Ordinarily that would have fascinated him, and he might have made a mental note to read up on this Siegel character, but right now his nerves were too jangled. He shook another couple of Tic Tac mints out into his palm and popped them into his mouth, wishing he could get rid of the taste of vomit.
He had got talking to a man at breakfast, and the fellow had seemed very nice, very well educated—but then he had started talking in a direction Funo hadn't followed. Funo had bluffed, pretending to understand and agree, until it had dawned on him that the man believed Funo was a homosexual. Funo had excused himself and gone to the men's room, had rid himself in one of the stalls of every bit of the breakfast, and then had simply hurried out of the place and driven away. He'd have to mail the amount of his bill to Denny's. Ten times the amount of his bill. The waitress must think he was some kind of no-account. He'd go back in person, not mail the money, when she was working again, and he'd not only pay the skipped bill but give her some expensive piece of jewelry.
That'll take cash, he thought.
He knew that these people he was going to meet here today would want to handle Scott and Ozzie and Diana themselves; but he could point out that he was a professional, too. The fat man, assuming that's whom he had talked to on the phone, seemed to be in a position of authority here, not hired by Obstadt back in L.A., and he would probably welcome help from a competent workman.
He wondered how Obstadt's "guys in Vegas" were doing at trying to find Crane. He hoped they hadn't found out about the Iverson-Crane Visa card.
The Pacific Time Zone clock over the registration desk said a couple of minutes to two. He stood up and walked toward the escalator that would take him down to Lindy's Deli.
As soon as he stopped by the cash register and could look out across the rows of booths and quaint dark wood tables, Funo recognized the fat man's big old bald head poking up above one of the farther booths.
He grinned and strode over to the booth. The place smelled wonderfully of corned beef and coleslaw.
Trumbill was sitting with a very attractive older woman, and Funo bowed. "Hi, I'm Al Funo. I believe I spoke to … you, sir? On the phone earlier. I got your number by tracing the registration on your Jag."
"Sit down," said the fat man coldly. "Where are the people you mentioned?"
Funo winked at the old woman, as if sharing amusement at Trumbill's bad manners. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?"
She nodded, and Trumbill said, "This is Elizabeth Reculver."
That had been the name the car was registered to. "A p-p-pleasure," said Funo, keeping his smile but blushing at this recurrence of the stuttering he thought he had licked as a kid. Hastily he slid into the booth, next to her.
"Where are the people you mentioned?" Trumbill said.
"I know where they are," said Funo, "and that's what's important, because I'm in your employ, as it were. I've done a lot of this kind of work."
Trumbill was frowning at him. "This kind of work." The fat man leaned back and sighed. "The money is for the information, Alvin. After you give us that, you just take the money and go away."
Alvin? Like the chipmunk? And talking to him as if money meant more to him than people! Funo felt his face heating up again. "I d-d-don't—" Damn it, he thought. "I'm a professional, and I don't … appreciate—"
Reculver leaned forward.
"Don't, Vaughan," she said, looking the fat man straight in the eye. "I think we should listen to what young Al has to say. I think he could help us."
Suddenly the situation was clear to Funo. This ridiculous Trumbill person was in love with this woman! And resented the fact that she so clearly found Funo attractive.
After a pause, "Okay," said Trumbill, nodding. "Then I guess I should make a call, tell our other guys to put it on hold until they hear different. It looks like we may be doing it your way after all, Mr. Funo." He slid his bulk out of the booth and got to his feet.
Funo could be gracious. "I suspected you'd come to that conclusion, Mr. Trumbill."
Standing up, Trumbill could see the other tables, and he must have liked what he could see, for his nostrils flared and he licked his lips. "Why don't we have lunch while we talk?" he said. "Order me a Reuben's sandwich. Extra coleslaw and pickles. And a big V-8."
"Lunch sounds good to me," said Funo cheerfully. He was sure he could hold food down now. "Good talk with good people over good food, right?"
"Right," said Trumbill.
Trumbill strode off toward the exit, and Funo turned to Reculver, his heart beating fast. "I understand," he said softly, giving her his boyish smile.
The old woman smiled back at him a little uncertainly. "Understand what?"
"Your … feelings. Really."
"Good, I was hoping you did. Vaughan—that's Mr. Trumbill—sometimes he just …" She paused, for Funo had slid over next to her and was pressing his thigh against hers. "Uh, I think you should sit over there, back where you were."
Was she teasing him? Of course. The old hard-to-get routine! Ordinarily he'd have played along, done the winks and the short-but-intense glances, the witty double entendres, but today he needed a little reassurance.
He looked around. At the moment there wasn't anyone who could see them.
He curled his arm across her shoulders, and then with deliberate slowness lowered his mouth onto hers.
Her mouth opened—
—to cough out one harsh syllable of laughter: an awkward, embarrassed laugh, as if she had suddenly found herself in a profoundly distasteful situation and wasn't sure how to get out of it without giving offense, without making her revulsion evident. There had not been any slightest response in her lips or her body.
Funo felt as if he had tried to kiss an old man.
Then he was up and running, and by the time he burst out of one of the north doors onto the bright Strip sidewalk, he was crying.
He was long gone. Reculver walked back to the booth and sat down. In a few moments Trumbill came swinging and stamping back to the table. He looked at Betsy alone in the booth and raised his eyebrows.
"Gone to the head?" he asked.
"No, he—he ran away." She shook her head bewilderedly. "I … had him wrong, Vaughan. I thought he was just a, you know, small-time ambitious hood; Moynihan's guys get him out of here quiet, we shoot him up with sodium pentothal or something, and then we bury him in the desert when we've found out what he knows. But he … tried to kiss me! Sit down, will you? He tried to kiss me, and I guess I didn't react—properly."
Trumbill stared at her. His mouth kinked in a rare, ironic grin. "I guess you wouldn't."
"I wonder if we'll hear from him again."
He sat down. "If we do, you'd better tell him you were … on your period, but now you're okay again and you think he's sexy."
"I couldn't possibly do that."
Two men in shorts and flowered shirts hurried up to the table now, panting. "He got clean away, Mrs. Reculver. He was in a cab and gone by the time we got to the sidewalk. We were walking toward here, from by the kitchen, but then he just up and ran out."
"Yeah," said the other man nervously. "You didn't tell us to watch for him to just up and run out."
"I know," said Reculver, still distracted. "Get out of here, and next time be quicker."
"I better get back on the phone," said Trumbill, wearily getting up again, "and tell Moynihan we don't need his guys after all. Did you get a chance to order?"