Blood Money

1

Nolan got out of the car. He moved slowly, but he was alert, and his movements were both deliberate and fluid. You would never guess he’d just driven well over two hundred miles in under three hours. He stood and looked in the window of the shop; a hanging wooden sign, with the words “Karen’s Candle Corner” spelled out in red melted wax, dominated a display case of candles and knicknacks, while in the background faces on posters seemed to stare out of the dim shop like disinterested observers.

He watched in the reflection of the window as the black Chevy pulled in behind his tan Ford, and wondered if anyone in the world besides cops and hoods still drove black Chevys.

Greer got out of the car, made a real effort to shut the door silently but it made a noise that echoed in the empty street. It was three o’clock in the morning (a bank time-and-temperature sign spelled it out just down the street) and downtown Iowa City could have been a deserted backlot at some bankrupt Hollywood studio. The sky overhead was a washed-out gray and the streetlamps provided pale, artificial light.

Nolan watched Greer approach in the reflection. The dark little man yawned, stretched his arms, scratched his belly. Greer had discarded the Felix-dictated sporty ensemble and now had on an ordinary, rumpled brown suit, such as a fertilizer salesman might wear. A common sense outfit, Nolan thought, encouraged; maybe Greer wasn’t such a hopeless schmuck after all.

As for Nolan, he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn all day: yellow turtleneck, gray sports jacket, black slacks. The only wardrobe change he’d made before leaving the Tropical was taking his jacket off long enough to sling on his worn leather shoulder rig. Like Nolan, the holster was old but dependable, and he felt good having a Smith and Wesson.38 with four-inch barrel snuggled under his arm.

Greer walked up to Nolan and they looked at each other in the reflection.

Greer said, “You move right along, don’t you?”

Nolan shrugged.

Greer said, “What were you trying to do, lose me?”

Nolan said, “If I was trying to lose you, you’d be lost.”

Greer yawned again, said, “Wish to hell you’d’ve stopped for coffee.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Listen, what’s happening? What are we doing in Iowa City, for Chrissake?”

“I’m going to talk to a woman. This is her place.” He pointed to the floor above the shop, where the lights were on. “She’s a civilian, so don’t go waving guns around.”

“What do you take me for?”

Nolan said nothing.

“Hey, why don’t you go fuck yourself, Nolan? I don’t like being here any more than...”

“Shut up. Don’t be so goddamn defensive. Are you still pissed off because I made a fool of you this afternoon?”

“Well, I...”

“I did that because I didn’t want Felix sending anybody with me, I wanted to be left alone with this. But Felix sent you anyway, so let’s forget about that.”

Greer sighed, grinned, said, “Okay. I’ll just stay in the background and do what you tell me to.”

“Good.”

Between the candle shop and a record store was a doorway, beyond which were steps. Nolan and Greer went up them. When they got to the landing, they found two doors; one was labeled “Karen Hastings,” the other was blank. Nolan knocked on the labelled door.

A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?” The voice was female and firm, masking the fear pretty well.

“Nolan. Jon’s friend.”

The door opened tentatively, the night-latch chain still hooked. The face that peeked out was haggard but pretty, framed by long, curly brunette hair. “You’re Nolan?”

“Yes.”

“How... how do I know that?”

“You don’t, unless you recognize my voice from the phone.”

“Prove you’re Nolan.”

“How?”

“What’s Jon’s hobby?”

“Pardon?”

“Jon’s hobby, what is it?”

“He collects funny books.”

She unlatched the door. She was a little startled by seeing Greer in the background. Nolan glanced back over his shoulder at Greer, who in the darkness of the stairwell looked somewhat like the gunman he was.

“Don’t worry about him,” Nolan said. “He’s here to help, too.”

“Okay, come in, both of you.”

They stepped in and were hit by the coolness of the air-conditioned apartment. Nolan looked the woman over quickly: she was nicely built, kind of busty, pretty face accented by a large but sensual mouth; she wore a short-sleeve scoop-neck sweater, rust-color, no bra, and a long dark dress. Her clothes and free-flowing hair were styles befitting a girl twenty or younger, though she was thirty or more. A singularly attractive woman, Nolan summed her up as, though too old for a kid like Jon.

“Heard anything from Jon?”

“No,” she said, regret in her face. “Not a word. What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

“You got here fast. That was an Illinois area code, wasn’t it? I looked it up. What’d you do, drive it straight?”

Nolan nodded, exchanging a brief smile with Greer.

“Well, sit down, I’ll get you some coffee.”

“We’ve got some things to do, maybe you shouldn’t waste time...”

“It’s already ready. I’ll just go in the kitchen and pour it out. Besides, both of you look dead on your feet. Excuse me.”

She left and Nolan and Greer took seats on the sofa. The room was panelled in deep, rich brown, the walls cluttered with paintings and arrangements of related bric-a-brac; the theme of the wall opposite them was Camelot, lots of brass knights’ heads and crossed broadswords and an oil painting of a surreal castle in blues and grays. The furniture was modern, in masculine browns mostly, with thick colorful candles stuck on everything that wasn’t moving. Nolan got two impressions from the room: first, she got stuff wholesale as a shopkeeper and consequently had more decorative shit than any ten people needed; and second, she was trying to compensate for the lack of a live-in male by all the wood and dark colors.

She came back with coffee, which was strong and black. Greer sipped it and smiled and said, “Thanks, ma’am,” like a shy cowboy in an old movie.

She sat next to Nolan on the sofa and said, “Can we do anything? I’ll do whatever you want me to. I feel I can... trust you. You’re the man Jon speaks about, aren’t you? He never mentioned your name, until tonight, anyway... but you’re the man he talks about, the older man he looks up to, respects. Am I right?”

Nolan felt strangely touched, both by the woman’s open concern for Jon, and her telling of Jon’s affection for him. He was having trouble fighting the notion that Jon was dead, and the woman’s small emotional outburst chipped at his personal wall.

“I thought you were,” she said, nodding, though he hadn’t replied.

“Are you willing to take some risks?” Nolan asked her.

“Of course, anything... but I have a child here, my son Larry, and... I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

“Could you send him to a friend’s place?”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know. Could you do it?”

She nodded. “I’ll have to make a phone call.”

“Make it.”

She left again.

Greer said, “Nice-looking woman.”

Nolan said, “Yeah.”

“She isn't wearing a bra,” Greer whispered. “I can't get used to that. She isn't wearing a bra, did you notice?”

“No,” Nolan lied.

That ended that line of conversation.

“Good coffee,” Greer said.

“Good coffee,” Nolan said.

She came back and said, “I’ll have to get Larry ready.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“Is he a cripple?”

“No.”

“Tell him to get himself ready. Can he walk where he’s going?”

“I... I think so. It’s just two blocks.”

“Good. Go tell him and come back.”

This time she was gone thirty seconds, no longer.

“Now what?” she said.

“I want you to make another phone call.”

“All right.”

“I want you to call that doctor back. Do you think he’ll recognize your voice?”

“Not if I don’t want him to.”

“Good. Do you know his name?”

“No. Jon didn’t leave me his name, just the number.”

“Get the phone book.”

She did.

“Now look up the number of a Dr. Ainsworth. Okay? Got it? Now, is that the number Jon left you to call?”

She nodded.

“Good. Have you heard of Ainsworth? Know him?”

“I don’t know him,” she said. “Know of him. Girl friend of mine got a nice, quiet abortion from him. I heard he’ll help you if you get into a drug jam, and without reporting anything to the cops. He does valuable work, but word is he’s a real pirate.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“I can plug it into a jack right here in the living room, if you like.”

“Do that.”

She did, and Nolan told her what to say.

She was excellent. She did better than Nolan had hoped, weaving his basic material into a piece of drama fit for stage or screen. Her voice was best of all, a pleading, whining thing that sounded like the voice of a girl far younger than this mother of a ten-year-old boy. She said, “Is this Dr. Ainsworth?... It is? Oh, wow, thank God, thank God, I got you, mister... I mean, Jesus, I’m sorry I woke you, but I need you, Christ, we need you bad... I’ll try to calm down, but it isn’t easy, you know, I mean my boyfriend, I’m afraid he’s OD’ed, Jesus, can you help?... Bad shape, he’s really bad, I mean I’m fucked up myself, you know? But I know he’s bad, really bad and you got to help, I heard from a girl friend of mine you’re okay, you’ll help out and keep the trouble down as much as possible... I mean, I got money, we both got money, that’s no problem, we just don’t want any hassle with cops, but if you won’t help I’ll call whoever I have to to get help, I mean you got to get here fast... oh, Christ, hurry, mister, please... You’re beautiful. Bless your soul, man.” She gave him her address, blessed him again, and hung up.

“Nice going,” Nolan said.

“Really good,” Greer said.

“Thanks,” she said, almost blushing, “I just hope I didn’t overdo. I was a little nervous.”

“That probably helped,” Nolan said.

“Either of you guys want more coffee? I know I do.”

Nolan said, “Yeah.” So did Greer.

She got up and went after it.

While she was gone, a small boy not much over five feet tall walked into the room, an overnight case in his hand. He was wearing blue jeans and a red-and-white striped tee-shirt and he had big brown eyes and a headful of red hair and more freckles than Doris Day.

“I’m going now, Mom!” he hollered.

She rushed into the living room, kissed him on the forehead and said, “Be a good boy, Larry, don’t cause Mrs. Murphy any trouble.”

“I won’t, Mom.”

“Be sure to thank her for letting you stay with Tommy, and apologize for bothering them so late.”

“I will, Mom.”

“You’re a good boy.” She kissed him on the head again and went back to the kitchen.

“How ya doin’, sonny?” Greer asked the kid.

“Bite my ass,” the boy said, and went out the front door, slamming it behind him.

“Little bastard,” Greer said.

“I kind of like him,” Nolan said.

The boy’s mother came back and refilled their coffee cups.

They waited for Ainsworth.

2

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came at the door. They had had time to drink their cups of coffee and bring a chair in from the kitchen and Karen had found the rope Nolan had asked for.

Nolan said, “Let him in,” and Karen nodded yes.

Greer had his gun out, on Nolan’s request. Nolan had both big hands unencumbered. Greer stood behind the door, so that he would be hidden when Karen opened it. Nolan stood to the other side, flat against the wall.

Karen freed the night latch, opened the door.

Behind Karen was a bureau with mirror and in it Nolan could see Ainsworth in the doorway; he hoped Ainsworth wouldn’t notice him in the mirror, but wasn’t worried, as things would be moving faster than that. Ainsworth was standing there with a pompous, fatherly smile on his face; he was wearing a dark suit and green tie. What an asshole, Nolan thought; an emergency phone call and he still takes time to put on his country doctor outfit.

“I came as soon as I could,” Ainsworth was saying, “what’s the problem, young lady?”

Nolan grabbed the doctor by the arm and yanked him into the apartment. Behind him, Karen shut the door, locked it, refastened the night latch. Greer got into full view, holding the.38 in his right hand with that casual but controlled grasp that only a professional knows how to master.

Ainsworth said, “Oh, my God!” and his pudgy face looked very white around the brown mustache.

Nolan slammed him into the kitchen chair and tied him up. Ainsworth still had his black doctor’s bag in hand as he sat roped to the chair. Nolan knocked the bag out of his hand and glass things rattled and maybe broke. Ainsworth repeated what he’d said before, though this time it sounded more a prayer and less an expression of surprise.

Nolan put both his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and said, “How’s it going, Ainsworth?”

“Oh... oh... oh...”

“Try not to shit. This lady has an expensive carpet down and if you shit, I’m going to make you clean it up.”

“No... No... No...”

He wasn’t saying no; he was trying to say Nolan.

“I’m glad you remember me,” Nolan said. “I put on weight since you saw me last. And believe I’d let my beard grow out. How’ve you been, Doc?”

Ainsworth began to make a whimpering sound.

Nolan turned to Greer and Karen. “Ainsworth here is a good old friend of mine. I owe him a lot. Don’t I, Ainsworth?”

“I... I helped you,” he said. “Don’t... don’t forget I helped you.”

“Saved my life is what you did,” Nolan said. He grinned. Nolan didn’t grin often and when he did, it wasn’t pleasant. Knowing that, he reserved the grin for special occasions. “I’ll never forget what all you did for me. And it only cost me, what was it? A paltry seven thousand bucks. Why, hell. You must’ve been running a special that day, Ainsworth.”

“What... what do you want with me?”

Nolan’s grin disappeared. “Don’t fuck around.”

“I’m... I’m not... oh Lord, good Lord, man!”

“You know why I’m here.”

“They... they made me do it.”

“Who made you do what?”

“Your friend... Jon... the boy...” The doctor closed his mouth, his eyes.

“Ainsworth,” Nolan said, his voice flat, nothing in it at all, “I’m the one who advised Jon to go to you. To help him about his uncle. So I share the guilt I’m sure you feel right now. Why don’t you get that guilt off your shoulders? Pretend this is confession and I’m a priest. Pretend you’re face to face with Christ himself and you can’t lie, because the consequences are too goddamn great.”

“I was helping Jon,” Ainsworth said, his face tight with sincerity, “believe me. I like the boy. You know that, you believe that, don’t you, Nolan? I like him, and Planner, too. He came for help and... so did these other men. I didn’t... didn’t know, didn’t guess there was any relation between these other men and Planner’s... death.”

“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.

Angelo 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.

Angelo 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 Angelo, though Nolan had gone for cheeseburger-in-the-basket. They were in a truck-stop restaurant on the tollway, not far from Milwaukee.

Angelo 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 Angelo.

“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.”

“Angelo, 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.

Angelo’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.”

Angelo 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 Angelo 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 back-up, 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 Angelo 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 both Ainsworth and Sturms roamed free, a couple of choice V.I.P. enemies for a young woman in a small town.

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 Angelo 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 meat-hook, 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 Angelo’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.

Nolan and Tillis had met last year, in the flare-up of the long-smoldering feud with Charlie. Being soldiers in opposing armies didn’t keep the two men from liking each other, and Tillis had, in fact, secretly helped Nolan in a tight spot with Charlie, and without Tillis, Nolan might not have been alive today.

But Tillis’ loyalty to Charlie was something to contend with, as Nolan had little doubt that without Tillis, Charlie might not have been alive today, either.

Four of the telephone numbers on the list pertained to Tillis. Two were work-oriented: Harry’s office and a Family-owned restaurant; the others were apartments: one was in Tillis’ name, the other in a woman’s. Nolan tried the woman and got Tillis on the line in ten rings.

There was a rumble, as a throat was cleared and a mind struggled to uncloud, and Tillis finally said, “Uh, yeah... yes, what is it?”

“How you doing, Tillis?”

“Is that you, Corio? Is something up? Am I suppose to come down or something?”

“No, it’s not Corio.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, fuck, who is this, do you know what time it is? Shit, it’s so goddamn late it’s early.”

“This is Nolan. Remember me?”

“Nolan! You crazy motherfuck, are you still alive? Man, never thought I’d be hearing your voice again. What’s happening?”

“Want to talk to you, Tillis. You going to be where you are for a while?”

“All day, unless I get a call from the Man, saying do some work. Got the day off and I’m planning on spending it in bed with my woman.”

“I’ll come talk to you, then.”

“Okay. You know how to get here?”

“I’ll find it.”

“When should I expect you?”

“Well, I’m calling long distance, never mind from where. I’m about three hours, maybe four from Milwaukee. Look for me late morning, early afternoon.”

“Okay, man. What’s this about?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah. Well, do me a favor and don’t call your present employer, okay? I want to talk to you, not a roomful of Harry’s button men.”

“We were always straight with each other, Nolan.”

“Right. You’re the straightest guy that ever shot me, Tillis. You’re my pal.”

“Same old mouthy motherfuck, ain’t you, Nolan? See you round noon and my woman’ll whip up some soul food for you.”

“What kind of soul food?”

“Your people’s kind, man. Irish stew.” Tillis’ laugh was booming even over the phone. “Can you get into that?”

“I can dig it,” Nolan said, smiling.

Nolan hung up the phone, checked his watch. He could make it to Tillis’ place in forty minutes or so from here. Being five or six hours early should help avoid any problems that could come if Tillis decided to call Harry and some of the boys. He liked Tillis, but didn’t particularly trust him.

Phoning Tillis was risky, but it saved time. Going around to the various places on the list looking for him would have been a lengthy pain in the ass, and besides, nobody could shoot you over the phone. Now he had Tillis nailed down in one spot, and by lying about when he’d be there, Nolan was as protected in the situation as he could hope to be.

On his way back he ordered his third cup of coffee, then sat down in the booth, not even glancing at Angelo. He knew he should be moving faster, and that the twenty minutes he’d have spent in this truck stop could prove decisive. But he also knew that unless he got some caffeine and food in him, he wasn’t going to last. He’d been up all night, criss-crossing the damn Interstate, first to Iowa and now back to Illinois and Wisconsin, and he hadn’t had a meal since the scrambled egg breakfast he’d shared with Sherry some sixteen hours ago. A few years back all of this would have rolled off him; now was a different story. Happy birthday, he thought, with as much humor as bitterness.

He wasn’t thinking about Jon. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. If the boy was alive, Nolan would find him. If the boy was dead, Nolan would see some people suffer.

“I’m talking to you, Nolan,” Angelo was saying.

“I’m not listening,” Nolan said. He looked down and realized he’d finished his cheeseburger and fries; he didn’t remember doing it.

Angelo said, “I’m willing to give you a sort of a break, you know?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want me along, right? You seem to take one look at me and your mouth fills up with rotten things to say. And me, I don’t relish spending the day in the company of a sour would-be hardass like you.”

“We don’t like each other. Agreed.”

Angelo smiled, his pudgy face almost cherubic. “You see, it’s like this... I got this lady friend in Milwaukee, and when I found out I was going to be in town today I called her up and she was free. And, well, I wouldn’t mind spending the morning with this lady friend, you know what I mean?”

“What about your wife you’re always talking about?’

“She’s at home with the kids where she belongs, what d’you mean what about my wife? Anyway, the only reason I’m insisting on staying with you is I got to stay in tight with Felix. I mean, I want to hang onto my job, you can understand that, it pays good, keeps my family in nice clothes and their stomachs filled, you know?”

Nolan nodded.

“So here’s what I thought. I’ll kind of let you go your own way, but I’ll leave the number for you to call. It’s a greasy spoon on the north side of Milwaukee, my lady friend lives up above. The guy’ll relay whatever message you got for me upstairs. I think it would work out okay, but you worry me a little. I mean, Jesus, if you go and get killed you’ll put me in a very sticky situation.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting killed.”

“That’s just it, who does? And you, you’re due to get it one of these times, I mean, I heard the stories about you. But I’m willing, if you’ll promise to cover for me with Felix, and call that number I’ll give you every half hour or so, to let me know things are going okay, and give me some idea of where you’re going to be. And we’ll have to meet someplace afterward and get our stories together. I don’t know. Jeez. What d’you think?”

“I think I like you better now,” Nolan said. He waved at a waitress, to get one last cup of coffee. “Let me buy you some more pancakes.”

“Okay,” Angelo said, “but my wife is going to kill me.”

4

When he got there, Nolan thought he’d screwed up. Or maybe that kid at the filling station told him wrong. The neighborhood was upper middle class, full of big two-story white houses, old but with good Gothic lines and well kept up. The streets were wide and lined with shade trees and two cars per family. The lawns sloped away from sidewalks and were well tended, green trimmed hedges crowding porches, separating this yard from that one. What the hell was Tillis doing here?

Balling some white chick, most likely, Nolan mused, allowing himself a small smile. He got out of the tan Ford and walked up onto the porch of this particular house, the one in which Tillis’ woman supposedly lived. The porch was screened in and had an old-fashioned swing on it and the paper was here but hadn’t been brought in yet. He noticed he was standing on a rubber mat that said the Stillwell family. Before he knocked, he thought it over and backed down off the porch and took a look around. This was the right number, all right. Because the porch was roofed, the second floor seemed to sit way back, emphasizing the Gothic shape of the house, its gingerbread trimming. Some of the windows up there were stained glass and it was an absurd obsolete old house that Nolan would have liked to live in, in another life, and only reaffirmed his thoughts about the neighborhood being wrong for Tillis — what’s a rotten guy like you doing in a nice place like this?

The he spotted something, something stuck onto one of the clear windows between two stained; it was a decal pasted on the glass, a bright red circle with an upside down Y in it, and he understood. A peace emblem. So. The upper floor was an apartment, rented out to some college student, or what’s worse, teacher. Well, everybody needs extra money these days, even folks in beautiful old tree-shaded neighborhoods couldn’t be particular about their roomers any more. Things were tough all over.

Inside a doorway in back, he went up a spastic stairway that required three right turns of him and finally deposited him on an over-size landing in front of a white door. On the door was a slot with a card in it saying Phyllis Watson. Nolan knocked. He had his.38 out, which he didn’t think he’d need, but caution never hurt anybody; he also stood to one side of the door, back to the wall.

A pretty white girl with puffy brown eyes and long brown hair that was tousled and a little bit greasy opened the door and stepped out on the landing wearing a shortie terrycloth robe. This anti-war girl was just full of love and trust, not to mention stupidity, and Nolan thought Tillis ought to train his women a little better; she certainly had no hesitation about answering the door (which didn’t seem to have a night-latch on it, as far as Nolan could tell) and coming out to say hello with most of her skin showing.

Nolan noticed what great legs the girl had and that her shortie terrycloth robe was belted at the waist, not too securely, enabling him to see one-third of two melony breasts. She was a tall girl, which made sense with Tillis being so big, and Nolan put his hand over her mouth and dragged her back inside the apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot.

The kitchen was ordinary, tidy. He showed her the gun and whispered into her ear, “Don’t scream,” and marched her into the next room, his one arm around her waist with the gun poking her side, the other arm reached up across melony breasts to cover her mouth; they walked in step together, clumsily, as though doing a dance they just learned together at Arthur Murray’s.

The room was high-ceilinged, trimmed in carved woodworking that isn’t done these days, and had once been the house library, judging from the walls of bookcases on either side of the room. They moved quickly through the library, which with lounging pillows and shag carpet and couch and easy chairs and TV had been reconverted into a living room, and on to the bedroom, where an air conditioner stuck in a window was cooling Tillis, who was asleep on his stomach, on top of the covers, naked.

Carefully, like a contortionist, without moving the arm across melony breasts or the one around her waist, Nolan stretched out a foot and kicked the bed.

Tillis roused, rolled over, sat up in bed, said, “What the fuck,” rubbed sleep from his eyes.

Nolan said, “Surprise.”

Tillis said, “Nolan?”

“Tell this girl I’m a friend and not to scream when I let her go.”

“Phyllis, honey, he’s my friend, don’t go screaming, honey.”

“And tell her not to jab me in the balls or anything.”

“Don’t go jabbing him in the balls or nothing, honey.”

He let her go and she squirmed onto the bed and put her arms around Tillis. She was whiter than usual, being scared, and up against the big naked black man she made quite a contrast. Her eyes were full of confusion and hate, and she twisted up her face at Nolan and spat, “Pig.”

“Hardly,” Nolan said.

“Racist motherfucker,” she said.

“Peace,” Nolan said, making the sign.

“Cool it, Phyllis honey,” Tillis said laughing, patting her backside, “He really is a friend. Sorta. He just got reason to play things a little close to the vest. He’s a little more cautious than some people I know.”

Phyllis said, “You mean I should have been more careful about just opening the door for him like I did?”

“We talked about that before, honey. I ain’t no goddamn plumber, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Tillie.”

“It’s okay. You gonna put the gun down, Nolan?”

“Down,” Nolan said, lowering it. “Not away.”

Tillis grinned, his white smile flashing in the darkened room; he looked like a sinister Louis Armstrong. He turned to Phyllis, said, “Be a good girl and get me some pants.”

“Just pants,” Nolan told her as she crossed in front of him, going to a dresser.

“What makes you so goddamn paranoid, man?” Tillis wanted to know.

“Old age,” Nolan said, watching Tillis climb into his trousers.

“I thought you’d be in one of those homes by now,” Tillis said, “boppin’ round the grounds in a wheelchair with a shawl around your shoulders.”

“Last time you told me that, I just finished knocking you on your black ass.”

“And this time you caught me cold, with my black ass really hangin’ out. Yeah, you’re old all right, but you’re good.”

Nolan grinned back at him, said, “This time I thought we’d skip the preliminaries. My ribs hurt for a week last time we tangled.”

“Must be that arthritis gettin’ to you.”

“Must be. Let’s go talk in the other room. How about your friend getting us some coffee?”

“Good idea. Phyllis, honey, do what the man says.”

“Is there a phone in the kitchen?” Nolan asked.

“No,” Tillis said, pointing to the nightstand phone. “Only one in the apartment’s here.”

“Okay,” Nolan told the girl, “go make the coffee.”

“Get fucked,” she told him.

“Fine with me,” he said. “First take off your robe.”

She started to spit back a reply, but saw that Tillis was laughing at what Nolan said, and she shrugged helplessly and went off to the kitchen.

Nolan and Tillis took seats in the library-living room. Tillis sat on the couch, Nolan on an easy chair across. He glanced at the books in the case behind him and recognized only one author; he hadn’t heard of James Baldwin, Leroi Jones, Germaine Greer or Joyce Carol Oates, but he knew Harold Robbins.

Tillis said, “You’re early, man.”

“I made good time on the tollway.”

“I wouldn’t’ve called Harry in on you, you know.”

“Thought crossed your mind, though, didn’t it?”

Tillis grinned, then got serious fast. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“You asked me that on the phone.”

“Want you to tell me, man. Want to hear you say it.”

“It’s Charlie, Tillis.”

“Charlie’s dead.”

“Yeah. And you helped crucify him. Only on the seventh day he rose.”

“What makes you think he’s alive?”

“Nothing much. Just that yesterday he murdered a friend of mine, stole around a million dollars from me, and kidnapped a kid I know. That’s all.”

“Shit. You jivin’ me? You’re a shifty motherfuck, I know that much. You shitin’ me?”

“No shit at all. He’s alive and I know it. If I wasn’t sitting on this, the boys from Chicago would be coming around and checking out all Charlie’s friends.”

Tillis leaned over, hands folded, and thought for several long moments. When he looked up, his dark eyes were big and solemn and brimming with honesty. “All right, man. I’m gonna tell it. Gonna tell it all to you. You got to help me save my ass is all I ask. Whew. Jesus. The shit hit the fan this time, right? Shit, man.”

“Tillis, you’re going to be in trouble. I’m your only hope.”

“The Great White Hope, that’s my old buddy Nolan. Jesus Christ. Let me catch my breath. My whole fuckin’ world’s crashing down in my head. This is bad news for the big shitter, Nolan. Christ all fuckin’ mighty.”

“You started to tell me.”

“Okay. Now you know about Charlie and me. I didn’t love the sucker, but he helped me out, stayed by me. I didn’t go to college first to play ball like most of the dudes, and I didn’t play ball long enough to have a name that was gonna make me a goddamn announcer with Howard Cosell on the tube or nothin’. My football career, shit, when that fuckin’ knee went, I mean maybe I coulda got a job selling tires or something... right here, folks, here’s our boy Tillis, he’ll show you the tires, he played ball with the pros, shook hands with Joe Namath, this boy did.”

“Tillis.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Charlie. He did right by me. Paid me good, treated me with respect, unless he got real mad or something. I didn’t love him, but who do you think I was gonna love in the goddamn Family? Wasn’t exactly a truck-load of soul brothers around me. I had to develop a goddamn taste for pasta, let me tell you. Charlie did me right, and then you come along and fucked him in the ear with those marked bills you passed him, and then this political thing started happening, only it was going on all the time, I guess, but this trouble you brought Charlie brought it to a head. The younger bunch was buckin’ the old regime, Charlie bein’ the main one, you know. It was a political deal, power play, like General Motors or the court of some fuckin’ king or the goddamn Democratic Party. So those of us lined up with Charlie were maybe gonna get chopped when he did. Wasn’t no if — just when. There was a bunch of us. Anyway, me and some other guys took a hand in helping the people against Charlie in the Family get rid of him. Only, as you guessed, I guess, we faked it. It was a couple of bums off skid row who got roasted in that fire when Charlie’s car accident’ly on purpose cracked up. We just used some stuff to make it look like Charlie. See, Charlie knew he didn’t have a chance, so him and his kid were going to like pretend to die in this crash and take off somewhere, South America, I don’t know where really. Charlie had plenty of money put in other people’s accounts, people he trusted, so money was no hassle.”

“Hold it. Why’d he include his kid in the crash?”

“The kid was workin’ in the Family. Just an overblowed accountant, but Charlie was afraid the kid would get wasted along with him. Guess the kid always wanted to work with his father, wanted to be a part of the Family, saw it as... I don’t know, adventure, I guess. Or a family tradition or some goddamn thing. Charlie never went for it, really, that business about working your kids into the Family ain’t so true anymore. But this kid of his insisted, and when the boy got out of college Charlie gave him this token desk thing, away from the guns and that side of it. Charlie was like a lot of guys, wanted his kids to get an education, be respectable. I think his daughter was in the fuckin’ Peace Corps, can you get into that?”

“Why didn’t Charlie leave, like he was supposed to?”

“Nolan, I swear to God I thought that sucker was in Argentina or someplace, with his buddy the Boss of the Bosses. Swear to shit, I thought that’s where he was. But Nolan, I’m no fuckin’ wheel, remember. I’m a cog, man, and Charlie was pretty foxy about who he had help him, well, die... and just as foxy about how much each of us knew exactly. Like, I know some of the people involved, but not all.”

Nolan got out of the chair, walked over and sat on the couch next to Tillis. He handed Tillis the list Felix had made up. “How many of those people were in this with Charlie?”

Tillis studied the list. The girl in the terrycloth robe came in and gave them cups of coffee. Tillis told her to go back out to the kitchen and she did.

“I see Charlie’s daughter is on this list,” Tillis said.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna bother her?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Well?”

“I’m not going to tell you any names.”

“What?”

“Listen. My ass is grass because of this. I gotta move slow on this, think it through. You’re in pretty good with the Family, now, right? I heard you made the peace with that tight-ass lawyer, Felix what’s-his-name.”

“Yeah, the Family’s behind me. I already admitted that. But they’re going to sit on this till I say go. You got my word. I can save your damn ass. You maybe aren’t going to get a pension out of the deal, and a penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan, but you’ll be alive.”

“Maybe I can get that job selling tires,” Tillis said, with a rueful grin. “God. I got about as much chance to get outa this as a turd in a toilet.”

“Mine’s the only hand can stop the guy from flushing it.”

“I know, man.”

“Listen to me, Tillis. Charlie’s fucking nuts. He’s out of his mind. He wants to hurt me and I got to stop him. He’s got my money, Tillis. Worse than that, he’s got this kid. I like this kid, Tillis.”

“You don’t like anybody.”

“Hell, I like you. I must be capable of liking any damn body.”

“What do you mean, a kid?”

“Well, he’s about twenty. He was in on that last job of mine.”

“That bank number?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re talking about a man, not a kid.”

“Compared to you and me, he’s a kid, Tillis. And compared to Charlie.” Nolan sipped his coffee; it was weak. “Maybe he’s dead.”

“Charlie?”

“The kid. Jon’s his name. If Charlie killed that kid, I’m nailing the bastard to the wall. That bastard is a cancer that’s got to be cut out of the human race.”

Tillis shook his head, said, “I can’t imagine him messing around with a young kid, especially somebody you’re fond of, Nolan. Too much like his own son, you know? Charlie wouldn’t want anybody hurting his kid, and that’s what you might do to get back at him, so I can’t...”

“Charlie’s capable of anything, as long as it’s insane. As far as his own precious kid is concerned, Charlie’s got his pride ’n’ joy at his side, the kid’s been in it with him from word go.”

“What? Momma, that man has flipped out.”

The phone rang in the bedroom. Tillis said, “Phyllis, honey, go get that!”

Tillis said, “You’ll want to get to Harry, right? That’s the next step.”

“Right. I figure he knows what’s happening.”

“You probably figure right, man. Maybe I’m a cog, but ol’ Harry’s a wheel.”

Phyllis trudged through the room, all but pouting, plodding along toward the trilling phone.

Tillis said, “I think maybe I know the best way to handle it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Let me go pump him.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Now listen, you go down there, try to see Harry downtown, you’re gonna have to break some people in half. Maybe you get busted in half yourself, and that kid, and that money, ain’t never gonna be found. You be better off trust me in this.”

“Come on.”

“Tillie!” Phyllis yelled.

“Hey, I’m not stupid, man. I know how close those Chicago dudes are, I can feel ’em on my neck, breathing hot and hard, man. Shit. Remember, I used to work with those boys in the windy town, and I know how tough some of them mothers are. This town is nothin’. We’re a suburb of Chicago that got outa hand and that’s all. Those guys, they think it’s 1927 or something.”

“Tillie!” the girl called again. “Guy says it’s urgent!”

Nolan followed him into the bedroom. Tillis took the phone and said, “Yeah?... What?... What?... Jesus fuck... How long ago?... Where do we go from here, man?... No, I’ll come to you... Downtown I guess, be cops at the house... Yeah.” Tillis hung the phone up, said, “Somebody shot Harry.”

Nolan sat on the bed. “Say again.”

“Somebody killed him. He was coming out of his house. He was in his goddamn pajamas, gettin’ the paper off the porch. Some guy came by, in a car it must’ve been, and shot him. You know what with?”

“No.”

“A grease gun, they think. A fuckin’ grease gun. I don’t believe it.”

“Harry lives in a kind of nice neighborhood, doesn’t he? Didn’t that cause a scene? Didn’t everybody see the guy that did it, his car at least?”

“That fuckin’ grease gun must’ve been silenced. He laid there ten minutes before his wife found him. Can you put a silencer on a fuckin’ grease gun, a submachine gun like that?”

“Sure could. It wouldn’t make any more noise than somebody shuffling cards.”

“Who? The Family? They do it, Nolan? You been shittin’ me all along? Settin’ me up?”

“No. But it could be the Family. It could be that bastard Felix using me. Or it could be Charlie, killing everybody who helped him, anybody who could lead somebody to him.”

“Jesus. I got to get downtown. Jesus.”

“Is there anybody else who could tell you something?”

“Huh?”

“About Charlie. Anybody else in Harry’s regime here you can pump? Who’s second in command? Vito?”

Tillis nodded.

“Isn’t Vito Harry’s cousin, makes him some kind of half-ass relative of Charlie’s, then, too, right?”

“Yeah. Well. Nolan, Jesus. Okay, I guess my head’s straight. Yeah. You want, you can stay here, I’ll call the information to you if I can get it. If I can’t get nothin’, I’ll call you and you can try some of the other people on that list. But I suggest you move on to the Chicago names, man, because this town’s gonna be a fuckin’ funny farm for a while.”

“If I stay here, and wait for you to call, am I an asshole?”

“I’m not going to screw you, Nolan. I helped you before.”

“Yeah. I’ll show you the scars.”

Tillis mustered a weary grin. “Well, you want to watch me get dressed?”

“I don’t want to, but I’m going to.”

Before he left, dressed in his brown suit and black shoulder holster, the Luger in it unloaded at present, Tillis kissed Phyllis goodbye and said, “Later,” to Nolan, adding, “Take care of this girl while I’m gone, Nolan, I like her,” and Nolan knew what he meant, felt better about trusting Tillis.

Nolan and Phyllis retired to the living room. Nolan took Tillis’ place on the couch and Phyllis took the easychair. She stared sullenly at him, unaware that her spread legs were giving Nolan a view worthy of the most raunchy porno mag.

“What do you do?” Nolan said.

“What Tillis tells me to,” she said, still sullen.

“For a living, I mean.”

“I’m a grad student.”

“You go to college, you mean? What do you study?”

“I’m in the Afro-American Studies program.”

Nolan looked at her thighs and got ready to ask her what the hell she meant, but the scream broke in.

He jumped up, and so did the girl.

The noise, the scream had come from outside. He pressed up against the clear glass and looked down and saw Tillis sprawled across the tan Ford, his unloaded Luger in his hand, a ribbon of blood across his chest. Even from the second floor, Nolan could see the wide white rolled-back eyes, the bulging tongue.

Didn’t take a college education to tell Tillis was dead.

5

The modern buildings of Northern Illinois University rose to the left like the set of a science fiction film with a big budget. The rich Illinois farmland dissolved into a blur of plastic college-town shopping center, apartment building and franchise restaurant living; the highway became a shaded street along which kids of both sexes wearing tee-shirts and cut-off jeans walked and pedaled bikes. Then, after blocks of pizza places and boutiques and McDonald’s hamburgers and dormitories, a wide, off-center intersection appeared from nowhere, as if to separate one half of Dekalb from the other. That seemed only right, as this other part of town was so different it was like passing through to another dimension; the business district beyond the intersection had no doubt been much the same for many years, the narrow main street lined with one- and two-story buildings, drug stores, dress shops, five and dime, hardware stores and only rare indications (“Adult Books in Rear” — “Water Bed Sale”) that this was a college town and not just a congregating point for area farmers and sedately middle class townspeople. Dekalb was a schizophrenic town. Even Nolan noticed it.

“Hey, look at the jugs on that one,” Angelo said, pointing to a tall blonde girl with a short haircut, cut-off jeans and green tee shirt. “Bouncy bouncy.”

“Just drive,” Nolan said.

“Sour ass,” Angelo said.

Nolan still wasn’t happy about being with Angelo, though he supposed he should’ve been grateful to his chubby-faced companion. It was just an hour and half ago that Nolan had been looking out the window and watching the crowd form, a crowd of briefcase-carrying men ready to leave for work and curlered women in housewifely robes and gleeful little kids in bright summer shirts, all looking on in fascinated horror at the big black dead man sprawled across the tan Ford. Nolan’s tan Ford, and at that moment of no damn use at all, as far as transportation went. Nolan hadn’t bothered trying to calm the hysterical Phyllis Watson, who had started to scream, pummeling him with hard little fists. Instead, he had knocked her cold with a solid right cross, sincerely hoping he hadn’t broken the girl’s jaw, and went down the stairs and out of the house, cutting through the backyards of houses behind, moving away from the scene of Tillis’ death as quickly as possible. He’d gone to a filling station, called the number Angelo had left, and after fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee in the station’s adjacent cafe, Nolan had gladly hopped in a car beside Angelo and got the hell out of Milwaukee. Somebody would have to go back for the tan Ford, which belonged to the Tropical Motel and could conceivably cause some problems, but that was one of those details that would have to be ironed out later. Some asshole like Felix could sweat over that.

Now Nolan was with Angelo in a black Chevy (naturally) in Dekalb, Illinois. Nolan wasn’t happy about being in Dekalb, for several reasons. For one thing, Dekalb was only fifteen miles from the Tropical, his starting point on this largely fruitless trip, which already had lasted some nine or ten hours. Being so close to home served to remind him of how far he hadn’t gotten; he sensed he was going around in a big circle that included all of Illinois, Iowa, and Wisconsin. He felt like a traveling salesman with nothing to sell.

Another reason for his discontent was that he was in Dekalb to do something he would rather not do. Something he had told Tillis he wouldn’t do.

He was going to bother Charlie’s daughter.

He was, in fact, probably going to kidnap her.

Angelo said, “What should I do, stop at a filling station and ask, or what?” They jostled across the railroad tracks that slanted across Dekalb’s main street, announcing the decline of the business district.

“No,” Nolan said, “we’re already on the right street. She must live over one of these stores downtown here.” He checked the street number on the list of names, checked it against the numbers they were passing. “Yeah, just another couple blocks. Keep it slow.”

Back on the Interstate they had stopped long enough to call Felix. Nolan had questioned the lawyer, hard, about the violent doings in Milwaukee, and Felix had said, “Do you really think we would do that to people who could lead us to the man we really want?” The man they really wanted being Charlie, of course. Felix was careful about what words he used on the phone.

“I don’t know,” Nolan had answered. “I been dealing with crazy people so much I’m feeling that way myself.”

“Nolan, be reasonable. We’re fighting the same battle, for Christ’s sake.”

“But who is on what side, is what I want to know.”

“Let me send some people to help you out. This is getting big.”

“I already got your Angelo along, and that’s one man too many. Oh, and you can call your man Greer and take him off those people in Iowa City. Not much chance of anybody warning Harry about anything anymore.”

“If you’re through making your ridiculous accusations, Nolan, I have something to tell you. Something important. We have a lead on Charlie.”

That had pleased Nolan, but still he said, “I thought this was my show.”

“I told you, it’s bigger than that now. We won’t get in your way, but we have interests in this affair far wider than your own, and resources at our disposal that a single man — even a most competent one, like yourself — could not hope to match.”

“So what have you got?”

“We’ve located a pilot who’d been chartered by Harry. He was to fly up to a private air field in the Lake Geneva area and take a passenger to Mexico.”

Felix paused, for applause Nolan guessed.

When he didn’t get any, Felix continued. “The guy, the pilot, has done some work for us before — has picked up merchandise of ours in Mexico, occasionally, if you get my meaning.”

“Go on.”

“Harry’s death was reported on the radio and television about half an hour ago, and this pilot heard it and immediately called Vito up and asked him if this chartered plane thing was still on. Vito knew nothing about it, but thought it smelled funny and called Chicago to see what we made of it.”

“What you made of it was the plane was for Charlie.”

“Naturally. I told Vito to tell the pilot to go ahead and be where he was supposed to be at the proper time. We’ll have our men waiting there, at the private field.”

“If the field’s near Lake Geneva, odds are Charlie’s holed up someplace close by.”

“I would think so. Seems to me he used to have a lodge or summer home of some kind in that neck of the woods. We’re running a check on it now, trying to see exactly where it was.”

“What time was that meeting at the airfield supposed to be?”

“It was set for last night but the ‘passenger’ ran into some difficulty and they’d rescheduled the next possible time. Which was one o’clock today.”

“Tonight, you mean?”

“This afternoon, I mean.”

“Jesus. Not much time. Where is this air field, anyway?”

Felix gave Nolan directions; they were complicated and Nolan had to write them down. He knew the Lake Geneva area fairly well, but there were a hell of a lot of country roads around there to confuse things.

“You don’t really think Charlie will go ahead with the flight, do you, Felix? He’s pretty likely to’ve heard the news about Harry and Tillis by now and figure something’s up.”

“Nolan, it’s pretty likely, too, that Charlie was responsible for what happened to Harry and Tillis. Tidying up after himself. He’s certainly ruthless enough to handle things that way. If our people aren’t responsible for what happened in Milwaukee — and Nolan, I assure you we aren’t — then who else could it be but Charlie?”

That was a good question, and it was still on Nolan’s mind even as Angelo wheeled the black Chevy down a side street and slid into a diagonal parking stall next to the cycle shop over which Charlie’s daughter lived.

“Don’t tell me,” Angelo grunted. “You want me to keep my ass in the car, right?”

Nolan nodded. “And if somebody comes at you with a silenced grease gun, try to get out of the way.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“But if you can’t, fall on the horn and warn me before you breathe your last, okay, Angelo?”

“Nolan, what the fuck makes you such a nice guy?”

“The company I keep.”

To the left of the row of motorcycles and the window full of Yamaha signs was a doorless doorway, beyond that a stairway. At the bottom of the stairs were two mailboxes: apartment one had somebody called Barry West in it; apartment two had Joyce Walters. Walters wasn’t Charlie’s name, and Joyce wasn’t married, but she was Charlie’s kid just the same.

Nolan didn’t like this. It gave him a bad taste in his mouth. Charlie was a crazy man, and that made anyone who chose to play by Charlie’s rules a crazy man, as well.

But shit. What else was there to do? Where else could he turn? Milwaukee was out; it was a madhouse at the moment, and the two men he needed to talk to were both dead. Chicago? Might be a few people there worth seeing, but he doubted it, doubted he’d find out anything he hadn’t found out already, from Joey Metrano. No, it was obvious Charlie had done his most recent arranging through Harry, in Milwaukee, so Chicago was no good, and besides, Felix would have Family men poking around the city, and as for that meeting at the air field, that was the same damn thing: Family people would be in control there, too. And Charlie wasn’t likely to show anyway; he’d much more likely be holed up, trying to regroup, trying to find some new way to get out of the country, now that the plane was out. Unless Felix was right and Charlie was going around shooting those who’d helped him. But Nolan simply couldn’t believe that, even though there was a cockeyed Charlie-like logic to it.

There was only one name on that list worth talking to. Only one person he could try.

The daughter.

And he knew that the best thing for him to do would be grab her, take her with him and try to work out a trade with Charlie — the girl for Jon and the money. If anyone would know where Charlie was, the daughter would, and if Nolan kidnapped her and worked out a swap, the whole damn problem could be solved in one easy stroke. Nolan wouldn’t even have to kill the old bastard; he could leave that to Charlie’s Family friends.

So it was easy. Just take the girl. Exchange of prisoners. Simple.

But he’d be playing Charlie’s game, doing what Charlie had done to Jon, and that gave him a bad taste in his mouth.

He knocked. A voice from within said, “One moment,” a girl’s voice, medium-range, firm.

She opened the door a crack and peered out at Nolan, looked him over, said, “Oh. You’re a friend of my father’s, I suppose.” She gave out a heavy sigh. “I imagine you want to come in and talk to me.”

“If I could,” Nolan said.

She let him in, with another sigh, as if she’d known he was coming and was resigned to the fact. “Come in,” she said, though he already was, “if you feel you have to.”

Nolan walked over to a worn green couch, sat. The apartment was spare but spotless; the furniture old but service-able. The only concession to luxury was a tiny portable TV that sat in a corner so low that your neck would have to ache no matter where you chose to watch, perhaps as punishment for doing so. The floor was hard varnished wood, scrubbed but too old to shine. The walls were flat, unpebbled plaster, white and very clean; they were bare except for a wooden carved thing over the couch, from some culture Nolan couldn’t conceive of, and three posters, all on the wall directly across from him. One poster had an abstract drawing and the words “War Is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things,” while the other two showed photographs of starving children, one labeled Biafra, the other Cambodia. It wasn’t the most cheerful apartment Nolan had ever been in.

“Excuse me if I was rude before,” she said. “Would you care for something to drink?”

He shrugged. “Coffee,” he said.

“I have a pot of tea in the kitchen.”

“Fine.”

She wasn’t gone long. She gave him the tea and on the saucer next to the cup was a single cookie, a vanilla Hydrox. Nolan bit the Hydrox in half and a hungry-eyed kid from Biafra caught his attention; the mouthful went down hard.

“I don’t believe this is necessary,” she said. “But I suppose you people mean well doing it.”

She was a girl who might have been pretty, had she a mind to. She was small and had those same dark, close-set eyes her father had, though on her the effect was much different; there was a softness in the eyes that outer layers of strength couldn’t mask. She sat in a straightback chair across from him, right by the Cambodia poster, and crossed her legs, tugging down her long skirt. She wasn’t bad-looking, really, he thought, considering she was Charlie’s kid and dressed like a goddamn nun, black skirt and short-sleeve white blouse, tucked neatly in. Her dark hair probably looked good when it hung loose to her shoulders; right now it was in a tight bun, pulled back from attractive features that had been totally denied make-up.

“I said, I don’t believe this is necessary,” she repeated, “but I suppose you people mean well doing it.”

“Pardon?”

“Believe me, I know this is awkward for you. But I do understand what this is all about. As you must know, when Daddy died, Uncle Harry came down and talked to me, to try to soothe me, calm me. What upset Uncle Harry was I wasn’t upset. I wish he could have understood that as far as I was concerned my father had died long before that stupid crash, and that my brother’s death was of a far greater importance to me, because I had... I had hope for Walter. But Walter was stubborn. Stubborn as hell, and he wanted to walk in his father’s footsteps, God alone knows why. So I could accept his death, too.”

Nolan sipped his tea. He felt uncomfortable. He wished he’d thought this out better, planned exactly how he was going to handle the daughter. But who could have planned for a girl like this, anyway? Nothing to do but sit here and let her talk.

“So, as I said, this is entirely unnecessary. I heard the news on the television, and I was saddened for a moment, but I must admit that while Uncle Harry was a nice man in his way, I feel the world will be a better place without him. People like my uncle, and my father, are destructive, to themselves and to their society. My family had long been a part of organized corruption, our family history is long and illustrious in that regard. My mother’s father, my grandfather, why they write books about him! Famous people played him in the movies, I was a celebrity as a little girl because of it — the only kid on the block whose grandpa was on ‘The Untouchables’! No, I won’t miss Uncle Harry, just like I won’t miss my father. You want to know who I miss? Walter, sure, Walt, but mostly, I miss my mother, I wish I could sit and talk to my mother. She was ten years older than Daddy, she was a good woman and always pretended she didn’t realize Daddy married her because she was somebody’s daughter. She was young when she died, in her early sixties, and she died more of neglect than anything else, but she was too much in love with Daddy ever to complain — at least she never complained loud enough for me to hear. My whole family was caught up in that other Family, it drained the life out of all of us, and so please tell your people not to come bother me anymore. It’s so ridiculous now, there’s not a close blood relative left and yet still they feel obliged to send you, out of some insane, archaic sense of duty or custom or something. Excuse me. I hope I haven’t offended you. But you must understand. My father was dead long before he was killed in that crash. He was morally dead. My uncle, too. Can you understand that?”

Nolan nodded. He cleared his throat, said, “Uh, you were in the Peace Corps, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Guatemala. I was in the Central American jungle, with very primitive people, who believe in evil spirits and that sort of thing. We built them a school. It was a good experience, but it was as much escape as service, and I realize now that my joining the Peace Corps was somewhat hypocritical. I’m back in college again, taking a degree in English this time, because I want to help where I’m needed most, and where my own moral need is greatest. I hope to teach in the slums, the ghettos. In Chicago, if at all possible. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He did.

“No,” he said.

“I want to go into the jungle where it’s my father’s kind who are the evil spirits. His kind who need warding off. With education, with patience, with love, maybe a person like me can teach the underfed, the underprivileged, educate them into understanding that hell is what the heroin dealers offer, to realize the absurdity of spending five dollars a day on a game of chance when your family is starving, to know what it is to...”

He stopped listening to her. Bleeding-heart liberals gave him a pain in the butt. She was doing her best, he supposed, but she was starting to sound like the naive, condescending child she was.

“I’m sorry Uncle Harry is dead,” she said after a while, “and please thank whoever it was that sent you. But that part of me is gone now. I won’t miss Uncle Harry. I’ll admit I miss my mother. My brother, too. And I miss the father of my childhood.”

“I knew you when you were little,” Nolan said. It was a shot in the dark, untrue, of course. But he tried it.

“You did?”

“I came around to your summer place once. On business.”

She found a smile somewhere and showed it to him. “I won’t lie and say I remember you, but I guess you could’ve seen me when I was a child. I can remember that Daddy was secretive about that place, about Eagle’s Roost.” She grinned, forgetting herself. “He bawled Uncle Harry out one time, bawled him out terrible, for bringing business people around to the lodge. I can remember it so clearly. Maybe you were one of the men with Uncle Scary, uh, Harry that time. Maybe that was the time you saw me.”

“I think it was,” Nolan said. “I remember how mad your father got.”

“Oh, he could get mad all right, but we had good times at the lakes. My best memories are there, at Eagle’s Roost, we were a family there more than anywhere else. Up so high, away from everything, where we could look down at both those pretty blue lakes. We had a sailboat, a little one, for two people, you know? And Daddy and I would...” She stopped. “That was a long time ago.”

“Your lodge was up around Lake Geneva, wasn’t it?”

“Well, the lakes, Twin Lakes, actually, but in that area, yes. It’s kind of a unique place, sort of a shame no one’s using it now, been all shut up for several years. Got the best view in the whole area, up on that hill on that little piece of land between the two lakes. Eagle’s Roost... a beautiful place, but just a memory now, one pleasant one I have, anyway.” She got up. “Would you like another cup of tea before you go?”

“Yes, please. Never mind the Hydrox.”

They drank the second cup of tea quickly, in silence.

Finally she said, “Did you wonder about my name, on the mailbox?”

“Not really,” he said.

“I changed it. Legally. I’m not a part of that family anymore. I’d been meaning to change it for years, but always thought I’d be getting married one day, and, well...” She touched her hair. “I’ve other things to do for the time being. Do you think it odd, me changing my name?”

“No,” Nolan smiled. “I’ve done it a few times myself.”

He rose, handed her his empty cup and left.

6

It was no problem finding Eagle’s Roost. The narrow strip of land between Lake Mary and Lake Elizabeth had only the one, steep hill. Standing at the bottom and looking up, Nolan thought the hill looked like the Matterhorn, but in reality it was only a hundred some feet, going up at an eighty-degree angle, flattening out level on top. From the foot of the hill all you could see of what was up there was the tall row of pines lining the edge and sheltering the lodge from view, the breeze riffling through their needles. But it was there, Nolan knew, Eagle’s Roost was up there.

Nolan and Angelo left the black Chevy a quarter of a mile away, back behind a bend on the blacktop road. Both men were carrying Smith and Wesson.38s; Angelo’s was a Bodyguard model, a five-shot revolver with a two-inch barrel, good for shooting people close up, but not much else; the four-inch barrel on Nolan’s revolver assured far greater accuracy and he didn’t like working with supposed professionals who didn’t observe such simple facts. But he felt he could use some support, so he’d let Angelo come along anyway. They circled the bottom of the hill, staying down low, moving carefully through dense foliage like soldiers in a jungle.

It was noon, but the sun overhead was under a cover of clouds, so the heat was modest, tempered by gentle lake winds. The sun would come out now and then, but mostly the day was pleasantly overcast, a day of floating shadows that rolled cool and blue and gray across the green Wisconsin landscape. Nolan could smell the lake in the air and envied, for a moment, the people out boating, skiing, swimming. Then he squeezed the.38 in his hand, as if to reassure the weapon of his intent, and pressed on.

“Fucking bugs,” Angelo said, swatting.

Nolan hadn’t noticed them. He pointed, said, “Over there.”

They could see the lake now, as well as smell it. This was Lake Mary and Elizabeth was over on the other side of the steep hill. A combination boathouse and garage, possibly with sleeping rooms on the upper floor, was maybe twenty yards from the bottom of the hill, some hundred yards from the lake front. But what Nolan was pointing to was the driveway extending from the boathouse and cutting through the thick foliage to a big wrought-iron gate that opened onto a road that ran through a subdivision of summerhouses nearby. The big padlocked gate was the most awesome feature of a five-foot brick wall that separated the grounds of Eagle’s Roost (which even from this distance could be seen spelled out backward in wrought-iron on the gate) from those of the subdivision.

“Go back to the car,” Nolan said. “Drive down through that bunch of houses and wait by the gate. If I screw up and Charlie gets away from me somehow, he’s probably going to come tearing out through there.”

Angelo nodded. “No other way out?”

“Just those steps we saw on the other side of the hill. If Charlie’s wounded, and I think he is, he won’t be coming down an incline like that. Besides, a car’d have to be waiting to pick him up, and where would that come from?”

“Maybe he’s got people helping him.”

“Risk it.”

“Okay, then. I’m on my way.”

“Angelo.”

“Yeah?”

“Family guys are probably going to start showing up, and I’d appreciate you keeping them away, for a while. I want time with Charlie alone.”

“I’ll do my best, Nolan. But it’s not you I work for, remember.”

“Do it for the sake of our friendship.”

A grin split Angelo’s chubby face and he said, “Well, since you put it that way...” And he trudged off through the high grass and weeds toward the blacktop.

Down in front of the subdivision was a beach, where girls and women sunned, and swimmers, kids mostly, romped close to shore. Out on the lake, sailboats and motorboats of various sizes and shapes skimmed across the water. The cool breeze was soothing, and Nolan could have dropped down into a soft bed of grass and fallen asleep, had this been another time.

But it wasn’t.

He moved toward the boathouse, which was two stories of yellow stucco trimmed with brown wood, Swiss Chalet-style. Wooden stairs on either side met in a balcony that came across the front of the building and faced the lake, but not around the back. Trees and bushes and out-of-hand weeds crowded the boathouse; it had been some good time since a gardener tended these grounds.

He approached slowly, keeping down, pushing through the heavy bushes around the house, keeping under their cover. On his haunches, he moved along the side of the stucco wall, then eased carefully out onto the gravelled drive, the balcony overhead shading him as he edged along the garage door. The brown wood of the garage door didn’t quite match the wood trim and stairs and balcony, being more modem than the rest of this ’20s vintage building; the door had windows strung across it that allowed Nolan to peek in at the blue Oldsmobile inside. One half of the garage had been meant for boat storage, but no boat was there now, just a dirty, long-discarded tarp that lay slumped across the spot where a boat had once rested. The garage was empty of people and, except for the Olds and the tarp, any sign of human life. Not a rake or a saw or a car-jack or a pile of old newspapers, nothing. People didn’t live here anymore.

To the left of the bar area was a stairway. Nolan crossed the room like an Indian and started up the stairs, at the top of which was the light of an open doorway. As he climbed he noticed the tightness of his facial muscles, how tense his neck was, and consciously loosened himself, fanning his.38 out in front of him in a fluid, almost graceful motion. Nolan stepped into the hallway on the balls of his feet. The hall was narrow, three doors on each side, all of them shut tight. One by one he stood before the doors and listened, not opening any of them, only listening, pressing an ear tenderly against the heavy wood, searching for a sound. A dripping faucet behind one door told him he’d found the can, but he heard nothing else until he’d worked his way down both sides of the hall. This final door was to one of the rooms that faced the hill; the rooms on this side were more likely for holding a prisoner than those with views of the lake and a balcony running by. He listened and then he heard a voice, a man’s voice.

He stood to the left of the door, back to the wall, and reached across and turned the knob and nudged the door barely open. Then with a quick kick he knocked it open all the way and flattened back against the wall and heard the snick of a silenced gun and watched the slug splinter into the door opposite. Still flat to the wall, he peered around between fully open door and doorjamb, hopefully to fire through the crack into the room at whoever shot at him, and saw Jon standing there, holding an automatic in one trembling hand.

“It’s Nolan,” Nolan said softly, and stepped into the doorway.

“Nolan!”

“Quiet,” he said, walking into the room.

“I could’ve killed you.”

“Well, you didn’t.”

The room had pink wallpaper, a big bed with open springs and sheet-covered furniture. On the bed was a young guy in his early twenties, wearing a blue tee-shirt and white jeans and tied to the bed. One of his feet was bare; this was explained by the sock stuffed in his mouth, as a make-do gag.

“I bet that tastes sweet,” Nolan said. “Charlie’s kid?”

“Charlie’s kid. His name is Walt. God, am I glad to see you, Nolan.”

“Where’d you get the gun and the ropes?”

“From him. Those are the ropes I was tied up with for longer than I’d care to talk about.”

“How long you been in control here?”

“Five minutes maybe. Had a chance earlier, but I blew it. Anyway, he came around a while ago to see if I had to take a piss or anything and I kicked him in the nuts.”

“You’re learning.”

“He’s really a pretty decent guy, for a kidnapper. He was going to help me.”

“Then why’d you feel it necessary to kick his balls in?”

“He kept talking about helping me, but he never got around to doing it.”

“I see. Where’s Charlie?”

“Up on that hill there, I guess. In that house up there. You can see the place from the window.” He walked over to the window and Nolan came along. Jon pointed out and said, “See?”

This side of the hill was just as steep, but there was no row of pines blocking the view. The house was two stories of yellow stucco, like the boathouse, but was much bigger and of that pseudo-Spanish architecture so common in the twenties. With its turrets and archways, it was a genuine relic, the castle of latter-day robber barons, built during the blood-and-booze era by the father of Charlie’s late wife. Someday people would pay fifty cents to hear a tour guide tell about it. Maybe today would provide a sock finish for the guide’s line of patter.

“Somewhere down in those bushes,” Jon said, “is an underground elevator or something. Or maybe a hidden stairway. Over to the right of those cobblestone steps, see? I watched Walt last time he came back from the house and he came out of those bushes.”

Nolan scratched his chin with the hand the.38 was in. “Kind of figured there was some other, easy way up there, besides steps. There’s steps in front and back both, but with Charlie wounded — he is wounded, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jon nodded, “his thigh. I saw him back in Ainsworth’s office, his thigh was all bandaged. That’s the last time I saw Charlie, was back there in Iowa City. Christ, that reminds me, how’s Karen? How the hell is she? Did you see her?”

“Yes. She’s fine. How about you? You all right?”

“I am now that you’re here. How’d you find me, anyway?”

“We can shoot the bull later, kid. Right now we got things to do.”

“Listen, why don’t we just... no. Forget it.”

“Something on your mind?”

“No, nothing, forget it.”

“You were going to say, why don’t we just take off while we got our asses in one piece?”

“Well, yes. Being alive sounds pretty damn good to me at the moment.”

“Do what you want. I’m staying.”

“Yeah, well, me too, of course. And I understand how you feel about this guy Charlie, it’s a real thing between you two, been going on a lot of years and...”

“Fuck that. The money’s what I care about. That son of a bitch has three quarters of a million dollars, our three quarters of a million dollars, Jon. And all that money sounds pretty damn good to me. That’s what I call being alive.”

“I’d almost forgotten about the money — how could I forget that much money. Seems so long since yesterday. Yesterday Planner was alive, Nolan, do you realize that?” Jon’s hand whitened around the nine-millimeter automatic. “I’m glad we’re going to do something about... about what they did to Planner.”

“Look. One thing we don’t need to be is emotional. We got no time for revenge. That’s for the crazy assholes, like Charlie. I want that bastard breathing, for the time being anyway. I got to shake our money out of him. God knows what he’s done with it.”

“The money,” Jon said, nodding, loosening up. “That’s what’s important.”

Nolan pointed at Walter, whose close-set eyes were big from listening intently to the conversation. “What about him? Have you gotten anything out of him?”

“We hadn’t got very far in our conversation when you got here. I was asking him yes and no questions so he could shake his head and answer, and he claimed he wouldn’t scream or anything if I ungagged him, but I wasn’t convinced yet.”

“It’s just the two of them, then, right? Charlie and the kid?”

“Far as I know. Why not ask Walt, here?”

“Take the sock out of his mouth.”

Jon did.

Walter tried to spit the taste out of his mouth, didn’t quite get the job done.

“This is Nolan,” Jon said. “The guy I told you about.”

Walter said nothing. He had a blank expression, as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be outraged or scared shitless.

“How about it, Walt?” Nolan asked. “Just you and your dad?”

Walter said nothing.

Jon said, “I don’t think he’s going to say anything.”

Nolan said, “Well. I’m going up the hill.”

“Wait,” Walter said. “Don’t hurt him! He’s just a poor old man!”

Nolan said nothing.

Jon said, “What do I do?”

Nolan stuffed the sock back into Walter’s mouth and said, “Stay here and guard Junior. If Charlie comes out on top, you’ll have good bargaining power.”

“Don’t talk that way! How could that old bastard come out on top over you?”

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe shoot me, like the other two times.”

“Jesus, Nolan.”

“Come on, I’ll help you take him downstairs. Ground floor’ll be better for you and if you set up behind the bar you’ll have a decent vantage point, and you’ll be right by the garage. He didn’t have car keys on him, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Can you hot-wire a car, kid?”

“My J.D. days pay off at last. Sure I can hot-wire a car, can’t everybody?”

“Good man. Come on.”

They dragged Walter down the stairs into the game room.

“See you kid,” Nolan said.

“See you, Nolan,” Jon said. But he didn’t quite sound sure.

7

The elevator hadn’t seen regular use for years, having only recently been brought back into service for Charlie’s homecoming to Eagle’s Roost. Nolan stood inside the cramped, steel-frame cage, finger poised over a button that said UP. Should he press the damn thing?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was the elevator would deliver him somewhere inside that yellow stucco dinosaur up there. But somewhere covered a lot of unchartered territory. Still, it would be an easy, quick way inside the place; he would avoid that steep, out-in-the-open climb, wouldn’t have to worry about approaching the many-windowed house on all that flat surrounding ground. And there was surprise in it, too: no way in hell Charlie would figure Nolan for coming up the damn elevator.

But the cage was doorless, and gave him absolutely no place to hide, nowhere to shoot from behind, nothing to help him work out a defense in case he was dropped into a waiting Charlie’s lap. And as basic as this elevator system was, Nolan expected no sliding door to await him at the end of his upward ride.

Chances were good, however, that the elevator would open onto an entryway of some kind, with coat racks and such, a vestibule type of thing. Or perhaps somewhere in or near the kitchen, since anyone coming to a summer place like this for a stay would surely come bearing groceries. Neither kitchen or vestibule seemed highly likely places for Charlie to be hanging around.

He pressed the button.

The motor wheezed and coughed, the cable groaned as it lifted the cage. That was okay. He had known there’d be noise, especially with an elevator as old as this. Charlie would be expecting his son to be coming back and the sound of the elevator wouldn’t surprise him. And if Charlie was waiting for Walter by where the elevator came up, no problem either, as long as the old man was expecting the kid and not Nolan, he’d be easy to overcome.

To get to the underground elevator, Nolan had had to shove his way through the brush and weeds that had overtaken what had once been a well-worn pathway, and sure enough, just in that area Jon had pointed out from the boathouse window, Nolan found an entrance. A heavy wrought-iron gate, which was being choked to death by ugly, clinging weeds, had been swung open to one side and a rock shoved against it to keep it open. He had then entered a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway, with plywood walls and a gravel floor; the air was dank and stale, the atmosphere falling somewhere between dungeon and cattle shed.

The passageway, and the elevator itself, said something about the mobster mentality, or at least first-generation mobster mentality, and this, as much as the obvious age of everything, dated it all back to Capone days, in Nolan’s mind. After going to the fantastic expense of tunneling a hundred feet down through a hill, and then out thirty or forty feet more through the side of the hill to make the passageway, the first owner of Eagle’s Roost had then spared all expense, getting the most fundamental, bare-ass elevator system he could, and putting in a passageway that could’ve been the gateway to Shanty Town. Those old mobsters betrayed their beginnings every time; they reverted to the penny-squeezing of poverty-stricken upbringings, whenever given half a chance. Those bastards knew how to suck up the money, Nolan thought, but they never learned how to spend it.

And that none of it had ever been extensively revamped said something about Charlie, a first-generation mobster himself, who hadn’t been born into the Family, he’d married into it. Like his wife’s father, Charlie had known hard times, and like Nolan, he was a product of Depression years. While the elevator had apparently been kept in good working order and minor renovations made (electric motor replacing hydraulic, perhaps), Charlie had never put a new elevator in, or modernized the rustic passageway. Nolan could understand the psychology of it, because he shared Charlie’s inability to enjoy money, had never really been good at spending it, afraid somehow to get accustomed to luxury, as if getting ready for the next Depression. With it came a tendency to hoard your money for a rosy retirement, which wasn’t the best policy for men in high-risk fields, like Nolan and Charlie.

In fact, this wasn’t the first time Nolan had lost all his money in one fell swoop, wasn’t even the first time Charlie had been responsible. Not long ago Charlie had exposed Nolan’s well-established cover name and cost him his hoarder’s life savings. And Nolan had done the same for Charlie, hadn’t he? Exposing him to the Family and ending a lifelong career?

And so now they were down to this. Two men who hadn’t been young for a long time, who for reasons obscured by the years had done their best to wreck one another’s lives (and with considerable success), two men alone in a house, with guns. Going up in that elevator, impressions of the long conflict with Charlie flashing through his mind, Nolan might have felt a sense of destiny, a feeling that here at last would be an end to the struggle, an answer to a question long ago forgotten, an end to the senseless waste of each other’s lives. But he didn’t. His mind was full of one thing: the money. He had squeezed the need for revenge out of his perception. Charlie was just a man who had taken Nolan’s money, and Nolan had to get that money back.

The elevator chugged to a halt.

Nolan had been right, on two counts: no door, sliding or otherwise, greeted him, just a metal safety gate that creaked unmercifully when he folded it back, and yes, he was in a vestibule, to the right of which he could see the shelves of a pantry, to the left the white walls of a kitchen.

But he was wrong, too, on just about everything else.

Charlie was in the kitchen.

Charlie was sitting on one of four plastic-covered chairs at a gray-speckled formica-top table in the surprisingly small kitchen, its walls crowded with appliances, sink, cabinets, with one small counter strewn with Schlitz beer cans and empty TV dinner cartons.

In front of Charlie, on the table, was a silenced nine-millimeter automatic. Also in front of him were six more Schlitz cans. Charlie was wearing his underwear, a sleeveless tee-shirt and gray boxer shorts. The flesh of his limbs looked as gray as the shorts, a tan that had sickened, and flaccid; his right thigh was bandaged; on his upper left arm was a tattoo of a rose, nicely done. Charlie had a new nose; it was pink, unlike the gray-tan skin surrounding it. He was sleeping.

He was, in fact, snoring, quite loudly, contentedly, even drunkenly. His head was resting on folded arms and he looked both very young and very old.

Nolan took a chair next to him at the Formica-top table. He picked up the gun and stuffed it in his belt. Charlie didn’t stir. Nolan sat and studied his old enemy, the adversary who’d given him so much hell for so many years, tried to see the maniac he’d come looking for, and saw only a frail old sleeping drunken man.

It was all disappointing somehow. An anticlimax that turned years of running, hating, fighting into an absurd, unfunny joke. He felt foolish, a little. And vaguely sad.

But this wasn’t a time for reflection; there was money to find, and Nolan grabbed the tattooed gray arm and shook the sleeping man and said, “Come on, Charlie, wake up.”

Like the curtain of a play, the lids on the close-set eyes raised slowly, and Charlie lifted head from folded arms and gradually got himself into a sitting position. He yawned. He smiled. He said, “Hello, Nolan.”

“Well, hello Charlie.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah. We got to quit meeting like this.”

“I see you took my gun, Nolan.”

Charlie’s speech was thick but clear, each word let out after careful consideration.

Nolan shook his head. “Why’d you have to get drunk on your ass like this, Charlie?”

He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed. “A hell of a thing, I know. I guess I wanted to be numb for the goddamn bullets.”

“I won’t kill you, Charlie, not if you give my money back.”

The laughter came rumbling out of Charlie’s gut and he touched his forehead to the Formica top and cackled. When he looked up at Nolan he had tears in his eyes from laughing. “You stupid goddamn asshole, you think I’m afraid of you, afraid you’re going to kill me? Get away, get away, you silly bastard.”

“Charlie.”

“You can’t kill me, Nolan. Not you or the whole goddamn fucking Family. Nobody can kill me, I died a long time ago; don’t you read the goddamn papers? How can you kill a goddamn dead man? You tell me! I’m getting another beer.”

Charlie got up and weaved toward the refrigerator and Nolan was up and on him, latched onto his arm and dragged him out into the adjacent room.

They were in the big main room of the lodge now, a high-ceilinged hall with open beams and much dark wood and lots of doors and windows. The bulk of Eagle’s Roost was right here in this one big room, the ceiling coming down on the back third, indicating the partial second floor; everything but sleeping and cooking had been done in this hall, or so the covered furniture all around would indicate; a few pieces were uncovered, the sofas, the long dining table that was over to the left, as you faced the black-brick fireplace with its elk’s head above. In spite of the coolness of the day, it was rather warm in the hall, almost as if the fireplace had been going or the heat’d been on. Nolan dragged Charlie over to the semicircle of sofas facing the fireplace. Nolan tossed the little man onto one of the sofas, sat opposite him. Between them was a large round marble coffee table with a radio on it. Charlie had started to laugh again and was rocking side to side, holding his stomach, buckling with laughter.

Charlie’s laughter subsided and he looked at Nolan and grinned. “I won, Nolan. I beat you. For years I’ve hated your fucking guts, for months all I’ve done is think about seeing you die. And now I don’t even hate you anymore. I forgive you, Nolan. I forgive you for shooting my brother eighteen years ago and stealing my money and making a fool out of me in the Family. Yeah, that’s right, I told you before, remember? How you wrecked my goddamn life, how I never moved an inch with the Family after you killed my brother Gordon and made me look stupid. But, Nolan, I forgive you. No shit, I forgive you. I even forgive you for passing me those marked bills, and look what that did to me. I don’t hate you, anymore, Nolan, now that I’ve won. Now that I’ve won I can look at you and just not give a goddamn.”

“Where’s my money, Charlie? I’ll knock it out of you if I have to.”

Charlie waved his hands at Nolan, gave him a Bronx cheer. “No way, I’m too far gone to feel it, you’d have to knock me out before you hurt me and then what would I tell you?”

Nolan closed his eyes. Well, Nolan thought, he wants to talk, so humor him, sneak up on him that way.

“Did you kill Harry, Charlie? Did you kill Tillis?”

“Hell, no. Did you?” Charlie’s grin disappeared and he got suddenly somber. He rubbed his cheek. “I shouldn’t talk lightly of that. Harry was... he was my friend and he was my wife’s brother, you know. I liked him and he helped me. He did a lot. He’s the one who helped me get the bead on you, for one thing, he was bankrolling jobs for people like you, ripoff guys, and had the connections it took to run down your friends and the people you work with. We even knew you stayed with that guy Planner for a while, but we weren’t sure that was where you left the money, not until I heard you were going to go to Iowa to move it.”

“How did you find that out?”

“One of Felix’s boys was working for me. Right under that goddamn pimp lawyer’s nose. We knew all about you planning to switch the money to a Family bank, but you were pretty goddamn careful about telling where you were hiding it, weren’t you? Waited until the last minute to tell Felix where it was, and even then all you said was ‘Iowa,’ though it wasn’t any goddamn trick figuring out where in Iowa.” Charlie glanced slowly around the high-ceilinged hall. “Walter and me were just waiting at the lodge here to get the word where the money was, to know where to go to get it. It was good staying here with my boy, Nolan. I wish now he wasn’t involved in this, but just the same it was good being with him, in this place. This place has a lot of memories for me, a lot of my good hours were spent at the Roost, and I don’t mind ending it here, even though I always wanted to keep that part of my life outside. But you can’t do that, can you, Nolan, you can’t get away from what you are and you might as well come face to goddamn face with it.” He slammed his fist down on the marble of the coffee table in front of him. “Jesus! It was so fucking perfect, had it all worked out, just come back here with that money and hop on that goddamn plane to Mexico and fly down to Argentina like we had set up and Walter and me, we could’ve built a new life together... Walter’s so goddamn smart, I can’t believe it, you know he’s a college man... but then I got hit in the leg, that old bastard Planner hit me in the goddamn leg and made me kill him, and we got stuck in goddamn Iowa City and lost time there and messed up the flight and had to put it off till today and then Jesus, you were onto me and the Family was onto me, and then I hear on the radio they’re killing off everybody who helped me... Harry... Tillis. Jesus.”

“You think the Family killed those guys?”

“Who else? I knew they’d be on me, when that kid, that friend of yours Jon, told me back in that doctor’s office, told me you knew I was the one that took the money, told me you were coming after me. I knew about you and your new ties with the Family. That if you knew I was alive, so did they. They’re coming today, aren’t they? Are they outside now, Nolan?”

“If they are, they got here on their own. They know you’re alive, yes, but they gave me two days to find you and get my money back.”

“Don’t shit me, not with Harry and Tillis shot all to shit.” He bent over and looked very sober. “Nolan, I want to work out a trade with you. Listen to me. You take care of Walter, get him out of here before the Family comes. You see that he stays alive.”

“What do I get in return?”

“That kid friend of yours, that Jon. Walter’s holding him down at the boathouse right now. Why the hell else would I take that kid Jon with me? I knew you were coming after me, that if you caught up with me, I could use the kid as a buffer. He’s your friend, saved your life once — I know, I was there.”

“Sorry. Jon is holding a gun to your son’s head right this minute. You don’t have the edge you thought you had, Charlie.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t have time to lie to you, Charlie. We got to get on with this before those people you mentioned start showing up.”

“No, no,” Charlie said, whimpering, his eyes filling with tears. “Walter’s got to get out, nothing to happen to Walter, not Walter, he’s the only thing left. Please God.”

“Tell me what you did with the money, Charlie, and I’ll help your kid get out of this.”

“Do I get your word on that?”

“Sure.”

“You always called me a melodramatic bastard, remember?”

“I still do, Charlie.”

“Well, that’s true, I guess it’s true but you... you got your own quirk. You’re straight, in your crooked way. You give your word and you keep it. So I know if you give me your word, you’re going to stand behind it, Nolan. I’m sure of it.”

That wasn’t particularly true, but Nolan let it slide by. Charlie was saying all that in order to convince himself he could trust Nolan, and Nolan knew it.

“What did you do with the money, Charlie?”

“You promise, you promise you’ll help Walter?”

“Sure.”

Charlie let out a relieved sigh. He smiled on one side of his face and said, “A funny goddamn way for us to finish it up, Nolan. Me turning to you to save my kid’s ass. My God. You know something else funny? I didn’t even need that goddamn money of yours. I got all kinds of money, in this guy’s account and that one, money to live a couple goddamn lifetimes, if I had ’em. No, I took that money because I hated you, I wanted you to bleed, I wanted to hurt you the one place you could feel it, in your goddamn pocketbook. It was for blood, not money, and now neither one means a goddamn thing. Why’d we do it to each other? What the hell was the goddamn point?”

From behind them came a sound — bup bup bup bup bup bup — no louder than someone giving a deck of cards a hard shuffle, and Charlie screamed, “Mother of God!” and jumped behind the sofa. Nolan dove under the coffee table, turned it on its side and held it in front of him like a shield, while the slugs ate up the room, tearing into the dark wood walls, ripping apart the leather sofas, knocking down furniture, their white sheets flying in the air, like dancing ghosts. Charlie went scrambling over to the dining area, got behind the big long table and tipped it over with a crash, got sheltered behind its thick wood while the slugs splintered away at its surface, bup bup bup bup bup.

Silence.

Nolan peeked out from behind the table and the bup bup bup started in again, but not before Nolan saw the gun and the man behind it. The gun was a grease gun, a submachine gun that fired.45 slugs and looked as if it had been put together with discarded tin cans; the barrel had been screwed off and a tubular silencer put on its place; two magazines had been taped together so the guy could flip it around and shove in a fresh round without missing more than a half-second of action.

The guy behind the grease gun had a chubby face and a skinny body and all of a sudden Nolan knew who Charlie’s pipeline to Felix was. All of a sudden Nolan knew who killed Tillis and Harry and why.

Nolan had his.38 in one hand and the silenced automatic of Charlie’s in the other and started firing at Angelo, shooting haphazardly, firing both guns like some two-gun kid in a Western. With that grease gun out there, aiming was out of the question, even though the guy was standing out in the open, over by a side door directly behind where Nolan had been sitting.

Charlie dove from behind the table, pitched himself into the kitchen, caught one in the gut just as he went through the doorway. Nolan could see the little man in underwear crawling off through the kitchen, out toward the elevator. Somehow Nolan sensed that Charlie was not so much trying to get away as making an attempt to get to Walter and warn him. Well, luck to you, Charlie, Nolan thought.

Angelo yanked the magazine out, flipped it around and shoved it in place and Nolan blew Angelo’s kneecap apart with a.38 slug. Angelo fell on his face, like a pratfalling clown, but much harder, and on his side started in firing the grease gun again and the room was splintering, chunks of the marble top started to fly and Nolan held his breath, hoping Angelo’s pain and rage and reflex would empty that damn, damn gun.

It did. The bup bup bup trailed away and Nolan spun out and pointed the.38 at Angelo’s head and Angelo threw the empty grease gun, whipped it at Nolan. The metal of the gun smashed into his head, slashed a red crease across his forehead, and he fired the.38 wildly, missed, and blacked out.

When he came to a second later, he looked up, blinked the blood from his eyes, saw Angelo kneeling on his good knee in front of him. “Are you awake, Nolan?”

Nolan nodded.

“Good,” Angelo said. “I want you awake, you overrated bastard. Some fucking tough guy,” and Angelo lifted the Bodyguard Smith and Wesson.38 and let Nolan look into its short snub-nose, let him wait for the blossom of fire and smoke.

“Hold it!”

The voice came from behind them.

“What the hell’s happening here?”

It was Greer.

The baby-faced man was standing in the doorway over where moments before Angelo had been firing the grease gun. Greer had his own snub-nose.38 in his right hand.

“Greer,” Angelo said, his eyes moving back and forth.

“What you doing, Ange?”

“I’m going to kill this son of a bitch, Greer,” Angelo said. “He tried to pull a cross, tried to team up with Charlie and cross the Family.”

“I don’t believe you,” Greer said, and shot Angelo through the throat.

Angelo’s.38 went off, but Nolan had had sense to duck and roll as Greer fired, and Angelo’s gun clattered to the floor and he clutched with both hands under his double chin and flopped onto his back and gurgled and died.

Nolan said, “Jesus.”

Greer came over and helped him up. “Where’s Charlie?”

“Shit,” Nolan said, and headed for the kitchen.

When he got there the elevator had gone to the bottom. Charlie had somehow found strength to punch DOWN. Nolan pressed the button and heard the elevator whine and moan and start its ascent. When it got back up, Charlie was still inside the cage.

He was sitting against the steel wall, his lower tee-shirt and shorts soaked with red. His eyes were shut.

Nolan crouched down beside the little man and yelled as though Charlie were a hundred yards away. “Charlie! For Christ’s sake, Charlie!”

The close-set eyes flickered.

“Charlie,” Nolan said, putting a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “Thank God you’re alive.”

“Never thought I’d live to... hear you... say that, Nolan.”

“Where is it, Charlie? What did you do with my money?”

“I won, Nolan. I beat you.”

“You want me to help your boy, don’t you? Well, where’s the money, what’d you do with it?”

“You promise... promise you’ll... help Walter?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just what did you do with my money!”

“You’ll keep your word... if I tell you what I did with it?”

“Yes, dammit! Don’t die on me, you son of a bitch!”

“All right,” Charlie said, and he told Nolan what he’d done with the money.

The look of dismayed surprise on Nolan’s face tickled Charlie’s ass and Charlie let out one big, raucous belly laugh and held his bleeding belly and died that way.

8

Nolan got to his feet unsteadily. He felt as if he, too, had been ripped into by Angelo’s grease gun. He stepped out of the elevator and wandered into the kitchen, took a seat at the formica-top table, sat and stared at the cluster of empty Schlitz cans in front of him, pressed his hands against his temples.

Greer said, “What’s going on?”

Nolan pointed toward the vestibule and Greer went over and saw Charlie and came back.

“That’s a nasty gash on your forehead,” Greer said.

Nolan said, “Get me a beer, will you? Should be some in that refrigerator.”

Greer brought Nolan a Schlitz, got one for himself and sat with Nolan at the table.

“You okay, Nolan?”

“I don’t know yet.” He gulped down the beer. He belched. “That was nice shooting in there. I take back what I said about snub-nose.38s.”

Greer grinned. “How do you know I was aiming at Ange?”

Nolan managed to return the grin, said, “Where’d you come from, anyway? I didn’t expect you to show up like the fucking marines.”

“Came straight from Iowa City. Felix called me and said to get my butt up to this place.”

It hadn’t taken Felix long to track down Eagle’s Roost. “How’d you beat Felix’s boys up here?”

“I didn’t. Not the first wave anyway. Two Family guys, friends of mine, are lying back in those pine trees with their guts shot out of them. Didn’t you hear gunfire?”

Nolan shook his head no. “Angelo was using a grease gun with a silencer. You make more noise breathing than it makes shooting.”

“What was he up to, anyway?”

“Covering his tracks. He was in with Charlie.”

“Shit. Wait’ll Felix finds out.”

“That’s what Angelo must’ve been thinking. He knew he was up shit crick when the Family got onto Charlie. I figure he killed Tillis and Harry because they were his fellow conspirators and could implicate him. Same goes for killing Charlie. He probably hoped to make it look like I was going around shooting the guys responsible for taking my money, and leave it looking like Charlie and me killed each other in a crossfire.”

“Maybe he was after the money, too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What about the money?”

“Gone. All of it. Gone.”

“How, for Christ’s sake?”

Nolan told Greer what Charlie did with the money.

Greer shook his head, said, “Old bastard must’ve been crazy.”

“Yeah,” Nolan agreed. “Like the rest of us.”

Nolan told Greer to relay word to Felix about the money, told him he’d be at the Tropical waiting for Felix to come talk. There would be plans to cancel, new arrangements to be made.

Jon had the Olds hot-wired and ready to go in the boathouse garage, but it was unnecessary, because Nolan had found Charlie’s keys on the kitchen counter. Nolan and Jon laid Walter in the backseat; somewhere along the line the sock had been taken out of his mouth, but he wasn’t saying much anyway. Nolan didn’t answer any of Jon’s questions about what had happened or where the money was. Finally Jon asked if he could run upstairs and get something before they left, and Nolan said okay. When Jon came back with a box full of comic books, Nolan didn’t even say anything; he just opened the trunk for the boy and thought, well, at least somebody got something out of this.

They drove out of the garage, stopped to unlock the gate, where Nolan told Jon to get in the backseat with Walter and untie him.

Nolan started driving again and talked to Walter in the rearview mirror. “Your father is dead.”

Walter made a move to grab Nolan and Jon stopped him.

“Easy,” Nolan said. “I didn’t kill your old man, one of his own cohorts did. What I’m doing now is answering his dying request, God knows why, and hauling your ass away from that place before more Family people show up.”

“Where are you taking me?” Walter said.

“I’m going to drop you off at your sister’s apartment in Dekalb. She’ll be glad to see you, I think, if she isn’t off feeding the world’s hungry.”

They were passing through the subdivision of summer homes now. Nolan slowed the Olds and let a little boy and girl in swimming suits cross in front of him.

Walter said, “Won’t they be coming after me?”

“I don’t think so. You’re no threat to anybody. I’ll do some talking for you.”

“But I’m supposed to be dead — that body in the crash, it was identified as me, from clothes and a ring...”

“You’ll think of something.”

“I suppose... suppose I could just show up alive and act dumb, say I was dropping acid on the Coast for a year, something like that.”

Nolan nodded. “It’ll work out. Get yourself a job in an office.”

“Nolan,” Jon said.

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to say anything about the money, or aren’t you?”

“Forget about it.”

“What do you mean, forget about it?”

“It’s gone, kid. Up in smoke. Let it go.” He pulled off the subdivision drive onto the blacktop. He was thinking about Sherry, about climbing in the sack with Sherry and forgetting things for a while.

“Nolan,” Jon said, getting pissed, “what the hell happened to our money?”

Walter knew. Walter was smiling.

“Charlie burned it,” Nolan said.