“What was it she was supposed to do?”
“Put on a little exhibition for the boys with a dog.”
“No kidding?” Wilma was amused.
“Wait. You ain’t heard it all yet. See, this dame what got sick had a Labrador retriever she trained herself, special for this kinda act. She’d feed him some—whaddayacallit?— aphrodisiac in his dog food just before the show, an’ then the mutt would make love to her. After that, for a topper, she’d let the dog get in his licks. I seen her do the act once, an’ I swear that was the part she enjoyed the most. An’ the guys watching it used to go wild when they realize she’s really gettin’ her kicks.”
“I’ll bet.” Wilma laughed. The imagery of the thing seemed hilarious to her.
“Anyway, this night that Jenny takes over, the broad gets stubborn an’ absolutely refuses to let her pooch go on with another girl. Well, Rocky figures what-the-hell, an’ goes out an’ recruits another dog— a boxer— which, as it turns out, was a terrible mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“We find out later there’s a big difference between a Labrador an’ a boxer. You see, this dame what trained the Labrador knew lots about dogs, an’ that’s why she picked a Labrador for her act. These Labradors have been special bred for centuries to retrieve birds after hunters shoot ’em on the wing. They been bred to bring the bird back in their mouths without ruffling the feathers. They been bred to have what them as knows dogs call a ‘soft mouth.’ That means they don’t bite an’ when it comes to closing their mouths, they always do it very gentle like. But boxers—they’re another story.”
“Why? What are boxers bred for?”
“They been bred for nothin’ but guard dogs. Actually, a lotta people don’t realize it, but they’re natural-born killers. A boxer’s nature is to attack, to bite, an’ to hold on. An’ they hold on jus’ like a bulldog. Which is jus’ what happened to Jenny.”
“What happened?”
“Well, Rocky dopes the dog up before the show to make him passionate. Jenny comes out, does a strip, whistles for the dog an’ it comes runnin’. She gets the dog to make love to her without no trouble. Then comes the finale an’ she dabs some bacon grease on herself to get the dog to go for the right spot. Well, to make a long story short, he went for her all right. ’Steada what he was supposed to do, he takes one great big murderous bite an’ won’t let go.”
“What happened to Jenny?” Wilma shuddered. She wasn’t smiling amymore.
“It was a mess. She lasted out the night at the hospital, but she kicked off the next morning. An’ some wise-guy reporter got hold of the story an’ printed how she was killed in a orgy -- without the details, of course. Anyways, there was sure a big stink for a while an’ yours truly had to answer to the big guys for it. ’At’s one-a the reasons they sent me here. Sorta punishing me, I guess.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t just rub you out.”
“Nah, they don’t play rough without they got a real good reason. You seen too many gangster movies. They work smooth. like any big organization.” Vito thought about it a minute. “All the same,” he added, “I wouldn’t wanna goof again. A guy can still end up in a cement overcoat if he fouls the syndicate up too often—particularly a guy who knows as much about ‘em as I do.”
“Just why are you here?” Wilma asked innocently.
“Small potatoes. You know this guy Angus Morton what runs this place?”
“Yes.”
Well, we supply him an he pays his dues to the syndicate."
"What do you supply him with?”
Gals, hooch, some drugs now an’ then. You know it ain’t the tourists what keep this joint goin’.”
“l guessed that much.”
“Yeah. Well, Morton’s into the St. Louis mob for a bundle, so you might even say the syndicate owns a share of this dive. They don’t bother with it much, but a while back they get a call from Morton that he’s got a deal for ’em if they can supply some heavies. Like I say, I’m inna doghouse, so when St. Louis calls the big boys in Chi, they call New Orleans an’ tell me to hustle my ass out here to find out what’s cooking.”
“What is cooking?” Wilma asked.
“Some local yokel’s standin’ in the way of the powers what be. In this town, them powers, from what Morton tells me, add up to one little pipsqueak name of Barker. A banker. Anyway, Barker sneezes, Morton blows his nose. I just don’t dig guys like him—Morton, I mean. Between the piece Barker owns an’ the piece the syndicate owns, he must be workin’ for the sheer joy of it. Anyway, his pitch is that if he can get some outside help for Barker on this proposition, Barker’ll let him off the hook he’s got him on with some kind of mortgage on this place or something like that. An’ that’s where I come in.”
“What are you supposed to do for him? And what’s Barker’s angle, anyway?”
D’Angelo looked at her shrewdly. “How come you’re so interested?” he wanted to know. “Oh hell, what’s the difference,” he said when she didn’t answer. “It’s all a drag to me anyway. I couldn’t figure Barker’s angle any more than you, an’ that’s the first thing I told the syndicate. Well, they did a little digging -- they got their sources, you know -- an’ they come up with the answer up at the state capital where the real estate records is kept. Seems there’s some big factory needs some land to expand an’ --”
“I know about all that,” Wilma interrupted. “The whole town knows about it.”
“Yeah? Well, here’s somethin’ the whole town don’t know. The mortgage Barker’s bank holds on the property has what they call a sale clause in it. If the property’s sold before the mortgage is paid off, the bank’s entitled to—now hold your breath—the total amount of the sale price.”
Wilma looked at him disbelievingly. “But how can that be?” she asked, dazed.
“The original mortgage on the property goes all the way back to the early 1900s—before the owner was even born. There was no regulation of contracts in those days. Banks could pretty much write their own ticket on mortgages. Most of these places was what they called homesteads to start with. Guys used to lay claim to a hunka land, take out a mortgage on it an’ then sell it an’ skip, leaving either the buyer or the bank holding the bag. Well, the bank was smarter than most of the buyers, so they stuck this clause in all their contracts to protect themselves. An’, like I say, the original mortgage ain’t never been paid off—only renewed a half-dozen times over the years. This guy Barker must have dug out the original mortgage an’ now he’s laying for the owner, trying to force him to sell so he can pocket all the dough -- which is maybe ten times the amount left to pay off on the mortgage. Slick, huh?”
“That’s the word. Slick.” Wilma kept herself from revealing the extent of her feelings toward Barker now that she’d found out how he was trying to rob her father. “But you still haven’t told me how you fit in.” she reminded D’Angelo.
“I’m not too clear on that myself. Barker’s first idea, according to Morton, was for me to bring in some hoods to force this guy to sell. But then Barker had some kinda change of heart. Latest plan is to use strictly local talent. Morton dug up some guy what works on this farm and I recruited him just last night.”
“You mean Rafe Proctor?”
“That’s the one. A real Reuben, you know. But a Reuben what begins twitchin’ so hard he almost wets his pants when he gets a smell of green stuff.”
“How much green stuff?”