Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

“I know. That’s why I want it in savings bonds.”

“What?”

“Savings bonds. United States Government Savings Bonds. All in capital letters, Nick. Fifty grand worth. With my son as beneficiary.”

Nick studied me for a moment and then nodded. “How’d you figure that one out?”

“I had a long time to think about it.”

“Well, if you want the bonds, I’ll get them. But it’ll take a little while.”

“No time at all,” I told him. “You can send a man to the bank now. I’ll come back later.”

“You really don’t trust me, do you?”

“Not a bit, Nick. Not one goddam bit.”

Nick smiled. “You should have thought of that before you took the rap.”

“I should have, but I didn’t. I should have been paid in advance. A man can’t think of everything, Nick. I’m doing all my thinking now.”

“Sure.” Nick smiled. “You got nothing to worry about, anyway. Nick Trenton never welshes. You come back at about six, Danny. I’ll have the bonds for you then.”

“With Johnny as beneficiary, don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget.”

“One other item, Nick.”

“What’s that?”

“Where’s Johnny now?”

Nick smiled and shrugged. “How should I know?”

I tried to figure it.

I tried to figure why a broad who’d tumbled with every big wheel in the racket would give a second look to a kid like Johnny. I tossed it around, and I came up with zero each time, so I let it drop. I let it drop, and I searched the city for a kid I hadn’t seen in five years.

He’d been sixteen when I went away, and the courts had awarded him to my closest female relative, my sister. She’d been okay then, and Tigo’d been a fairly good man. But times had changed, and Christ alone knew where she was, and Tigo had a habit as long as my arm. So now the kid was somewhere in the jungle of the city, only he wasn’t such a kid anymore. He was big enough to play with Connie Blaine, and that’s pretty damned big. Only why?

I started hitting the bars, figuring I’d pick up the word in one of them. Nobody knew, or if they knew, they weren’t saying. In the fifth bar, I ran into Hannigan.

He stood there with one foot hooked on the rail, and with a shot glass in front of him on the bar. He looked just the way he’d looked five years ago, but maybe cops never change.

I walked over to the bar, and he said, “Well, if it ain’t.”

“It ain’t,” I told him. I turned to Mike, the bartender, and said, “A double whiskey.”

“How was the trip?” Hannigan asked.

“Nice. I missed you.”

“Wished I was there, huh?” Hannigan laughed mirthlessly. He was a big cop, and a tough one, and I think he was still sore about my taking the rap. He’d hauled Nick in, anxious to slap him behind bars, and then I’d come along with my story and full confession, and that left Hannigan with an empty sack. I’d had reasons, though, and you don’t explain reasons to a cop. When a kid’s mother is gone and his old man is in the rackets, you got to be careful. Fifty grand can help you be very careful. That fifty grand was going to keep the kid away from the slime.

Mike brought the whiskey, and I downed it.

“When’s the payoff?”

“What payoff, cop?”

“You know, Danny. Fifty grand, ain’t it? The rumble’s out.”

“The rumble’s wrong. Nobody’s getting paid for anything.”

“That may be truer than you think.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, ignoring his meaning.

“You clean, Danny?” Hannigan asked.

“Try me,” I said.

Hannigan stood up, stretched, and then began frisking me.

“You know,” I said, “I think you get a charge out of this, Hannigan. I think frisking is just an excuse with you.”

“Go to hell,” he told me.

“I’m not heeled. You can relax.”

Hannigan fished into my pocket. “No? What’s this?”

“For paring my nails. Any law against that?”

“It depends. How long is the blade?”

“Under four inches.” I smiled. “You want to measure it?”

“I’ll take your word, Danny.”

“Thanks.”

Hannigan climbed back onto the bar stool and was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Your son...”

“What about my son?”

“Don’t put up your guard, goddamnit. I know what you’re trying to do for him, and I admire it. That’s the only thing I do admire about you.”

“So?”

“So it’d be a shame if everything you’re trying to do goes down the drain.”

“What do you mean, cop?”

“Stories, Danny. Stories that the kid is turning into a cheap hood. Stories that he’s already done some gun jobs for Nick Trenton. Stories that...”

“Shut up, cop.”

“Stories that Connie Blaine’s got him wrapped up. All she does is wiggle her backside and the kid would gun his own grandmother.”

“Shut up, I said!”

“Stories like that.”

“Keep your stories, and shove off. I like to choose my drinking companions.”

“Sure. But you’re liable to be mighty surprised, Danny.”

“I don’t need any advice from you, Hannigan.”

“I’m not offering any, smart guy. But remember that I’m going to get Nick Trenton some day, and there won’t be another sucker around to sub for him next time. I’m going to get him no matter who’s in the way, Danny. And I hope your son isn’t.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be.”

“We’ll see.”

“We’ll see. So long, cop.” Hannigan left, and I hung around a while and then covered the other joints I could think of. Before I knew it, it was six o’clock, so I hurried over to Nick’s pad. He lived in an ornate joint, with a dozen elevators in the lobby and a pile of uniformed jokers running them. I took a car up to the twelfth floor and then walked down to the end of the hall and pressed the stud in the door jamb. I heard three chimes sound inside, and then the door opened.

Connie Blaine opened it.

She was dressed to kill this time, wearing black silk that dipped low over her full breasts. She smiled and said, “You’re late, Danny.”

“A little. I didn’t know there was going to be a party.”

“Come on in.”

I followed her into the apartment and into Nick’s den. He was sitting behind his desk when I came in, and he stood and walked over to me and shook my hand.

“Right on time, eh, Danny?” he said, smiling.

“A little late, Connie tells me.”

Nick beamed. “You can never be too late when fifty G’s is involved. Ain’t that right, Danny?” He kept smiling, and I didn’t like the smile or the way his eyes didn’t match his mouth. I watched him, and I said nothing.

“You want the bonds, I guess,” he said.

“You guess right.”

“Well, no sense wasting time, is there?” He walked around to his desk, and opened the top drawer again. This time he came out with a sheaf of bonds, and he dropped them on the desk top and said, “There they are, boy. Nick Trenton never welshes.”

I smiled and walked over to the desk, leafing through the bonds. It was all there, fifty grand worth.

“Okay?” Nick asked. The smile hadn’t left his face.

“So far,” I said. I slipped one of the bonds out from under the rubber band and I examined it more closely. My hand shook a little, and I felt the sweat break out on my brow.

“What are you trying to pull, Nick?”

“Pull? What’s wrong, Danny? Something wrong?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong. I told you to make Johnny beneficiary.”

“Didn’t they? I told them to...”

“You’re listed as beneficiary, Nick. Beneficiary, Nick Trenton. What’s the idea?”

Nick shook his head. “A stupid mistake. You just can’t trust these banks, can you, Danny?”