Two for the Money (38 page)

“Why’s that?”

“It’s good to have some weight on you when you’re trying to get over a bad injury.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nolan shrugged.

Angello’s round face showed irritation, his big bump of a nose twitching like an animated lump of clay. “Hey, you make me tired, all that tough-guy stuff. How do you keep it up, all day long, the tough-guy stuff? Don’t you know some of us go home to the wife and kids, and live, you know, pretty normal lives, and all this tough-guy stuff just doesn’t make it, it isn’t real life, you know?”

Nolan leaned close to the chubby face and pointed with a French fry. “You want to hear about real life? I’ll tell you about it. Real life is you in a ditch with your arms broken if you think you’re coming with me.”

Angello grinned suddenly, scooped a tall bite of pancakes into his mouth and chewed while he said, “You don’t frighten me. I don’t pee my pants when you say boo, Nolan. I’m not a fucking kid like Greer. You shook him up with all that taking his gun away nonsense, back with Felix at the Tropical yesterday, but your show, it doesn’t move me. That’s what it is, you know, a show, a act, and I know it, so drop it already. Your type, Nolan, your type talks a hell of a show but you die like everybody else.”

“I’m alive,” Nolan said.

“Today. How’d you do with Greer, anyway? You slap the kid around and make yourself feel like a champ, or what? Jeez.”

“We got along okay,” Nolan said, softly, not knowing quite how to react to this guy. “I’d trade you in for him gladly.”

“I bet you would. Rather have somebody you can push around, right?”

No, Nolan thought; that wasn’t it, not quite. Maybe
Angello wasn’t scared of Nolan, but the reverse was equally true. But Nolan did prefer dealing with someone more predictable. He didn’t know what to make of this chubby-faced thin man, who talked about the wife and kids and hinted at guns and death out on the edges of his conversation.

Nolan liked known quantities. He didn’t like the idea of taking
any
Family man along on the very delicate calls he was planning to make in Milwaukee these next few hours, but at least with Greer he would have been able to depend on unquestioning workmanship. Greer had shown himself to be an unobtrusive pro back at Iowa City, with Karen, Ainsworth, and Sturms.

Sturms had been no problem, none at all. He came in and, in spite of a slight case of nerves because of the guns pointed at him, the well-groomed glorified drug peddler told Nolan everything he knew of Charlie’s trip to Iowa City. Told Nolan about the phone calls from Charlie’s son, and how cautious he, Sturms, had been about helping the pair, insisting on the son calling Harry in Milwaukee for confirmation.

Nolan felt now that his initial appraisal of Greer had been hasty. Greer hadn’t done anything especially noteworthy in Iowa City, but he’d provided good solid backup, and when Nolan suggested that Greer stay behind to watch over Sturms and Ainsworth, there’d been no smartass arguments or indignant refusals. Greer had just accepted it, without making necessary Nolan’s going into the obvious need for keeping the two men from getting to a telephone to warn Harry that Nolan was on his way to Milwaukee. Greer had only said that he’d have to call and check first with Felix, and Nolan had said go ahead.

But Felix hadn’t taken Nolan’s leaving Greer behind as graciously as had Greer himself.

“You knew this before you left,” the shrill voice had said from over the phone, “you knew then that you’d be leaving my man behind. That’s why you insisted on his taking a separate car, isn’t it? You want to shake loose from the Family
on this, don’t you, Nolan? You see this only as a personal vendetta, and insist on ignoring the more far-reaching consequences.”

Nolan had denied the charges, but allowed Felix to carry on with his summation to the jury a while longer before interrupting to remind the lawyer that that list of addresses and phone numbers promised earlier would come in handy now. Felix had agreed and set up this meeting at the tollway truck stop, where Angello was to deliver the list.

Nolan sipped his coffee, his second cup, and hoped things would be okay in Iowa City. He had confidence in Greer, now, but soon Greer would be leaving Karen’s apartment, releasing the two men, and Karen would be left to live in Iowa City, where Ainsworth and Sturms both resided, and the two of them might bear the girl a grudge.

But they wouldn’t do anything about it. Before he’d gone Nolan had explained to them that after their release they would be expected to stay out of Karen’s hair. If, in fact,
one
hair on her head was touched, Nolan promised he’d come around and cut their balls off. Whether they were responsible or not.

“If you don’t think I’m serious,” Nolan had said, “check with Charlie’s brother Gordon.”

And Sturms had said, “I thought Charlie’s brother Gordon was dead.”

And Nolan hadn’t said anything.

Reflecting on that, he smiled a little, and thought that perhaps this Angello was right about the hardnose routine; maybe it was just a routine, which he’d put into use now that he was getting old—fifty!—and perhaps didn’t have the stuff to back himself up anymore. An aging hoodlum, propped up on verbal crutches.

But that wasn’t right either, because he’d always found that saying things for effect was a powerful tool, when used with restraint, and he’d handled that tool long and well. If people think you’re hard, they’ll leave you be, and save you needless grief—not to mention energy and ammunition.

Not that he was the melodramatic son of a bitch Charlie was.

The old bastard. Now there was a guy who talked tough, always had, and was no fake: Charlie backed it up, every time. Nolan had never feared Charlie—but he knew enough to respect him. Not his word, which Charlie kept only when it was to his advantage to do so, but respect his threats, no matter how ridiculous they might seem. Charlie would hang a man by the ass from the ceiling of a warehouse with a meathook, in a day when such tactics were thought to be long dead and almost quaint memories of the Prohibition era. Charlie would have a man taken to a basement somewhere and tied to a stool and a dead bird shoved in his mouth and two men shooting behind either ear of the “stool pigeon” in a ritual that in being a cliché was no less terrifying and, well, efficient. Charlie might lie to you, but never in his threats, because Charlie was a melodramatic son of a bitch, who took delight in seeing his melodramatic notions brought into play, and that was probably part of why he snatched Jon.

Nolan got up from the booth without excusing himself and felt Angello’s eyes on his back as he headed for the cash register where a girl broke several of his dollars into change. He headed for the phone booth in the recession between two facing restrooms and closed himself inside the booth. A light and a fan went on and Nolan sat and looked over the list, though he knew already the best place to start.

Tillis.

Tillis was an enforcer who had worked for Charlie for the last five years or so, and was presently working for Charlie’s late wife’s brother Harry in Milwaukee. Tillis was one of a select few blacks serving the upper echelon of the Chicago Family, and had broken the racial barrier in a time-honored American way: he was an athlete, and a good one. The six-three, two-seventy black had played pro ball in the NFL, but left early in a promising career because of a bum knee, and it was long-time football buff Charlie who gave the ex-
guard a new team to play for—the mob.

Nolan and Tillis had met last year, in the flare-up of the long-smoldering feud with Charlie. Being soldiers in opposing armies didn’t keep the two men from liking each other, and Tillis had, in fact, secretly helped Nolan in a tight spot with Charlie, and without Tillis, Nolan might not have been alive today.

But Tillis’s loyalty to Charlie was something to contend with, as Nolan had little doubt that without Tillis,
Charlie
might not have been alive today, either.

Four of the telephone numbers on the list pertained to Tillis. Two were work-oriented: Harry’s office and a Family-owned restaurant; the others were apartments: one was in Tillis’s name, the other in a woman’s. Nolan tried the woman and got Tillis on the line in ten rings.

There was a rumble, as a throat was cleared and a mind struggled to uncloud, and Tillis finally said, “Uh, yeah . . . yes, what is it?”

“How you doing, Tillis?”

“Is that you, Corio? Is something up? Am I suppose to come down or something?”

“No, it’s not Corio.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, fuck, who is this, do you know what time it is? Shit, it’s so goddamn late it’s early.”

“This is Nolan. Remember me?”

“Nolan! You crazy motherfuck, are
you
still alive? Man, never thought I’d be hearing your voice again. What’s happening?”

“Want to talk to you, Tillis. You going to be where you are for a while?”

“All day, unless I get a call from the Man, saying do some work. Got the day off and I’m planning on spending it in bed with my woman.”

“I’ll come talk to you, then.”

“Okay. You know how to get here?”

“I’ll find it.”

“When should I expect you?”

“Well, I’m calling long distance, never mind from where. I’m about three hours, maybe four from Milwaukee. Look for me late morning, early afternoon.”

“Okay, man. What’s this about?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah. Well, do me a favor and don’t call your present employer, okay? I want to talk to you, not a roomful of Harry’s button men.”

“We were always straight with each other, Nolan.”

“Right. You’re the straightest guy that ever shot me, Tillis. You’re my pal.”

“Same old mouthy motherfuck, ain’t you, Nolan? See you round noon and my woman’ll whip up some soul food for you.”

“What kind of soul food?”

“Your people’s kind, man. Irish stew.” Tillis’s laugh was booming even over the phone. “Can you get into that?”

“I can dig it,” Nolan said, smiling.

Nolan hung up the phone, checked his watch. He could make it to Tillis’s place in forty minutes or so from here. Being five or six hours early should help avoid any problems that could come if Tillis decided to call Harry and some of the boys. He liked Tillis, but didn’t particularly trust him.

Phoning Tillis was risky, but it saved time. Going around to the various places on the list looking for him would have been a lengthy pain in the ass, and besides, nobody could shoot you over the phone. Now he had Tillis nailed down in one spot, and by lying about when he’d be there, Nolan was as protected in the situation as he could hope to be.

On his way back he ordered his third cup of coffee, then sat down in the booth, not even glancing at Angello. He knew he should be moving faster, and that the twenty minutes he’d have spent in this truck stop could prove decisive. But he also knew that unless he got some caffeine and food in him, he wasn’t going to last. He’d been up all night, crisscrossing the damn Interstate, first to Iowa and now back to
Illinois and Wisconsin, and he hadn’t had a meal since the scrambled egg breakfast he’d shared with Sherry some sixteen hours ago. A few years back all of this would have rolled off him; now was a different story. Happy birthday, he thought, with as much humor as bitterness.

He wasn’t thinking about Jon. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. If the boy was alive, Nolan would find him. If the boy was dead, Nolan would see some people suffer.

“I’m talking to you, Nolan,” Angello was saying.

“I’m not listening,” Nolan said. He looked down and realized he’d finished his cheeseburger and fries; he didn’t remember doing it.

Angello said, “I’m willing to give you a sort of a break, you know?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want me along, right? You seem to take one look at me and your mouth fills up with rotten things to say. And me, I don’t relish spending the day in the company of a sour would-be hardass like you.”

“We don’t like each other. Agreed.”

Angello smiled, his pudgy face almost cherubic. “You see, it’s like this . . . I got this lady friend in Milwaukee, and when I found out I was going to be in town today I called her up and she was free. And, well, I wouldn’t mind spending the morning with this lady friend, you know what I mean?”

“What about your wife you’re always talking about?’

“She’s at home with the kids where she belongs, what d’you mean what about my wife? Anyway, the only reason I’m insisting on staying with you is I got to stay in tight with Felix. I mean, I want to hang onto my job, you can understand that, it pays good, keeps my family in nice clothes and their stomachs filled, you know?”

Nolan nodded.

“So here’s what I thought. I’ll kind of let you go your own way, but I’ll leave the number for you to call. It’s a greasy spoon on the north side of Milwaukee, my lady friend lives up above. The guy’ll relay whatever message you got for me
upstairs. I think it would work out okay, but you worry me a little. I mean, Jesus, if you go and get killed you’ll put me in a very sticky situation.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting killed.”

“That’s just it, who does? And you, you’re due to get it one of these times, I mean, I heard the stories about you. But I’m willing, if you’ll promise to cover for me with Felix, and call that number I’ll give you every half hour or so, to let me know things are going okay, and give me some idea of where you’re going to be. And we’ll have to meet someplace afterward and get our stories together. I don’t know. Jeez. What d’you think?”

“I think I like you better now,” Nolan said. He waved at a waitress, to get one last cup of coffee. “Let me buy you some more pancakes.”

“Okay,” Angello said, “but my wife is going to kill me.”

When he got there, Nolan thought he’d screwed up. Or maybe that kid at the filling station told him wrong. The neighborhood was upper middle class, full of big two-story white houses, old but with good gothic lines and well kept up. The streets were wide and lined with shade trees and two cars per family. The lawns sloped away from sidewalks and were well tended, green trimmed hedges crowding porches, separating this yard from that one. What the hell was Tillis doing here?