“I don’t like them either,” said Burke, a drop of bourbon dripping down his chin. “So I was thinking that I’d give you one of mine. Someone the Greek’s never met. Joe, whad’ya think of that?”
I think you’re getting sloppy. You’re getting good and goddamn sloppy now.
Recevo said, “I think it’ll be fine.”
“Reed,” said Burke. “Go downstairs and bring up a man.”
Reed stopped pacing. “A couple of those guys downstairs were with us when we went in the Greek’s place the first time.”
“Then bring one up who wasn’t with you the first time! Goddamn it, Reed, do I have to explain everything?”
Reed walked quickly from the room. Burke rubbed his temples; he wished he hadn’t given Gearhart the night off, so he could bounce some of these things off of him. Gearhart, he was a strange one, but he always knew what to do. Well, at least he had Joe around. Joe had a brain in his head, at least.
Bender looked around the room, an expression of bemusement on his face. Then Reed walked back in with a man half his size. The guy had a small-man’s scowl; a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth; he wore elevator shoes and a ten-gallon hat.
Bender smiled. “This your man?”
“His name’s Sanderson.”
“Hmm.” Bender chuckled under his breath.
Recevo checked out Sanderson — comical, if he wasn’t so pathetic. And then another Sanderson image entered his mind: Recevo pictured himself, three years back, looking in the rearview of the coupe, seeing Reed and Sanderson and the others stepping up to meet Karras on the sidewalk in front of the market.
Burke turned to Bender. “He look okay to you?”
“Fine,” said Bender. “In fact, this thing is beginning to look like it might be fun.”
Recevo studied Sanderson and his Tom Mix hat.
That hat. He was wearing that hat the night in the alley. I remember it now, clear as day. And Pete Karras will remember it, too.
“How about you, Joe?” said Burke. “You see anything wrong with the setup?”
Recevo leaned forward. “No, Mr. Burke. Not a thing.”
Matty Buchner had a sip of scotch, let his eye move casually around the room. It was a slow night in this place, with a couple of out-of-town businessmen and a solo fat man seated at the bar. A B-girl had managed to get some sucker to buy her a watered-down highball, and she and this suit-and-tie hayseed were in a booth making small talk. In the booth behind them, two high-end hookers sat drinking Cokes, trying in vain to get the attention of the businessmen at the bar. The girls looked like the Doublemint twins, but Buchner knew they were hookers, as he had seen them work this room before. Their clean-scrubbed looks fetched twenty dollars each, but in the heat of the summer, when this town was stone dead, you could get either one of them for ten. Never less than ten, though, Matty knew, because he had tried.
No action tonight. The Hi-Hat lounge in the winter was usually good for a few bucks, but not tonight. The patrons at the bar had kept their coats with them, and the checkout woman at the cloakroom, a broad with a face that begged for a feed-bag, she couldn’t be bought. Yeah, the Hi-Hat, it was usually prime territory for a cold-finger man like Matty Buchner. But not tonight.
Buchner liked the place, even if it was a freeze-out on nights like this. The lounge was in The Ambassador, one of the newest and nicest hotels in the city, with air-conditioning in every room, and it drew the visiting money. Yeah, this Cafritz guy who had built the joint, he had done it up right. Buchner supposed he could head over to the Madrillon at 15th and New York, see what was going on there, but they had that spic music real regular now, and that stop-and-start, cha-cha bullshit played hell with his ears. Even if nothing was happening, Buchner decided he would stay at the Hi-Hat, relax a little bit, see what came up, have another drink. He signalled the tender with a tilt of his chin.
The bartender was a ratty-looking fuck who didn’t know Matty from Adam, which was why Matty was still on his stool. The previous bartender had caught Buchner with his hand in some other guy’s cashmere coat one year ago, and had tossed him out. And then there was the house dick, a fat, bald-headed dude who’d also given Matty the fisheye from time to time. But Buchner had heard that there was a new guy on barshift, and that was what had brought him back.
“What’s it gonna be?”
“A scotch and soda.”
“Any flavor?”
“The house. That’s forty-five cents, right?”
“At happy hour it is. Thing is, pal, you’re about four hours late.”
“Come on friend, cut me a little slack.”
The bartender tapped his finger on the face of his watch. “The drinks are regular price, friend.”
“Aw, go on and make it, then, if you’re gonna be cute.”
The bartender ran a finger along the ploughshare line of his weathered face, and went to fix the drink. Buchner narrowed one eye; the lid of his glass eye stayed put.
This bartender, he wasn’t fooling anybody, he was nothing but a lousy pimp. Buchner had seen him talking with the fat bird at the bar, had heard the whole deal being cut. Ever since he had lost his eye, doing his stretch for that misunderstanding at the Shoreham, his hearing had improved. It was funny, how that worked. The fat bird at the bar, he had asked the bartender for “a big one,” and then the bartender had gone to the wall phone, stuck a toothpick between his thin lips, and made the call. The two of them, they thought they were being real slick. But Matty, he had heard the whole thing.
The tender served the drink. Buchner drained the old one, pushed the empty glass across the bar.
Matty looked at the fat shmuck sitting there, his ass spilling over the sides of his stool. The guy reminded him of some movie actor who always played a heavy. He tried to think of who it was, but all he could come up with was Victor Mature. But this fuck, he didn’t look a thing like Mature. Mature was a handsome sonofabitch, a star, and this guy—
The phone rang on the wall, and the bartender went to answer it. Then the bartender hung up the receiver and walked back over to the fat guy. The two of them whispered a little bit, which Matty couldn’t make out on account of they had brought it down so low. Then the fat guy, he left a big bill on the bar, put on his topcoat, and headed out. Buchner watched the fat fuck go; he reminded him of some actor, all right. But who?
Buchner looked in the bar mirror at the wholesome hookers, and then he caught his own reflection in the glass. He could remember a time when the ladies found him pretty sharp, but now, with this cockeyed eye... anyway. He looked once more at the hookers. He smiled at them, tried to think if he had the dough on him to take the next step. Aw, what the hell. Even if he had the twenty for the both of them — and he knew he could get them down to twenty — how could he enjoy it, knowing that they’d be sick about it the whole time, that they couldn’t stand to be with a single-peepered sad sack like him?
Matty Buchner sipped at his drink. The house brand, it wasn’t all that bad.
27
“Lola... Lola, honey. C’mon, wake up.”
Lydia Fortuno took her hand from Lola Florek’s shoulder, pulled back the topsheet that covered her. Lola lay fetally on the bed, her mocha-colored dress bunched and wrinkled, her ankle-strapped heels still on her feet. A spot of blood had formed and dried now in the area of Lola’s crotch. Lydia felt her jaws tighten — Morgan, that sonofabitch, he had sent her over to that colored reefer party at the blind pig off 7th earlier in the night, even after Lydia had warned him that the child might get hurt. The bastard she had been with, he had ripped into Lola real good. Afterwards, Lydia had seen her coming through the front door, trying not to double over from the pain, and she had taken her straight up the stairs and given her the sweet shot. It wouldn’t fix what had happened, but it would take Lola away.