“It must be a beauty,” I said.
He went on as if he had never heard me. “Our groups are highly skilled. Although those chosen to augment our group are of the finest calibre, the most select, elite... they still have certain handicaps civilized society has inflicted on them. Maybe you can finish it for me.”
I nodded. “Sure. Let’s try a lucky guess. You need an animal. Some improver of the breed has run all shagginess out of your business-suit characters and you need a downtown shill to bait your hook. How close did I come?”
“Close,” he said.
“I’m still listening.”
“We need somebody of known talents. Like you. Somebody whose mind can deal on an exact level with... the opposition. We need someone whose criminal disposition can be directed into certain channels.”
“An animal,” I said, “the dirty kind. Maybe a jackal that can play around in the jungle with the big ones without being caught.”
“It’s descriptive enough.”
“Not quite. The rest of it is that if he’s killed he wouldn’t even be missed or counted for a loss.”
When he answered, he said, “That isn’t exactly ‘punk language’.”
“But I’m there, huh?”
“You’re there,” he said solemnly.
I shook my head slowly. “Brother!” I pushed away from the desk and straightened up. “I think you made a mistake in nomenclature, buddy. It’s not a psychological factor involved, it’s a philosophical one. Only your appeal is psychological. You posed me a pretty, laddie.”
“I... don’t suppose it would do much good to appeal on a patriotic basis?”
“You suppose right. You can shove flag-waving and duty-to-your country crap with the rest of it.”
“Then how do I appeal?”
“To curiosity and one thing more. Money!”
“How much?”
I grinned real big, all the way across my face. “A bundle, friend. For what you want, a bundle. Tax-free, no strings, in small, used bills.”
“What is it that I wanted?” he asked.
For fun I played it straight. I said, “You clued me, friend. Patriotism doesn’t exist on any local level. Suddenly we’re international and I can only think of three fields where you striped pantsers could exploit me. The narcotic trade through Italy, Mexico or China; illegal gold shipments to Europe; then last, the Commies.”
He didn’t answer.
“How much?” I asked.
“You can get your bundle.”
“Like I said? Tax free, small bills...”
“Like you said,” he repeated.
“One more point.”
“Ask it,” he told me.
“What makes you think I’ll like the bit?”
“Because you hate cops and politicians and those are the kind of people you’ll get a chance to really crack down on.”
I squinted at him. “You’re leaving something out.”
“You’re right, Irish. You’re communicating now, boy. I left out the needle. Money is a powerful motivator, but the needle still has to be there. If you take the deal we supply the toxin-anti-toxin.”
“So?”
“You’ll take it?”
I nodded. “Sure. What’d you expect me to say?”
“Nothing.” With his fingers he drew a paper from his pocket, unfolded it so the bottom showed with the signature line and nothing more, then he passed me his pen. “Sign it.”
The laugh came out of me of its own accord. Why ask to read it? I had nothing I could sign away and nothing to confess to that couldn’t be broken in court and nothing makes me more curious than signing first and asking to read later. I signed.
I said, “What’s the pitch?”
“Nothing you’d appreciate. To protect ourselves or yourself under impossibly remote circumstances you now have a certain measure of legal protection.”
“Like what?”
“Like you were just made a cop,” he said.
I took it easy and said all the words slowly and plainly so he wouldn’t miss a one and after a long time I ran out. His face had turned white and the corners of his mouth were pulled back tight.
“You finished?” he said.
“It’s all the punk language I can think of right now.”
“I don’t like the arrangement any better than you do. It’s a necessity or it never would have happened. You’re in.”
“Suppose I crap out?”
“You won’t.”
“Okay, I asked for it. Now what do you do, indoctrinate me or something?”
“Not at all. All you’re going to do is be given a name. You’ll find that person. Then whatever is necessary to do... you do.”
“Damn, man, can’t you make sense?”
The smile came back again. “Making sense of it is your job. The picture will come clear by itself. You’ll know what to do.”
“Sure. Great.” I asked the question. “Who?”
“The name is Lodo.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded. “That’s all. Just find him. You’ll know what to do.”
“Then the loot?”
“A big bundle of it. More than you’ve ever had in your life.”
“How long do I have?”
“No time limit.”
I let the laugh out easily. His eyes tightened when the laugh spread to my face. “Just for the record before we turn the machine off, friend... who steered you to me?”
“A man named Billings. Henry Billings. Familiar?”
Something choked the laugh off in my throat. “Yeah, I know him.”
Know him? The lousy slob ratted on me to the M.P.’s about liberating 10 grand of some kraut’s gold hoard back in ’45 and while I was getting the guardhouse treatment when some planted coins were found in my footlocker, he walked off with the stuff himself. The day I caught up with him would be his last.
When I knew nothing was showing on my face I said, “Where could I find him?”
“Out in Brooklyn... in a cemetery.”
I felt like kicking the walls out of the building. I had nursed that hate for too long to have it snatched away from me like that. Thirteen years now I had been waiting.
“What happened?”
“He was shot.”
“Yeah?”
“He was after the same name.”
I said, “Yeah?” again.
“Before he died he recommended you. He said you were the only one he knew who was a bigger bastard than he was himself.”
“He was lying.”
“You still with it?”
“Sure.” I wouldn’t miss it for anything now. Someplace Billings had bought something with that 10 G’s and whatever he got was mine now no matter who I had to take it away from. “Where do I start?”
“With a phone number. Billings had it on him.”
“Whose?” I said.
“You find out. We couldn’t figure it.”
Once again he dipped into his pocket. He came up with a pad and wrote a phone number on it, a Murray Hill exchange. He let me see it, then tore it out and held a match under it.
Outside, I whistled up a cab and cruised back toward the main stem, trying hard to think my way out of the situation. It had all the earmarks of a sucker trap and somehow I got elected to try it out. Me, strictly Brooklyn Irish, old Ryan himself, heading straight for the plastic pottie boobie prize.
Man, I thought, I’m not new to this business. I’ve been around a long while and made plenty the easy way without pulling time. Even the hard boys on the big team uptown stayed off my back.
At 49th St. and Sixth Ave. I paid off the cabbie and walked to Joe DiNuccio’s. I went into the back room where I knew Art Shay would be and slid in across the booth from him.