“The seats in the casino are padded.”
“You bet.” Gordy puffed on his cigar and sipped black coffee. “People are dropping money in the back room. You bet I want them comfortable.”
“You’re a mercenary if there ever was one.”
Wolf ate another bite of his bangers and mash, aka sausages and mashed potatoes. Gordy’s cook spiced the meal just right.
Being Thursday, the place was packed. The noise covered their conversation. Gordy said: “You play where you want.” He puffed his cigar some more. “Wolf, I’m glad you’re here.” Gordy looked down at the tip of his cigar. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Wolf a folded note.
Wolf pushed his plate away, opened the note, read: Remember Mona Frye.
Gordy said: “A fat guy with a big nose brought that today.”
“Who’s Mona Frye?”
Gordy puffed his cigar. He signaled a passing waitress, a cute blonde with purple-streaked hair, for a refill; after she poured the coffee he said: “She was an old girlfriend. Somebody murdered her a long time ago.”
“You?”
“Hell no.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Her throat was cut,” Gordy said. “I swear I blocked it out. It was twenty years ago.”
“What about the guys you were running with? Could one of them be doing this?”
“I haven’t heard from those bums in ages. I don’t even know if they’re still alive, in jail, or what.”
Wolf nodded. He pushed the note back across the table. He glanced across the bar as the purple-haired waitress in a black skirt served a bald man who averted his gaze, as Wolf looked his way. The bald man started eating, ignoring a Blackberry that sat beside his plate. The glow of the screen highlighted a silver chain around his neck.
Wolf turned back to Gordy. “So?”
“I hate to ask but-”
“You think I’m going to say no?” Wolf said. “I owe you, Gordy. That’s it. I owe you.”
“I never saw it that way.”
Wolf reached across the table and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go home and get rested. Wolf’s on the job, right?”
“Okay.”
Wolf scooted his chair back against the wall. The A/C blast ruffled his shirt collar. He had a clear view of the bald man who was trying very hard not to look like he was watching them. “Go get me a glass of Jameson first.”
Gordy, half out of his chair, frowned.
Wolf smiled. “Trust me. And don’t worry, you still have plenty of tables.”
AN HOUR later Wolf followed the bald man, via car, to a home at the front of a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. The bald man pulled his Chrysler into the garage while Wolf stopped his BMW M3 at the opening of the court. Lights went on inside the house.
Up the street Wolf spotted a second car parked curbside, near the fence that blocked the bald man’s house from the street. Wolf left his M3 and strolled by the dark car. Nobody inside. On his reverse pass he saw the driver’s door open a crack. Wolf tootsied to the fence, listened for a dog, and hopped over. He dropped into a line of rose bushes and thorns pricked through his sleeves. He stayed put. The quiet back yard offered further assurance of no canines prowling for intruders. From his spot he saw the kitchen and dining room through patio doors. One of the sliding glass doors had been partially opened, and Wolf recognized one of the two voices engaged in a heated argument inside. He rustled the bushes as he traded the hiding spot for the open patio door. The voice he didn’t recognize shouted, “Wait!” and two pistol shots cut him off.
Wolf shoved through the patio door, ran from kitchen to living room and stopped short. The bald man lay on the soft carpet with two bloody holes in his chest. A young man standing over him with a still-smoking automatic spun around, pointing the gun at Wolf, but his shaking hand proved he wasn’t ready for a second kill.
“Put it down, Mike,” Wolf said.
Michael O’Rourke, Gordy’s youngest son, gaped at Wolf. Wolf closed the gap between them in one step and twisted the gun out of Mike’s grasp. He said: “What the hell are you doing?”
“This punk’s been watching Dad since he got that note,” Mike said.
“And he wouldn’t talk, right? Can’t blame you for tryin’ but you cooled a small fish. Doesn’t get us anywhere.”
Mike stepped back, his pointed jaw set tight. He had Gordy’s green eyes and his mother’s small nose. “I did-”
“Something stupid. Get out of here and leave this to grown-ups.”
Mike glared again but then rushed past Wolf and out the patio door. Wolf heard him thud up and over the fence. The other car started and tires screeched. Wolf shook his head. He tucked the automatic in his belt, and patted the bald man’s coat pockets. He found the Blackberry and pocketed it. Wolf took out a handkerchief, opened the front door, went out.
Back in the M3, he drove further up the street and pulled into a parking lot of a dark basketball park and let the Blackberry’s glow fill the car. The bald man had made a call about the time he left Gordy’s restaurant, and Wolf redialed. A woman’s voice said, “What is it?” and Wolf hung up. He put the device on the passenger seat and drove away. Presently the Blackberry vibrated but Wolf didn’t answer.
THE NEXT morning, back at his place, Wolf spooned poached eggs onto dry toast, sat at his wobbly kitchen table, and clamped a foot on one of the table legs to stop the wobbling. He ate quietly. His glance landed on the yellow spot on the tiled kitchen floor that no cleaner he tried could remove; the dark spots marking chipped tiles mocked him. The refrigerator clanked.
With his mobile phone he called Gordy.
“Michael tell you what happened last night?”
“Yes.” Gordy spoke with a heavy quietness.
“Give the boy a pat. He’s looking out for you.”
“Wolf-”
“Listen to me,” Wolf said. “You keep Mike locked in a closet if you have to because I better not bump into him again. Also, our dead friend called his boss before he left the club. A woman. He saw us talking and I’m sure they know who I am and they’ll also know I’m not hard to find.”
“If they come after my son for this I’ll cut them all down, I swear.”
“My eggs are getting cold.” Wolf hung up and finished his breakfast and then put water in a kettle.
THE FOLLOWING evening Wolf played six hours of Omaha Hold ‘Em at the downtown poker room and when he left the club two thousand to the good, a fat man with a big nose met him on the sidewalk.
The big man wore a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie. Light from a streetlamp made one side of his face brighter than the other. No bulges showed beneath his coat other than what too many Big Macs had put there. He stood at the back door of a purring stretched Lincoln and said: “Let’s take a ride, Mr. Wolf.”
Wolf stared at the fat man a moment, shrugged, lifted his arms. The fat man patted him down, removed the thick envelope containing Wolf’s cash, and Mike’s pistol. Then the fat man opened the back door and Wolf slid across the warm leather bench seat. The fat man eased his bulk next to Wolf, grunted as he settled, told the driver to go. They went.
A second bench seat sat across from Wolf and the fat man. The woman who occupied the seat smiled. She wore a navy blue suit with a short skirt; long red hair flowed down her back and shoulders. The red hair contrasted with her pale skin. Pale, creamy skin. Looked good enough to eat off of. With her bare legs crossed, the hem of the skirt concealing just enough of what lay between her thighs.
Wolf didn’t have to raise his voice in the quiet confines of the vehicle. Hardly any road noise seeped in. He said: “Whose little girl are you?”
“You’re not very funny,” she said.
“You know me but I have no idea who you are.”
“Call me Monica,” she said. “My father was Patrick Frye, but he wouldn’t mean anything to you. You were on the other side of the world when he ran this town.”
“Mona Frye’s daughter, I presume?”