which hotel security is tighter than on an Israeli airliner, and where both the mob and the feds have permanent staffs watching the airport, someone is going to make us. But hopefully not before we can cut a deal.
“During the duration of this ordeal,” Neal pronounced, “we will continue in the education of Polly Paget. I say we because I am hoping that both of you other ladies will add your considerable talents to this monumental effort.”
“You’re taking a shot at me, right?” Polly asked.
“Better me than someone in a ski mask,” Neal answered.
“I have a question,” Candy said. She had washed off the makeup, done her face, and looked like her tightly wrapped self again. “What, if anything, are you planning to do about my husband? I mean, it seems like this hit man thing has put us on the defensive. I don’t know about you all, but I would like to go on the attack. When do we do that?”
Neal checked his watch.
“I think right about now,” he said. “Polly, I want you to make one more phone call.”
“What would you like to drink, sweetie?” Gloria asked. She leaned forward to let her guest see the coming attractions.
“A scotch, please,” Joe Graham said. He looked at the top of her breasts while wondering if her glasses were clean. The woman looked a little sloppy. Of course, most women who picked you up in the Blarney Stone at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon were not going to look like Loretta Young coming downstairs.
Then again, he probably didn’t look so hot himself, having spent half the night on an airplane.
The place is a mess, Joe thought as Gloria fixed the drinks in the kitchen. The carpet needs shampooing, the coffee table needs dusting, and the faded picture of Bobby Kennedy needs a good Windexing. Plus, it’s overheated and smells of stale cigarette smoke.
Graham looked at his watch. He’d cut this a little too close. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d picked up a woman in a saloon.
“Hey, Gloria, forget the drink, huh?”
“What’s the matter, Joe? Are you in a hurry, or are you afraid it’ll wilt your asparagus?”
My asparagus? I have to get out of here.
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Walter Withers lately.”
Her hand stopped above the glass for a half second, then she relaxed, poured the drink, and smiled.
“You know Walter?” she asked.
“From the insurance business,” Joe answered. “You know, sometimes when you get a claim you think isn’t kosher, you call a guy like Walter. I know he hangs around that bar.”
She came in from the kitchen, sat down, and crossed her legs to show the maximum amount of thigh. Graham thought it looked pretty silly for a woman her age.
“I don’t think Walter’s been getting so many calls these days,” she said. “He hangs around the bar too much.”
“Yeah, well.”
“When you get to the point where you can’t handle your booze…” Gloria added, letting the point trail off.
Graham picked it up.
“So, have you heard from him?”
She opened a mock leather cigarette case, took out a filtered Winston, and waited for him to light it. When he didn’t, she shrugged and reached for a lighter in her purse. Joe saw that she sensed something was wrong, but she was trying to keep it light.
“I had a drink with him about a week ago, I guess,” Gloria said. “Are we going to talk about me and Walter or me and you…
“When you saw Walt about a week ago,” Joe said, “did you talk about your friend Polly?”
“Who are you?”
“Did you?”
“Maybe.”
The phone rang. She lighted her cigarette and made no move to answer it.
Joe walked over to the window, opened it a foot, and stood in the fresh air. It was something he had always taught Neal-when you take over, take over. Make the space your own-little things lead to bigger things. It was the same with interrogations. Usually, your goal was to make people swallow a big ugly, so you’re better off feeding it to them in small bites.
“It’s okay with me if you don’t want to answer your own phone,” Graham said. “Anyway, your machine is on, so we can both listen.”
She leaned over to turn it off. Graham grabbed her hand and forced it to the receiver.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi, it’s me,” Polly said.
“Kid, how are you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m scared. Someone tried to kill me.”
“Oh my God!”
She looks surprised, Graham thought.
“Gloria, look, I want you to know where I am in case something happens. I’m at the Bluebird Motel in Sparks, Nevada. Room one-oh-three.”
“Got it, kid. Listen, maybe you should call the cops.”
“No!”
“All right, kid. Stay in touch, huh?”
Gloria hung up and looked at Graham.
“I brought you up here thinking we could have a few laughs,” she said. “It isn’t too late…”
She looked pathetic.
“You’re a very attractive woman and I’m attracted,” Graham lied, “Unfortunately, we have a problem we need to work out…”
“What problem?” Gloria asked.
Now she looked scared. He sat down next to her on the couch.
“What do you owe Joey Beans?” he asked.
Yeah, that’s it, Graham thought. It’s right there in your eyes.
Gloria said, “I didn’t know he was going to kill her.”
“No, you thought he was going to have roses delivered,” Graham said. “Did Walt know about the hit?”
She laughed. “Walt! Walt thought he was getting her to pose for dirty pictures.”
“He was a decoy.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” Graham answered. “Now, are you going to do the right thing, Gloria?”
She took a short hit on the cigarette before she answered, “If I knew what the right thing was.”
Graham handed her the phone. “Make the call.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yeah, I’m a real comedian,” Graham said. “Make the call. And remember, Joey Beans can’t protect you up here.”
She took the phone and dialed.
“Hello, Harold?” she said. “Take this down.”
After she finished giving Harold Polly’s new whereabouts, Graham said, “I’m curious. How much did you owe Joey Beans? What’s a friend’s life go for these days?”
The phone rang.
“Saved by the bell,” Gloria said as she reached for the phone.
Graham shook his head.
After the beep, they listened to Walter Withers’s plaintive voice ask Gloria to call him.
“You aren’t home when he calls,” Graham told her. “Leave him out of this now.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
