“There was a change of regime. You know that. You’re tied in with the Family yourselves, aren’t you? The people I had problems with are gone.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Running a motel for them.”
“No, I mean, what are you doing in town? Besides paying respects.”
Nolan grinned. “Running a motel doesn’t pay so good, and sometimes you got to do a little work on the side. I brought some money in to sell Goldman.”
That was plausible. That was something they could check on if they wanted to. It was also true. In the Midwest the place to sell hot money was Goldman, who ran three pawnshops and paid a higher percentage on marked bills than even the best guys back east. Having the Detroit money to unload in Des Moines had proved a blessing, because it provided a perfect cover.
But Frank still wasn’t satisfied. “So what sort of job did that money come from?” he wanted to know.
“Rather not say.”
Vince said, “It’s none of our business, Frank. He was in town, heard about Joey, stopped by to pay his respects.” He turned to Nolan. “You have to excuse my brother, Mr. Nolan. He’s still upset about Joey.”
“Bullshit,” Frank said. “I think the Family sent this son of a bitch in to check on us. To see why we haven’t called them and asked for help. To handle this them fuckin’ selves. Well, we don’t want the goddamn Family’s help, understand? Like when they fucked up the McCracken thing that time, which is maybe the cause of all this, too.”
For the first time Vince DiPreta perked up, seemed almost alive. “What do you mean, Frank?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Look,” Nolan said, “I’m not into that side of the Family’s affairs. If you know anything at all about my past history with the Family, you know that’s the truth.”
Frank thought for a moment, finally nodded. “That’s right. When you quit, you quit because you didn’t want any part of the Family, outside of club work and the like. Yeah, I did hear that. Okay, Nolan. Maybe I misjudged you. Maybe not. If you came to pay condolences, fine. If not, well...”
“Daddy?”
A blonde girl of nineteen or twenty came in. She was a sexy-looking little thing and didn’t look like a DiPreta, though she obviously was, as Frank introduced her as his daughter and went over to her and took her outside the study and talked to her for a while.
“Change your mind about that drink, Mr. Nolan?”
“Scotch would be fine.”
Vince DiPreta got the drinks and they sat on the couch and drank them while Frank talked to his daughter.
Frank came back in, saying, “Kids,” shaking his head, but his mood seemed somehow mellowed.
“Fine looking girl,” Nolan said.
“Takes after her mother. Okay, Nolan. So maybe I’m being paranoid or something, but I got call to be suspicious. And I’m going to tell you what’s going down ’round here, so that if you’re an innocent bystander like Vince seems to think you are, then you can get your damn ass out of the way, and if you’re some damn idiot the Family sent in to troubleshoot and spy on us, then it’s best you know the score and know what you’re in for. Somebody’s trying to wipe us out. The DiPreta family, I mean. I got an idea who, but that much I’m not going to tell you. So far Joe’s been killed, and I about got killed this morning, and...”
“Wait,” Nolan said. “Somebody tried to kill you?”
“Threw a goddamn hand grenade through the window right on the fuckin’ table. In the coffee shop where I was eating breakfast, for Christ’s sake. Do you believe it? But he wasn’t really trying to kill me. Just throw a scare into me for now. The grenade had just enough powder to go boom and make everybody pee his pants. And I was about that scared myself, I’ll tell you. Here, take a look at this. This is something he left me to remember him by.” He took a card from his sports-coat pocket. “An ace of spades. Vince was sent one yesterday. Joey was, the day before yesterday. The day before he got it. Now me.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. But if you’re smart, Nolan, you’ll get your ass out of Des Moines. Because the shooting’s just started.”
“You think you know who’s doing it?”
“Maybe. You going to be in town long?”
“Just tonight, I figure.”
“Good. Give my regards to the Family. Vince, I’m going upstairs, sack out awhile. Wake me in an hour, will you? Got some things to take care of later.”
Frank DiPreta left the room.
Vincent DiPreta sat and stared at the door his brother had gone out; his face was sagging, heavily lined, tired, like a basset hound’s. He turned to Nolan and said, “Did the Family send you, Mr. Nolan?”
“No.”
“Another drink?”
“Please.”
After a third drink and some idle conversation, about pro football mostly, Nolan had gone out to the car, where he’d found the note from Jon and had gone back in to use the phone. DiPreta had gone out the door with Nolan as Nolan went out to the Cadillac for the second time.
And Vince DiPreta had been shot, by a silenced rifle, apparently, and Nolan, who didn’t intend to be next in line of fire, dove for the ground.
12
Nolan hit the gravel hard and rolled, kept rolling ’til he bumped against the side of the Cadillac. The shot had come from the other side of the Cad, beyond the huge lawn and white picket fence, from somewhere in the gray thickness of trees covering the section of land adjacent to the DiPreta place. He reached up and opened the door of the Cadillac, then carefully crawled inside the car, like a retreating soldier climbing into the security of his foxhole. He kept well below window level, lying on his belly while he fumbled under the seat for the holstered .38. He withdrew the gun, left the holster, got into a modified sitting position, leaning to the side toward the seat and still below window level, started the car, and began backing out.
The rearview mirror gave him a good view of the drive, which went straight back to the highway; but there was a gate, and since he couldn’t afford to get out and play sitting duck opening the thing, he built up some speed, butted the picket fence open, and swung out sharply onto the shoulder of the road and a semi whizzed past and almost blew him into the ditch. For once he was grateful for the bulk of the Cad.
With the semi out of the way, the four-lane was free of traffic, or anyway the two lanes of it closest to Nolan were, the ones heading back to town. Over across a dividing gully the other two lanes were entertaining brisk traffic. He decided not to wait for it to let up and pulled out into what for public safety was the wrong direction but for his purpose the right one, his purpose being to head toward where the shooting had come from. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
He met only two cars: a Corvette whose driver didn’t blink an eye, just curved around Nolan and headed on toward Des Moines; and another Cadillac, like Nolan’s but blue, and this driver too had sense to get the hell out of Nolan’s way. The driver in the Corvette had been a young kid and could have been Steve McCracken, but Nolan knew catching the Vette would have been an impossibility, even if he’d had room to make a U-turn and give it a try.
He found what he was looking for soon enough: a gravel side road, bisecting the four-lane and running along the edge of the grove from which the sniping had been done. Nolan pulled in. The air was full of dust. The gravel had been stirred up just recently, by the assassin’s car, no doubt, on its way home after a successful mission.
Nolan drove ’til the dust in the air began to dissipate, and it did so at a point roughly parallel to the DiPreta place across the grove. He slowed, figuring this was approximately where the assassin’s car had been parked. It proved a good theory, as on the side of the road opposite the grove was a cornfield, and an access inlet to the cornfield was apparently where the assassin had left his car while entering the grove to do his sniping.