Hush Money

by Collins, Max Allan

  “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?”

  “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 divid
ing 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.

  Nolan pulled into the inlet, got out of his car, crossed the road, the ditch, then walked up a slight incline to stare out over the October-barren grove. The trees were gray, as was the sky, their fallen leaves had been picked up and borne away, leaving the ground bare around them, but for the browning grass. It was a naked and uninviting landscape, a perfect backdrop for dealing out death, and Nolan noticed for the first time it was kind of cold today.

  He also noticed for the first time, on his way back to the Cadillac, that he was filthy from rolling around in the gravel. He started brushing himself off and noticed he’d torn his suitcoat under the right sleeve, and that the crotch was ripped out of his pants. Shit, he thought, two hundred goddamn dollars shot to shit. Somebody was going to answer.

  Well, he’d have to go back to the motel and change. He got back in the car, returned the .38 to its holster under the seat, and headed back to Des Moines. He had a lot to do, and he really couldn’t spare the time, but he didn’t figure he better go running around town with the crotch hanging out of his pants.

  He did not stop at the DiPreta place. Vince was dead; nothing he could do would help Vince now. Frank was probably still upstairs sleeping, and Nolan didn’t want to be the one to wake him with the latest war bulletin. Hopefully Frank would assume the shooting had taken place after Nolan had left, though the possibility remained that Frank might assume Nolan was in some way a part of the shooting, an accomplice perhaps. Especially if that gate had been conspicuously damaged when Nolan butted it open with the tail of the Cadillac. Even so, that would have to be taken care of later. Nolan had more important things to do presently, such as getting into pants with the crotch sewn in them, and he just didn’t have time to fool around with the DiPretas right now.

  It took longer getting back to the motel than Nolan would have liked. He worked the key in the door with some impatience; but when he went to push it open, the door caught: night-latched.

  “Jon,” Nolan said.

  Noise from within; bedsprings.

  “Jon, for Christ’s sake, shake your ass.”

  Which from the sound of the bedsprings was exactly what the kid was doing.

  Finally Jon peeked out. He looked a little wild- eyed. His hair was all haywire, even more so than usual. He wasn’t wearing a shirt; even with as little of him as was showing, that was evident.

  “Hey,” Nolan said. “I live here. Remember?”

  “Nolan, uh, Nolan . . .”

  “What are you doing, sleeping? Didn’t you sleep enough in the damn car on the way up this morning?”

  “Uh, Nolan, uh . . .”

  “What?”

  He whispered out of the side of his mouth, “I got a girl in here.”

  “Congratulations,” Nolan said. “I’m glad the day is going right for somebody. Now let me in.”

  “Well, you kind of interrupted us.”

  “I’ll wait out here while you finish. Don’t be long.”

  “Jesus, Nolan!”

  “Look. We got something in common right now, you and me. We’re both in kind of sticky situations. I got no crotch in my pants, for one thing, but I don’t have time to explain at the moment. I’m just here to make a pit stop, you know? Change my clothes, say hello, and I’m off.”

  “Yeah, you do look messed up. What you been doing, rolling around in gravel or something?”

  “Jon.”

  “Yes?”

  “You and your girl friend go over to the coffee shop for five minutes so I can come in and change my clothes. Okay? I mean, I am paying for the room, you know.”

  “No kidding?” Jon said, genuinely surprised. “I figured we’d be going Dutch, like usual.”

  “Jon.”

  “Okay, okay. One second.”

  It was more like two minutes, and Nolan was somehow uncomfortable, hanging around outside a motel run by the DiPretas—or rather the DiPreta, as Frank was about the only one left, he guessed.

  Jon came out in T-shirt and jeans, with the girl in tow. She was a pretty young blonde, stunning in fact: white blonde hair and a real shape to her. She looked familiar in some funny way, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. She seemed embarrassed, almost blushing, and Nolan smiled at her to put her at ease.

  “So you’re Jon’s friend,” she said.

  “So you’re Jon’s friend,” Nolan said.

  Jon said, “Why don’t you go on and order, Francine. I got to talk to Nolan a minute.”

  She said okay and both Nolan and Jon took time out to study the nice things going on under the blue sweater-dress as she walked away.

  Then Jon said, “Nolan, I’m sorry about this, I didn’t figure it would do any harm to . . .”

  “No harm done. I’m glad you found a way to amuse yourself. But listen, don’t call me Nolan. I’m registered Ryan.”

  “Oh. Sorry. What’s going on, anyway?”

  “You and me are getting screwed in Des Moines. We’re just going about it two different ways. Now go away and eat and let me change.”

  Jon did.

  Nolan was pleased to find that the war between the sexes had been fought on only one of the twin beds, and sat on the unused one and stripped off coat and tie and shirt and sat for a moment pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. Things were happening fast. He wanted to catch his breath a second.

  But just a second.

  He rose, got out of the pants and took out a pair of dark, comfortable slacks, a lightweight black turtleneck sweater, and a green corduroy sports coat from his suitcase and put them on. He walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face and remembered who the girl was.

  Christ!

  He all but ran over to the coffee shop. It was a long, narrow aqua-blue fish tank of a room, and toward the rear of the place was the window that earlier today had been broken out by the tossing of a grenade; the window was covered over now with cardboard. Jon and the girl were sitting one booth away. As he approached them Nolan tried to convince himself that the girl with Jon was not Frank DiPreta’s daughter, but when he got up close to the horny little bastard and bitch, that’s who she was, all right.

  Nolan cleared his throat, smiled. It was a smile that Jon understood. It was a smile that didn’t have much to do with smiling, and Jon excused himself, and he and Nolan headed for the restroom, which Nolan locked, turning to Jon and saying, “Where did you pick her up, Jon?”

  “At that place this morning.”

  “The DiPreta place, you mean.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s her name, Francine DiPreta. And she picked me
up, if you must know. Right there at that place we drove to this morning, where you went in and—”

  “She’s the daughter of the guy I went to see, in other words. You’re banging the daughter of the guy I went to see.”

  “Well, I didn’t figure that made her off limits or anything. Come on, Nolan, you saw her. Would you turn that down?”

  “It would depend on the statutory rape charge in this state, I suppose.”

  “That’s right. You got no call to get all of a sudden moral or something, Nolan.”

  “Fuck, kid, I’m not talking morality. I’m talking common sense. Okay, do you know who her father is? Besides somebody I went to see today.”

  “No. I don’t know who her father is. Some rich guy, I assume.”

  “Yeah, he’s rich. For one thing, he owns this motel.”

  “This, uh, motel?”

  “Right. You’re screwing the girl in her father’s motel.”

  “Gee.”

  “Gee? Gee? Do people still say that? Do they say that in the funny papers or what?”

  “I’ll take her right home.”

  “No. Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her uncle just got killed.”

  “I thought her uncle died yesterday.”

  “Not died, got killed. And this is another uncle. Two uncles in two days, killed. And did you notice that broken window out in the coffee shop?”

  Jon nodded.

  “Somebody threw a grenade through that window this morning at your girl friend’s old man.”

  “What’s it all mean, Nolan?”

  “Think about it. He’s a rich guy. He’s a rich guy I have dealings with. He’s a rich guy I have dealings with who has had two brothers killed in the last two days and a grenade tossed in his lap this morning.”

  “He’s a mob guy.”

  “He’s a mob guy. You’re screwing a mob guy’s daughter in a mob guy’s motel. There you have it.”

  Jon swallowed. “Are you mad at me, Nolan?”

  “Mad? No. Hell, I admire you. You got balls, kid.”