"Somebody sent them."
Broz kept looking at me with his clasped hands under his chin.
He had a powder blue show hankie in his breast pocket. It matched the tie perfectly.
"And there's some, ah, realignment, maybe, going on in the rackets in town. There's something happening with Gino Fish and Julius Ventura. I hear the Russians are trying to move some people up from New York."
Broz nodded silently.
"Thought you might be able to tell me a little something."
Broz didn't move. He didn't say anything. Looking past him through the big window all I could see was sky and the kind of light you get over water. I waited. Joe unclasped his hands and rested them on the dark walnut arms of his leather chair and tilted the chair back slowly.
"You want a drink?" he said.
"Little early in the day for me."
Joe nodded.
"Early, late, don't make much difference to me anymore. I don't sleep much and when I do, I don't know I'm sleeping unless I have a dream. I eat when I'm hungry. I drink when I want to."
He stood and moved slowly to the ebony bar with the blue leather padding in the corner of the room where so many years ago a guy named Phil had made me a bourbon and water, with a dash of bitters. Things hadn't worked out between me and Phil. I had to kill him a couple of weeks later. He took some ice from a silver ice bucket and put it in a lowball glass and poured some Wild Turkey over it. He carried the drink carefully back to his desk and put it down and sat carefully back down in his chair. Then he picked up the drink and looked at it and took a sip and put it down carefully.
He looked at me for a moment and then shifted his eyes so that he was staring past me.
"I know I owe you," Broz said.
"You don't say anything about that, and I notice that you don't. But you coulda killed my kid, when was it? Three years ago?"
"More like five," I said.
"Five years ago. You coulda killed him, and you' da been justified."
He picked up his drink and had another sip, put the glass down carefully without spilling any, and looked at it absently.
"Kid's out of the business," Broz said. He could have been talking to himself for all the notice he seemed to take of me.
"Set him up in a nice tavern out in Pittsfield. Wasn't cut out for the business. And Vinnie's gone."
"He's with Gino now," I said, just to remind him I was there.
"You know Gino's a fairy?"
I didn't answer. Broz didn't care.
Broz shook his head.
"When I got Gerry settled in the tavern I was gonna pass the business on to Vinnie."
He drank some more Wild Turkey.
"I was gonna retire," he said.
"I was gonna give the business to the kid and Vinnie coulda helped him, but it didn't work out. My wife's dead. I got nothing much going on at home, I got nothing to do, so I figure I may as well work some more. Tony Marcus is away, and his deal is up for grabs, and Gino and Julius are starting to move in 'cause they think I'm over the hill, you know? And I'm thinking about all this and one day this Russian comes in to see me from New York, and he says they'd like to get an operation going up here, and I tell him there's no room for anybody else, and he says they want to join my crew and get rid of Gino and Julius and take over the Marcus operation and they want me to run the whole deal."
Broz smiled a little and tasted a little more of his Wild Turkey.
"And I ask the Russki what his people get out of it? And he says they don't know the territory up here, they want to get set up and sort of ease in, and all they want from me, when I die, they get the business."
"What about Fast Eddie Lee?" I said.
"I asked him that. He says they don't do business with Chinks.
Says they leave Fast Eddie alone, long as he leaves us alone."
"You believe that?" I said.
"They think Fast Eddie's too tough a nut for them right now, they figure they get everything else and isolate Fast Eddie and then when they're ready they move on him. Be what I'd do."
I nodded. We sat quietly. Me looking at Broz. Broz looking past me. Broz was taking a lot of time to get there. But I had time. The plane to Vegas didn't leave until 4:05 in the afternoon.
"I told him no," Broz said.
"I told him there wasn't much outfit left, certainly not enough to take on a partner. He says they bring in new business as they expand. I tell him I don't want to expand. I got no heart for it anymore. I tell him I don't care what happens to the outfit after I die. They can have it as well as anybody else. But, I told him, if anybody makes a move on my outfit while I'm still around I will chew them up and spit them into the harbor like mackerel chum. He says okay would I consider acting as a kind of consultant for them, being as how I know my way around this city.
I say if the price is right I got no problem giving them advice. So the price is right and we make that deal. They leave my crew alone, they can consult me on whatever else they want to do."
"An elder statesman," I said.
"So they ask me who they should start with. I tell them Tony Marcus. He's in the place. Stooge is running the operation."
"They say they don't want to do that because it would make Gino and Julius suspicious. And it might push them together and the Russkies might have to fight them both before they want to.
They want to take them out one at a time, and I say in that case start with Julius. And they say why? And I tell them that Gino's got Marty Anaheim running number two, and Julius got that asshole son-in-law."
"He's not number two for Julius," I said.
"No, but he's waiting around to take over, you don't get a good number-two man, you know what I mean. I know, I lost Vinnie 'cause of the kid."
"So, did they?"
Broz did a big elaborate shrug.
"I'm a consultant, they call me when they need me."
"How would they go about it?"
Again the flamboyant shrug.
"Don't know."
"How would you go about it?"
"Make a deal with Gino. Then after he helps me drop Julius, make a deal with Tony Marcus's stooge to drop Gino. When I got that done, I could pick the stooge off at leisure. Then Fast Eddie could have the Chinks, and I'd have everything else."
"You think they'll leave you in place?" I said.
"I got no place no more," Broz said.
"They got no reason to fuck with me."
"So why did they hit me?"
"Don't know," Broz said.
He leaned forward in his chair and picked up the phone and dialed.
"Broz, lemme talk to Vie… Broz, couple your people tried to hit a guy named Spenser. How come?… Yeah, I know he did. He's sitting here with me in my office… yeah?… yeah?… no he ain't my friend but I owe him something and I pay my debts… yeah… who asked you to do it?… yeah… I don't know, maybe it's personal. Can you lay off Spenser this time around? I only owe him this one, next time you can blow him into caviar, you wanna… Okay? Okay."
He hung up the phone.
"Marty Anaheim asked them to hit you."
"So it looks like they did what you'd have done."
"Looks like," Broz said.
"Except that Marty's not with Gino anymore."
"No he ain't."
"But he probably was," I said, "when the scuffle started."
"Probably."
Broz was obvious in his disinterest.
"You know why Marty left Gino?" I said.
"No."
Broz drank the rest of his Wild Turkey.
"You can have Marty," Broz said.
"Nobody will give a fuck. But stay away from me and the Russkies."
"I'm looking for Bibi Anaheim," I said.
Broz stood carefully and walked carefully to the bar. He poured more Wild Turkey over ice and turned, leaning against the bar the way he always had.
"What I told you is between you and me."
"Sure," I said.
<
br /> "Your word?"
"My word."
"Your word's good," Broz said.
"We even now?"
"I don't know, Joe, I never said we weren't."
"No," Broz said, "you never did."
CHAPTER 46
"You figure Marty wanted to bop you 'cause you keep poking at this thing?" Hawk said.
"Yeah," I said.
We were 33,000 feet above western Pennsylvania in the firstclass compartment (neither Hawk nor I fit well in coach) on our way to Dallas to catch a flight to Las Vegas. I had survived the takeoff again. My tray table was down. I had a scotch and soda and the cabin crew was moving along the aisle serving food.
"Don't seem too smart," Hawk said.
"We was poking, but we wasn't getting anywhere.
"Cept the rocks jivin' in the bag. And what he think we going to do 'bout that anyway."
"We might tell Julius," I said.
The food service was moving closer to us. The food is almost always hideous on an airplane and I can never wait for it to get there.
"You think Julius don't know?" Hawk said.
"Might not know the details."
"And we do?"
"Marty doesn't know what we know," I said.
"He only knows we're pecking at it and we won't go away."
"So how come he don't hit me?"
"Maybe figured with me gone, you'd back off. Maybe figured he'd get you next."
Hawk sipped some champagne and thought about it.
"Nobody ever say Marty is smart," Hawk said.
"But even he got to figure killing you going to stir things up more than they calm things down."
"Maybe it wasn't the mob takeover stuff," I said.
A stewardess with big blonde hair put a tray of food on my table. Her name tag read CHERYL. I took a bite. Hawk looked over as I chewed.
"What'd you get?" he said.
"Might be chicken," I said.
"How about you?"
"They steamed the steak, just right," Hawk said.
"You think he don't want you to find Bibi?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because I think he killed Shirley Ventura. And Bibi knows it, or knows enough to let us figure it out."
Hawk chewed silently and swallowed.
"You ever wonder why they don't just serve you couple nice sandwiches on an airplane," he said. "
"Stead of trying to microwave you a five-course meal that tastes like a boiled Dixie cup?"
"Often," I said.
Hawk drank his champagne.
"Anytime somebody get killed and Marty in the area, it's a decent bet he done it," Hawk said.
"Plus they had something going," I said.
"She used to meet with him regularly. And she had the phone number of his hotel in Vegas when she was killed."
"Plus he had something going with her old man."
"Which might have had something to do with the mob realignment that was developing."
"Maybe Bibi will know something," Hawk said.
Cabin attendant Cheryl came by.
"Did you enjoy your meal, sir?" she said to Hawk.
"Horse died hard," Hawk said.
Cheryl smiled.
"More champagne?"
"Be a fool not to," Hawk said.
Cheryl produced a bottle at once and filled Hawk's glass.
"I'll keep it chilled for you up front," she said.
Hawk nodded gently.
"Be nice if you did," he said.
"And I'll check back regularly," she said.
As she walked away there was a little extra something in the way her hips moved, I thought.
"You think Cheryl's in love with you?" I said.
"Yes," Hawk said.
We survived the landing in Dallas. Cheryl gave Hawk a small slip of paper as we were getting off. He smiled at her and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Hawk and I killed an hour very dead strolling around DFW, and then got a plane to Vegas.
"Did I see Cheryl slip you her phone number?" I said to Hawk when we were airborne and I was able to get my teeth unclenched.
Hawk took the folded paper out of his shirt pocket and looked at it.
"Full name, address, and phone number."
"Does it say "For a good time call Cheryl'?"
"
"Course not, you think she forward or something."
"She based in Boston?" I said.
"Dallas," Hawk said.
"Too bad."
Hawk shrugged.
"Maybe stop off on my way back," he said.
"Be a fool not to," I said.
"Lester going to pick us up?"
"Yeah," Hawk said. "
"Less we crash and burn, killing all on board."
"Of course unless that," I said.
I ordered a scotch and soda from a senior stewardess with a deep whisky voice. She was heavyish with gray hair, and green rimmed half glasses hanging from a lavender cord around her neck. Hawk ordered champagne and she tramped off to get both drinks.
"Maybe she'll give you a note too," I said to Hawk.
"Be for you if she does," he said.
When I finished my drink, I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes and didn't sleep, just as I never sleep on an airplane, while I speculated on the most sensible way to exit when the plane crashed on landing. At ten minutes to eight Pacific time we banked languidly over a frenzy of neon in the middle of the velvet blackness, and at one minute to eight Pacific time we eased onto the tarmac at McCarran and taxied gently to the gate. Made it again. Lester was waiting for us and at twenty to nine we were sitting at the bar in the Debbie Reynolds Hotel and Casino waiting to talk with Bernard J. Fortunate.
CHAPTER 47
The Debbie Reynolds Hotel was definitely more glamorous than Sears Roebuck. There was a small lobby with a few slots and a coffee shop bar where we were. Across the way a gift shop specialized in Debbie memorabilia. There were life-sized posters, framed pictures, cassettes of her movies, sweatshirts with Debbie's picture, many copies of her book, tapes of Debbie singing, key chains, hats, mugs, and no doubt much more. The bartender told us that Debbie came out every night after her show and talked to her fans right here and signed autographs.
"We wrap this up quick," Hawk said, "before her show ends, we can come here and meet her."
"Get a picture of us with her," I said, "to bring back to Lee Farrell."
Bernard J. Fortunato came into the bar and sat on a stool next to me. He was still wearing his Panama hat, and a pink and white necktie. He had a toothpick in his mouth.
"How you doing," he said.
He looked appraisingly at Hawk.
I introduced them.
"You as good as you look?" Fortunate said.
Hawk smiled.
"Or as bad," he said.
Fortunate nodded, and turned to me.
"She's still here. She went up to her room maybe an hour ago, hasn't come down. Room five twenty-one, I already duked the desk clerk."
"There a back way out of here?" I said.
"She either gotta come through the lobby," Fortunato said, "or use the fire stairs that dump out in the alley at the end of the building nearest the Strip."
I pointed.
"That end?" I said.
"Yeah."
I looked at Hawk, he nodded and left the bar.
"Where's the house phone?" I said.
"Lobby, near the desk."
I paid the bartender and Bernard and I walked to the lobby.
There was a small reception desk there and some phones to the right. A guy in a short-sleeved blue and white striped shirt sat behind the desk smoking a cigarette without taking it out of his mouth. Now and then he leaned away from the counter and flicked the accumulating ash into a receptacle I couldn't see. Or maybe onto the floor.
"How much you duke him?" I said to Fortunato.
"I give him a C," Fortunato said.
"It'll be on the bill."
&nb
sp; There was a rack of Las Vegas guide magazines, advertising on their covers celebrations of infinite scope built around superstars of colossal magnitude, whom I, in my ignorance, had not always heard of. On the other hand, I had heard of Debbie Reynolds.
"Call Bibi," I said.
"Tell her who you are, that you work for Marty, and you want to see her in the lobby right now."
"And she scoots down the back stairs and your pal grabs her in the alley."
I nodded. Bernard picked up the phone and spoke into it. He listened and spoke again.
"You don't know me, but my name's Fortunato and I work for Marty Anaheim."
He paused, listening.
"Yeah, you do," he said.
"He's your husband."
He listened, moving the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"Have it any way you want," he said.
"I'm in the lobby. I want to see you. I can come up or you can come down."
He winked at me.
"No, no, sis, those are the choices, you come down or I come up."
He listened, nodding slightly.
"Okay, but I don't see you in fifteen, I'm knocking on your door."
Then he hung it up, and grinned at me.
"I guess she wants a head start," Bernard said.
"Says she was in the shower, has to get dressed, be down in fifteen minutes."
"Might be true," I said.
"Sure. I got a tenner says she'll be in here with the schwartza in less than three minutes."
"His name's Hawk," I said.
"No offense. Hell, I call myself the mini guinea."
I looked at my watch. We waited. A group of people who must have gotten off a tour bus from Kansas trouped in through the front door. They turned right and followed their tour guide down the corridor toward the ballroom where Debbie's next show was gathering momentum. As they cleared the lobby, Hawk walked in the front door with his hand gently on Bibi Anaheim's arm. It was two minutes and thirty-four seconds from the time Fortunato called.
"You owe me ten," Fortunato said.
"I didn't bet," I said.
CHAPTER 48
I paid Bernard J. Fortunato off, in cash, on the spot, expenses included. He folded it up without counting it and slid it into his right-hand pants pocket.
"You don't want to count it?" I said.
"Naw, my line of work you can't tell the difference between who you can trust, and who you can't… time to find another line of work."
Chance s-23 Page 19
