Pagan Babies

by Elmore Leonard

  “What if the customer, after he’s down for one—”

  “Wants to go again? The girl calls you and you put it on the guy’s account.”

  “What’s the girl get?”

  “Three bills. There’s a table of guys, out-of-towners here for a convention at Cobo, like the Society of Automotive Engineers, and they all want a piece of the action? The girl stays there at the hotel. You get the relay team going it makes it easier.”

  “The girl does everything the guy wants?”

  “As long as it don’t leave marks. The guy wants her to piss on him, or take a dump on a glass-top coffee table while he’s underneath looking up?” Moraco shrugged. “If she has to go, no problem. She don’t, I don’t know. Maybe the guy calls down for some prune juice.”

  Randy looked off at Cindy in her tux to get the picture out of his mind. He said to Vincent, “What’s your take?”

  “So you don’t have to keep books, a flat eight thousand a week.”

  “Based on what?”

  “An average night. Say four girls turning two tricks each, then times five nights, Monday to Friday, what’s that?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “They make twelve, we take eight. You pay every Saturday, keep anything over eight for yourself.”

  “What about slow nights?”

  “It’s up to you to bring in the business.”

  “What if all the girls don’t show up?”

  “It can happen, say illness in the family.”

  “But you get your eight grand even if the girls don’t make the nut.”

  Vincent said, “You have a problem with that?”

  “I want to be sure I have it straight,” Randy said, a sleepy look coming into his eyes as the image of Pierce Brosnan faded out and Lucky Luciano, without the pockmarks, faded in to take his place. “What you’re telling me,” Randy said, “the girls could all quit and become stockbrokers, you still get your eight a week.”

  Vincent was nodding. “As your partners.”

  * * *

  By the end of April, nine months into the arrangement, Randy’s mob connection had cost him $116,200 out-of-pocket. He still saw himself as a wiseguy, but no longer on the level of a Luciano. Christ, Luciano would’ve had Moraco whacked by now and taken over the girls.

  Carlo was threatening to quit, not happy about some of the clientele, these goombas who’d show up, no reservation, and squeeze into Booth Number One without asking. The linen service, owned by Moraco’s boss, cost twice what it should. And the Mutt, the Mutt was five bills a week down a rathole. What did he do? The girls, the ones who showed up, didn’t need protection.

  Randy had never been curious about the Mutt until one Saturday, just before Vincent Moraco arrived for his free lunch and the eight grand, he had a talk with him, standing at the end of the bar.

  “Tell me,” Randy said, “what you do exactly.”

  It brought a frown. “My job? I keep an eye on you.”

  “For Vincent?”

  “He don’t talk to me either. I watch out for you ’cause I’m your bodyguard. But what you could say I do is no more ‘n fuck the dog, ’cause you don’t gimme any jobs to do.”

  Randy said, “Like what?”

  “Like throwing the drunks out, the ones get loud and cause a commotion.”

  “Most of them are friends. What else?”

  “What bodyguards do. Some guy’s bothering you, I teach him a lesson.”

  “Well, I do have someone bothering me.”

  “Gimme his name, I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”

  “Vincent Moraco.”

  That might’ve been too blunt, or too much all of a sudden for the Mutt to think about. He nodded, staring off, but after a moment said, “Mr. Moraco, huh?”

  “I want you to be at the meeting,” Randy said. “Listen to what I tell Vincent, keeping in mind who pays you.”

  Signed celebrity photos—not the caricatures—looked out from the walls of Randy’s office, done in browns, recessed lighting and a lot of chrome. Vincent Moraco was seated across the desk from him, the Mutt over to one side, beneath a black-and-white photo of Soupy Sales.

  “First of all,” Randy said, “you realize that what my customers are paying to get laid appears on the books as profit, restaurant income.”

  Vincent said, “Yeah . . . ?”

  “It means I’m paying taxes on income that isn’t income, over three hundred grand in fuck money I can’t write off.”

  Vincent said, “You look at it like you laundering the money.”

  “Yeah, but people who do that are paid a fee, they get something for the service, the risk they take.”

  “You need a bookkeeper know what he’s doing.”

  “That’s only half the problem.”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “You base your cut on four girls a night, but only two show up, once in a while three. And there aren’t that many relay teams or all-nighters.”

  “You have to understand,” Vincent said, “you don’t get this class of girl off the street. You know who some of the best ones are? College girls. They work hard to pay for school and make something of themselves.”

  “But two, at the most three girls,” Randy said, “even with Ph.D.’s and working their asses off, won’t come close to making the nut.”

  “Why? You having trouble bringing people in? Business falling off?”

  “Leveling off. Carlo said you have to expect that. No matter how well you open, after a while it’s bound to settle down. We do okay all week and still go crazy weekends.”

  “So what’re you trying to say?”

  “I just told you, the way it is doesn’t work. Either put on more girls and turn the place into a brothel that serves food, or cut back on your take. You’re not gonna make a cent if we have to close.”

  “Cut it back to what?”

  “Four, at the most. I’ll do business with you, Vincent, but I can’t pay you out of restaurant receipts and stay open. Your take’s drawn from my personal account.”

  “The dough,” Vincent said, “you fucked that widow out of? I know how much you got, Randy. Everybody knows.”

  Randy had to ignore that one, let it pass. He said, “Up to right now, today, I’m out about a hundred and fifty thousand. And do you know what I get for that, Vincent?” Randy paused, playing his role. “I get to watch you eat lunch.”

  For the first time in nine months Randy saw Vincent Moraco smile. He watched Vincent look over at the Mutt and now the Mutt was smiling.

  “You hear what he said?”

  “He gets to watch you eat?”

  Vincent said, “Mutt, you’re a stupid fuck, aren’t you?” He pushed out of the chair, still smiling a little, and said to Randy, “Lemme have the envelope and I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Mutt, what was the main idea you got from the meeting?”

  Mutt had to think about it, half closing his eyes, the brow above ridged with scar tissue.

  Randy was patient. He said, “Mutt, I’m paying that man out of my pocket. You ever hear of a business partnership that works like that?”

  “He don’t care about you.”

  “What happens if I stop paying?”

  “The first time you’re late? Somebody shoots out your windows. That’s what they do to bookies they don’t pay their street tax.”

  “What if I said no more pussy on house accounts and stopped paying altogether?”

  “I ‘magine you’d have a fire. Have to shut down.”

  “What would he do to me?”

  “You’re paying him out of your cookie jar anyway, I ‘magine he’d keep after your money.”

  “What would you do, go back to work for Moraco?”

  The Mutt grinned. “That was funny what you said about watching him eat. I mean I wasn’t laughing ’cause he was. I have no respect for Mr. Moraco and he knows it. Not being one of them’s why he put me here.”

  “Why’d he hire you in the firs
t place?”

  “I was at Southern Ohio Correctional, the prison? There was an old boy there I looked after, saw no harm came to him. I got my release, it was Mr. Rossi set it up for me to come work here in De-troit.”

  “So Moraco hired you,” Randy said, “out of respect for this Mr. Rossi.”

  “Yeah, but I never kissed Mr. Moraco’s ass like he wanted, so we didn’t get along too good. I started out driving for Mr. Amilia. It was the first time I had to wear a suit of clothes.”

  “The boss himself, uh?”

  “Yeah, but he said I drove too fast. So they put me on the street. You know, lean on the bookies, make sure they pay their street tax. I’d do a shylock collection if the guy fell behind.”

  Fascinating. Randy leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “What would you do?”

  “You mean get him to pay? Stop by his home, meet his wife, talk to ’em. If there was a second time I’d catch him away from home and body-punch him good, break a couple of ribs.”

  “What if he was a big guy, two hundred pounds?”

  “I can hit,” the Mutt said. “I lifted weights and got into boxing again at Southern Ohio. Got pretty good.”

  “Why’d you go to prison?”

  “I was in a bar fight and shot a fella, Bellefontaine, Ohio. I was working at the ski area there, making snow.”

  Randy said, “They ski in Ohio?”

  “They got a hill there. This fella in the bar gimme a smart mouth, looking for it. I hit him with a Bud Light. He come out with a pistol and I took it off him and he got shot as we tussled.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Yeah, but the witnesses, fellas that worked at the ski area? They said he started it, so it wasn’t called murder. I did forty months. Mr. Rossi said I coulda done ’em standing on my head. Oh, and I killed another fella while I was inside, shanked him out’n the yard, but nobody saw it. Two hundred convicts out there, nobody saw it.”

  “Why’d you kill him?”

  “Teach him a lesson. He’s one of the fellas leaning on my friend Mr. Rossi.”

  “Have you done anything like that for Moraco?”

  “One time, yeah. Was a Chaldean bookie lived over by Dearborn? I was only the driver, but this Tootsie Roll they hired got nervous or something, I don’t know. I took his pistol and shot the Chaldean through the heart. I still only got my wages.”

  “Moraco didn’t respect you for that?”

  “I told you, I don’t respect him, and he knows it.”

  Randy said, “Mutt, you’ve been here nine months, and you know something? You’ve never told me your real name.”

  “You never asked. It’s Searcy J. Bragg, Jr.”

  “Where’d you get Mutt?”

  “When I was at Southern Ohio my cellmate’s name was Jeff? He was a big tall fella, so I got called Mutt. You get it? He was hurt pretty bad, some boys come after him during the prison riot? You might’ve heard of it. Left the place a mess, I’m telling you.”

  “You don’t mind being called Mutt?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Randy eased back in his chair, got comfortable and locked his fingers behind his head. “Well, Searcy—”

  The Mutt stopped him. “I like Mutt better’n Searcy. How’d you like to be name Searcy?”

  “I think I’d change it.”

  “When I was fighting I was called Banger, Banger Bragg, but I never much cared for it, either.” He raised his right fist to show B-A-N-G tattooed on his knuckles. “My right hook’s my banger.”

  Randy started over. “Well, Mutt, we’re in some kinda fix here, aren’t we?” Randy’s voice taking on the trace of an accent it never had before. “How to deal with Mr. Moraco. You know something? I think he’s skimming offa that eight grand, keeping maybe half of it for himself. See, with his boss in federal court—You know about that, don’t you, the trial going on?”

  “Yes sir, it’s in the newspaper.”

  “But Moraco isn’t on trial, is he? Why you suppose he wasn’t brought up?”

  “I guess ’cause he’s smart,” the Mutt said, “never talked business anyplace they coulda hung a wire. Not even in his car. They say the gover’ment’s still trying to put something on him.”

  “So while he’s walking around free,” Randy said, “I don’t imagine Mr. Amilia’s paying much attention to him. Old Tony’s got his own problem, how to stay out of jail.” Randy paused before he said, “Just out of curiosity, how much do you normally charge to take somebody out?”

  “Kill’m? I don’t have a set price,” the Mutt said. “How much is it worth to you?”

  Randy was ready. He eased forward in his chair to rest his arms on the desk and look directly at the Mutt.

  “I can go twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five what?”

  “As much as you make in a whole year, twenty-five thousand dollars. Cash or check.”

  “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do’er.”

  Randy sat back, but then came forward again.

  “How?”

  “I prefer to shoot him.”

  “You have a gun?”

  “I can get one. After, I’ll have to take off, as they’re liable to find out was me.”

  Randy said, “Yes, I would, too.” He waited a few moments and said, “Well . . .” and waited again.

  “One time,” the Mutt said, “I thought I’d try stickin’ up places, see if I was any good at it? So I went in a—it was like a drugstore only it sold all kinda stuff. I went up to the girl behind the counter and said, ‘You see this?’ and opened my jacket.”

  “You exposed yourself.”

  “I showed her the pistol tucked in my pants. She looked at it, then looked up at me and said, ‘Yeah?’ ”

  “I said, ‘Aw, fuck it,’ and left. That girl was too dumb to rob.” He paused again, said, “Okay then,” got up and walked out.

  Randy watched him, fascinated.

  16

  * * *

  CARLO SAW THE BLACK LEATHER jacket sliding into Booth Number One, looked past to the reservations stand where Heidi should be—no Heidi, nobody—and got to the booth as fast as he could make his way through the tables.

  “Sir, I’m very sorry but this booth is reserved.”

  The one in leather, his hair pulled back severely into a ponytail, said, “That’s right, garson, I reserved it.”

  “Sir, I know the party—”

  “What’s the name?”

  “I know them personally, they come here—”

  “It’s after ten. Don’t look like they’re gonna show.”

  “Sir, I’m very sorry, but you must have a reservation. Fortunately I can seat you, if you would come this way.”

  “No, this works for me,” the one in leather said. “Don’t worry about it.” Now he looked up, his face becoming more pleasant. “And here’s the rest of my party.”

  Carlo turned to see a young lady in an inexpensive raincoat and a priest. A priest? Yes, helping her off with the coat and Carlo was confused; he couldn’t see this one in the booth in the company of a priest. He said, “Father, how are you this evening? I’m afraid we have a misunderstanding about the table.”

  The priest said, “No, it’s fine,” handing him the raincoat. “Check this for us, would you, please?” He turned to the table where the young lady in her plain black sweater and skirt was already sliding in.

  Carlo said, “Wait, please,” wanting to ask, Who are you people? Now she was seated and he turned again to the priest, who seemed patient, reasonable, and said to him, “Father, I’m very sorry to tell you this booth is reserved for another party,” Carlo sounding disappointed. “I wish with all my heart I could say yes, please, stay here. But I cannot. I have a table over there—you see it?—and a very nice one closer to the music. You can listen and enjoy as you dine.” He heard the one in leather call it “elevator music,” and the young lady, looking around, say, “It’s cooler than I thought it
would be. Fran’s fulla shit, it doesn’t look like a men’s club.” The leather one said a friend had told him there were ice cubes in the urinals, and the young lady said, “Doesn’t that make the drinks taste funny?” Carlo heard the priest say, “You sure you want to stay here?” The leather one answered him, “We’re here, okay? And we’re fuckin staying here.” He said, “She wants to piss off the management.” Then looked up to say, “Garson, you want to get us some drinks?” Carlo thinking, No, get the Mutt. But then heard the young lady say, “I just want to see how Randy handles it,” and Carlo began to think their sitting here had a purpose.

  He said, “Excuse me, please,” and left.

  Debbie said to Johnny Pajonny, “How do you know his name’s Garson?”

  Terry said, “He means garçon.”

  Carlo came along the back hall past the rest rooms to Heidi from behind, Heidi standing in the doorway to Randy’s office. He said to her, “Dear, would you mind going back to work?”

  “Would you mind,” Heidi said, turning, moving past him, “if I went to the little girls’ room once in a while?” This big blonde, confident, able to turn it around because she would sleep with Randy when he wanted her.

  Randy was reading a newspaper open on his desk. He looked up at Carlo. “The trial is in recess till next week on account of Tony Amilia’s prostate. It says he appears, though, to be in good health”—Randy looked down at the paper again—“and is ‘the best dressed of the defendants, always in a business suit and tie. The others on trial often wear jogging suits and sneakers.’ Classy old guy with a déclassé outfit,” Randy said, looking up again. “I am no longer gonna worry about those punks. Bunch of losers. What’s the problem?”

  “People have sat down at Number One and won’t get up. I tell them it’s reserved, they don’t move.”

  “In what name?”

  “Mr. Moraco, for four.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Tell Mr. Moraco you had to give up his table because he’s late. If he complains, tell him tough shit.”

  “Can I quote you saying it?”

  “Tell him anything you want.”