Killing Time

Twenty-One

Art was alone in the car when I got back. I slid in behind the steering wheel and said, “Where’s Ben?”

“I sent him for some cigarettes.” He grinned and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Lighting one, he said, “I wanted to say one or two words to you in private.”

“What kind of words?”

“Words that wouldn’t get back to Jack Wycza.”

“Such as?”

He seemed to think it over for a minute. At last he said, “I like you, Mr. Smith. I’ve heard some about you, before this, and I like what I heard. Shifty but honest. Everything’s going to get jounced around in this town, but I have the feeling you’re going to come out on top.”

“I hope so,” I said.

He glanced out the window. “I wouldn’t trust Jack Wycza very far if I were you,” he said.

“I don’t intend to.”

“It would probably help if you had somebody close to him, to let you know what’s going on.”

“It would at that. You applying for the job?”

He nodded, still looking out the window.

“Why?” I asked him.

“I like you, Mr. Smith,” he said again. He looked back at me and grinned. “And I’d like to be with the guy who comes out on top.”

“Here comes Ben,” I warned him.

“Is it a deal?” he asked me.

“What do you want in trade?”

He shrugged. “I’m a very useful type, Mr. Smith. Whoever runs this town after this whole mess blows over will be able to use me. And you could be my character reference.”

“That’s all?”

“All.”

Could I trust him? What the hell had made him offer the deal? But it didn’t matter, I could agree and no harm done, whether I could trust him or not. And what good would it do me to say no?

Ben opened the back door on the street side, then, and slid in, reaching over to hand Art the pack of cigarettes. I said, “Then I think it’s okay.”

“Fine,” he said. “Thanks for the cigarettes, Ben.”

The other back door swung open, and I looked around to see Bill Casale climbing in. “Good to see you again, Bill,” I said.

He was as dead-pan as ever. “Where were you hiding out, Tim?” he asked me.

“Remind me to tell you sometime. Bill Casale, this is Art and that’s Ben.”

They grunted at one another, and I started the Ford. Art said, “Where do we go from here, Mr. Smith?”

“Make another stab at getting that insurance,” I told him. And, whether I liked it or not, the insurance was going to have to be underwritten by Cathy.