Brett Halliday: Win Some, Lose Some

“Lou, all I want to do is keep my own nose clean. I stay out of it.”

“And that’s the smart way to go, believe me,” DeLuca assured him. “The more responsibility, the bigger the headache. Larry offered me the job of secretary-treasurer of the road construction, and I turned him down cold. I could see what was coming. My argument with Larry has always been, what good is money if it’s just going to end up with the lawyers? This Tim Rourke, the reporter, the way I read those articles, he’s hinting he has evidence of larceny and collusion on an enormous scale, and did you see the editorial today calling for empaneling a grand jury? There’s already an investigation underway in Tallahassee. More headlines. More bad publicity.”

“Right. But I don’t see-”

“How it’s going to blow back on the rest of us. The highways are more or less a one-man operation, Larry’s baby. But he still has the old reputation, Larry Canada, number one guy. He’s been called that too many times. Organized crime,” DeLuca said with scorn. “I only wish to God it was organized. There’s no getting around it, a really big stink, with Larry’s face on the seven o’clock news every night for six months, will hurt everybody. The cops will stop talking to us till it dies down. What little organization there is now, out the window. And you know Larry. That ego. He’ll expect everybody to rally around and contribute. When the sad thing is, nobody but Jumbo and the politicians ever saw any of that ninety percent federal reimbursement.”

It was clear by now why Lou DeLuca was looking up a medium-scale Shylock for a private conversation. He wanted to depose Canada before the hurricane struck, and he was lining up support. Eddie didn’t commit himself in that first talk because in matters like this there was a heavy penalty for guessing wrong. He decided finally that he couldn’t afford not to listen, keeping his options open. Several weeks later, feeling very, very uncertain he was making the right move, he agreed to talk to the other Shylocks on DeLuca’s behalf.

He and Canada had once been friends. A couple of times in the early days, Canada would charter a boat to fish off the Keys and ask Eddie along. Eddie could remember every detail of those weekends, who had caught what. They had gone to the jai alai together. That was before Canada initiated a series of tricky maneuvers which ended up with a Canada stooge owning the fronton. They rarely met now. But if Eddie called him and said he had urgent personal business to talk over, Canada would have to see him. He would come alone, and he would arrange for the meeting to take place in some out-of-the-way spot. And Eddie realized, after the third or fourth session with DeLuca, that that was what DeLuca wanted him to do: set Canada up for a hit. Eddie was the ideal person to do it. Without Canada, the highway company would fall apart, the town would get back to normal. Eddie would have a solid in with the new people. DeLuca would go along with whatever he suggested, within reason.

Still, he couldn’t decide. The feeling he got as he moved around town was that in a democratic election, with a secret ballot, DeLuca and Canada would break about even. Canada had enemies, but he also had friends. He was tough. He had proved that often enough. He had money to throw around, high-placed friends in both parties, judges. DeLuca, on the other hand, was hungry. There would be less innovation with him. It would be back to nickels and dimes, but the nickels and dimes would be spread among more people. Most of the cops up to the rank of sergeant were for DeLuca; above, for Canada. In a showdown, it could go either way.

DeLuca was pushing him for an answer. Eddie asked for another twelve hours. Moving very carefully indeed, he arranged a meeting with Canada in a restaurant parking lot in Palm Beach and told him what was going on.

Canada had always been a big man-six feet four. He started off heavy, and he had kept adding pounds over the years. Recently, for some reason, he had grown a full beard, making himself one of the most arresting sights in southern Florida. Eddie could see DeLuca’s point. Canada was just too visible, an easy symbol for the cartoons. He drove a big Cadillac with a hinged steering wheel that made it easier for him to get in and out, though it was never really easy.

He didn’t seem surprised by Eddie’s news. “Lou always did have a burr up his ass. I’ve been expecting something. It’s been quiet a long time.”

He had brought a package of chocolate chips. He threw a handful into his mouth. He promised to look after Eddie really well if he would keep seeing DeLuca and sneak Canada reports from time to time. To start with, he counted out four five-hundred-dollar bills. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he had handled a five-hundred. DeLuca had given him assurances, but no cash. Eddie felt a surge of his old affection for the big man. At another interview, Canada suggested that for more of those five-hundreds Eddie might be interested in setting DeLuca up when the time came. Maybe, Eddie said doubtfully. If he had a choice, he would prefer to have it done to DeLuca. But bets aren’t paid off because the cashier happens to like your looks, only when your horse or dog comes in first. So Eddie continued to hedge. He told DeLuca that Canada must have heard something. Canada had called him in and offered to pay him for information. DeLuca went along with it. And by degrees, Eddie found himself playing the dangerous role of double agent. In books, and probably in life as well, this usually ends badly. Meanwhile he was making money. He was hearing a lot of promises.

But he wasn’t getting much sleep, and nothing tasted the way he remembered. Sex had lost much of its edge. He had to work harder to accomplish less. At the most inappropriate moment, he would remember that any day now, any hour, either Canada or DeLuca would call him and tell him the shooters were in town. And he would have to stop wobbling and come down on one side or the other.

Naturally he was watching his step, calling from public phones, looking behind him. He kept getting a prickly feeling. In his hopped-up state, that was a natural reaction, and he nearly decided it was all his imagination. Then he spotted the guy. It was a cop, Jack Downey, who kept what they called the Mafia file and handled the liaison with the FBI and Drug Enforcement. Two times might have been a coincidence. The third time was something to worry about. Eddie did some discreet checking and found that this was all after hours, on Downey’s own time. Now what the hell?

The idea came to Werner French in the middle of the third martini. His second before-dinner drink usually made him gloomy. If he stopped there, he was sure to stay gloomy the whole evening. He always recovered on the third. As he tasted the cold gin poured over fresh ice, he felt that everything would undoubtedly turn out all right. He had a job, a car, a girl. Ninety percent of the population was willing to settle for that. True, it was a terrible job, the car was a rusted-out Chevy. But the girl was first-class-Pam Heller, a spirited blonde who could laugh him out of anything. A marvelous ass, and a mind that jumped like BB’s being shaken inside a tin can.

He stood still in the middle of the room. Pam looked at him from the couch. The air-conditioning was laboring tonight, and she was wearing nothing but a one-button blouse.

“I know that look,” she said. “You’ve come up with a solution.”

He said slowly, “If we were willing to break the habits of a lifetime-”

“Tell me.”

“What you said a minute ago-that the only way I’m going to raise any money is from a loan shark. An electric bulb went on. Something I saw in the Times.”