But now that Nolan had been wiped out of his half-million nest egg, not once but twice (Jon’s along with it, the second time) you’d think the guy would’ve learned you might as well enjoy yourself today since a safe’s liable to fall on you tomorrow.
But no. With Nolan it was tourist-class seats and cheap motels and, Jon supposed, a hamburger joint for supper.
So when Nolan didn’t seem to be buying the argument about the hotel with the comics con being a way to keep Jon’s mind off the job, Jon mentioned the special room rate; if thrift didn’t win Nolan over, nothing would. “We can have a double room for twenty bucks, Nolan. That’s less than half price. People attending the convention get the rooms less than half price.”
“Okay, kid. Whatever you want.”
It pleased him he was finally beginning to find the means to occasionally come out on top with Nolan.
Not that Jon didn’t still admire the man. But Nolan’s cheapness was at least a chink in the armor; it was nice to know the guy wasn’t perfect, that he was human in a few ways, at least. Nicer still was knowing that in the ways that counted — survival, for instance — Nolan was a rock. Jon liked to cling to that rock.
He could’ve used that rock right now.
Because the convention wasn’t proving to have the distracting effect he’d thought it would.
That old man, Sam Comfort, with his spooky gray eyes and sadism-lined face, was a constantly recurring image in Jon’s mind, a strong, chilling image that could crowd out even the four-color fantasies strewn out along the dealers’ tables in Hucksters’ Hall. Tonight. Tonight Jon and Nolan would be going up against that crazy, crazy old man, and if all went well, they’d come away with a strongbox full of that senile old bastard’s money. Which was dandy, only they hadn’t done the thing yet; it lay ahead to be done, tonight.
And Jon was scared shitless at the thought.
He’d been eager at the prospect, sure; he was hot to get back some of that money he’d lost a month-and-a-half ago, and when Nolan outlined the plan to rip off Sam Comfort and Son, it had sounded good to him, and still did. But that was back in Iowa City, in homey, security-lined surroundings, where planning a robbery was like plotting the story of a new comic strip. The execution of the plan seemed light-years away, the hazy end result of a sharp but abstract concept. And this, this was Detroit, they were here already, and a few hours from now Jon would be laying his ass on the line.
He’d done it before, of course, laid his ass on the line in one of Nolan’s potentially violent undertakings (hell of an unpleasant word, that — undertaking, Jesus!) but that didn’t make things any easier. Last year, he’d gone into that first robbery with a very naive sort of attitude, an out-of-focus view, a comic-book idea of action and adventure and derring-do. Then, when everything had turned to shit, guns blasting into people and throwing blood around and turning human beings into limp and lifeless meat, Jon had suddenly realized that Nolan’s life was not capes and bullets-bouncing-off, it was the real goddamn thing. The bullets went through you, and blood and bone and stuff came flying out the other side, and afterward, Jon would’ve been glad to take Nolan’s advice to “let this cure you of living out your half-ass fantasies.” But no sooner had Nolan got out those words, than the situation erupted into violence once again, and Jon had to respond in kind, had to pull Nolan’s ass out of the fire, and get him to where he maybe could be kept alive.
When the cordite fumes had lifted from the situation, when the blood had been cleaned up and the people buried, when the bank robbery and its gory aftermath had fuzzed over in his mind and become just an exciting memory, Jon had been lulled into thinking it had been sort of fun and, after all, he’d come out of it with not a scratch. So he’d fallen into the trap again, equating Nolan’s life with goddamn Batman or something, only to be reminded, the hard way, that the game Nolan played was for high stakes, the highest — life or death — not to mention those lesser gambles, getting maimed, maybe, or jailed. He’d been reminded of that when those guys shot his uncle and stole the money and got him back in the thick again. And now, with that nightmare just beginning to fade in his mind, he was suckering himself back into Nolan’s precarious lifestyle once more, hopefully to recoup some of the money they’d both lost last go-round.
Not so many hours ago, Jon’d had a talk with Breen, and that talk was lingering in the back of Jon’s head, nagging him as much as the image of old man Comfort. Nolan had arrived around two-thirty in the morning and, after a talk with Breen, had driven out to the house on Iowa City’s outskirts to see if the Comforts were still around. Nolan figured they wouldn’t be, but felt it best to check, and had Jon stay with Breen at the antique shop, armed, in case the Comforts attacked while Nolan was gone.
During that time, while they waited for Nolan’s return, Jon and Breen had talked. Breen’s first question was, “Are you related to Nolan or something? His fucking bastard kid or something?” Breen seemed slightly irritated.
Jon was taken aback by the question. “Not that I know of. What the hell makes you come up with an idea like that?”
“I don’t know,” Breen said, shaking his head. “I known Nolan a long time, and I never seen him act like this.”
“Like what?”
“He’s goddamn pampering you, kid. Isn’t like him. You know what he said to me?”
“No.” Which was true. Jon had not been a party to Breen and Nolan’s conversation.
“He said he had to be careful old man Comfort didn’t see who was robbing him! Can you imagine?”
Jon said, “What’s wrong with that? Comfort and Nolan know each other, and so of course Nolan doesn’t want him to know who’s pulling the job.”
“Don’t you see it? He’s puttin’ on the kid gloves when he ought be bare-knuckle punchin’. This kind of thing, when you heist another heister, you got to kill the guy. You don’t leave people like that alive after ripping ’em off. Not people like Sam Comfort, you don’t. Or he’ll come around and cut off your dick and feed it to you.”
Jon swallowed at that not particularly appetizing thought. “So what?” he said, straining to sound flip. “That.just means Nolan is right — you got to keep Comfort from knowing who it is, otherwise you got a lot of... you know, bloodshed on your hands.”
Breen sat up in bed, groaning just a little from his gunshot wounds. “Now, I’ll admit,” he said through tight lips, “I’ll admit that Nolan’s always been one to avoid killing when he could, but not in a case like this. You got to lance a boil like the Comforts. It’s safer all around, just to go in and blow those bastards’ heads off and call it a night.”
“Big talk, Breen. And you don’t even carry a gun.”
“Right, I don’t, but Nolan does. I wouldn’t go for killing the Comforts or anybody, but I wouldn’t think of ripping them off, either, not for revenge or nothing. I’m lucky to be out of it with my ass. I’m a coward. Ask Nolan. I ran out on him that time in Chicago, when those syndicate boys shot him up. And that’s another reason this thing puzzles me. Nolan says he’s going to give me a share of the take, like he’s going after the Comforts as a favor to me. What for? He owes me nothing. I’m lucky he doesn’t kick my fuckin’ butt in for running the hell out on him that time. So what is it with him? Why’s he jumpin’ on this like it’s his golden opportunity? Why’s he a goddamn humanitarian where the Comforts are concerned?”