“I know. But I wonder if you’d think I was out of line if I asked to go back to the motel with you.”
“With me?”
“That’s right. I mean, I looked under the table, and it’s land of dirty under there.”
“Kind of dirty under there.”
“I prefer sheets.”
“You prefer sheets.”
“Yes.”
“You prefer sheets. Let me see if I got this straight. You’re beautiful, you met me forty-five minutes ago, and you want to go to the motel with me?”
Later, in the motel room, in his arms, she would offer a possible explanation for her impulsive outburst of promiscuity: “Maybe my uncle’s death is getting to me more than I thought. I was trying not to think about him dying, and I was trying so hard I wanted to get my mind completely off it and just have some fun. And you came along and that was that. You know, there’s something about making love that makes you feel protected from death and closer to it at the same time.”
And Jon would tell her his uncle, too, had died recently, a couple of months ago, and she would say she was sorry, and he would go on to say he had loved the guy, that his uncle had been the closest relative he’d ever had, closer, even, “than my goddamn mother.” And she would comment that life was sad sometimes, and he would agree, but go on to say that sometimes it isn’t, and they would make love again.
But that was later, in the motel room.
For right now, Francine just said, “Yes,” and let it go at that.
Four: Friday Afternoon and Night
11
Nolan didn’t hear the shot, but he did hear Vincent DiPreta let out a gush of air and smack against the side of the house. He turned around and saw that DiPreta, hit in the chest — through the heart or so near it, it didn’t make much difference — had slid down to where the house and gravel met and was sitting there, staring at his lap, only his eyes weren’t seeing anything.
If Nolan had left the DiPreta place when he first started to a few minutes before, he would have missed the shooting. But he’d gone out to the car, found Jon’s note and had gone back into the house for a moment, to use the phone and call the kid, who understandably had gotten bored and had hitched a ride down the road to a bar for a drink. Nolan had decided to tell Jon to call a cab and go back to the motel or go over on the East Side for the afternoon and hunt through the moldy old shops for moldy old funny books; the rest of the day’s activities, Nolan had decided, were perhaps better handled alone. The kid would just get in the way and would be all the time wanting to know what was going on. Later, if it proved he needed some back-up, he’d call Jon in off the bench.
He hadn’t spent much time at the DiPretas. He’d known that if he was going to be nosing around Des Moines, as Felix wanted him to, he’d better let the DiPretas know he was in town, even if he didn’t tell them the real reason why. Felix hadn’t told him to talk to the DiPretas, but then Felix hadn’t told him much at all about how to handle the situation, probably because Felix knew it wouldn’t do any good. Nolan would handle things his own way or say piss on it.
Vincent DiPreta had answered the door, though it was the Frank DiPreta residence. Nolan remembered Vince as a fat man, but he wasn’t anymore; he looked skinny, sick, and sad. And old. More than anything, old, as if his brother’s death had aged him overnight.
He didn’t recognize Nolan and said, “Who are you?” But not surly, as you might think.
“My name’s Nolan. We did business years ago.”
“Nolan. Ten, eleven years ago, was it?”
“That’s right”
“Come in.”
Nolan followed DiPreta through a room with a gently winding, almost feminine staircase and walls papered in a blue and yellow floral pattern that didn’t fit the foundation the house had been built on. They went to the study, which was more like it, a big, cold dark-paneled room with one wall a built-in bookcase full of expensive, unread books, another wall with a heavy oak desk up against it, and high on that wall an oil painting of Papa DiPreta. Papa had been dead four or five years now, Nolan believed. In the painting Papa was white-haired and saintly; in real life he was white-haired. Another wall had framed family pictures, studio photographs, scattered around a rack of antique guns like trophies. There was a couch. They sat.
“It’s thoughtful of you to call, Mr. Nolan. We’re doing our receiving of friends and relatives at the funeral home, not here, to tell you the truth, but you’re welcome just the same. Would you care for something to drink?”
“Thank you, no. Too early.”
“And too early for me. Also too late. I don’t drink anymore, you know. Or at least not often. Damn diet.”
“You’ve lost weight. Looks good.”
“Well, it doesn’t, I lost too much weight, but it’s kind of you to say so. Did you make a special trip? I hope not.”
“No. I was in town for business reasons and heard about your tragedy. I’m sorry. Joey was a nice guy.”
“Yes, he was. You haven’t done business with us for some time, have you?”
Nolan nodded. “I’m in another line of work now.”
“What are you doing these days?”
“I manage a motel. Near Chicago.”
Something flickered in DiPreta’s eyes. “For the Family?”
“Yes,” Nolan said.
The door opened, slapped open by Frank DiPreta, who walked in and said, “Vince, I... who the hell are you? Uh... Nolan, isn’t it? What the hell are you doing here?”
“He came to pay his respects,” Vince said.
“That’s fine,” Frank said, “but that’s being done, at the funeral parlor. Our home we like kept private.”
Nolan rose. “I’ll be going then.”
“No,” Frank said. “Sit down.”
Nolan did.
Frank sat on the nearby big desk so that he could look down at Nolan, just as his father was looking down in the painting behind him. This was supposed to make him feel intimidated, Nolan supposed, but it didn’t particularly. These were old men, older than he was, and he could take them apart if need be.
“Nolan,” Frank said, smiling warily, narrowing his eyes. “Nolan. Haven’t seen you in years.”
For a period of several months, eleven years ago, Nolan had led a small group of men (three, including himself) who hijacked truckloads of merchandise that were then sold to the DiPretas for distribution and sale to various stores in the chain of discount houses the DiPretas owned and operated throughout the Midwest. Truckloads of appliances, for the most part, penny-ante stuff, really. A stupid racket to be into, Nolan eventually decided, especially at the cheap-ass money the DiPretas paid; and when he discovered the DiPretas were loosely affiliated with the Family (who at the time wanted Nolan’s ass) he abandoned the operation right now and left the DiPretas up in the air. His present claim of calling to pay his respects to the bereaved family wouldn’t hold up so well if Frank DiPreta’s memory was good.
“In fact,” Frank was saying, “you sort of disappeared on us, didn’t you, Nolan? I hear you were pissed off at Joey and Vince and me for paying you so shitty. You quit us, is what you did, right?”
Nolan shrugged. “I was mad at the time. But Joey and me got back together a couple times after that, when I was passing through, several years later. Didn’t he tell you? Played some golf together. Patched up our differences.” He smiled and watched the faces of the two men, trying to tell how well his lie had fared.
“I see. What about the Family? Not so long ago I heard stories about you having problems with the Family. You patch up your differences with them, too?”