Killing Time

Fifteen

They let me sleep till noon. Then Andy Wycza, yet another of Jack Wycza’s nepotic relations, woke me to tell me someone wanted to talk to me, in the office down the corridor.

I was ravenous, and had a throbbing headache, and I needed a shave, and the bastards were supposed to have awakened me at eight. I went grumbling down the hall to see who wanted what.

It was Dan Wanamaker and George Watkins, in person, in glorious Technicolor. George was mainly red and Dan was mainly green, but smiling.

“How’s the miserable play, George?” I said.

“We wanted to talk to you, Tim,” he said, too upset to think about plays.

“Before you did anything,” added Dan. He smiled and smiled, and looked absolutely terrified. “Before you made any decisions,” he explained.

“Then you’re too late,” I told them, and started out again.

“Wait!” Dan pleaded. “Tim, wait, please!”

I sighed and faced them again. “All right. What is it?”

“Will you wait for Jordan, Tim?” asked George. “Will you at least do that?”

“Why?”

“We know what you threatened—” Dan started, smiling, shaking.

I interrupted him, saying, “Not threatened. Promised.”

He nodded violently, the smile expanding till it damn near filled the room. He was ready to agree with me all the way to hell. “We know you promised,” he corrected himself, “to work with the CCG if there was another try, but—”

“And there was another try,” I told him.

George said, “We can straighten it out, Tim. If you’ll only wait for Jordan.”

“Wait for Jordan?”

“Wait till he comes back,” he explained.

I looked from one to the other. “Back from where?”

They exchanged glances, and George reluctantly said, “Albany.”

I nodded. “So you tried Masetti, and he wouldn’t go for it. So now Jordan’s trying to talk business with the boss of the outfit, what’s-his-name.”

“Bruce Wheatley,” piped Dan through his smile, eager to help.

“He’ll be back by four, Tim,” said George. “Will you wait till you talk to him?”

“Why?”

I swear to God, I thought Dan would split his head in two with that smile. “He’ll be able to straighten it out, Tim,” he said. “I know he will.”

“It’s only four hours,” said George, hopefully.

“A lot could happen in four hours,” I told him.

“Please, Tim,” wheedled Dan. He was sweating, and growing greener by the minute, and he looked now like a beardless Santa Claus whose reindeer have just conked out at thirty thousand feet. And the smile was like a saber cut with teeth.

I chewed on my lower lip, thinking it out. I didn’t particularly want to blow the whistle on this whole crowd. They were crooks, admittedly, but they kept a clean well-run up-to-date town, and I didn’t see where their replacements, after a clean-up, would do much of a better job. If there was a way I could avoid blowing the whistle and still get the son of a bitch who had tried three times to kill me and succeeded instead in killing Joey Casale, I would very gratefully take that way.

So I finally nodded and said, “All right. Four o’clock. At his house.”

Now George was smiling as much as Dan, and they were both talking at the same time. “Fine, Tim.” “Good boy, Tim.” “You won’t regret it, Tim.” “I knew you’d listen to reason, Tim.”

“Sure,” I said. “But I still may go to Masetti at four-thirty.”