“I think we could find a place for you in the Family, Mr. Nolan,” Felix was saying.
“Like you found a place for Charlie?”
“Please. I would hope we’re here in mutual friendship, and good will.”
“Anybody who tells me Charlie is dead is a friend of mine.”
“I must say you exposed him ingeniously, and I’m sure if I knew all the details, every twist and turn of the scheme, I’d be all the more impressed.”
What Felix was referring to was something Nolan had done to countercheck Charlie in case of a double cross. When Charlie had agreed to make peace with Nolan — for a price — Nolan had included “bait money” in with the payoff, that being the marked bills from a recent bank job. Nolan’s intention had been to see if Charlie stuck by his word, and then if so, tell him about the marked bills. Charlie hadn’t, and months later, when one of the Family fences had tried to circulate those bills for Charlie, bad things started happening. Lawyers and judges-on-the-take got the trouble cleared up, but the anti-Charlie forces in the Family (with the support of the national Executive Council of Families, no doubt) had evidently seized upon the incident to depose the longtime under-boss, since Charlie’s dealings with Nolan had been behind Family backs and in violation of several council rulings. It had all worked pretty much as Nolan had intended it to.
“What about the others?” Nolan asked. “Werner? Tillis?”
These were two other men involved in Charlie’s plotting. Werner was a major cog in the wheel; Tillis was a black gunman Nolan rather liked.
“Werner is no longer a problem. And Tillis has proved helpful in Charlie’s removal. He’s working in Milwaukee now.”
“Tillis is a good man. I’m glad he’s still around.”
“And what are your plans?”
Nolan told Felix of his vague notions to start something up... a nightclub, a restaurant, something.
“We have several openings along those lines ourselves.”
“Strictly legitimate or I’m not interested. I’m retiring. I’m an old man.”
“Old? You’re scarcely fifty.”
“I’m forty-nine and I feel eighty. You ought to see my fucking side. I’d show it to you only I got to keep the bandage on because it’s draining pus. It’s a twisted bunch of stitched purple skin from where I took three bullets that by all rights should’ve killed me. Sometimes I think I did die and was resurrected and I’m Jesus Christ. But I’m not. What I am is skinny and sick and I want out of that life.”
“Strictly legitimate. We have some big openings.” Felix mentioned several of them; one was a major resort, a multi-million-dollar operation; another was a huge, beautiful, fantastically successful combination restaurant and nightclub.
“I was thinking something smaller,” Nolan said. He was stunned but he kept it inside. “Why would you put me into something as major as those places?”
“It would require an investment on your part. An investment as major as those places I mentioned.”
And then it was down-to-brass-tacks time. After much further conversation, the bottom line was this: if Nolan would invest $150,000 in the operation of his choice, he would gain twenty percent ownership and a managerial salary of $40,000 per annum with a five-year ironclad contract. It was the dream of his life, but he held back his enthusiasm. He insisted on some assurance of the Family’s good faith and intentions; perhaps a period of time during which he could prove himself to them, in some managerial capacity, while they in turn proved their trust in him. Felix said that not only did he concur with Nolan’s suggestion, but that such an arrangement was a stipulation of the agreement. Nolan would take over management of the Tropical Motel for one year, as a trial run.
“Are you tired of this bikini?” Sherry was saying.
“No,” Nolan said.
“You’ve been looking at it all summer.”
“I’m not tired of it. It’s terrific.”
“Well, if you’re tired of it, I’ll have to go get a new one. That’s all there is to it.”
The phone rang on the nightstand and Nolan picked off the receiver and said, “Yeah?”
“Mr. Logan. Good afternoon.”
It was Felix.
“When did you get in?” Nolan said.
“Half an hour ago. Are things in order for the switch?”
“I’ll just want to get together with you and see what you have in mind.”
“Fine. Is the man in Iowa ready?”
“I’m sure he is. I’ve been waiting for your call, so I can call him.”
“Good. I’m in building three, room one. Come over in ten minutes and we’ll make final arrangements.”
Nolan said fine and thumbed down the button on the phone, let it up and got the switchboard girl. He asked her to get him long distance and had a call put through to Planner. He listened as the phone rang and rang. He waited a long time. The store is long, he thought, and Planner is old; he could have customers. He waited and waited, then finally gave up. The old guy probably just stepped out for something. Across the street for an ice cream cone, maybe. And that damn Jon’s probably buried in his room reading comic books, Nolan thought, gone to the world. He smiled in spite of himself. He hung up the phone.
Sherry said, “Brunch is at the door, honey.”
“Let it in,” he said, grabbing his trousers off a chair and pulling them on. He would have his breakfast now and phone Planner again later.
2
Greer hadn’t killed anybody for two years now. He sat on the edge of the bed, arms dangling at his sides, and looked at the snub-nosed.38 Colt in his lap. He studied the gun, regarded it curiously, as though he expected the object to speak. “I wonder,” he said aloud. He was wondering if he was losing his edge.
He was a small, dark, baby-faced man. He’d been told by more than one woman that he looked like the late Audie Murphy, famous war hero and actor, the main difference being Greer was balding and his chin was sort of weak. He had the build of a fullback, scaled down somewhat, and the arms hanging loose at his sides were heavy with veined muscle.
He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a dark green tie and white trousers. Under his arms were sweat stains and the loops of his shoulder holster, which X’d across the back of the white shirt. On the bed beside him was a light green sportcoat, cut especially to accommodate a shoulder-bolstered gun. He had never gotten used to this year-round, constant wearing of suits and sportcoats, though he’d been doing so since starting with Felix two summers ago. He was glad the motel room was air-conditioned, and even the blue stucco walls were cool, cooling to the sight, as was the light blue shag carpet.
The door opened and Angelo came in, carrying the room key in one hand and two ice-cold Pabsts by their necks in the other. He was six feet tall, a thin man with a round lumpy face; it was a fat man’s face, because up until recent months Angelo had been fat, and while he was trim everywhere else, he still had his double chin, puffy cheeks, and a bumpy, thick nose that all the dieting in the world wouldn’t do anything about. Angelo kicked the door shut. He was wearing a pink sportcoat and white shirt and red tie and white trousers.
“Just two beers, Ange?”
“Hey, baby, we’re on call, right? Just wet the whistles, that’s all. Never mind the good time.”
“Toss one here. Where’s the opener?”
“Don’t need one. Twist-off caps.”