Dinneck rose, stepping over the corpse of his ex-partner.
“I work for the Commission.”
4
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Webb?” Dinneck asked, his hoarse voice dripping sarcasm. “I have some business to take care of with Mr. Elliot here, before you and I settle our personal differences.”
Nolan said, “Your ball game,” and sat back down in the black leather chair. The gun Elliot had dropped at Nolan’s command a few minutes before lay unseen behind the closed suitcase of money. Elliot seemed to have forgotten it, and Dinneck didn’t know about it. Nolan would make his move for the .38, but not yet. Dinneck was in the mood to talk, so Nolan would listen and watch while he waited for the right moment to move.
Dinneck stroked his throat, which was visibly bruised from both Lyn Parks’ assault and Nolan’s blows of earlier that evening. He looked weak, he looked pale — almost as pale as Elliot.
“Mr. Elliot,” Dinneck was saying, “I was assigned to you by my employers to work undercover until I had enough on you to be convinced positively of your guilt. Which I am. I placed a long-distance call this afternoon to a gentleman in New York who gave me instructions as to what to do about you. You see, my employers don’t take it kindly when somebody opens up a business without a franchise.”
“You never saw a thing,” Elliot snapped. “You weren’t involved with the narcotics operation at all. None of the men the Boys sent me were.”
“That’s right. You used me for strong-arm work. Beat people up, pressure them. Like I did with that reporter, Davis, who skipped town. Watched over people, like Mr. Franco... the late Mr. Franco, now, I hear. And Broome and Saunders, too. My, my, but you were a busy little fella tonight. Yes, I ran your errands, and you were careful to keep me away from your narcotics set-up. Instinct maybe.” Dinneck coughed, caressing his throat; talking was obviously painful to him, but he couldn’t resist. He coughed again and glanced pointedly at Nolan, who sat motionless, silent, like an obedient school-boy. Then he returned his gaze to Elliot.
“You got to remember Chelsey’s a small town, Mr. Elliot,” Dinneck said. “Junkies and pushers aren’t hard to pick out in a town this size. And the college punks have big mouths, like to brag about getting their kicks. Your bosom pal Broome was a pusher and a junkie both, he could’ve worn a sign it was so obvious. And my own late partner, here, was paying half his salary back to put in his arm.”
Sweat was streaming down Elliot’s face; his confident tones turned back into the high-pitched squeaking he’d used when Nolan first came into the den. “There’s a quarter million in that suitcase, Dinneck! Take it and let me go. I’ll never say a word.”
Dinneck smiled. “You don’t cross the Commission and live, Elliot. If I did that, even if I killed you and kept the money, my life’d be as worthless as... as yours.”
Elliot was shaking his head no as Dinneck brought up the nine-millimeter; then Elliot remembered something. “Nolan,” he said, “you don’t know he’s Nolan!”
Dinneck hesitated. He lowered the nine-millimeter, puzzled. “Nolan? What the hell are you talking about? What is he talking about, Webb?”
“Search me,” Nolan said.
“He isn’t Webb, he’s Nolan,” Elliot spewed. “There’s a quarter million on his head.”
“We got quarter millions up the ass tonight,” Nolan said.
Dinneck coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “Shut up, Webb...” He coughed, coughed again. “Okay, Elliot, okay. This guy here, this Webb, he’s Nolan? The guy that resigned the outfit by shooting one of the Francos?”
Elliot nodded and didn’t stop nodding. “That’s him, he’s the one, a quarter million dollars.”
Dinneck gave them both a broad, toothy smile. “That’s nice to know, children — that’s real comforting to know.”
“Look, I told you and I didn’t have to,” Elliot said, his eyes filled with desperation. “Give me a break. Don’t kill me, don’t shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, friend,” Dinneck told him. “Not with a gun anyway.” He motioned Elliot up against the wall.
Nolan leaned back in the chair. He had a good idea of what would be coming next; he’d heard rumors of this practice among mob enforcers when he’d been working for the Boys. He eyed the .38 and knew it wasn’t time to move. Not yet.
Dinneck reached into his pocket and withdrew a brown carrying case about the size of a small picture frame. He snapped it open and the light of the room caught the reflection from the tip of the hypodermic needle within the case and tossed it around.
“You a user, Elliot? You take the stuff yourself, or do you just sell it?”
“I’m no user, you know that. And I don’t smoke or drink or womanize, either.”
“Well good for you. You’re just all virtue and no vice, aren’t you?”
Nolan said, “Get it over with.”
Dinneck said, “Don’t be so anxious, dead man. Your turn’ll come soon enough.” He walked over to Elliot, shoved him hard against the wall, then held the hypo up and said, “You ever hear of a mainliner?”
Elliot didn’t answer.
“Of course you have. You’re in the business, aren’t you? A mainliner is a shot of H, right in the old blood-stream. Into a nice fat juicy vein. My employers are of the opinion that a person dealing in drugs ought to get first hand view of what he’s selling. Now that’s only good business, isn’t it?”
Elliot plastered himself against the wall. “You... you’re going to give me an overdose! You’re going to kill me with that thing!”
Dinneck nodded. “And the cops will find a poor slob who just misjudged and popped too big a cap for his own good.”
Elliot began to scream and Dinneck slammed his fist into the man’s temple. Elliot slid to the floor and lay there, a puddle of flesh.
Dinneck took a rubber strap from one of his coat pockets, kneeled over, bared Elliot’s right arm and tied the strap around it. The hypo was already loaded and it was no trouble for Dinneck to jam the needle into a throbbing, bulging vein and press his thumb down on the plunger.
Nolan leaned over, ready to go for the .38 that waited for him of the floor a few feet away. Dinneck caught the motion from the corner of his eye and sank his heel into Nolan’s hand just before it had reached the gun. Then he kicked the .38 across the room, at the same time backhanding Nolan, who flopped back in the chair and waited for a second chance that would probably never come.
Elliot was semi-conscious, crying softly and spasmodically. Dinneck kicked Elliot’s head once and put him out.
“He won’t be waking up,” Nolan said.
Dinneck tossed the hypo to the soft carpet. “Not in this world.”
“How much did you have in the hypo?”
“Enough. Enough horse to kill a horse. Hah, horse, hell, a herd.” Dinneck laughed some more, but the laughter turned into a racking cough.
Nolan thought, keep coughing, pal, come on, got to make another try for you.
“My eastern employers didn’t pay me to kill you, Nolan, but somehow I don’t think they’ll mind. You’re a thorn in the Boys’ side, and the Boys are part of the Commission, after all.” Dinneck slipped his free hand into his coat pocket and popped a toothpick into the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I can use the money. Quarter million’s gonna go a long way. It’ll hurt, you know, handing in Elliot’s suitcase of bills.”
“I didn’t figure you killed for free.”
Dinneck hefted the .38. “You got a point. I’m strictly a contract man, and all my contract work’s done for the Commission. A loyal soldier. But in your case, I’d make an exception, even if there wasn’t a quarter million on your head.”