Макс Коллинз - Spree

“Middle-aged men can get a spread, boy. You’ll learn about it, should you ever reach middle age. What else?”

“He has a thing on his lip.”

“A thing on his lip? What, a cold sore?”

“No, a whachamacallit. A mustache.”

Cole let some air out; Thedy Sue, your son’s dimmer than you. “He wasn’t wearing a mustache when you saw him, five or so years ago. But he’s been known to wear one.”

“So you think it could’ve been him?”

“I think it could’ve been him. Where was this?”

“Davenport. Near Interstate 80. A bar. Well, it was a restaurant, too. Pretty big place. Kinda fancy. Not snooty, but nice. Good place to pick up women.”

“Go on.”

“I think he might be the owner or manager or something. The woman who met me at the door — uh, what would she be called?”

“The hostess.”

“Yeah. Right. She was talking to him a lot. And he was talking to the bartender, back behind the bar. Customers don’t do that.”

That pleased Cole; that was more or less a perception, and perceptions were rare where Lyle was concerned.

“What was this place called?”

“Nolan’s.”

Suddenly Cole wished he were a religious man; then he’d have a Bible handy he could hurl at the boy.

“And you’re wondering if this might have been Nolan?” Cole said through his teeth. “A guy managing a place called Nolan’s?”

Lyle shook his head. “Pa, I been through Davenport before. That place has been called Nolan’s for a long time. I don’t think it was named after your Nolan.”

“ Our Nolan,” Cole corrected. He put a tight hand on Lyle’s shoulder. “He’s our Nolan, son. He’ll be all ours, soon.”

“You better make sure it’s him. I don’t want to go killing people unless there’s cause.”

Standards. The boy had standards. There was hope for him yet.

Cole stood up; he shut off the giant-screen TV with the remote control and began to pace.

“Lyle, you must understand... this Nolan is a bad man. You know how I feel about the son of a bitch, but I never told you, exactly, what he did. Do you want to know what he did?”

“Sure, Pa.”

“Several years ago him and another man... a young man, about your age... went to your uncle Samuel’s farmhouse in Michigan; they went there to rip him off. Now, one rule you got to learn, son, you don’t steal from other guys in the business; it just ain’t done — or if you do, leave scorched earth, not survivors.”

Lyle nodded at the logic of that.

“See, Nolan worked with Sam before, and me, and we never did him dirt, never pulled a cross, nothing. He had no grudge against us. A friend of his did, though, and the fucker used that as a half-ass excuse to rip Sam off. He and this kid, Jon something, tossed some smoke grenades in the house and made it look like there was a fire.”

“Gee,” Lyle said.

“Your uncle didn’t believe in banks any more’n I do,” Cole said. The Comforts had robbed a few too many financial institutions to trust in them. “Sam kept all his money at home, cash, same as us, in a strongbox. And this he grabbed, when he thought his place was on fire, and run outside, right into the waiting arms of this cocksucker Nolan. Billy, your cousin, your young cousin, got wise to the smoke screen and was about to sneak up and put a pitchfork in this little prick Jon, when Nolan shot him. Shot him! Killed him! Your cousin Billy! What kind of man is he?”

Lyle shook his head in disbelief.

“Your uncle was fighting back, fighting for his life, when this kid, this Jon, fucking shot him. So Nolan and the kid left your uncle to bleed to death, but Sam was a tough old cookie, and he fooled ’em. He lived. And when his son Terry — your cousin Terry — got out of jail on that statutory rape charge a few months later, they went looking for Nolan, and Jon. And you know what become of your uncle and cousin?”

“They were killed,” Lyle said.

Cole nodded frantically, sneered. “Shotgunned and framed for a bank heist that Nolan and this kid pulled! To this day the cops think your uncle and cousin robbed that bank, when those sons of bitches not only killed your kin but walked away with the take.”

“Something has to be done,” Lyle said.

Cole walked over and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re absolutely right, boy. And we’re just the ones to do it.”

“Shouldn’t we get the money back, too?”

“The money?” Cole said. Sitting again.

“From the bank robbery. He looks sort of rich.”

“Rich? Nolan?”

“That restaurant. I think maybe he owns it.”

“You may have a point.” Cole wasn’t used to this, Lyle thinking. “Hmmm. Tell me more about his restaurant.”

“Well,” Lyle said, brow furrowed, the strain of thought starting to show, “it’s in a shopping place...”

“Shopping place?”

“You know — a mall? Right up at the front.”

“A mall,” Cole said. Smiling. “A shopping mall...”

A chirpy female voice cut in: “Are we going shopping?”

It was Cindy Lou, barefoot on the stairs, in a pink baby doll, not sheer but you could see her little nipples trying to poke through; she’d slept in, too. Her strawberry blond hair, Thedy Sue’s hair, was tousled sexily.

“Are we?” she repeated, leaning against the banister. “Going shopping?”

“I think maybe we are,” smiled her pa.

Sunday night, at 11:37 (give or take a second), Nolan sat up in bed, two pillows propped behind him, the lamp next to the bed on; he was reading Las Vegas travel brochures, looking for a bargain. There were three travel agents in the Chamber of Commerce, so he’d get a discount either way. But he wanted the best package.

He hadn’t been to Vegas in years, and it would be an interesting trip; he probably wouldn’t recognize the Strip — he heard the casinos were side by side there, now, jammed together, no breathing room. He had mixed emotions about that — he’d always liked having some space between casinos, liked the sprawl of that, glittery sin leisurely strung out along a desert road. But he had no argument with success, or the change it brought. Progress was progress; money was money.

The best package seemed to include the Flamingo, which almost made him smile. All roads led to the Family. He’d met Bugsy Siegel once; he’d come in the Rush Street Club with Campagna. Hell of a nice guy, Siegel was; charming. Campagna, on the other hand, Little New York himself, while nice enough, seemed menacing in that quiet way that meant the worst. Nolan had known, just looking at them, that neither of these guys was anybody to cross.

He’d also been to the Flamingo in the fifties several times, ’51 the first time; but that was several years after the Family cashed Bugsy’s chips in. The Fabulous Flamingo, Bugsy’s dream, his pink palace which gave birth to the modern Vegas Strip, was in the red, in the early days, and word was he was skimming to sink dough back in the joint, cheating his Family friends/investors, like Accardo and Ricca and, out East, Lansky. So they killed him.

It would be fun to go back to the Flamingo, with all its memories. And it seemed to be the best buy, too.

The Vegas trip was Sherry’s idea; she’d never been there and it sounded exciting to her. She deserved a vacation, so he figured why not — you only live once. What she was having trouble understanding was Nolan’s attitude about gambling: he didn’t. Not in Vegas, not in any casino, with the exception of poker, if he was in the right mood. Any other game was out of the question. Nolan never thought about it, but his life was lived by a strict set of rules, and one of the strictest was: You never play against the house.