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 cover-up. 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,” Joey said. “Burnt up. Both burnt up. He and his son. They were in the car together.”

“Was quite a drop-off, wasn’t it?”

“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 lechery.

“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.”

“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.”

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, “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.

She was gone. Blinking. 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...”

“Joe,” Nolan said, “allow me to introduce you to Felicia Colletta.”

Colletta?

“Who?” Joey said. “Colletta?”

“Colletta. That’s right. You know the name.”

He knew the name if it was that Colletta, the Family Colletta.

“You know how Mr. Colletta feels about his daughters,” Nolan said.

Colletta. Boss of the biggest New York Family. Colletta, with four beautiful daughters from age fourteen to twenty-two. Four beautiful daughters Colletta loved with an Old World paternal passion.

“You probably heard about his older daughter Angela,” Nolan was saying, “who is married now. You probably heard about the college kid who screwed Angela when she was fifteen.”

Colletta had a guy use acid on the kid, Joey didn’t want to think about where.

“Felicia’s going to turn eighteen this summer, aren’t you, Felicia? Mr. Colletta sent her here to the middle West where she could breathe some clean country air.”

This wasn’t happening.

“All right, Felicia,” Nolan was saying, “thank you so much. Don’t say a word about this to anyone, you hear?”

And she was nodding and leaving.

Joey sat down on the bed.

Nolan came and joined him.

Nolan said, “I want you to tell me about Charlie.”

Joey said, “No.”

“The pictures will be destroyed. I’ll bring you the camera and let you take the film out and expose it yourself.”

“This is a goddamn hoax.”

“Okay.”

“That isn’t Felicia Colletta.”

“Okay. See you, Joey.”

Nolan got up.

Joey grabbed Nolan’s sleeve. “That... that isn’t Felicia Colletta, is it?”

“If you say so, Joe. See you.”

Nolan walked to the door and put his hand on the knob.

“Nolan!”

“Yes?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“All right.”

“Charlie’s death... Charlie’s death wasn’t an accident. The Family did it.”

And Nolan started to laugh. “I’ll have the best shot blown up to poster size and send it to you, Joe.”

“You bastard.”

“See you, Joe.”

“Come back, you fucker!”

“What do you want, Joe?”

“Nolan... you know, Nolan. You know, don’t you?”

“I think so,” Nolan said, nodding. “But I want to hear it from you.”

Joey put his head in his hands. Sobbing was coming up out of him, out of his gut somewhere. It was hard to talk through it.

“Charlie,” Joey said, chest heaving, “Charlie is still alive.”

5

There was no moon and you could count the stars on your fingers. Nolan lay on his back on the rubber raft, floating around the deep end of the pool, studying the sky. He was having a hard time deciding whether the sky was black or dark blue, and finally compromised on Smith and Wesson blue-black. He found watching the lustreless sky soothed him, and after a while he noticed he could make out some clouds up there and figured they were probably responsible for his problem pinning down the sky’s color. The clouds were like charcoal smoke clinging to the sky, blending with it, making the sky look light in places, as though it were wearing out.

It was restful, drifting around the pool, the easy movement of the water lulling him. There was no one to bother him, as it was eleven-thirty now, and at eleven the pool was closed to Tropical guests. The gas torches that surrounded the pool flickered and danced on the water’s surface, and Nolan watched and enjoyed the reflecting flames when he wasn’t looking at the sky.

He needed this interlude, needed it to drain away what tension he had left from the preceding hours of rant and rush. The news of the robbery at Planner’s had led to a frantic afternoon and evening, beginning with an hour of heated, involved conversation with Felix and ending with the preparations for having Joey Metrano down for a chat. But now that Nolan’s theory about Charlie had been proved correct, there was no need for everybody to run around like a bunch of idiots in heat. What there was a need for was rest for Nolan, time for him to relax, sort things out, calm himself before setting out for his money.

He hadn’t thought about Planner being dead. Now that he was feeling good again, he wouldn’t allow such thoughts to push forward in his mind and spoil his mood. He wasn’t good at sorrow anyway, and it didn’t occur to him to feel in any way guilty about the old man’s death. Nolan figured Planner knew the rules and risks of the game. Besides, most of Nolan’s friends didn’t get to be as old as Planner had.

Sherry’s head bobbed up out of the water beside him and she arose wet and grinning, the water splashing up and around and on her as if it was having as good a time as she was. “Hey, this is fun!” she sputtered, treading water. “I ought to go swimming more often!”

Nolan shook his head. This was probably the first time she’d been swimming this summer, though she’d spent most of every day at the pool. Sunning. Just now Nolan had convinced her to go to the pool with him and she’d found nothing else to do there but swim.

Nolan said, “How you doing, Felicia Colletta, child of the underworld?”

Sherry giggled, paddling hands and feet to stay above water. She said, “I just hope you keep me in mind come Academy Award time.”

“Don’t know about that,” Nolan told her, “but if I ever cast a stag film, you’re the first one I’ll call.”

She made a face and slapped at the water to get him wet, then decided that wasn’t enough and overturned the raft and dumped him, arms flailing, into the deep. “Don’t be afraid of the water,” he heard her say, “it won’t bite!” Which struck him as a very hypocritical thing for this queen of suntan lotions to say.

The pool was heated, so the water was luxuriously warm, like a lazy bath, and Nolan stayed down under for a while, waiting for her to come looking for him. She did, and he grabbed for her, and she slipped away from him, swimming down toward the shallow section, underwater all the way, stroking like a frog. He caught up with her just as she was getting on her feet at the far end of the pool, and he pinched her ass just as her head cleared the water. She was still squealing as he got to his feet laughing and saw Felix standing there, back far enough to keep from getting wet, but standing there just the same, looking vaguely annoyed.

“Hello, Felix,” Nolan said.

“What are you doing?” Felix said.

“Right now I’m getting out of the swimming pool,” he said, and did, giving Sherry his hand and helping her out, too.

Felix said, “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” Nolan said.

Nolan went to the lounge chair where he’d left his towel and dried off. There was a small round metal table next to the chair, a canopied table with a pitcher of martinis and ice on it. Nolan poured three glasses from the pitcher and gave one to Sherry and one to Felix and kept the third.

“Thank you,” Felix said. His tone was almost friendly now; evidently he was dropping the reproving manner, having gotten nowhere with it. He sipped the drink and said, “What sort of martini is this?”

“Vodka,” Nolan said.

“Oh,” Felix nodded, and took a seat beside Nolan’s lounge chair, checking it first for moisture.

“How’s Joey doing?” Nolan asked.

Sherry had finished her drink already and was diving back into the pool.

Felix said, “Pretty girl. We should do something for her for helping out.”

“I’ll do something for her,” Nolan said. “What about Joey?”

“Well, he’s not pleased that you’ve taken his clothes away from him.”

“It’s one way to keep him in his room.”

“And he doesn’t like my sending Greer in to watch him all the time, either.”

“That’s another way.” Nolan was beginning to get quietly pissed off at this smug little lawyer.

Earlier, Nolan had assured Joey that the Family would hear nothing of their conversation, and Joey had talked easier that way, but after Nolan was finished with him, Felix and the two bodyguards had shouldered into the room to find things out for themselves. Nolan hadn’t stayed around to watch, as redundant violence irritated him, but it wasn’t his show anymore, so he’d let it pass.

“Other than that,” Felix was saying, “Joey Metrano’s turned into a humble, quiet little guy. He’s full of apologies and bowing and scraping. He knows that his life is hanging by the slenderest of threads now that he’s admitted helping Charlie hoax the Family.” Felix said the word “Charlie” as though he were spitting out a seed. “He’ll be taken back to the city tomorrow morning and kept under close watch. I don’t need to go over what Joey told us, do I? He probably told you much the same. Says all he was doing was keeping some of his cousin’s money in a bank account, and knows he’s one of several doing that for Charlie, though he insists he doesn’t know who any of the others are. Claims he had nothing to do with helping Charlie pull off the phony death, other than knowledge of the fact, and says he doesn’t know who did. Well, what do you think, Nolan? Is he lying or not? You think there’s any chance he knows where Charlie is?”

“No,” Nolan said. Charlie was too smart to tell Joey much, and it figured he wouldn’t let his different co-conspirators know each other either. Less you know, less you can tell under duress. “I figure Joey’s telling the truth. I questioned him pretty thorough.”

Felix said, “I questioned him rather thoroughly myself, or I should say Greer and Angelo did. So I have to agree with you. It would seem Joey’s told us everything he knows.”

Nolan said, “No wonder he’s a humble, quiet little guy. It’s been a bitch of a night for him.”

Felix leaned close, like a quarterback giving the signals. “We better come to some kind of mutual understanding, Nolan, about how we’re going about handling this affair. I can’t be sure how many people were involved in helping Charlie put over his little charade, but I think it should be obvious to you that there is going to be some, shall we say, extensive inter-Family housecleaning.”

“Give me two days.”

“What can you do in two days?”

“Try me.”

“What are you asking?”

“Leave me alone for two days. Give me that long before you start weeding out your bad stock.”

“Where will you start?”

“I have some people in mind to see.”

“What sort of people?”

“Family people. Some people who seem likely bedfellows for Charlie.”

“Such as?”

Nolan told him.

Felix nodded. “They’re well insulated, you know. Not that easy to get at.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll be needing some information from me, addresses, telephone numbers, that sort of thing.”

“Yes.”

Felix thought for a moment. Then he said, “Is there a phone I could use?”

Nolan pointed across the pool, where there was a snack bar, closed now, of course, but with a phone on the counter. Felix got up and walked over to the counter and used the phone. Nolan watched Sherry swim. She was graceful.

Ten minutes later Felix was back. “Two days,” he said.

“Thanks,” Nolan said.

“You know, I still don’t understand how you guessed Charlie.” Felix laughed, “I mean a dead man, my God. I would have assumed it was someone from your field.”

They’d been over that this afternoon and Nolan didn’t want to go into it again.

“Call it a hunch,” Nolan said.

It was, of course, much more than a hunch. Nolan knew it was possible that a pro thief had pulled the job, some heistman down on his luck who needed ready cash and knew Planner’s safe in the back room usually had a good piece of change in it. But it was unlikely as hell. Maybe in sheer desperation, but otherwise Nolan couldn’t see a professional hitting Planner: you don’t hit one of your own. The old guy had virtually no enemies in the trade, and was a valued friend of everyone who knew him and made use of him.

And right there was another reason: Planner had too many friends to risk stealing from him. Whoever pulled this had ripped off not only Planner, but maybe a dozen professionals who’d entrusted emergency money to Planner’s safekeeping. What it came down to was this: let it leak you were the one who wasted Planner, a hundred guys would drop the hammer on you.

An amateur, then?

No. Someone outside the trade was even more unlikely. Why would some amateur pick an antique shop to knock over, and a shabby one at that? If he did, how would he know about that safe, way back in the second of two storerooms? No, an amateur would probably just empty the cash register and run.

Most important, nobody — nobody outside of Nolan, Jon and Planner — knew an eight-hundred-thousand-buck haul from a bank job was nestled in that safe. Very few people knew for sure Nolan had pulled that particular job, and no one would likely figure he’d leave the money with Planner.

Except maybe Charlie.

Charlie might’ve figured it.

Charlie not only knew that Nolan had pulled the bank heist, he also knew Nolan had been wounded after the robbery and wounded badly, because it was Charlie and his people who shot Nolan, in that fucking double cross Charlie pulled. He would’ve known Nolan would have to hole up close by. He would’ve known Nolan hadn’t had the time or health to get properly rid of the money; he could’ve figured that the money had stayed right there where Nolan was holing up. Charlie could’ve used his vast Family resources to investigate Nolan’s working habits, his associates, especially in the immediate area, to determine precisely where Nolan was hiding, sooner or later coming up with Planner.

When the Family started negotiating with Nolan, a Nolan who was still just getting on his feet, Charlie’s inside sources (the same people within the Family who helped Charlie “die”) could’ve relayed word to him that Nolan was resisting transfer of the money. And Nolan had told Felix and others who pressed moving the money to a Family bank, “I’m not sweating the money’s safety. It’s been okay where it is this long and a while longer won’t make a difference.” Perhaps these words of Nolan’s (foolish words, he knew now) had gotten back to Charlie.

But Charlie was dead.

Sure.

That auto-wreck business had smelled to Nolan from word go, but he’d wanted Charlie to be dead so bad he’d accepted it. Even then he’d questioned Felix, who had told him that this pretense of an accident was a necessity, that Charlie was simply too high in the Family to die anything but a “natural” death.

Sure.

That was where the hunch part did come in. Deep down in Nolan’s gut, Charlie didn’t feel dead. Nolan had ignored the tingle in his gut, chalking it up to all that time the feud with Charlie had lasted, figuring there was bound to be mental residue left after all the emotional and physical violence Charlie had caused him over the years. But now with Planner dead and the money, all that money stolen, Nolan was listening to everything his gut had to say.

So how could Felix be expected to understand? This was a complex chain of logic intertwined with instinct and was something an attorney in a tailored suit could never comprehend.

“When are you going to get started?” Felix was asking.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Not tonight?”

“Tomorrow morning. Tonight I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Whatever you think is best, I suppose. Nolan?”

“What?”

“Why is it you haven’t told me just where the hell in Iowa the scene was of this afternoon’s fiasco?”

“Because you already checked with the switchboard to see where the long distance call was from.”

“Oh. Don’t you think it would be wise to get to Iowa City as soon as possible and start investigating?”

“Felix.”

“What?”

“I asked for two days and you said I could have them.”

“Right, but that doesn’t mean...”

“Felix.”

“What?”

“How can I put this? Felix. You’re full of shit.”

Felix drew a breath. “Am I really?”

“Yeah. You are. You’re a lawyer, Felix. Don’t tell me how to handle the sort of thing you know nothing about, okay? I get married and want a divorce, I’ll come to you.”

“You’re tense, Nolan,” Felix said tensely. “I’m going to forget you’ve said this.”

“I don’t give a damn what you do. You’re just a goddamn lawyer.”

“Just a goddamn lawyer...”

“Okay, so you represent the Family. That powerful organization that clutches the city of Chicago by its very balls. That powerful organization that let one balding old hood named Charlie turn it into the world’s biggest asshole. But don’t feel bad. Look what that guy Nader did to General Motors.”

Felix smiled and wagged his head. “By God, you’re right. Pour me another vodka martini.”

“Sure, Felix.” Nolan did.

Felix took the martini and nibbled it, then said, “Why don’t you take one of my men with you? Take Angelo if you don’t like Greer.”

“Felix...”

“Now this is one thing I’m going to have to insist on. This is not the lawyer talking now, this is from upstairs, as they say. The Family has a big interest in this affair. You have to understand. It’s more than just money now that Charlie’s turned up.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Nolan said. “Give me Greer then. He’ll need to take a car for himself, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t I just explain that to Greer.”

“Well, all right, whatever it takes to make your investigation a success.”

“Look, you said that before, that word ‘investigate’... I’m not going to investigate, Felix. I don’t know how to do that. I’m not the goddamn FBI. I’m not going to Iowa City and snoop around, because all the action there is over and I got a friend there covering things for me. What I’m going to do is go around knocking heads together, Family heads, because that’s who was involved in faking Charlie’s send-off. Right?”

“Correct,” Felix said, his smile damn near feeble.

Nolan said, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help. You deserve credit for thinking of Joey Matrano. We’d been in trouble if we picked the wrong guy to work over.”

Nolan had said that to unruffle Felix’s feathers, and it worked nicely, sparking Felix into a rambling, self-glorifying explanation of how he had known that if Charlie were alive, Joey would know, and of Charlie’s friends and relatives in the Family, Joey would be easiest to break, and so on. Nolan tried not to fall asleep. Across the pool, the phone on the snack bar counter began to ring during the closing moments of Felix’s oration.

Nolan said, “That’ll be for me,” and went after it.

The switchboard girl said, “I’ve got a long-distance call from Iowa City for you,” and Nolan said, “Put him on,” hoping Jon had better tidings this time around than last.

“Hello?” a voice said. Not Jon’s. A female voice.

“Yes? This is Logan.”

“Uh, is your name Logan or Nolan or what? Jon says Nolan and then tells me ask for Logan and... oh, Christ, I suppose that’s unimportant, I mean...”

She was almost crying.

“Hey!” Nolan said. “Who is this? What’s wrong?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be upset. Jon said if I got worried, really got worried, I should call you. He explained that this was... a dangerous situation. That men with guns were involved.”

“Settle down. My name is Nolan. All right? I’m Jon’s friend. All right? And I’m your friend, too. Now tell me your name.”

“Karen.”

“All right, Karen. Now what’s the problem?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, I really am, I shouldn’t be bothering you, I’m just easily upset, I guess.”

“Why are you upset, Karen?”

“It’s Jon. He said he’d be back by eight, and, well, you know what time it is now.”

That was bad.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Karen.”

“There was something else...”

“What?”

“Well, he gave me a number to call. I was supposed to try him there, before bothering you. He said don’t bother you unless I was really upset or worried or something.”

“Do you know whose number it was?”

“Jon said it was a doctor he was going to see.”

That made sense, Nolan thought. “Go on, Karen.”

“Well, I called the doctor a half hour ago and he said... he said he hadn’t seen Jon. He doesn’t even know Jon, he says. Didn’t understand what the hell I was talking about.”

Shit.

“Okay,” Nolan said. “Don’t worry. You did right calling, Karen. You’ll hear from me soon.”

Her sigh of relief came over clear on the phone. “Thanks,” she said. “I mean it, thanks. Whatever the hell your name is.”

“Now give me your address and phone number.”

She did, and Nolan found a note pad to jot them down.

After he’d hung up, he went over to where Sherry was swimming and told her to go back to the room and wait for him. She nodded yes, grabbed up her towel, and scooted off. Nolan walked over to Felix and said, “Looks like you get your wish after all.”

Felix looked up from his third martini and said, “How’s that?”

“My friend in Iowa City is in trouble, I think. You go get Greer and have him ready to go in the parking lot within fifteen minutes or I’m leaving without him.”