Several minutes elapsed before Tenuta momentarily halted his attack on a platter of barbequed shrimp and said, “I got the guy for you. But it’ll cost you-not just for him, for us. A finder’s fee.”
“We have no problem with that,” replied Stoner, feeling relieved. This had not been as difficult as he’d feared. He was anxious to phone Rexroth and report mission accomplished.
Stoner slid an envelope across the white linen surface of the table. “That’s a down payment, plus expense money for this man to come to Kentucky and meet my employer. The man is to call me first, at the number on that piece of paper. His meeting with my employer will have to be carefully arranged and completely secret from all but a few of our people. We’ll wire your people the remainder of their fee tomorrow, to the usual account.”
Tenuta nodded as he reached for the just-delivered plate of steaming crawdads.
“What is the name of your man?”
Between bites, Tenuta said, “His name is Mortvedt. They call him the Sandman.”
“Why?” Stoner asked.
Tenuta methodically worked his way through the mound of crawdads, keeping Stoner waiting for an answer. Stoner knew this game. Tenuta, after all, was playing on his home court. Like most of the lowlifes Stoner had had to deal with over the years, Tenuta was intent on displaying his power in his town. Finally, Tenuta mopped the last of the sauce remaining on the platter with a slice of French bread, which he chewed and swallowed before speaking. Then he said, “Because he puts horses to sleep. Maybe people, too. The Sandman. That’s what they call him.
“They tell me he’ll do the kind of work you’ve got in mind,” Tenuta continued. “Here’s how you get to him.” He flipped a small piece of paper onto the tablecloth between them, making Stoner reach to retrieve it. “You call him, tell him what you want. We don’t have no contact with him on this, capice? And I got no interest in whatever you want him for either.
“Don’t have time for coffee,” Tenuta said as he rose from his chair. He nodded in the direction of the wait staff. “You want some, or some dessert, go ahead.” He left without saying another word.
As always, Mortvedt arrived in Louisville right when he said he would. He and Repke walked down the street from the apartment complex to a nearby chain restaurant advertising Breakfast All Day, Every Day, $1.99. They made an odd-looking pair, Repke towering over the ex-jockey, yet bending deferentially to listen to him. It was funny, Repke sometimes thought to himself, that he was always talking down to this man that he looked up to like no one else he’d ever known.
Seated in the restaurant, Mortvedt described the upcoming job as they ate.
“How much is this job worth?” Jud asked.
“Your cut is three grand,” Mortvedt answered, looking hard at Repke, his eyes cold. Mortvedt’s longish black hair was combed straight back, without a part. There was a bluish cast to his white cheeks even this early in the day, evidence of the heavy beard he shaved off each morning. This was a face that would never play host to any laugh lines near eyes or mouth. Not for the first time, Repke found Mortvedt’s look to be unsettling.
Jud let his glance shift to the clock above the deserted salad bar, then rubbed a large hand through his lank, brown hair. No question about it, the little man could make him nervous in a way that those dago gangsters in New Orleans never had during his car-stealing years with them.
Mortvedt had never revealed to Repke what the total take was from any of their jobs. And Repke never could quite get up the courage to press him about it. He didn’t want to anger Mortvedt-not since the day he’d seen the smaller man pull a concealed shiv and open a series of slices in a big black iron-pumper called Gator Man one afternoon at Oakdale. The dispute was over the delegation of duties in the prison laundry. It was over so quick hardly anyone had to lie to the guards when they said they hadn’t seen anything. Gator Man healed up and kept quiet, too, swearing he never got a good look at his attacker.
Jud had concealed Mortvedt’s weapon after this flash fight. “Be first. You always got to jump the bastards first,” was the little man’s practiced theory.
Despite the fear that he often felt in Mortvedt’s presence, Jud counted himself fortunate to be involved in these remunerative and relatively risk-free jobs. He wasn’t making as much money as when he drove the stolen Mercedes and Jaguars from Cincinnati and Chicago to points south and west, but he was getting by nicely, and sleeping better, too. Unlike Mortvedt, who in Oakdale had seemed to regard his surroundings stoically, just another place to be as his life played itself out, Jud had hated prison from the bottom of his Kentucky hillbilly heart.
Mortvedt stirred his coffee. Then he said, “We’ll do it Sunday night. I got to talk to a man later today, see about some details.”
He got to his feet and laid a ten on the place mat in front of Repke. “Breakfast’s on me. You don’t have to leave no tip in a dump like this. I’ll meet you after nine tonight over to that titty joint you like.”
Mortvedt arrived on time at the Red Velvet Swing, a gentleman’s club that Repke patronized whenever he had enough money to pay $7 per beer. Its marquee advertised body painting, a deep soak room, stripper slaves and “much more.”
Jud had already “established a beachhead,” as he drunkenly put it to Mortvedt, with a couple of the establishment’s lap dancers who had worked the noon to eight shift and were eager for some off-the-premises action.
The women regarded Mortvedt somewhat warily as he jerked a chair over from a nearby table and sat down, appraising them silently.
“This here is LeeAnne,” Repke said, one arm around a tired-looking woman in her late twenties with long, straight black hair and a pouty mouth, lavishly over-lipsticked. Mortvedt looked at LeeAnne and said, “I guess you’re not the one that’s the life of the party.” She glared back at him as Jud continued to massage the back of her neck.
Jud said, “Betty Lou’s her name,” nodding at a small woman with tight-curled, dark blond hair that glistened beneath the revolving strobe light over their table. She looked to be about the same age and just as battle-fatigued as LeeAnne, but she mustered a welcoming look, and Mortvedt nodded in approval. He was partial to the ones with big breasts and big, sloppy smiles.
“You like being a dancer here?” Mortvedt asked.
“Oh, yessir,” Betty Lou said, brightening at the question. “My body interprets rhythm in a personal way,” she added softly, as if she were repeating something she’d first thought of long, long ago.
There were a pair of empty margarita pitchers on the table, and a third one about a quarter full. Mortvedt said, “Let’s get out of here and get us a real drink.” He got to his feet, placed a $50 bill beneath one of the coasters.
When LeeAnne made a quick and clever move toward the $50 as she scooped up her purse and started to leave, Mortvedt suddenly turned back and looked at her. She quickly withdrew her hand. Bastard must have eyes in the back of his head, LeeAnne thought. She put her arm around Jud Repke’s waist as the four of them exited the Red Velvet Swing. Mortvedt opened the door for Betty Lou.
They rode in Repke’s red Chevrolet across town to the interstate and checked into the first cheap motel Mortvedt spotted. He paid for two adjacent rooms and tossed the key to one of them to Jud. “Later, man,” he said. “I’ll come get you when the fun’s done.”
As soon as he and Betty Lou had entered their room, Mortvedt crossed the worn blue carpet to the battered television set. He flicked it on, then turned up the volume. A famous big-jawed comedian was just starting his ego-stroking stroll down the front-row line of studio fans who reached eagerly to shake his hand, like supplicants trying to touch the hem of a holy man’s robe.