Or, party unknown might go up to Nolan’s room and get him at gunpoint and hold him for Charlie to execute personally.
Or, finally, party unknown might show up, take Nolan captive (maybe or maybe not beat the piss out of him), and hold him for Charlie, who would arrive later to discuss peace terms.
Any way he looked at it, Nolan figured he had company coming, and he spent the early afternoon getting ready for it.
Since he was going to be moving upstairs into that extra room, he packed his bag, which took ten seconds, and set it next to the Penney’s box by the door, picking up the wrapped package from Irish at the same time.
He took the package into the bedroom, sat on the bed, tore the wrapping paper off and got out the guns. Then he added his bolstered .38 to the three from Quad City Jukebox Service and cleaned and oiled them. When he was done, he loaded all four and placed one of the fresh Smith and Wessons in his holster, an aging leather strapwork that looped around both shoulders with a band running across the back, so that from the front, if his jacket hung open, none of the rig was visible. The other guns he tossed on the bed.
There was a small table lamp with shade on the night-stand. Nolan unscrewed the knob atop the lamp and removed the shade, leaving the bulb and its spare metal framework exposed. He took a hanger and twisted it apart and bent it into a new shape, a spiral that would fit down over the bulb and its framework. He took one of the .38s and slipped the trigger guard over the curved end of the hanger. The gun hung there like a bulky Christmas ornament. He put the shade back on. He slipped his hand down in, found the gun, and brought it out, slowly. He did it again, quickly. The gun didn’t show through the shade, nor did the butt poke above it. This would do just fine—as long as he remembered not to turn the damn thing on.
Then he dropped the other guns, one each, into his side sportcoat pockets, went over to the door, and grabbed up his bag and suit box. The elevator took him up to the next floor, where he used the key marked 714, and before he got half a look at his spare room he was sitting on the bed, revolvers next to him, doing his lamp-shade trick again. He pushed the lamp back so that it almost touched the wall, got up from the bed, and dug into his bag, getting out two clean handkerchiefs. These he wadded, knotting them to keep their bunched shape, and stowed them in the top drawer of the nightstand.
He had no special precautionary plan in mind for the leftover Colt—getting those three guns this morning hadn’t been for Charlie alone, since he needed them on hand anyway—so he rather absently shoved the Colt behind the pillow of the room’s single bed, enough of the Nervous Nellie routine for awhile.
He glanced around the room.
Room, hell, it was a closet with gland trouble, but that was okay by him. In a small room he could have control; he could see windows and door all at once. That suite of his downstairs was something else again—a vestibule and a living room and a bedroom and two cans and lots and lots of windows and no possible way to see all of it at once. In this room he could.
Nolan checked the window that took up most of the far wall of the crackerbox. It was locked, which was good. He noticed a fire escape beyond the window, going down into the alley, which was good and bad.
Then he showered again, making it cold to keep him alert, shaved, and got into his new suit. He slipped on one of the ties he had bought, a solid blue color, and strung on the shoulder-holster. The suit didn’t show the jut of the gun too badly, and it fitted well for a rack cut, though it did pinch at the shoulders.
As he straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror, Nolan wondered if the man Charlie sent would appreciate his dressing to the teeth for him. Somehow he doubted it.
He left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. At the check desk, the clerk smiled and said, “Well, hello again, Mr. Logan, is there something more I can do for you, sir?”
“There a phone in there?” Nolan motioned toward the entrance to the Concort Lounge across the lobby.
“Yes, there is, the bartender has a phone behind the bar so orders can be called in.”
“Yeah. Well I’ll be in there for a while. You suppose if anybody comes around and wants my room number that you could ring me over there and tell me about it?”
“I could just send whoever it is over and . . .”
“No. This has to do with that surprise we were talking about earlier. Give the guy my number, send him up to the room, then call me.”
The clerk was puzzled but trusting, and said he’d be glad to do it. Anything for a friend of Mr. Werner’s.
Nolan went into the lounge, pushing the saloon-style swinging doors aside, and walked over to the bar. He told the bartender about the call he was expecting, then went over and took a booth parallel to the swinging doors, where he could get a slatted but partially visible view of the check-in desk on the other side of the lobby.
He ordered a Scotch and water, charged it to Werner and looked down at his watch.
Ten after three.
He sat back and waited, nursing the Scotch with a patience he guessed was coming from old age.
At quarter till four, the first Scotch was gone, and he started on another.
7
At ten after five Nolan looked up from his third Scotch as the saloon-syle doors swung open and a tall, burly black man in a well-tailored navy suit shoved through them. The big man stood in the doorway for a moment, briefly ran his eyes across the lounge’s half-dozen faces, then ambled over to the bar.
Though they’d never met, Nolan recognized him.
The hard face, with its rugged structure, nearly flat nose, close-set eyes, squared-off jaw, and forehead of solid bone, was unmistakable. And the six-foot-three, 270-pound frame, with its aircraft carrier shoulders, wasn’t exactly commonplace, either.
His name was Tillis, and he’d played pro guard on an eastern NFL team a few seasons back, but was forced out in his third year of play because of knee trouble. The story Nolan had heard was that some mob guy fairly high up had been a fan of Tillis’s team, and when Tillis had to quit pro ball, the guy offered him a job. A job with the organization that, as Werner had told Nolan, was calling itself the Family these days.
Nolan remembered seeing Tillis play ball a couple of times. He hadn’t impressed Nolan as the most savvy lineman in the NFL, but when he didn’t get faked out or double-teamed, he could be one mean, effective sonofabitch. Set an unnecessary roughness record his rookie year, Nolan recalled.
Tillis was at the bar now, downing a shot of Jim Beam. He motioned for another, threw it down, then sauntered back out of the lounge.
Nolan got to his feet casually and went over to the still gently swaying doors and glanced out over them toward the check-in desk.
Tillis was there, questioning the desk clerk, who was showing all the composure of a toastmaster who’s just discovered his fly is open. When the clerk had told Tillis what he wanted to know, the black man walked over to the two elevators, jabbed at the button between them, and got his ride right away. As the elevator doors met behind him, Nolan stepped out from the lounge and walked over to the check-in desk.
The clerk was reaching for the phone when Nolan said, “Forget it. I’m here.”
The clerk jumped slightly, then turned and motioned toward the elevators and said, “It’s a big colored man,” and Nolan nodded thanks.
Nolan took the same elevator Tillis had used when it came back down. It was self-service, and Nolan had it to himself. By the time he’d reached his floor and the doors had begun to slide open, he had his .38 unholstered and palmed.
His room was around the corner to the right of the elevators. When he got to the corner, he stopped and glanced carefully around it.
Tillis was at the door to Nolan’s suite, trying a ringful of keys in the lock. When one key didn’t work, he tried another, and just as he seemed to be running out of them, one got results.
Tillis gently prodded the door open, and behind him Nolan not-so-gently prodded the back of Tillis’s skull with th
e side of the .38 barrel.
The big black tumbled like a small tree to the soft carpeting in the suite’s vestibule and lay still.
Nolan shut the door and night-latched it. He was stepping around the bulky supine figure when a thick arm shot out, caught him behind the right ankle and jerked, setting Nolan down on his tailbone so hard that his spine did a xylophone imitation.
A beefy black fist rushed toward his face, but Nolan batted it away with the .38, and seeing that Tillis was on his feet, Nolan had a flash memory of the ex-guard’s bad knees and drove a kick into the black’s right kneecap that would have been good for a forty-yard punt.
Tillis landed on his side but started to spring back, and Nolan slapped him across the temple with the .38 barrel.
This time Tillis seemed to be soundly out, but Nolan was getting to the point where he didn’t trust himself with knocking guys cold anymore. He leaned over cautiously, flipped open the well-cut navy suit, brushed aside the blue and white striped tie, and lifted a silenced Luger from a shoulder clip under Tillis’s left arm. Backing up with care, Nolan pocketed the Luger, keeping his revolver trained on the man.
He needed something to tie Tillis up with; he knew he should have picked up some rope when he’d had the time earlier in the afternoon, but he hadn’t, so now he had to improvise.
He tore off the nylon draw-cord from the drapes in the suite’s living room, all the while keeping an eye on the reclined figure in the vestibule and a gun tightly in hand. Reluctantly he laid the .38 down on a nearby lampstand to use his pocket-knife on the nylon cord, cutting it into three lengths, two of them a foot-and-a-half or so each, the other a good three feet.
Some sounds came from the otherwise lifeless mass over by the door.
He slipped the lengths of rope in his belt and walked over to give Tillis a gentle kick in the ribs. “Wake up.”
“Oh, shit . . . my fuckin’ head . . .”
“Wake up.”
The black man pushed himself to his hands. His close-set eyes zoomed in on Nolan and burned slowly. “You? You’re Nolan? You were in the bar downstairs, weren’t you, motherfuck?”
“That’s right.”
“I seen your picture once, but I didn’t recognize you from it.”
“I changed. You saw a picture maybe fifteen, sixteen years old.”
“I didn’t think I was gettin’ sent after some goddamn senior citizen.”
“And I don’t suppose you thought you’d get knocked on your ass by one either.”
A slight smile appeared on the black’s lips, and he slowly eased himself into a sitting position. “Didn’t have no mustache in that picture I seen. You had it long?”
“It comes and goes. It’s the old age that sticks around.”
“Jesus, man, you ought to give one of them retirement villages some thought.”
“I got to say one thing for you,” Nolan said. “You know what kind of games not to play. No pretending you can’t understand why I clobbered you. No fake innocence, no claim of just accidentally getting into the wrong room or some such fairy tale.”
The big head wagged side to side. “Why should I lie, man? I was sent to check you out, that’s all, make sure you wasn’t going to pull something.”
“You mind, just for the record, telling me who sent you?”
“Shit, you know that as well as I do, man,” the black said, grinning. “Mr. Charlie.”
Nolan had to smile at Tillis’s double meaning. Then the smile left his face and he said, “This visit was just a precaution, then? No beating? No bullet in the head?”
“Yeah, man, you know, like a social call.”
“And the silenced Luger you had with you was a party favor.”
“Oh, that. Just ’cause it had a silencer on don’t mean I was going to shoot you or nothing, man. It’s a habit of mine. Noise gets on my nerves.”
“You used to go for the kind of noise a crowd makes, didn’t you, Tillis?”
He smiled broadly. “Now ain’t that shit. I didn’t know you by sight but you knew me. See me play ever?”
Nolan nodded. “You weren’t bad. You weren’t good either, but then we can’t all make it onto the Wheaties box.”
The smile vanished. “How would you like to wear your white ass around your neck?”
“How would you like your black ass shot the fuck off?”
The toothy smile returned, and Tillis said, “Yeah, you’re some kind of motherfuck, you are.”
“Let’s keep my family out of this. I’d rather talk about yours. Family, that is.”
“Clever motherfuck, too.”
“You know, Tillis, there’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t kill you right now. You coming up here with a silenced automatic . . . it’s a finger pointing at Charlie sending you to kill me.”
“Come off it, man, what you expect? You think Mr. Charlie’s goin’ to figure you to play by the rules? What kind of dumbass motherfuck are you, anyway?”
“A dumbass motherfuck with a .38 pointed at your thick black head.”
Tillis laughed and the laugh had gravel in it. “You know something, Nolan, goddamn you? I like the way you think. You got a real logical way of looking at things.”
“Thought you’d like it. Now, get on your feet, Tillis. We’re going to the john.”
“You mean me and the white folks are goin’ to use the same one?”
“Cute, Tillis. On your feet.”
The big man pushed up slowly, then his body tensed and he started to move forward. Nolan let him look down into the four-inch barrel on the Smith and Wesson, and Tillis’s face split apart into his big white grin.
Nolan smiled momentarily, then waved Tillis on. Tillis moved slowly out of the vestibule and into the living room and followed Nolan’s motions into the bathroom.
“Put the lid down on the stool and sit.”
“What you doin’, man?”
“Just do it, Tillis.”
“Okay, okay.”
Nolan tossed him the long strip of nylon cord. “Loop this behind the pot and tie your feet together. Firmly.”
Tillis bent down and wound the cord behind the toilet and knotted it around his feet.
“Now make a couple fists and hold them out.”
Tillis did so.
“I’m putting my gun away for a moment now, Tillis, so I can tie your hands. If you want to try something, go right ahead.”
Tillis grinned. “Won’t try no tricks.”
Nolan stuck the gun in his belt and knotted one of the short strands around Tillis’s massive wrists.
Tillis said, “Shove a smoke in my mouth for me, man?”
Nolan got out his cigarettes and held one out for Tillis to grab with his lips. Nolan picked a book of matches off the sink counter and lit Tillis’s cigarette, then fired one for himself.
“Why you tying me up, Nolan?”
“Why d’you think?”
“Cause you hate niggers?”
“Does it show?”
Tillis laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ like an honest bigot.”
Nolan laughed a little himself. “Don’t hand me that shit. Not after your ‘Mr. Charlie’ cracks.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t play naive, Tillis. You and I both know why you’re in this business.”
The gravelly laugh echoed within the four close walls. “You’re one smart motherfuck, aren’t you, Nolan? It’s just like football, right? Get paid by white men to beat on other white men.”
Nolan said, “There’s a lot of black guys in football, Tillis, and you knocked them around too. What if ‘Mr. Charlie’ had wanted you to work over a brother instead of me?”
Tillis shrugged. “Just like in football. My greedy nature just ain’t that discriminatin’.”
Nolan said, “Just so we understand each other. Okay. Now, I’m going to lean down and tie your feet again. If you try kicking me in the face while I’m down there, you’re going to find yourself singing soprano in a gospel choir s
omewhere.”
Tillis laughed again, but more softly. “Know something, Nolan?”
“What’s that, Tillis?”
“You got style. You been around and all, and you’re kinda old, but you still got style. Hope like hell I don’t get orders to kill you sometime.”
Nolan bent down and tied the short piece of nylon cord around Tillis’s ankles, knotting it securely. “I feel sure you’ll get over it, should the occasion arise.”
Tillis’s dark face was sober. “Hey, man, no shit. I hope it don’t work out that way.”
Nolan nodded. “I know what you mean.”
The phone rang in the other room.
Tillis’s grin came back. “That’ll be Mr. Charlie, checkin’ to see how well I got things under control.”
8
The voice in the receiver said, “Tillis?”
“He’s on the stool. Message?”
The receiver went silent for several moments, then the voice, which was a rough-edged baritone, returned. “Nolan?”
“Hello, Charlie.”
“What happened to Tillis?”
“I told you. On the crapper.”
“The years haven’t changed you much for the better, have they, Nolan?”
He laughed. “And you, Charlie?” Nolan paused briefly, then added, “Come on up. Bring Werner if you want. Any more men you got along, leave downstairs.”
“You heeled, Nolan?”
“You mean is the wound better?”
“You know what I mean. You’re the one said no guns, remember?”
“Well, hell, Charlie, Tillis was such a pansy, I just used my hands on him.”
“For a man who wanted ground rules, you don’t stick by them too goddamn close, do you?”
Nolan smiled into the mouthpiece. “It’s your rules I play, Charlie,” he said, and hung up.
The open area by the elevators was empty, so Nolan had no qualms about waiting there with the .38 in hand. The gun was in his palm facing inward, and if any of the Concort’s other patrons wandered by before Charlie and Werner came up, chances were good they wouldn’t notice anything.
The elevator doors parted like the Red Sea, and Charlie stepped out, Werner on his heels as though bearing a bridal train.
Two for the Money Page 5
