I frowned. “What kind of disagreement, Buster?”
A sigh. “Well, over whether handling that money is just as damn bad as ransoming and killing that poor child. To me, it’s blood money. It’s filthy, wicked, ill-gotten gains. And again, I let that be known. But not everybody sees it that way. So I am telling you right now... and would suggest you believe me... that my hands never touched that money.”
“Your word’s good enough for me, Buster.” Particularly sitting in a steam bath with him with that towel settling over what was definitely a .38, and considering the less than gentle way I’d been brought by his emissaries into the court of the king of East St. Louis.
“Now what prompted me,” he said, “to bother you in the wee hours was a phone call I received... actually several phone calls, including more than one from St. Louis police officers who are friendly to me... about the sad event of earlier tonight. Yesterday evening, actually, as we are past the witching hour, aren’t we, into a new day?”
“We are.”
He shook his head, somberly. “Sandy O’Day was a special gal to me. We had some nice times together, and then when she wanted to go in business for herself, I helped set her up through Joe Costello. Of course I’m aware she was part of that fucked-up mess involving the arrest of the psycho kid killer... the night that half the ransom money walked away somehow.”
“Sandy didn’t take it. But she knew things.”
His eyes tightened. “What things, if you don’t mind my asking, Nate?”
Under these circumstances, how could I mind?
“When Sandy learned that Carl Hall had several suitcases full of cash,” I said, “she took a midnight ride to the Paddock Club.”
The eyes were big now. “She went to my club?”
“Yes, but you were away, weren’t you?”
“I was, when all that happened. Out of town, visiting my kids at my ex-wife’s, if that’s important.”
“Where you were isn’t. But when Sandy couldn’t find you, she talked to your man Downey.”
“What? Dutch?”
“Dutch Downey called Costello. The short answer is, Costello and Shoulders took half the money and turned the rest in, hoping that’d close the books. They were wrong and they were stupid. It looks like the money went to Chicago to be washed. Possibly in the Humphreys laundries. Probably partly in the Southmoor Bank.”
He was shaking his head. “Come on, Nate. The Camel would never in a million years deal in money that hot... that... that rotten. And Accardo would blow his stack! They are all family men!”
That was “family” with a lowercase F.
I said, “Now, Buster — you and I know there are plenty of guys in Accardo and Humphreys’ world who would happily deal with hot money. And in yours. Who wouldn’t give two shits where it came from.”
He came over and sat beside me. He did not bring the towel with the gun. “You’re sure about this, Nate?”
“I heard it from Sandy herself, not half an hour before she got shot down by somebody driving an Ace Cab. There can’t be much doubt Costello was behind it. When I went to the Tic Toc, night before last, he stonewalled me and then two of his boys jumped me in the alley.”
His eyes were moving fast. “Sandy said she went to Dutch?”
“She did. She was with him at the Paddock when he called Costello. Does Downey have any good friends in the Outfit? Particularly in Murray Humphreys’ organization?”
He looked whiter than the steam surrounding us. He said, “It was good of you to come.”
I’d had it. “Good of me to come? Your boys Dutch and Mel jumped me, shoved a chloroformed rag in my face, and that shit can kill you! They handcuffed me and tied me up like a calf and dragged me here. Good of me to come!”
Aghast at this news, he leaned over and clutched my arm. “Not my doing, Nate... Go get dressed. Tell my boys to meet me with you in the garage.”
I nodded, and went out, where Dutch and Mel were sitting at the long bar having bottles of beer. I conveyed what their boss had told me, then I was returned to the guest bedroom.
I got dressed and walked to the window. I looked out and didn’t see any fishes jumping now. I considered climbing out and jumping myself — two stories wouldn’t kill you. But there was a moat, and I didn’t particularly want to go swimming; and somebody might see me head for the bridge. I had no idea how many other Wortman minions might be here in the castle. And he’d seemed friendly enough, even grateful for what I’d told him. Why run?
Dutch and Mel walked me down to the kitchen and back into the garage, where the Oldsmobile and a Cadillac were parked, and Buster — hands in the pockets of a terrycloth robe, feet rocking in sandals — was waiting.
Dutch said, “What do you want us to do with him, Buster?”
“This breaks my heart,” Buster said, and his right hand came from the robe’s pocket to train the .38 revolver on Downey.
His number two looked astonished. He raised his hands, palms out, nodded at me and glared at his boss. “You’re not going to believe this asshole?”
“About what?”
Buster shot him in the head, and bone, blood and brains spattered the brick wall like a giant bug against a windshield.
“Jesus!” Mel said, wide-eyed, terrified.
“Calm down,” Buster said. “You’re in charge of clean-up.”
Now I was a witness, but before I could do anything about it, Buster dropped the .38 in a pocket of the terrycloth robe. Looking nothing at all like a comic in an old movie, he said, “Nate, I’ll call you a cab.”
“Okay,” I said. “Just don’t make it an Ace.”
Chapter Seventeen
By the time I got back to the Coral Court, I figured I’d been up eighteen hours. The only sign of a struggle in the Red Room was my nine millimeter on the carpet where it had been tossed by either Dutch or Mel — their entry had been a blur. I picked the weapon up and placed it on the nightstand by the phone.
I didn’t feel tired — more like overwrought. I took a warm shower, to help come down from that high a guy can get surviving a kidnapping by hoods after his dinner date got killed and two chatty gangsters made him the center of their attention. You’ve had evenings like that I’m sure.
My head still ached from the chloroform dosing and I got a bottle of aspirins out of my shaving kit and shook out five or six. Took them. Pajamas seemed wrong somehow and I just crawled under the cool sheets in my boxers and settled my head into an equally cool pillow and waited for the wings of Morpheus to flap down and carry me off.
They didn’t.
Pieces were floating inside my head like a Dali painting trying to make sense of itself; but after a while the fragments assembled into something more on the Norman Rockwell order, minus the saccharine Americana. I had caught the barest glimpse of the cab driver who’d fired that bullet into Sandy O’Day’s forehead, but he might have been the blond from the Tic Toc alley who’d seemed vaguely familiar to me.
What do you need, Heller? An engraved invitation?
I switched on the bedside lamp and got the phone book out of the nightstand drawer. Looked to see if Joe Costello’s home number was listed and it wasn’t. I called the FBI office and asked if Special Agent Hostetter was available and he was.