‘Try the Alcove Club, just a short walk down the block,’ advised the guard. ‘This is just for rich kids.’
‘I’m the father of a rich kid,’ said Stein.
‘Hey, he’s a joker,’ said the guard to the receptionist ‘OK, fats, you’ve had your fun. Now hit the street and keep walking. You need a tuxedo to come in here. And a clean shirt.’ He grinned at the receptionist. The guard had moved farther into the light now. It shone on the brightly polished leather belt and cross strap and the bright chromium badge on his blue shirt.
‘How would you like to move aside?’ said Stein quietly.
The guard clasped one large hand in the other, and began to pull at his finger joints one by one, as if trying to count ‘And how would you like to learn how to fly, fatso?’ he said. He pushed at Stein’s belly forcefully enough to halt him.
The receptionist was craning his neck to be sure that no important clients were about to enter the outer doors and so witness a would-be client being manhandled. For this reason he did not see what happened next. He expressed his regret about that many times over the ensuing weeks. He heard a grunt of pain, a strangled yell and the resounding thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. The vase of roses toppled too and broke on the floor.
‘Flying is just for the birds,’ Stein was saying softly to the prostrate guard while removing a set of brass knuckles from his fist. Delicately, with the toe of his two-toned oxford, he moved the groaning security guard over until he could see his face. The long-stemmed roses were twisted round the guard’s body and his uniform was wet with water from the vase.
The petrified receptionist pressed appropriate buttons on the telephone and said, ‘Reception. There’s a guy tearing the place apart down here.’ A pause. ‘No, Mr Delaney, I can’t get the security man, he’s crippled the security man already.’ He put down the phone. ‘Mr Delaney is coming,’ said the receptionist, more to himself than to Stein or the guard.
Stein put the brass knuckles back into his pocket and waited for something to happen. Behind a door marked ‘Private’ there was the sound of feet hurrying down stairs. Two men came through it, close together. One was holding a short baton, while behind him a much older man had a pistol carried low and pointing to the ground. It was an old gun, its blue finish now worn shiny.
‘OK!’ said the man with the baton. He was a young man in an expensive silk suit and frilly blue evening shirt. His face was pinched and his hairline prematurely receding, but he had the broad shoulders and biceps that come only to the truly dedicated weightlifter. ‘Where is he?’
The security guard was still lying on the floor, both hands clasping his belly. He groaned. A rose was entwined in his legs.
‘Who did it, Murray?’ said the young man. The guard groaned again. ‘I did it,’ said Stein simply.
‘You hit him?’ The young man was outraged. He said, ‘Murray and me work out together at the gym.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that,’ said Stein apologetically.
‘You’re going to have to get out of here, mister,’ said the younger Delaney, taking care not to hold the baton in any way that might be interpreted as a threat.
‘You want to be laid out cold, kid? This is Chuck Stein. He don’t take no lip from anyone except me.’ The elder Delaney was a big man, taller than Stein, with the smooth cat-like movements that come with physical fitness. He was tanned and had that sort of naturally wavy hair that responds well to a perm every week.
By now they were all looking down at the guard who, finding he was the centre of attention, tried to sit up.
‘Now I have to get myself a new guard, you son of a bitch,’ said Delaney to Stein. He put his foot on the guard’s shoulder and pressed him roughly back to the floor. ‘You’re fired, buddy boy,’ he told him. He picked up the guard’s uniform cap and placed it carefully on the side table.
‘This guy was no good anyway,’ said Stein. He shrugged. ‘I did you a favour.’
‘It’s OK,’ Delaney senior told the receptionist. ‘Get this cream puff out of my lobby. And phone the agency for a replacement. I want someone here before nine o’clock, just in case those guys from that microchip convention are still in town. I’ll be in my office with Chuck. Call me if you want me.’ His son nodded. He knew what that meant: call me only if you’re desperate.
‘Still got your army Colt, I see,’ Stein said. ‘You give that heater to Parke Bemet for auction, and you’d get a record price for it.’
Delaney laughed, put an arm round Stein’s shoulder and guided him upstairs. ‘You should have phoned, Chuck. Or are you here to sell me protection?’ The two men laughed together.
Jerry Delaney’s place was a topless-bottomless club which contravened the regulations of most cities in Los Angeles county, as well as violating specific rules of the Alcoholic Beverage Control Department which licenses the bars. But this was Lennox, an unincorporated area on the way to Los Angeles International airport, where anything goes. At Jerry Delaney’s Gnu Club you could lay a bet or a broad; snort, smoke or mainline the stuff that Jerry brought in from Mexico and places beyond.
Jerry Delaney’s share of the Kaiseroda money had all been put into this two-storey building marked by a smart yellow awning and a bedraggled palm tree. A huge oak desk dominated his large upstairs office, and around it were placed deep leather armchairs of the sort associated with exclusive men’s clubs. On the desk there were three telephones in different colours, a large gold-plated pen set and a pair of baby shoes encased in a large block of transparent plastic. Soft music came from some hidden loudspeaker. Jerry Delaney pressed a switch and the music stopped. ‘Want to dunk that knuckle in some rubbing alcohol?’ He went to a large mirrored drinks cabinet and got two glasses.
‘Wine for me, Jerry, please.’
Jerry Delaney poured a glass of white California wine for each of them. The evening was still young, and a nightclub owner needed a clear head in this part of town. ‘It’s good to see you, Chuck. I got what you asked for.’ He put his hand against the side of the bottle to test the temperature and then, deciding it was not cold enough, tossed a couple of ice cubes into each glass.
He turned to find Stein staring at the framed photographs. They covered the wall behind his desk to the point of almost obliterating the red plush wallpaper. There were dozens of photos there, most of them of the type favoured by restaurateurs and club owners. Harsh flashlight froze Delaney and some of his more famous clients into awkward poses: leaning precariously across dining tables, holding the inevitable glass of champagne aloft and staring at the camera with a fixed and desperate smile.
But Stein was not studying any of the pictures taken in the Gnu Club. He was looking at a shiny signals corps glossy 8 x 10 inch photo of a mud-spattered M-3; a half-track vehicle mounting a 75-mm artillery piece. Ranged in front of it was a group of men in woollen shirts and gaitered trousers that so suited the rainy Tunisian winter. Behind the ‘tank destroyer’ there were some houses and a cluster of palms bent to conform to the prevailing winds. Stein, already a chubby youth, was seated on the roof of the cab, Delaney was in the driver’s seat. Sitting up on the roof of the cab, both arms spread as if to embrace the world, was Stein’s handsome young brother Aram. He looked very young, like a child dressed in grown-up’s clothing.
‘Here’s to Aram,’ said Jerry Delaney before drinking his wine.
Stein raised his glass but did not speak. He could not take his eyes off the photo. Nowhere in his own house was there a picture of his brother; the pain was still too much to bear. But now, confronted with his brother’s face, he couldn’t turn away.
‘You still miss him, Charlie?’
Stein nodded and gulped his drink so that it almost made him cough. ‘I should never have let him drive that damned jeep,’ said Stein.