Ronnie looked uncomprehending. "Yeah, sure," he said.
The near-naked waitress set fresh drinks down on the table and walked away.
"Then we're together, lil' brother?" Red said.
Ronnie, with a mouth full of ice cubes, grunted.
"That's good, that's fine," said Red. "We've got a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I want to be sure we are thinking along the same lines, you know, to avoid any fuck-ups. We have to think in terms of a long-range program. To get off the ground it's a simple matter of getting that positive cash flow…That gives us a backup. There's always extras. You remember the story I told you about how I got caught short? The manager of the office building walks in and asks for the rent right when I had a sucker sitting there. I mean like the dumb fuck had his wife sitting out in the car holding his life savings. I was supposed to be selling him half ownership in a gold mine and suddenly he sees I'm behind on my rent! No way. It was a good lesson. The farmer and his old lady drove off with their fifteen grand, but I learned a good lesson: don't get caught short. Simple." Red gave Ronnie a pet-shop-window smile.
"Remember me telling you about the lawyer? Here's his card."
Boyce accepted the business card and looked at it curiously.
MAX WAXMAN
ATTORNEY AT LAW
SUITE 4101
SUNSET CONTINENTAL BLDG.
PHONE 721-0196
"Max Waxman is strictly a money man. You talk price with him, but the hand-to-hand will be between you and his private investigator. Max never touches anything himself; finances a couple of dope deals a week the same way. He drives a Rolls Royce."
"What size deal should I talk about?" Ronnie put the card in his pocket.
"Tell him you have a hundred and twenty-five thousand that you're willing to sell for twelve points. Make him come up with twenty-five thousand for the buy. Don't go over that or he'll smell a rip-off. He's shrewd, real shrewd." Red took out an envelope, opened it, and showed Ronnie the two counterfeit twenties. He handed the envelope to the younger man. "Take good care of these. They're the last samples we have. The dude that gave them to me got busted last night and they got his stash."
"Two phony twenties for twenty-five grand. Sounds like a fair profit." Ronnie smiled.
"And I know you've got the balls to bring it off just like the one at the motel." Red gave his best flattery look. "Oh, that reminds me. Max will never permit a deal in a motel room. He'll push for a public place, probably a parking lot or something."
Ronnie nodded, took a bite of toast, and swallowed. "Who do I say referred me?"
"Drop Stymie's name. Stymie's been a front man for Max for years. He used to impersonate a cop, take care of the heavy stuff when Max was shaking down fag movie stars back in the old clays."
"You mean Stymie the old trusty from E wing?"
"That's the one." Red finished his soda water.
"What if Waxman checks me out with him?"
"No problem. Stymie got piped last week-some Mexicans.
He's in the prison infirmary with his head bashed in. He can't talk."
"So there's no way Waxman can check me out?"
"No friggin' way, baby. Old Max is shrewd, but he'll bite once he sees those samples." Red felt a slight churning in his bowels.
"With this score we should have enough, right?" Ronnie asked.
"Wha…Oh, yeah. One hundred percent for sure! This will give us enough to set up the counterfeit-chips caper. When that's done, we'll get our phony office, bank account, everything. I've got a guy who can draw up phony oil-field charts, whatever we need for the operation. It will be big. We'll have the suckers ringing our phone off the hook to put in their grand." Red took out a ball-point pen and scratched figures on the place mat. "Everything depends on cash flow. We've got to start out big to make it big. We can't get in the middle and have a cash-flow problem. That's a problem area."
Red underlined some of the figures and pointed with his pen. "See? It works out to one hundred and fifty grand for each of us, after both capers. Twenty days after we start the project. And that's minimum. Complete minimum." As Red spoke the words seemed familiar. He could switch off his mind and the words would continue. Prison chatter.
The woman on the stage bent over and grabbed her ankles. She wiggled.
"This private-eye fucker-is he gonna be heeled?" Ronnie broke a swizzle stick in half.
"Always. Waxman buys him a gun permit from a judge every year. The Red guy is telling you to be careful, very careful."
Ronnie lit a cigarette and put the match in the ashtray. "I got my permit right here." He stuck out his middle finger.
Red laughed nervously.
THIRTEEN
"Who gave you my name?" said Max Waxman, fiddling with his teen-ager's mustache.
"Somebody I met in T. I.," Ronnie Boyce said.
"Who is somebody?"
"Stymie,"
"What does Stymie look like?"
"He looks a lot like a cop, but he ain't."
Waxman smiled. "You look a little like a cop yourself
"Your mother looks like a cop," Boyce said.
"Okay, kid, what have you got? I'm busy today."
Boyce handed the envelope to the lawyer.
Waxman lifted the flap and blew into the envelope. Holding it open with one hand, he reached into his desk drawer and removed tweezers. He took the bills from the envelope with the tweezers and examined them carefully, both sides. He tucked them back into the envelope and handed it to Boyce.
"Quantity?"
"A hundred and twenty-five grand."
Waxman wrote on a yellow pad. "I've seen better, but I can offer you ten points for the package. That's twelve thousand five hundred for you."
"Thirty points is the usual price," Boyce said.
Waxman raised his voice. "Where? Off the back of a turnip truck? I'll go fifteen points but…"
"Twenty points is what I want. It's what I have to get to make my end. I'll take twenty percent or I walk."
Waxman took a plastic bottle of hand lotion out of a drawer, squirted a fair amount on a palm. He rubbed his hands together until the cream disappeared.
"You're a tough little bastard, aren't you? What's your name?"
"Ronnie. Ronnie Smith," Boyce said.
"And I'm Max Doe, the brother of John. Twenty points it is. I don't have time to quibble over a few bucks. That's twenty-five grand to you. It will be in hundred-dollar bills. My man will show you the twenty-five G's first, so you have nothing to worry about. Tonight, 11:00 P.M. exactly, be at the LA. airport. There is a phone booth in parking lot D-3. You better write that down. I suggest you get to the phone booth early to avoid any problems. At 11:00 P.m. the phone will ring and you will receive final instructions for the transaction. Be ready to deliver five minutes after you pick up the phone. If the phone doesn't ring exactly at eleven, the deal is off. It means something is wrong. Any questions?" He looked at the palms of his hands.
"Who will do the deal at the airport?" Boyce said.
Waxman took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.
"One person it's not going to be is me, young man. I'm an attorney at law. You saw the sign on the door… it's been nice talking with you. Come see me anytime you have something."
They shook hands.
Boyce walked through the outer office. A fat man with a full-head black toupee and cardigan sweater made a show of handing something to the receptionist. He stared at Boyce. The screen test, thought Boyce.