Robert Alter - 101 Mystery Stories

“We’re letting it ride a while, Jimmy. Things are hot.”

I got up and started for the door.

He said softly, “Sit down, Jimmy.”

I didn’t, but I went back and stood in front of him.

“Well?” I asked.

“About the boys you’ve lined up to buck me, Jimmy. When do you think you’re going to take over?”

I guess I’d underestimated him. You can’t run the rackets and not be hep.

I sat down. “I don’t get you, boss,” I stalled. “What’s on your mind?”

“Let’s settle this, Jimmy,” he said. There were beads of sweat on his bald spot again and he wiped it off. I kept my yap shut and looked at him. It was his move.

“You’re a good guy, Jimmy,” he went on. “You’ve been a big help to me.”

There wasn’t any malarkey in that. But he was just winding up and I sat back and waited to see what he was going to pitch.

“But six months ago I saw it couldn’t last, Jimmy. You got big ideas. This burg isn’t big enough for you to stay in second spot. Right?”

I still waited for him to go on.

“You think you’ve bought four of the boys. You’ve only got two. The other two leveled with me. They’re set to gum your works.”

That was bad listening. He did know; four was right. And I didn’t know which two ratted. All right. I thought, this is the showdown.

“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“You’re too ambitious for me, Jimmy. I was satisfied to run the slot machines and the joints. Maybe just a little on the protection societies. You want to run the town. You want to collect the taxes. And your trigger finger’s too jittery for me, Jimmy. I don’t like killing, except when I have to.”

“Lay off the character reading,” I told him. “You’ve called the shots. Add it up.”

“You could kill me now, maybe. But you wouldn’t get away with it. And you’re too smart, Jimmy, to stick you neck out unless it’s going to get you something. I’m counting on that. I’m ready for you. You wouldn’t get out of here alive. If you did, you’d have to blow. And if you blow, what’s it get you?”

I walked over to the window and looked out. He wouldn’t draw on me, I knew. Hell, why should he? He held the cards; I could see that now. He’d wised up a little too soon for me.

“You’ve been a big help, Jimmy.” he went on. “I want to break fair with you. In the last year I’ve made more dough than I’d have made without you. I want you to leave. But I’ll give you a stake. Pick a town of your own and work it. Leave me this one.”

I kept looking out the window. I knew why he wouldn’t bump me. There’d been too many killings; the cops were beginning to take it on the chin. The boss wanted to pull in his horns.

And from his point of view I could see it all right. He could even drop the protectives. The slots, the joints, the semi-legit stuff paid enough to suit him. He’d rather play safe for a small take. I’m not that way.

I turned and faced him. After all, why not another town? I could do it, if I picked one that was ripe.

“How much?” I asked him.

“Ten grand,” he said.

We settled for twenty.

You can see now why I’m in Miami. I figured I could use a vacation before I picked out a spot. A swell suite, overlooking the sea. Women, parties, roulette and all that. You can make a big splash here if you’re willing to spend a few grand.

But I’m getting restless. I’d rather see it coming in.

I know how I’ll start, when I’ve picked my town. I’ll take a tavern for a front. Then I find out which politicians are on the auction block. I’ll see that the others go — money can swing that. Then I bring in torpedoes and start work.

Coin machines are the quickest dough. You pyramid that into bookie joints, sporting houses, and the rest; and when you’re strong enough, the protective societies — where the merchants pay you to let them alone. That’s the big dough racket, if you’re not squeamish. It’s big dough because you don’t have to put in anything for what you take out.

If you know the angles and work it so you don’t have to start liquidating the opposition until you’ve got control, it’s a cinch. And I know the angles.

Plenty of towns would do, but some are easier than others. If you pick one that’s ripe it goes quicker, and if you can buy enough of the boys in office you won’t have to force the others out.

I’m looking them over. I’m tired of loafing.

How’s your town? I can tell if you answer me a question. Last time there was an election, did you really read up both sides of things, with the idea of keeping things on the up and up? Or did you go for the guy with the biggest posters?

Huh? You say you didn’t even get to the polls at all?

Pal, that’s just the town I’m looking for.

I’ll be seeing you.

I adjusted my hair in the hall mirror before opening the door. My hair was gray, and piled neatly on top of my head. I smoothed my skirt, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The man in the hallway was thirtyish, well-dressed, quietly handsome, and carrying a briefcase. He was also somewhat taken aback to see me. He glanced again at the apartment number on the door, looked back at me, and said, “Excuse, me, I’m looking for Miss Diane Wilson.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Do come in.”

He gazed past me uncertainly, hesitating on the doorstep, saying, “Is she in?”

“I’m Diane Wilson,” I said.

He blinked. “ You’re Diane Wilson?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The Diane Wilson who worked for Mr. Edward Cunningham?”

“Yes, indeed.” I made a sad face. “Such a tragic thing,” I said. “He was the sweetest man in the world, Mr. Cunningham was.”

He cleared his throat, and I could see him struggling to regain his composure. “I see,” he said. “Well, uh — well. Miss Wilson, my name is Eraser, Kenneth Eraser. I represent Transcontinental Insurance Association.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I have all the insurance I need, thank you.”

“No, no,” he said. “I beg your pardon, I’m not here to sell insurance. I’m an investigator for the company.”

“Oh, they all say that,” I said, “and then when they get inside they do want to sell something. I remember one young man from an encyclopedia company — he swore up and down he was just taking a survey, and he no sooner—”

“Miss Wilson,” Fraser said determinedly, “I am definitely not a salesman. I am not here to discuss your insurance with you, I am here to discuss Mr. Cunningham’s insurance.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said. “I simply handled the paperwork in Mr. Cunningham’s real estate office. His private business affairs he took care of himself.”

“Miss Wilson, I—” He stopped, and looked up and down the hallway. “Do we have to speak out here?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about.” I said. I admit I was enjoying this.

“Miss Wilson, there is something for us to talk about.” He put down the briefcase and took out his wallet. “Here,” he said, “Here’s my identification.”

I looked at the laminated card. It was very official and very complex and included Fraser’s photograph, looking open-mouthed and stupid.

Fraser said, “I will not try to sell you insurance, nor will I ask you any details about Mr. Cunningham’s handling of his private business affairs. That’s a promise. Now, may I come in?”

It seemed time to stop playing games with him; after all, I didn’t want him getting mad at me. He might go poking around too far, just out of spite. So I stepped back and said, “Very well then, young man, you may come in. But I’ll hold you to that promise.”