“See, that’s what I mean,” Marc said. “I have to answer that question. Every Italian businessman in this country has to live with the assumption, at least the suspicion, that his success is due to his underworld contacts- myself more than most.
“You say I’m richer than you thought. I’m richer than you know. We live modestly. If I built a big mansion, everybody would say, there’s Don Merolla’s grandson, living on mob money. If I owned racehorses, boats, fancy cars, same thing. If I tried to buy a television network, I’d have the FCC, FBI, IRS, the whole alphabet on my neck. Not that they don’t come around, anyway. I can’t have a birthday party for one of my boys without the DEA trying to bug the ice cream cake.
“I’ll tell you this one time, Ed, because we’re friends: I’m not involved with the wise guys. I’m a businessman. I’m clean.”
Ed looked at the anger in Marc’s eyes and knew they weren’t going to be friends anymore.
“You took his money,” Ed said.
“He’s my grandfather.”
Their eyes were drawn by a burst of activity on the television screen. A home-team player caught a bomb and tossed the ball to the crowd.
“He did us a favor,” Ed said.
“You do business with him; I don’t.”
“Why did he give you our marker?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Ask him.”
“Marc…”
“He’s my grandfather,” Marc said. “He wants to look out for me.”
“And that’s it.”
Marc stood up.
“I’m through being interrogated by you,” he said. “You want to blow us up with the FCC, do it. And keep your damn marker; I don’t need you.”
Ed stayed seated. The television replayed the touchdown while an invisible hand drew squiggly white lines all over the screen.
“That’s the funny thing,” he said. “I think you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve heard of Carmine Bascaglia?”
“I read the papers.”
“One of his captains has a hook into Jack Landis. He’s bleeding you dry.”
On the screen, two buxom women mocked orgasm over a light beer.
Marc said, “I’m calling the cops.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
A truck bounced up a muddy road to the summit of a mountain. A man and a woman got out and embraced as they shared the stunning panorama below.
Ed answered, “People will get hurt and you’ll lose your money.”
There was a long silence. The afternoon sun was falling and the den was getting dark. Marc turned on a lamp, sat down, and raised the volume on the football game.
San Diego was down by three points to Pittsburgh.
They watched the game for a few minutes, then Marc said, “You’re going to make a deal, aren’t you?”
“We’re going to try.”
“And it’ll leave Bascaglia’s people with a piece of the business,” Marc said. “Otherwise, you couldn’t make the deal.”
“That’s right.”
“That stinks.”
“I agree.”
Ed watched the game for a few minutes, then he got up and left. Marc didn’t see him to the door.
“What do you want to drink, sweetie?” Gloria asked.
“I don’t drink,” her guest said.
She leaned forward to give him a preview of coming attractions and asked, “Do you have any vices, I hope?”
And what is it with hands this weekend? First she brings home a guy with one hand; now she picks up a stray with a bandaged paw.
“Well,” the guy answered, ‘just last night I got fucked at the Bluebird Motel.”
He had the pistol on her before she could scream.
“Now go ahead and have your drink,” he said.
Will they ever come out of there? Walter Withers wondered as he lay on the floor next to the door of his hotel room. He had been listening for over twenty-four hours, which far exceeded the timetable in his plan.
It was such a good plan, too. The indomitable Ms. Haber had bribed the ever-tumescent young Bobby-who now had dates with several months’ worth of young ladies with strong exhibitionist tendencies-to arrange a room directly across the hall from that young snake Neal and the valuable Polly Paget.
Then Withers had been spirited up the room in the bottom of a delivery cart-an uncomfortable journey; however, not without a certain whimsical quality-where the plan had called for him to listen vigilantly for the opening of doors and watch the hallway through the peephole until opportunity arose-opportunity for access to Ms. Paget.
A fine plan, Withers thought as he lay on the floor by the door, save for the target’s unreasonable stubbornness in holding to their fortress and the treacherous presence of a cabinet stuffed to bursting with spirits.
The courtesy bar was calling to Withers.
It’s the damn boredom, he thought, the bane of surveillance. The brain-killing, spirit-stifling, buttocks- numbing tedium of interminable waiting. A condition that could be ameliorated by the contents of the courtesy bar. Yes, its contents could soften the suffering, take the edge off boredom’s sharp blade, surround one in the comfort of an old friend’s embrace.
Think of the money, he told himself. You are no longer a young sprite, and it is high time to think of building a retirement fund, a fund that could be well started on the photographic reproduction of Ms. Paget’s nubile body, which lies just across the hall as the object of your vigilance.
Spurn the sweet, soft song of the liquor cabinet for the cold, hard logic of cash.
Still, there must be a better way.
If only Gloria would return his calls, perhaps she could persuade Polly to come across the hall.
If I can just make the pitch, he thought.
He dialed Gloria’s number again. Again, the damnably cheerful message warbled through the phone.
“Gloria, it’s me again, Walter,” he said. “I really do wish you would return my call. I have located Polly-small thanks to you, I might add-and am, in fact, just across the hallway from her. Please call. I am in room twelve-forty, The Last Days of Pompeii Resort and Casino Hotel, oh two-five five five-four six six three.”
I have such a headache, Withers thought. Perhaps one little drink.
He found the key and opened the courtesy bar.
Gloria never heard the phone.
She was lying in a tubful of hot water and her own blood.
She had told him everything, of course, while he was forcing her to gulp the scotch down. She told him about the one-armed man and the phone call long before he told her to swallow the pills.
Overtime heard Withers’s message, though. He had just finished wiping the knife handle and pressing her fingerprints onto the handle.
Poor drunken slut, he thought. Prey to the sad but banal combination of booze, drugs, and guilt.
He erased the message tape and left for the airport.
