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.