Макс Коллинз - Hush Money

“I’m a friend of his. What’s he to you?”

The guy shrugged. “He ain’t jack-shit to me, kid. I never met the guy.”

“So why do you want him?”

“Somebody sent me to get him.”

“Get him?”

“Fetch him, I mean. Jesus. Hey, give me some more Kleenex. This fuckin’ nose is still bleedin’.”

Jon did, then said, “So who sent you?”

The guy hesitated, thought a moment; his mouth puckered under the mousy mustache, like an asshole.

“Who?” Jon repeated, giving emphasis with a motion of the .38.

“Take it easy with that fuckin’ thing! You wanna kill somebody? Felix sent me.”

“Felix,” Jon said. “Felix, that lawyer for the Family?”

“That’s right.”

“Then we’re back around to my first question: Why the hell didn’t you just knock?”

“I knocked but you didn’t fuckin’ answer, that’s why! I saw the light upstairs and used a credit card to trip the lock and get in, and all of a sudden you’re hitting me in the fuckin’ nose with your fuckin’ head! Jesus.”

“Well, Nolan’s not here right now.”

“I got to see him. Felix’s got to see him.”

“Something urgent? You want Nolan to go to Chicago right away, then?”

“More urgent than that, kid. Felix came himself. He’s waitin’ out at the Howard Johnson’s. Something’s come up that can’t fuckin’ wait, kid, so shake it, will you?”

“I know where Nolan is. I can call him.”

“Then call him, for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay. You can get up now, if you want. If you can.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can get up, all right. You ain’t that fuckin’ tough, you little punk.”

“I thought we were on friendly terms now. I thought you weren’t looking for trouble.”

“Friendly terms, my fuckin’ ass. You best keep your balls covered when you see me comin’, kid. I like to even my scores.”

“Then you better not forget to give me a nose bleed, too, while you’re at it.”

“Fuck you. Give me my gun, why don’t you, before you shoot your dick off or something?”

“When Nolan gets here. Let’s go out and call him. Come on, get up. This time I’ll be following you, remember.”

And Jon, gun in hand, followed the guy into the living room, deposited him on the couch. Jon pulled a chair up opposite the guy so he could face him, keep an eye on him, and used the phone on the coffee table between them. Jon’s hand trembled around the receiver. He was acting tough, as Nolan would’ve wanted him to. He’d handled himself well, he knew that. But he was trembling just the same.

Nolan pulled the Eldorado in next to a Lincoln Continental and got out, confused.

The Eldorado, which was gold, and the Continental, which was dark blue, took up all three of the slantwise spaces alongside the antique shop. Nolan’s Eldorado was actually the Tropical’s. His ever owning a Cadillac was unlikely, because he saw them as the automotive equivalent of an alcoholic, swilling gas with no thought of tomorrow. As far as he was concerned, a Cadillac was just a Pontiac with gland trouble. Still, being behind the wheel of one for the past couple of months had given him a feeling of — what? — prestige he guessed, and seeing the Lincoln Continental was somehow a sobering experience.

Neither car made much sense in the context of the old antique shop, which was a two-story white clapboard structure bordering on the rundown, whose junk-filled showcase windows wouldn’t seem likely to attract even the most eccentric of wealthy collectors. In fact the shop looked more like a big old house than a place of business, which was only right because, other than the Dairy Queen and grade school across the way and the gas station next door, this was a residential neighborhood, a quiet, middle-class Iowa City street lined with trees still thick with red and copper leaves. The inhabitants of this shady lane would’ve been shocked to know of the different sort of shadiness attached to various activities centered for some years now in the harmless-looking old shop. This thought occurred to Nolan as he opened the trunk of the Eldorado, reaching behind the spare tire for the holstered Smith & Wesson .38 stowed there. Not that the thought worried him. It was late now, approaching midnight, the street was empty, no one at all who might notice him. Even the gas station across the alley was closed. He shut the trunk, slung on the shoulder holster, grabbed his sports coat out of the back seat, slipped into the coat.

He’d immediately recognized the Lincoln Continental as Felix’s, but that only served to confuse him further. What in hell was Felix doing in Iowa City? The answer to that was obvious enough: he was here to see Nolan. But why? No obvious answer there.

No pleasant one, anyway.

The side door to the shop wasn’t locked. Nolan withdrew the .38 and went in, cautious to the point of paranoia. There was always the chance that Jon had lost control of the situation since calling or, worse yet, that Jon had been forced to make the call in the first place. Nolan doubted the latter, as he felt pretty sure Jon would’ve sneaked a warning into his words somewhere, some indication, implication of trouble, and Nolan had been over Jon’s words and their inflections a dozen times in the course of the ten-minute drive from Wagner’s house out on the edge of town.

But being careful never hurt, and when the footing wasn’t sure, Nolan was the most careful man alive. Because alive was how he intended to stay.

“Nolan?” Jon called from upstairs. “Is that you, Nolan?”

“It’s me.”

“Come on up.”

Nolan leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairwell. He said, “How you hanging, kid?”

“Loose, Nolan. Nice and easy and loose. Come on up.”

That convinced him. Jon’s voice had nothing in it but relief Nolan was there.

And once upstairs he found that Jon did indeed have things well in hand. Sitting on the couch was a rat-faced little mustached man, his blue suit cut large in the coat to accommodate shoulder holster and gun, though the latter was presently being trained on its owner by Jon, and the way the suit was rumpled it was apparent the guy had been on the floor a couple of times lately and not making love, either. Also the guy was holding some Kleenex to his nose and had a generally battered look about him. Nolan put his gun away and Jon said hello.

“You’re getting better all the time, kid,” Nolan said, unable to repress a grin. “I got to learn to stop underestimating you.”

Jon, too, was unable to suppress his reaction, getting an aw-shucks look, which faded quickly as he said, “I’m not so sure you did underestimate me, Nolan. The first time I fouled up. I hit him in the nose—” Jon bobbed his head forward to indicate what he’d hit the guy with — “but he bounced back and it wasn’t till I kicked him in the balls that I finally got him.”

Nolan nodded. “That’ll do it.”

The rat-faced guy lowered the Kleenex and said, “You two fuckers gonna gloat all night, or can we get over to the Howard Johnson’s and see Felix? He’s been waiting half an hour. What do you say?”

“Felix sent you?” Nolan said, acting surprised. “I don’t believe it. And you say he’s waiting to see me out at the Howard Johnson’s? I don’t believe that, either.”

“I wouldn’t fuck around, I were you,” the guy said. “You think Felix came all the way from Chicago just to check out the fuckin’ Howard John son’s.”

“Maybe he likes the clams,” Nolan said.

“I’m laughin’,” the guy said. “I were you, Nolan, I’d shake a fuckin’ leg.”

“Don’t call me Nolan,” Nolan said.

“Oh? Why the fuck not?”