Catlett said, “I’m taking you out, Yayo,” and shot him in the chest, the gun going off loud— man, it was loud—but didn’t buck as much as Catlett expected. No, looking down at Yayo on the cement floor now among oil stains, arms flung out, eyes stuck wide open, he’d put that hole right where he’d aimed.
“Dead focking center, man.”
“I get the feeling,” the Bear said, “you done this before.”
“Not in a while,” Catlett said.
16 
The way Chili found out Leo the drycleaner’s room number at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he wrote
207. The operator tried it, came back to say she was sorry, Mr. Paris wasn’t answering. Chili, friendly because he was getting somewhere, told the operator Mr. Paris was probably still out at the track giving his money away. Ha ha. To double-check, Chili stepped into the Polo Lounge and ordered a Scotch at the bar.
He didn’t see Leo or Leo’s friend Annette waiting or Doug McClure or any faces he recognized from the silver screen. The room was crowded, six P.M., people at booths and little round tables, most of them probably tourists looking for movie stars. Harry said if anybody here even halfway resembled a star the rest of the tourists would say, “There’s one. Isn’t that, you know, he was in . . .” and some guy from out of town would have a few minutes of fame
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he’d never know about. Harry said there were guys in the picture business had their secretaries call them here; they get paged, everybody sees the phone brought to the table and then watch the schmuck talking to his secretary like he was making a deal and knew personally all the names he was dropping. Harry said the trouble with Hollywood, the scheme-balls worked just as hard as the legit filmmakers.
The limo guy, Catlett, struck Chili as that type wanted to be seen. Looked good in his threads, sounded like he knew what he was talking about— the type of guy if he wasn’t dealing drugs would be into some other kind of hustle. There were guys like him Chili knew by name in Miami, all five boroughs of New York and parts of Jersey. They gave you that stuff about having something in common, being from the street but different sides of it. You had to watch your back with guys like Catlett. Keep him away from Harry.
Earlier today Harry had called from his apartment on Franklin to say he’d come home to change but would be going right back to Karen’s. “You know what I did? Asked her to come on the project as associate producer and she jumped at it.” Chili was learning a little more about Harry every time the guy opened his mouth. “Karen dropped off the script at Tower and we’re waiting to hear when Elaine can see us. Miss Bedroom Eyes. Listen to this. Elaine does-n’t even take pitch meetings, but she’ll do it for Karen. I’m telling you, bringing my old screamer aboard was a stroke of genius.” Chili asked him, shouldn’t the script be rewritten first, fixed up? Harry said, “What’s wrong with it?” Chili told him point by point what he thought and Harry said, “Yeah, Karen mentioned that. It needs a polish, that’s all. I’ll cover that at the meeting. Don’t worry about it.”
Okay, for the time being he’d forget about
He ordered a bottle of champagne, paid his tab and told the bartender he wanted the champagne put in room 207 right away, before his buddy got back, so it would be a surprise. The bartender-acted like this was done all the time. Chili finished his drink and took the stairway to the second floor. Room 207 was right there, at an open center point where halls went off in three different directions, the wallpaper in the halls big green plants, or they might be palm-tree branches. About ten minutes later a room service waiter arrived with the champagne in a bucket and two glasses on a tray. Chili hung back by the stairway till the waiter had the door open, then moved fast to walk in right behind him saying, “Hey, I’m just in time,” and handed the guy a ten-dollar bill.
Three cigarettes and a couple glasses of champagne later, he heard the key in the lock and watched the door open.
Leo came in wearing a sporty little plaid hat cocked on the side of his head. Leo still playing the high roller, not even dragging after all day at the
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track, not looking over this way either, going straight for the Chivas on the desk and having one out of the bottle, ahhh, before pulling a fat wad of cash out of his jacket, tossing it on the desk like it was change from the cab fare and then taking the jacket off, the shirt too, it was coming off, Leo getting down to his undershirt hanging on bony shoulders, but not touching the hat, the sporty hat stayed, Leo thinking he must look good in it or the hat brought him luck, Leo in his four-bills-a-day hotel suite having another swig from the bottle.
“You got no class.”
The poor guy didn’t move.
Not till Chili said, “Look at me, Leo.”
Watching him now reminded Chili of the time in Vegas, Leo pinned to the roulette table, no escape, and finally coming around to say, “How much you want?” Leo the loser, no matter how much he won. Leo came around this time with the same hopeless look, but didn’t say anything. He was taking in the scene. Chili in his pinstripe, on the sofa. The champagne on the coffee table. But what caught Leo’s eye and held his attention was sitting next to the champagne. His briefcase. The same one the bodyguard had carried for him in Vegas.
“I wouldn’t think you’re that dumb,” Chili said, “leave over three hunnerd grand in the closet, underneath the extra blanket, but I guess you are.”
For a second there Leo looked surprised. “I did-n’t know where else to keep it. Where would you?”
The guy was serious.
“You’re here a while, what’s wrong with a bank?”
“They report it to the IRS.”
“You don’t open an account, Leo, you put it in a deposit box. Dip in whenever you want.”
He watched Leo nodding in his sporty hat and undershirt, thinking it over, what to do the next time he scammed an airline. Jesus, he was dumb.
“You been losing, huh?”
“I’m up twelve grand today.”
“From when? You left Vegas with four-fifty.”
“Who told you that?”
“Now you’re down to three-ten in the briefcase. You must’ve cooled off quite a bit in Reno.”
“Who says I was in Reno?”
The poor guy kept trying.
“Your friend Annette,” Chili said.
Leo narrowed his eyes and stared, trying hard to fake who he was: He raised his preshaped plaid hat and recocked it, see if that would help. No, there was nothing dumber than a dumb guy who thought he was a hotshot. You did have to feel a little sorry for him . . .
Till he said, “It was Fay, wasn’t it, told you about Annette. She tell you my whole life history, for Christ sake?”
“I wouldn’t let her if she tried,” Chili said. “Why I’m here, Leo, basically, is to save your ass.”
“How? By taking my money?”
“You can keep what you won today. That’s yours.”
“It’s
“No, I’m not your friend, Leo.”
“I’ll say you aren’t. Come in and ruin my life. Why are you doing this to me? I paid you what I owed.”
“Sit down, Leo.”
