Operation Bamboozle (8 page)

“This your home town?” Luis asked. The soldier slowly turned his head to see what sort of fool this shithead was. His eyes were doubleglazed to ensure no human warmth escaped. “Nope,” he said.

Luis allowed a decent pause for the rush of conversation to subside.

“What's El Paso famous for?” he said. “I'm a visitor.”

“Huh. I'm bustin' a gut to get the fuck outa here, you're payin' to get in.” He spoke in a dull monotone. He didn't like what he said. “El Paso's the biggest piece a nowhere in the US. Famous for that.”

“Not a cheery thought.”

“Fuckin' army gives you the shittiest postin' it can find.”

“And you're from …”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Ah, yes.” Luis thought of something encouraging. “The Pittsburgh Symphony is widely admired.”

“Pittsburgh got the Steelers,” the soldier said, suddenly alive. “Steeler offense hits your fuckin' symphony, they gonna wake up playin' a different tune.”

“I see.” Luis understood none of it. “Surely there's something comparable here.”

“El Paso got rodeos. You like watchin' a dumb cowboy fallin' off a dumb horse, good luck.” He walked away, in no hurry. Wherever he went in El Paso, it was never Pittsburgh.

Frankie Blanco watched the soldier leave the bridge and he edged alongside him. “Saw you talkin' to my pal,” he said.

“Christ Almighty,” the soldier sighed. “Two old faggots in two minutes. Go fuck yourself, Jack.”

“Hey! I was in the military. Show some respeck.” Frankie hung onto the shreds of his temper. Where did this skinny kid get off calling him
old?
“I'm worried about my pal. He ain't right in the head. What did he say?” That was a wrong question, he knew it at once, but he hadn't had time to think ahead, he was playing everything off the cuff. “I'm his pal, see. We … we was
paratroops. In France. We hit the silk together, you know?” This was getting worse. The soldier lengthened his stride. Frankie was having to hurry. “He took a bad hit, see, on the head, and now …”

The soldier suddenly stopped. “Go fuck a duck, you fat old creep,” he shouted. Frankie turned away, shamefaced. People were staring. When he looked up the soldier had gone.

“You sad piece of piss,” he whispered. “Anyone said that in Chicago was Swiss cheese.” But he knew he'd failed. He hadn't found what that rendezvous on the bridge was about. It might mean nothing, the kid could even be Cabrillo's son. Or he might be the designated hitman. Soldiers often wore sidearms, so the uniform made for good cover. Now the guy knew exactly what his victim looked like. So now Cabrillo and the soldier had to be whacked, both. Shit and double shit. Frankie felt tired and lonely. He fumbled a Pall Mall from a pack and a man called out: “Hey! Frankie Blanco!” He was so shocked, he dropped the cigarette and turned a half-circle, searching. Ten yards away a man was holding the door of a taxi, giving him a long hard look. The face was familiar. Then he was in the taxi, and gone.

Half an hour later, Frankie was on his third rye and beer chaser when he remembered the face. Eugene Lutz, chief bookkeeper with the Mob. From that moment on, he couldn't drink the rye or the chaser, couldn't think, had difficulty breathing. The barman gave him a glass of water. He couldn't drink that either. “You don't look too good, pal,” the barman said. He was thinking:
Go die in the street, not in my bar, I got enough to do.
Frankie was thinking:
That's three guys I got to whack.

Lutz wouldn't speak to anybody but Sam Giancana. Sam ran his end of the Mob like it was General Motors, and Lutz knew he'd handle this surprise like a product recall.

“Tell me you're homesick, Gene,” Sam said. “Your job here's waiting for you.”

“Got a pencil, Sam?” Lutz gave him the number of the pay phone in a nearby drugstore. The FBI couldn't bug every phone in El Paso.

Ten minutes later Giancana called him from a pay phone in Chicago. “I'm listening,” he said.

“Frankie Blanco's alive. I saw him half an hour ago, here, in the street. One hundred percent certain. I called his name and he froze. It's 85 degrees here, Sam, but he froze.”

“Got an address for him?”

“No. But it's a small town.”

“We have contacts at your end can do the legwork. Tony Feet will fly down. I can't leave here right now. You keeping well?”

“Never better.”

All the ladies who sat in Daniel's chairs loved the paintings. Some simply adored them. Everyone thought it must be wonderful to have such talent. Nobody bought anything.

Mrs. Susan Chandler took home the one of the fly fisherman up to his thighs in a broad, bubbling trout stream. He was seen from the opposite bank, which allowed Princess to make the most of the swirling water, partly shaded by overhanging trees. A rock created eddies. Leaves floated by. It was a nice place to grow up in, if you were a fish. Wonderfully wet. Mrs. Chandler brought it back.

“My husband goes fishing,” she said. “He loves this picture, says it's very … authentic. He sees himself standing in that river, you know?”

“The sympathetic eye,” Julie said. “A great gift.” It was late afternoon and the salon was empty. She could see Luis waiting in the car.

“Sure. The thing is … Bob's a tall man, six foot two, and this guy looks kind of medium height.”

“Think so?” Julie held it at arm's length. “Up to his thighs. Could be a deep river.”

“Yeah … the real problem, I've got to tell you, is the hair. There really isn't much, is there? And Bob's fair-haired, almost blond, it grows real thick with a natural wave. If you could fix that, and maybe get rid of those dark glasses, Bob hates dark glasses, always has.”

“This is an original painting,” Julie said. “It's the artist's vision. We're not in the Identikit business.”

“Yes, but … Well, I took a couple of art courses at college, so I know how easy it is to … I mean, painter's don't always get it right first time, do they?”

“This one did.”

“I don't understand.” Mrs. Chandler was a quiet, well-mannered lady, and now she was genuinely puzzled. “We're the ones who'll get the benefit. Don't you want to make people happy?”

“Find another artist, Mrs. Chandler. Go commission a work. Make your requirements known.”

“Bob's dog always goes with him.” She pointed to a spot on the bank. “Sits right there and watches. Beautiful springer spaniel.”

“Out of the question.”

“Only a little dog.”

“It's not for sale.”

Mrs. Chandler turned away and looked at all the other paintings. “Not doing much trade, are you?” she said; still calm, still quiet. “You're from the East, right? New York, I believe. We do things kind of differently here. There's a lot of give and take in El Paso. This was a frontier town not long ago. Being neighborly came natural in hard times, and folk still like to help each other. Maybe that's why we don't have too many psychiatrists in El Paso. No demand.”

“Not many artists either. Same reason.”

“There you go again,” Mrs. Chandler said sadly. She left.

Driving home, Luis wanted to talk about lunch with James de Courcy. Julie let him. It wasn't until they were indoors that he asked her what sort of day she'd had.

“Utterly totally stinking godawful bloody lousy,” she said. “Those were the good bits.”

“Keerice!” Princess Chuckling Stream said. “I wanna hear the bad bits.”

She told them about Mrs. Chandler. “Way she was going, we'd of had swans, clowns an' the US Cavalry comin' over the hill, so I said not for sale. End of story.” She stood the painting on a shelf.

“Next time, ask me first,” Princess said. “I'd of done it.”

“No, you wouldn't. Not to a gem like that.”

“She has a point,” Luis said to Princess. “Mrs. Chandler's changes were all crap.”

“Who gives a shit? My stuff is crap. What we're talkin' about here is crap on crap.” They were in the kitchen, and she was preparing supper. “Difference is, when Ma Chandler pays cash we can eat.” She cut the head off a big catfish.

“She has a point,” Luis said. “And that's the ugliest animal I ever saw.”

“I won't do it,” Julie said. “I won't desecrate beauty, and if you say I have a point I'll punch your teeth in.”

Princess picked up the head and pointed it at Luis. “All the other catfish think this cutie is Audrey Hepburn. They ain't so sure about you. You win the ugly prize down catfish alley.”

He looked at the painting. “You know, I sort of like the idea of a dog on the bank.”

“Mrs. Chandler won't come back,” Julie said. Defeat had flattened her voice. “She'll tell her friends we're New York snobs.”

“Well, she got a point.” Princess said. “I favor garlic, anchovies and a hot chili with this beauty. That how you cook it in New York?”

“We're bust,” Julie said. “Finished.”

“I don't think New York ever saw a catfish,” Luis said. “Immigration hasn't got a catfish quota.” He had meant to tell them about saving Freddy Garcia from the wolves, but now wasn't the right time. “Chin up, old girl,” he said, and wished he hadn't. This wasn't World War Two. This was serious. This was Art. Unless it was crap. He gave up.

When he was eight, and visiting his uncle's farm, Tony Feet got too interested in the action and the rear wheel of a tractor ran over his feet. Luckily his boots were new, the ground was soft, and the broken bones healed, but ever afterward he walked delicately, as if he didn't completely trust the ground beneath him. When he joined the Organization he was called Tony Feet, not in mockery, but because a lot of Tonys worked there.

He came down the steps from the airliner and Eugene Lutz met him. They talked in the car. “So we buried the wrong body,” Feet said. “I used to wonder who put Blanco in the lake. Problem was, he blew the whistle on so many of our people, it
could have been any one of them. Or anyone's brother-in-law. Some cop, even. Plenty on the payroll.”

“I know. I paid them.”

“You get a good look at him?”

Lutz nodded. “I could tell straight off. I called his name and he jumped three point seven feet off the ground and pissed himself a pint and a quarter.” Feet laughed. “Two percent margin of error,” Lutz said. “Either way.”

“Get a load of this sunshine. Why can't Chicago be in Texas, Gene?”

“It's a penance,” Lutz said. “For inventing chewing gum.”

A man called Fitzroy was waiting in the lobby of Lutz's apartment block. Fiftyish, thin, anonymous except for his eyes. He had tailor's eyes: they felt your wallet while they measured your inside leg. “Mr. Giancana mentioned a photograph,” he said. Tony Feet gave him a dozen prints. “He's put on fifty pounds,” Lutz said. “Lost a lot of hair, too.”

“I've got my people out looking,” Fitzroy said. “If he's in El Paso, we'll find him.”

“If he's in El Paso
he
might want to find
you,”
Feet said to Lutz. “You scared him. Go pack a bag. You and me, we'll stay at a hotel. What's the best?”

“The Bristol,” Fitzroy said. “My cousin's the manager. It will be an honor. No charge.”

“See?” Lutz said. “You should live here, Tony. People are real friendly.”

“One of your guys goes in the Lutz apartment,” Feet told Fitzroy. “In case Blanco calls.”

Fate had been a big disappointment to Frankie Blanco. He'd given it his best shot, and what had it come up with? First off, nothing much. And now, too much. Fuck fate. You're fired.

That was one good decision, and it made him feel better, so he had another idea: go hide in Mexico. For what? Forever? The idea began to hurt his brain. Lousy idea.
Stick to what you're good at, Frankie,
his mother had always said. He was good at whacking people and at pumping gas. He had the Texaco job, no strain on the brain, so long as you didn't smoke near the pumps. He went back to work.