Hush Money (20 page)

He ran the rest of the way.

When he touched Steve’s shoulder, he knew.

He gently lifted the body, looked at the dime-size hole in Steve’s temple, where the bullet had gone in. The boy’s eyes were open. There was an expression frozen onto the boy’s face, which seemed to Nolan an expression of disappointment.

Steve’s last thought, apparently, had been that Nolan betrayed him.

He lowered Steve back into the trunk, which was filled with luggage and other personal belongings. Steve had been loading up the trunk, evidently when it happened. Since there was no milling crowd, it was apparent a silenced gun had been used. Nolan noticed an envelope in Steve’s breast pocket, when he lowered the boy; he looked inside the envelope, pocketed it.

He put the .38 away. He knew who’d killed Steve, and why, and knew also that the killer was no longer around.

He walked back to the Cadillac.

Before he got in, he struck the side of the car with his fist, leaving a dent.

Five: Saturday Morning

17

NOLAN BROKE
the egg on the side of the skillet.

Jon, yawning, came into the kitchen. “Oh, Nolan . . . are you up already?”

“No.” He broke a second egg. A third.

“No?”

“Haven’t been to bed yet.”

“Oh. I never saw you cook before. I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’m fifty years old and a bachelor. I can cook. You want some eggs?”

“Sure. Sunny side up.”

“Scrambled.”

“Yeah, well, scrambled, then. What are you cooking for, Nolan?”

“Practice. I’m out of shape scrambling eggs and want to make sure I haven’t lost my touch.”

Jon yawned. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I had some thinking to do.”

“What kind of thinking?”

“Figuring some things out.”

“Such as?”

“Such as whether or not to kill some people.”

“Oh. What did you decide?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“You want me to fix some toast?”

“Why don’t you.”

It was seven o’clock in the morning. Nolan didn’t have to ask Jon why he was up. The kid always got up at seven on Saturday to watch old Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck cartoons; Nolan had learned that the time he was healing up from some bullet wounds here at Planner’s.

Nolan stirred the eggs. Added a touch of milk. He was coming down now, coming down from an anger that had swelled in him all the way home from Des Moines, building through the night as he sat in the front room in the living quarters above the antique shop. The anger was beginning to taper off now, after peaking half an hour ago or so; he was beginning to see the way all the pieces fit and that a single piece remained, a piece that was in his control.

Jon got out some bread and put it in the toaster and came over to Nolan and said, “What’s on your mind? You want to talk now? It has something to do with that young guy that was shot in Des Moines before we left, doesn’t it?”

They hadn’t talked about it yet, any of it. The drive back to Iowa City had been a silent one. Nolan hadn’t been in a mood to discuss anything.

“Yeah,” Nolan said, stirring the eggs. “It does. I’m the one who killed that boy.”

“What?”

“The Family used me to set him up.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I fingered him. I didn’t do it knowingly, but that doesn’t make him any less dead.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Deciding whether or not to kill some people.”

“That’s one option.”

“That other time, years ago, you killed a guy in the Family over something like this. Isn’t that kind of, well, inconsistent? You don’t want to kill people, so as a protest you kill somebody?”

Nolan shrugged. “It was the principle of the thing.”

“I see. Are you going to handle it the same way now?”

“I don’t know. I’m older than I was then. Young guys do . . . crazy things sometimes. Maybe I’m smart enough now to find something better to do than go around shooting people, some better way to . . . settle a score.”

“I thought things were different in Chicago now.”

“So did I.” He’d thought the change of regime meant something. That times had changed, that the businessmen had taken over, public relations men and computers taking the place of strong-arms and Tommy guns. Which was true, he supposed, to a point. Past that point, however, underneath the glossy corporate image, the Family was the same bunch of ruthless bastards they’d always been, always would be. Faces might change with the style of the clothes, and the polish on the front men, like Felix, just got smoother all the time. But adding in computers and P.R. men didn’t change the nature of the Family. Fact was it made the killing all the more cold-blooded impersonal. He stirred the eggs. “I’ll be going to the Tropical this afternoon. You can come along and help me move out if you want, kid.”

“You’re quitting them, then? What are you going to do, go in business with that friend of yours?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll throw in with Wagner. Can you put me up for a while?”

“You can stay as long as you want, Nolan, you know that.” Jon got a funny grin going. “So you’re breaking with the Family. I guess I can’t say I blame you, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I just don’t see that working for them, managing a restaurant or motel, is any, you know, big deal. No worse than working for the government or something.”

Nolan laughed. “Shit, lad, I wouldn’t work for those sons of bitches either. Get a couple plates before I burn these things.”

They sat at the table and ate.

Jon said, “That guy Cotter . . . when I spotted him pulling out in front of us . . . he’d just killed that kid, hadn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“You think you’ll, uh, do something to Cotter?”

“Probably not. He’s just a finger that pulls triggers.”

They ate in silence a few moments.

“Nolan?”

“What.”

“Is it all right if I get in touch with Francine?”

Nolan thought for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t see why not.”

“Good. I hate the way we had to get out of Des Moines so damn fast, without a word or anything. I hate to think she thinks I was . . . using her. I mean I didn’t get to talk to her at all, after you brought her in to cool her old man off.”

“I don’t care what you do, kid, but I wouldn’t be calling her long distance this morning.”

“How come?”

“She’s got a funeral to attend.”

A double funeral: Joey DiPreta, killed by Steve McCracken, and Vince DiPreta, killed by somebody else.

Somebody else being the Family, in the form of a guy named Cotter.

When he thought back, Nolan realized he’d never directly mentioned Vince’s death to Steve, thinking it was unspoken common knowledge between them. But he saw now that Steve had known nothing about Vince’s murder. For one thing, the boy had registered surprise and non- recognition when first facing Nolan, whereas Vince’s killer had already seen Nolan plainly through a sniperscope; and Steve’s arsenal had not included a silencer, whereas Vince had been brought down by a silenced rifle dispensing a bullet of a caliber far less than one that could have come from Steve’s bone-crushing Weatherby. And Nolan had seen two cars driving away from the shooting scene, one of them a Corvette, which Nolan had assumed was Steve’s, only to discover too late that the boy drove something else. The other car, the one Nolan ignored, was a Cadillac. The Family liked its people to travel first class: Lincolns, Cadillacs. Nolan drove a Family Cad. So did Cotter.

It was a power play, pure and simple: Vince was the conservative DiPreta who wanted to cut the cord with the Family, and so the Family, not wanting the cord cut, took advantage of Steve McCracken’s “war” to get rid of Vince, making him look like just another casualty. The younger, more strongly mob-oriented Frank would be the sole surviving DiPreta brother and could be easily manipulated into staying within the Family fold.

Steve had been killed because once the tapes were in Family hands—in Nolan’s hands—the boy was completely and desirably expendable. He died taking the blame for Vince’s murder with him. He died saving the Family the expense of paying him $100,000. His murder would be explained to Frank DiPreta as a show of support by the Family. Hey, Frank, look, we tracked down the guy who shot your brothers and killed him for you,
paisan
. His murder would be explained to Nolan as having been the work of Frank DiPreta; the Family would deny any involvement, via Felix’s usual line of bullshit.

“So what are you going to do?” Jon asked. “Tell that Felix guy to stick that fat Family job up his ass and break it off? Is that how you’re going to handle it?”

“No,” Nolan said, shaking his head. “I’ll just quit. Acting pissed off won’t do me any good. And I’m too old to wage war. Of course they expect me to put the money they’re paying me back into the Family, and they’ll bitch when I want to take it with me, but they’ll hand it over. And they’ll let me quit. I’m not important to them.”

“What about the score you said you had to settle?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Jon was finished with breakfast. He got up and said, “Well, while you’re thinking, I’m going in the other room and write Francine. That okay?”

“Why not.”

Nolan got himself some coffee, sat and drank and thought.

The only loose end was Diane. He wondered how she was reacting to her brother’s death. She’d made some ground yesterday in overcoming some pretty bad hangups. Would she regress now? And would she blame Nolan, in any way, for the death of her brother? He couldn’t have risked staying last night to tell her about Steve, and he couldn’t risk contacting her now, not with all the police that would be hanging around. Somehow, sometime, he would explain it to her. Whether or not she’d understand was another question.

This afternoon he would go to the Tropical, hand the tapes over to Felix, collect his money, quit. With no fanfare. No harsh words. If he got a chance to catch Cotter some place dark, that would be fine. But that was a luxury he could only indulge in if the opportunity presented itself; he wouldn’t seek it out.

Oh, and he would mention to Felix that it was unfortunate that the Family (or Frank DiPreta or whoever) had decided to kill Steve McCracken, because there was no way, really, to know whether or not McCracken had had an insurance policy—that is, someone holding copies of the tapes and related documents for forwarding to certain authorities, should anything happen to the boy. Felix would moan and groan, but Nolan would disclaim responsibility. He’d been told the boy would be left alone; it wasn’t Nolan’s fault if somebody chose to kill McCracken and thereby set in motion the release of the tapes.

And the tapes, apparently, could do some real damage to the Family. Not put them out of business, of course—that would never happen—but cripple them for a time, cause them considerable grief. Especially if somebody should happen to inform Frank DiPreta that the Family was behind brother Vince’s murder, in which case Frank just might turn up in court as a key prosecution witness, getting revenge and limited immunity as a sort of package deal.

Maybe you can’t destroy the Family, Nolan thought. But you sure as hell can kick ’em in the balls now and then.

He dug in his pocket for the envelope he’d taken from Steve’s pocket when he’d found the boy’s body slumped over in the trunk of that car. The envelope contained an address on a slip of paper and a key. The key was to a bus station locker, and in the locker was the duplicate set of tapes and related documents.

He found a small cardboard box under the sink and brown wrapping paper and string in the cupboard. He put the key, with a terse explanatory note, in the box, which he wrapped and tied. He copied the address from the slip of paper onto the package, and signed as a return address: “R. Scott, Comiskey Park, Chicago.”