of nothing to say. What was there to say? That it wasn't supposed to have ended like this? That she deserved better? In life so much between them had, perforce, remained unsaid. It had been part of the contract between them. How else could they have gotten along? But, as he stood there, gradually, the apparent sanctity of their last moment together began to dawn on him until he could no longer resist the impulse to say the words that were in his head. If such a thing as a soul did exist then he could not imagine that it had yet gone from a body that still looked so beautiful. The question might have vexed theologians, but Tom spoke as the inspiration found him.
Si capax, ego te absolve a peccatis tuisaEU|'
PART TWO
Chapter 9
The Sit Down
George White, head of the Chicago Federal Narcotics office, watched his man come out of the Drake Hotel and cross the street. Leaving his car, he followed, intending to catch up with the other man, and to walk with him a while. They were old friends from the war when they had been members of the Office of Strategic Services - the forerunner of the CIA - and it was the habit of such men who had not seen each other in a while to engineer a meeting in some clandestine way that might amuse them both.
There was late-night traffic around and White only took his eyes off the man for a few seconds while he skipped out of the way of a Checker cab. But when he arrived on the other sidewalk, following his quarry's route through a pedestrian walkway that, to White's educated brown eyes, was reminiscent of the red, green, white, and yellow rectangles that characterised the modern art of Piet Mondrian, the man had disappeared. It was a second or two before White realised that the late-twenties building behind the riot of brightly coloured plastic panels was the Playboy Club, and that the man he was following must have gone inside.
White was not surprised that this assistant superintendent of the City of Miami's police department should have patronised such an establishment. His old friend had always been keen on the ladies. He was surprised, however, to discover that the front door was locked and that there was no evident sign of a bell. He had read about the Playboy Club when it had opened back in January, but this was the first time that he had attached any significance to it being a key-holder's club, and only now was it plain to see that if you were not a member, and did not hold a key, you could not go inside. That was certainly true for most people, if not for George White. Especially since it was a new and relatively simple lock.
White took out a fountain pen, unscrewed the top and emptied a lock pick on to his gnarled palm. For someone who had been bypassing locks for twenty-five years, the one on the door of 163 East Walton Street presented no particular problems. White was through the door and advancing on to the black carpet, with its golden bunny heads, in less than thirty seconds, to be greeted by a tall, buxom blonde wearing a black satin swim suit, stockings, black high heels, bunny ears, and, atop her attractive derriere, a little round fluffy tail. White considered stroking it and then thought better of this impulse.
Good evening, sir. Could I help you with your coat?'
You may indeed,' agreed White, allowing the bunny-girl to help him out of his hundred-dollar Barry Walt top coat. He handed over his hat and straightened his jacket.
And the member's key-number is?'
I'm a guest of Mister Nimmo. Jimmy Nimmo? He just came in a minute ago. I was parking the car.'
The bunny checked a board where the members' names were posted. As she bent forward to retrieve Nimmo's card White had a fine view of her enormous bosom - just the kind, he thought, to make any man with a thirst on his mouth feel more than welcome.
Oh yes, Mister Nimmo. Here he is.' White was already walking past her and up the stairs, like he knew the place already. Enjoy your evening, sir.'
Thanks.'
He climbed up to the first level and looked around a bar illuminated by backlit reproductions of gatefold Playmates and staffed by more beautiful bunny-girls. There were plenty of single men around - men who were not the marrying kind, being married already - but of Jimmy Nimmo, there was no sign.
Advancing into the bar, White caught sight of an impressive-looking hi-fidelity system that was built into a wood-panelled wall under the stairs. Next to a reel-to-reel tape deck, a record turntable, and a radio tuner, and manned by a spectacular redhead in a blue bunny costume, was something that seemed to promise an early solution to the problem of the missing Nimmo: a closed-circuit TV with controls enabling the viewer to come in for entertaining close-ups of the bunnies. The redhead showed White how to work the controls and explained that the whole system had cost Hugh Hefner, who owned the club, $27,000, and was the most elaborate custom-built rig anywhere outside the White House. White took in some more cleavages and a nice shot of a bunny in the Playboy library bending over to serve some drinks, before finally locating Nimmo on the second floor, in the living room's Cartoon Corner. He thanked the big redhead for her assistance, and added, If only all surveillance operations were this easy. Or this much fun.' Then he went upstairs.
Jimmy Nimmo was seated in the corner of a big leather sofa, underneath a wall covered with framed Playboy cartoons and outsized Vargas girls. In one hand was a full ounce and a half of Bourbon, and in the other, a Medico filter pipe that he was smoking without much enjoyment. Wearing a plaid corduroy jacket and dark brown flannels, Nimmo was a big, heavy man, and strong-looking. Like White, he was in his late fifties.
What do you have to do to get a drink around here?' demanded White. Threaten someone with myxomatosis?'
It's been tried,' grinned Nimmo. He looked hardly surprised to see White standing there after so long a time. You see the ones with the swellings on their chests? It's a sure sign they're already infected. Apparently, it's supposed to control the population, but it has precisely the opposite effect on me. Now I know why rabbits are supposed to fuck so much.'
Just call me Thumper,' said White, and sat down beside him. They shook hands warmly and Nimmo waved a bunny towards them whereupon he ordered two double Bourbons on the rocks.
The service is attractive, but slow,' explained Nimmo, toasting White's arrival with his existing drink. By the time that little lady bounces back - and I mean bounces - I'll have finished this one and be ready for another.'
Never figured you for the Playboy type,' said White.
What about you, you old hypocrite? What the hell are you doing here? You're a married man. It's even money your wife doesn't know you're in here.'
I didn't know I was coming myself until I followed you in through the door,' admitted White. But now I'm here, I can see almost all the advantages of membership.'
Then why not join? You can bring Hoover here the next time the fat bastard's in Chicago.'
White laughed as a picture of the puritanical FBI director in the Playboy Club began to develop in his mind. Make a nice photograph, wouldn't it?' he said.
And kind of an antidote to the other ones of him and Clyde.' Nimmo was referring to the rumour that Meyer Lansky possessed compromising photographs of Hoover and his deputy, Clyde Tolson.
You believe those stories, Jimmy?'
I'd sure like to.'
The bunny arrived back with the drinks and placed them carefully on the glass-top table.
Thanks honey,' said Nimmo. Hey, you want to get up early tomorrow and we'll look for furniture?' He growled after her as the bunny-girl went back to the safety of her bar.
Same old Jimmy,' said White. What brings you to the windy city?'
My daughter, Hannah, had a kid. She and that Hiram Holliday of a husband of hers had a little boy. Roger.'
Then here's to you, Grandpa.' White toasted Nimmo.
Keep your voice down,' chuckled Nimmo. Some of these broads haven't made me yet.'
George, isn't it? George Whayman. Is he still with the CPD Intelligence Unit?'
Yeah. He made lieutenant last Fall. They have a nice house in Cicero. On Ogden Avenue.'
Cicero, huh? That's nice. Very nice for a lieutenant.'
You know that story,' said Nimmo. Jesus, we practically wrote it. Everyone in the CPD has one of those kinds of pensions.'
You sound as if that bothers you. Is that why you're staying at the Drake?'
No, not at all. He and I don't get on for all kinds of reasons, but they're nothing to do with him being on the
