Max Collins - Neon Mirage

“Honest?” I said. “Swear to God?”

“Don’t hit me again….”

I hit him again. In the chest.

He coughed and wheezed and moaned.

I turned to Lou, casually. “Did you know we’re only four or five blocks south of the Nitti family deli, Lou? You can spit from Bill’s doorstep and, if the wind is with you, hit an Italian.”

“Really,” Lou said, interested.

I finished my beer, handed the empty to Lou, paced about Tendlar, slapping the rubber hose gently into my palm. “Nice place you got here, Bill. Just you and the rest of the rats.”

“It’s…I know it’s a dump, but I got divorced last year. You know that. Alimony. You know.”

“I pay you better than this. Alimony or not, why are you living in such a goddamn dump?”

“It’s…it’s hard to find a place…”

I went over to one rickety end table where today’s Green Sheet, a racing publication, sat under an empty Pabst bottle; various horses were checked off, various notations had been made.

“One of our client’s publications,” I said, picking up the tip sheet, taking it over and holding it front of him. “He’ll be glad to hear you’re supporting him.”

He sucked some snot up inside him. Tried to pull himself together. Tried to keep his chin from trembling. Couldn’t.

“I knew you gambled some, Bill. I didn’t know it was this serious.”

He swallowed. “You know how it is.”

“Got in a little deep, did you?”

He nodded.

“Not anymore you aren’t. You got out, didn’t you?”

He swallowed again. “I don’t have anything to tell. Honest to Christ I don’t.”

“You’re thinking they’ll kill you if you tell. Well, I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“You’re no killer.”

“Ask the Japs.”

He looked like he was going to start crying again. “But I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

“Let’s start with the obvious. You did sell me out. Just tell me that much. Never mind who.”

“If…if I said that I did sell you out…I’m not saying I did, Heller…but if I did say that, you wouldn’t make me tell who? ”

“I wouldn’t make you tell who, Bill. Just tell me you sold me out.”

He swallowed. He cast his eyes toward the floor. He began to nod.

“You sold me out?”

He kept nodding.

“Say it, Bill.”

“I sold you out, Heller.” He looked up, with a pleading expression. “It was big dough. You’d’ve done it in my place, and I wouldn’t blame you.”

“How much, Bill?”

He coughed. “Damn summer cold,” he said.

“How much, Bill?”

“Five gees.”

I glanced at Lou. He raised his eyebrows. That was a lot of dough.

“It got you out of the hole,” I said.

He nodded frantically. “And then some.”

“Why didn’t you take off? You had to know I’d come around.”

“I didn’t figure you for this…the goddamn rubber hose treatment. You just don’t seem the type.”

“You’d be surprised how testy I get when people try to kill me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Did they tell you not to run, Bill?”

He nodded again, not frantically. “Yeah…they said if I held up under whatever came…cops or you or whatever…there’d be another gee in it for me.”

“Six thousand to play finger man,” I said. And to Lou: “I wonder what the hell the shooters got paid?”

“Whatever it was,” Lou said, working on a bottle of Pabst, “I bet they have to give it back. They screwed up. Ragen’s alive, after all.”

“That’s true.” I smiled at Bill. “Now. Who?”

“What? You said…”

“I lied. Who bought you?”

“Don’t hit me again.”

“Tell me and I won’t.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“You’ll think I’m lying. You’ll hit me again.”

“No I won’t. Who?”

“I don’t know, really. It was all done over the phone.”

I hit him again. Across the left bicep.

“You liar,” he said, bitterly.

“I can be a real asshole sometimes,” I admitted, and hit him again.

“You can hit me all you want,” he said, bawling like a baby, “but it’s true. It was all done by phone, and money drops. I never saw nobody. They called me, I never called them; I don’t have a number or nothing. The voice was male, but it didn’t even have no accent. I’m telling the truth.”

I looked at Lou. He shrugged.

“Yeah,” I said, tossing the rubber hose over on the worn couch. “I think you are.”

I told Lou to get a cold wet towel and I wiped Bill’s face off. Lou uncuffed him. I took the Murphy bed down and helped him to bed.

“You’re going to have a couple of rough days,” I said.

He was on his back, pajamas clinging to him damply, eyes closed, arms at his side. He looked like a corpse.

“You’re going to hurt like hell,” I said, “but don’t tip to anybody that we worked you over. We stayed away from your face, so you should be able to pull it off. Don’t tip the cops, don’t tip the newshounds, don’t tip nobody. Not your phone contact, either.”

He nodded. It was barely perceptible, but it was a nod.

“And I wouldn’t skip town if I were you,” I said. “It just wouldn’t look good. In fact, after you had a day in bed, I want you to come back into the office. Business as usual.”

He opened his eyes. “Does this mean I’m not fired?”

I looked at Lou and shook my head. Lou was laughing silently.

“Bill,” I said. “I’m going to keep you on for the next month or two. Till this blows over. You’ll get paid and everything. I’m going to back you when the cops and anybody else, Walt Pelitier for example, asks about your part in this. I’m going to say you’re a stand-up guy and clean as a whistle. I don’t want any bad reflection on the agency, understand?”

He swallowed and nodded.

“But you’re going to stay away from me. Just go to your little cubicle and make your phone credit checks and wait for the day, before very long, when I’m standing before you with a smiling face, telling you to get out of my sight forever or I’ll fucking kill you.”

He looked at me blankly for a long time.

“Oh,” he said, finally. “Then I guess a letter of reference is out of the question?”

At one-thirty in the morning, the plush, high-ceilinged lobby of the Morrison Hotel tended to be about dead as its marble floor. A few clusters of out-of-town businessmen were getting in from their evening’s entertainment in the big city, talking a little loud, a little drunk; a well-dressed older man in a tux and a good-looking dame in a clingy gown were moving arm-in-arm onto an elevator; the overweight, alcoholic house dick, Matthews, was sitting on a divan almost as overstuffed as he was, next to a palm that was also potted. That was about it.

The night man lurking behind the marble-and-bronze check-in counter-skinny, pockmarked, Gable-mustached Williams, who had been assistant manager for going on ten years now, all the while maintaining the supercilious attitude of one rising fast in his chosen trade-was not glad to see me. He didn’t push it, however, because I lived here and took no shit at all off him.

“Messages?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded-which was unusual. I had expected the normal long-suffering sigh of one forced to endure the indignity of the superior doing the bidding of the inferior; instead he rather cheerfully turned to his wall of boxes and came back with a stack of note sheets.

“Reporters,” he said, looking down his nose, mustache twitching, as he smiled thinly so we could share his contempt for such lower life forms.