Макс Коллинз - Hush Money

“It’s possible because the rest of the world is not as stupid as you are. Everything you’ve done points not only to a Vietnam vet but a Vietnam vet with a hard-on for revenge besides — military-style sniping, the use of a weapon designed not only to kill but to mutilate the victim, the grenade hoax, the half-ass psychological warfare of that ace-of-spades bit... Christ, was that self-indulgent! And top it all off with an obvious inside knowledge of the DiPreta lifestyle. The kind of knowledge provided by those tapes you have, for example. The ones your father gave you.”

Steve whitened. With his white-blond hair, he was the palest human Nolan had ever seen.

“The possibility of you having copies of those tapes occurred to the people in Chicago long ago. You’ve been in their sniperscope ever since, friend. Not under actual surveillance maybe, but they were aware you were out of the service, aware you were back in Des Moines.”

“Jesus,” Steve said.

“And when Joey DiPreta was killed by a sniper, who do you suppose was the first suspect that came to everybody’s mind?”

Steve was staring at the table again. His color still wasn’t back completely. He looked young to Nolan, very young, his face smooth, almost unused. Finally he said quietly, “I thought they might figure it out, yes, but not so soon .” Then he picked up the can of beer, swigged at it, slammed it back down and said, “But what the hell. I knew the odds sucked when I got into this.”

“What about your sister, Steve? Did she know the odds would suck?”

“She doesn’t know anything about it. You know that. This... this has nothing to do with her, other than it’s her parents, too, whose score I’m settling.”

“Score you’re settling. I see. Do me a favor, Steve, will you? Tell me about the score you’re settling.”

“Why? You know as well as I do.”

“I just got a feeling your version and mine might be a little different. Let’s hear yours.”

Steve shrugged. Sipped at the can of beer. Looked at Nolan. Shrugged again. Said, “I came home on leave a couple of years ago. Dad and I were always close, even though I was living with Mom, and he would confide in me more than anybody in the world, I suppose. I’d known for a long time about his... Mafia connections, I guess you’d call them. I knew that was the real reason for the trouble between Mom and him — that she wanted him to get out, to break all his ties with those people, and when we came to Des Moines, that was what she thought he was doing. But then she found out about the DiPretas, that they owned the motel Dad was managing and were no different from the bosses Dad had had in Chicago, and that was the end for her. She divorced him after that. Dad was crazy about her, but he liked the life, the money. I think you know that Dad gambled — that was a problem even in Chicago. And without the sort of money he could make with the DiPretas and people like them, he couldn’t support his habit, like a damn junkie or something. Then when I came home on that leave, couple years ago, he told me he was through gambling, that he hadn’t gambled in a year and wanted out of his position with the DiPretas. But he was scared, Nolan. He was scared for his life. He knew too much. It sounds cornball — he even kind of laughed as he said it — but it was true. He just knew too much and they’d kill him before they let him out. I thought he was exaggerating at the time and encouraged him to go ahead and quit. Screw the DiPretas, I said. He wanted to know if I thought Mom would take him back if he cut his ties with the DiPretas, and I said sure she would. And she did. They were going to get back together. He wrote me about it. In fact they both wrote me, Mom and Dad both. Two happiest letters I ever got from them.”

Steve hesitated. His eyes were clouded over. He took a moment and finished his beer, got up for another one, came back and resumed his story.

“Dad had to find a way out. That’s where the tapes you mentioned come in. Dad installed listening devices in some of the rooms at the motel, and so on. Then he offered the tapes to the DiPretas in exchange for some money and a chance for a clean start, fresh start. They didn’t believe that was all he wanted. They thought he was going to try and milk them, so they tried to get the tapes from him, without holding up their end of the bargain. Dad sent one set of the tapes to me for safe-keeping. He left another set with Mom. The DiPretas must’ve known about Mom and Dad being on friendly terms again, because somebody broke into her house, when she wasn’t supposed to be home, to search for the tapes. But Mom came home early and... and got killed for it. The next day Dad hanged himself at the motel.”

And Steve covered his face with one hand and wept silently.

Nolan waited for the boy to regain control. Then he said, “It’s a touching story, Steve. But it’s just a story.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“You put most of it together yourself, didn’t you? From the pieces of the story you knew.”

“No! I talked to Dad when I came home on leave that time, and he sent a letter with the tapes, and—”

“I guess maybe it’s just a matter of interpretation and ordering of events. You say your father was afraid for his life. I believe that. But he wouldn’t have cause to be afraid until after he’d begun recording tapes and collecting the various other dirt he was using to blackmail the DiPretas.”

“Blackmailing...”

“Your father didn’t want out, Steve. He was happy where he was. The DiPretas were considering firing him because his gambling habit was out of control.”

“That’s a goddamn he!”

“It isn’t. I listened to your version, now listen to mine. Your father bugged certain rooms in the motel, used the information he gathered to try and blackmail the DiPretas and the Chicago family as well. Part of it was to blackmail his way out of certain gambling debts he owed his bosses. Part of it was to hopefully retain his position, not leave it.”

“No!”

“By giving your mother those tapes to keep for him, he was putting her in mortal danger. He hanged himself because he felt responsible for your mother’s death, Steve.”

And Steve lurched across the table and swung at Nolan.

Nolan swung back.

Steve sat on the floor and leaned against the refrigerator and touched the trickle of blood running out of his mouth where Nolan had hit him.

Nolan had remained seated through all of it but half rose for a moment to say, “Get off the floor and listen to me, goddamnit. There are more things you don’t know, and need to.”

“I’ll listen, Nolan,” Steve said, getting back up, sitting back at the table. “I’ll be glad to listen. I won’t believe a word of your shit, but I’ll listen.”

“Christ, man, don’t you want to hear about the DiPretas? Don’t you want to hear about the object of your crusade? The DiPretas are not Mafia people, as you put it. Oh, they have connections to the Chicago family, they sure do. And they do have a family background that includes a good deal of mob activity, prior to the last fifteen years or so. But more than anything they are businessmen. Crooked businessmen, yes, with connections to what you call the Mafia. But if you want to kill all the businessmen in America who fall into that category, you got a busy season ahead of you.”

“That’s bullshit! Vince and Frank DiPreta are gangsters, they’re—”

“Vince used to be a gangster, of sorts. Vince the Burner, he was called, but even then he treated arson like a business. Lately Vince’s been the conservative DiPreta, wanting to shy away from illegal business interests and associations. Frank? Frank likes to carry guns around. Frank likes to play mobster, but he isn’t one, not really. Not in the sense you’re thinking of. Income tax evasion and stock swindles and graft, sure. Should be plenty of that on those tapes of yours. But cement overshoes and Tommy guns and dope-running? Come on. The DiPretas are restaurateurs, motel and finance company owners, discount-store proprietors, highway and building contractors. Shady ones. But nothing more. Your first victim? Joey DiPreta never did anything more vicious than swing a golf club at a ball. Like all the DiPretas, he liked to play the Mafioso role, to a degree, anyway. It was his heritage. But he was no gangster.”