kept my part. You've not kept yours. I ask you, where does that leave me?'
'Look,' Miles pleaded, 'you know what happened, and I appreciate your stopping the clock the way you did. But I can't pay now. I want to, but I can't. Please give me time. Ominsky shook his expensively barbered head; manicured fingers touched a pink clean-shaven cheek. He was vain about his appearance, and lived and dressed well, as he could afford to.
'Time,' he said softly, 'is money. You've had too much of both already.'
On the opposite side of the booth, in the restaurant where LaRocca had brought him, Miles had the-feeling of being a mouse before a cobra. There was no food on his side of the table, not even a glass of water, which he could have used because his lips were dry and fear gnawed at his stomach. If he could have gone to Nolan Wainwright now and canceled their arrangement, which had exposed him in this way, Miles would have done it instantly. As it was, he sat sweating, watching, while Ominsky continued his meal of Sole Bonne Femme. Jules LaRocca had strolled discreetly away to the restaurant's bar. - The reason for Miles's fear was simple. He could guess the size of Ominsky's business and knew the absoluteness of his power.
Once, Miles had watched a TV special on which an authority on American crime, Ralph Salerno, was asked the question: If you had to live illegally, what kind of criminal would you be? The expert's answer instantly: A loan shark. What Miles knew, from his contacts in prison and before, confirmed this view.
A loan shark like Russian Ominsky was a banker harvesting a staggering profit with minimal risk, dealing in loans large and small, unhampered by regulations. His customers came to him; he seldom sought them out, or needed to. He rented no expensive premises and did his business in a car, a bar or at lunch, as now. His record keeping was the amplest, usually in code, and his transactions largely in cash were untraceable. His losses from bad debts were minor. He paid no federal, state, or city taxes. Yet interest rates or 'vig' he charged were normally 100 percent p.a., and often higher.
At any given time, Miles guessed, Ominsky would have at least two million dollars 'on the street.' Some of it would be the loan shark's own money, the rest invested with him by bosses of organized crime for whom he made a handsome profit, taking a commission for himself. It was normal for an initial $100,000 invested in loan-sharking to be pyramided, within five years, to $1.5 million a 1,400 percent capital gain. No other business in the world could equal it.
Nor were a loan shark's clients always small-time. With surprising frequency, big names and reputable businesses borrowed from loan sharks when other credit sources were exhausted. Sometimes, in lieu of repayment, a loan shark would become a partner or owner of another business. Like a sea shark, his bite was large,
The loan shark's main expenses were for enforcement, and he kept those minimal, knowing that broken limbs and hospitalized bodies produced little, if any, money; and knowing, too, his strongest collection aide was fear.
Yet the fear needed a basis in reality; therefore when a borrower defaulted, punishment by hired goons was swift and savage.
As to risks a loan shark ran, these were slight compared with other forms of crime. Few loan sharks were ever prosecuted, fewer still convicted. Lack of evidence was the reason. A loan shark's customers were closemouthed, partly from fear, some from shame that they needed bus services at all. And those who were physically beaten never lodged complaints, knowing that if they did there would be more of the same to come.
Thus, Miles sat, apprehensive, while Ominsky finished his sole.
Unexpectedly, the loan shark said, 'Can you keep a set of books'
'Bookkeeping? Why, yes; when I worked for the bank., He was waved to silence; cold, hard eyes appraised him. 'Maybe I can use you. I need a bookkeeper at the Double-Seven.'
'The health club?' It was news to Miles that Ominsky owned or managed it. He added, 'I was there today, before…'
The other cut him off. 'When I'm talking, stay quiet and listen; just answer questions when you're asked. LaRocca says you want to work. If I give you work, everything you earn goes to me to pay your loan and vig. In other words, I own you. I want that understood.'
'Yes, Mr. Ominsky.' Relief flooded Miles. He was to be given time after all. The how and why were unimportant.
'You'll get your meals, a room,' Russian Ominsky said, 'and one thing I'll warn you keep your fingers out of the till. If I ever find you didn't, you'll wish you'd stolen from the bank again, not me.'
Miles shivered instinctively, less for concern about stealing which he had no intention of doing than his awareness of what Ominsky would do if he ever learned a Judas had come into his camp.
'Jules will take you and get you set up. You'll be told what else to do. That's all.' Ominsky dismissed Miles with a gesture and nodded to LaRocca who had been watching from the bar. While Miles waited near the restaurant's outer door, the other two conferred, the loan shark issuing instructions and LaRocca nodding.
Jules LaRocca rejoined Miles. 'You gotta swell break, Kid. Let's move ass.'
As they left, Ominsky began to eat dessert while another waiting figure slipped into the seat facing him.
The room at the Double-Seven was on the building's top floor and little more than a shabbily furnished cubicle. Miles didn't mind. It represented a frail beginning, a chance to reshape his life and regain something of what he had lost, though he knew it would take time, grave risk, and enterprise. For the moment, he tried not to think too much about his dual role, concentrating instead on making himself useful and becoming accepted, as Nolan Wainwright had cautioned him to do. .'
He learned the geography of the club first. Most of the main floor apart from the bar he had been in originally was taken up by a gymnasium and handball courts. On the second floor were steam rooms and massage parlors. The third comprised offices; also several other rooms which he learned the use of later. The fourth floor, smaller than the others, contained a few more cubicles like Miles's where club members occasionally slept overnight.
Miles slipped easily into the bookkeeper's work. He was good at the jobs up on a backlog and improving postings which had been done sloppily before. He made suggestions to the club manager for making other record keeping more efficient, though was careful not to seek credit for the changes.
The manager, an ex-fight promoter named Nathanson, to whom office work did not come easily, was grateful. He was even more appreciative when Miles offered to do extra chores around the club, such as reorganizing stores and inventory procedures. Nathanson, in return, allowed Miles use of the handball courts during some of his free time? which provided an extra chance of meeting members.
The club's all-male membership, as far as Miles could see, was divided broadly into two groups. One comprised those who seriously used the club's athletic facilities, including the steam baths and massage parlors. These people came and went individually, few of them appearing to know each other, and Miles guessed they were salaried workers or minor business executives who belonged to the Double-Seven simply to keep fit. He suspected, too, that the first group provided a conveniently legitimate front for the second, which usually didn't use the athletic facilities, except the steam baths on occasion.
Those in this second group congregated mainly in the bar or the upstairs rooms on the third floor. They were present in greatest numbers late at night, when the exercise-seeking members seldom used the club. It became evident to Miles that this second element was what Nolan Wainwright had in mind when he described the DoubleSeven as a 'mob hangout.'
Something else Miles Eastin learned quickly was that the upstairs rooms were used for illegal, high stakes card and dice games. By the time he had worked a week, some of the night regulars had come to know Miles, and were relaxed about him, being assured by Jules LaRocca that he was 'okay, a stand-up guy.'
Shortly after, and pursuing his policy of being useful, Miles began helping out when drinks and sandwiches had to be carried to the third floor. The first time he did, one of a half-dozen burly men standing outside the gaming rooms, who were obviously guards, took the tray from him and carried it in. But next night, and on subsequent ones, he was allowed into the rooms where gambling was taking place. Miles also obliged by buying cigarettes downstairs and bringing them up for anyone who needed them, Including the guards. He knew he was becoming liked.
One reason was his general willingness. Another was that some of his old cheerfulness and good nature were returning, despite the problems and dangers of being where he was. And a third was that Jules LaRocca, who seemed to flit around the fringes of everything, had become Miles's sponsor, even though LaRocca made Miles feel, at times, like a vaudeville performer.
It was Miles Eastin's knowledge about money and its history which fascinated it seemed endlessly LaRocca and his cronies. A favorite item was the saga of counterfeit money printed by governments, which Miles had first
