'There's an old guy in a car outside,' Ominsky said to Miles. 'Get help from Mr. Marino's men. Carry him in, but keep him out of sight. Take him up to one of the rooms near yours and make sure he stays there. Don't leave him longer than you have to, and when you do go away, lock him in. I'm holding you responsible he doesn't leave here.'
Miles asked uneasily, 'Am I supposed to keep him here by force?' 'You won't need force.'
'The old man knows the score. He won't make trouble,' Tony Bear said. For someone of his bulk, his voice was surprisingly falsetto. 'Just remember he's important to us, so treat him okay. But don't let him have booze. He’ll ask for it. Don't give him any. Understand?'
'I think so,' Miles said. 'Do you mean he's unconscious now?'
'He's dead drunk,' Ominsky answered. 'He's been on a bender for a week. Your job is to take care of him and dry him out. While he's here for three, four days your other work can wait.' He added, 'Do it right, you get another credit.'
'I'll do my best,' Miles told him. 'Does the old man have a name? I'll have to call him something.'!
The other two glanced at each other. Ominsky said, 'Danny. That's all you need to know.'
A few minutes later, outside the Double-Seven, Tony Bear Marino's driver-bodyguard spat in disgust on the sidewalk and complained, 'For Chrissake The old fart stinks like a shithouse.'
He, the second bodyguard, and Miles Eastin were looking at an inert figure on the rear seat of a Dodge sedan, parked at the curb. The car's nearside rear door was open.
'I'll try to clean him up,' Miles said. His own face wrinkled at the overpowering stench of vomit. 'But we'll need to get him inside first.'
The second bodyguard urged, 'Goddam! Let's get it over with.'
Together they reached in and lifted. In the poorly lighted street, all that could be distinguished of their burden was a tangle of gray hair, pasty hollow cheeks stubbled with beard, closed eyes and an open, slack mouth revealing toothless gums. The clothes the unconscious man was wearing were stained and torn. 'You reckon he's dead?' the second bodyguard asked as they lifted the figure from the car.
Precisely at that moment, probably induced by movement, a stream of vomit emerged from the open mouth and cascaded over Miles.
The driver-bodyguard, who had been untouched, chuckled. 'He ain't dead. Not yet.' Then, as Miles retched, 'Better you 'n me, kid.'
They carried the recumbent figure into the club, then, using a rear stairway, up to the fourth floor. Miles had brought a room key and unlocked a door. It was to a cubicule like his own in which the sole furnishings were a single bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, a washbasin and some shelving. Paneling around the cubicle stopped a foot short of the ceiling, leaving the top open. Miles glanced inside, then told the other two, 'Hold it.' While they waited he ran downstairs and got a rubber sheet from the gymnasium. Returning, he spread it on the bed. They dumped the old man on it.
'He's all yours, Milesy,' the driver-bodyguard said. 'Let's get outta here before I puke.'
Stifling his distaste, Miles undressed the old man, then, while he was still on the rubber sheet, still comatose, washed and sponged him. When that was done, and with some lifting and shoving, Miles removed the rubber sheet and got the now cleaner, less evil-smelling figure into bed. During the process the old man moaned, and once his stomach heaved, though this time producing only a trickle of spittle which Miles wiped away. When Miles had covered him with a sheet and blanket the old man seemed to rest more easily.
Earlier, as he removed the clothing, Miles had allowed it to fall to the cubicle floor. Now he gathered it up and began putting it in two plastic bags for cleaning and laundering tomorrow. While doing so, he emptied all the pockets. One coat pocket yielded a set of false teeth. Others held miscellaneous items a comb, a pair of thick- lensed glasses, a gold pen and pencil set, several keys on a ring and in an inside pocket three Keycharge credit cards and a billfold tightly packed with money.
Miles took the false teeth, rinsed them, and placed them beside the bed in a glass of water. The spectacles he also put close by. Then he examined the bank credit cards and billfold.
The credit cards were made out to Fred W. Riordan, R. K. Bennett, Alfred Shaw, Each card was signed on the back but, despite the name differences, the handwriting in each case was the same. Miles turned the cards over again, checking the commencement and expiration dates which showed that all three were current. As far as he could tell, they were genuine.
He turned his attention to the billfold. Under a plastic window was a state driver's license. The plastic was yellowed and hard to see through, so Miles took the license out, discovered that beneath it was a second license, beneath that a third. The names on the licenses corresponded to those on the credit cards, but the head and shoulders photographs on all three licenses were identical. He peered closer. Allowing for differences when the photograph was taken, it was undoubtedly of the old man on the bed.
Miles removed the money from the billfold to count it. He would ask Nate Nathanson to put the credit cards and billfold in the club safe, but should know how much he was handing over. The sum was unexpectedly large five hundred and twelve dollars, about half in new twenty-dollar bills. The twenties stopped him. Miles looked at several of them carefully, feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertips. Then he glanced at the man on the bed who appeared to be sleeping deeply. Quietly, Miles left the room and crossed the fourth-floor corridor to his own. He returned moments later with a pocket magnifier through which he viewed the twenty-dollar bills again. His intuition was right. They were counterfeit, though of the same-high quality as those he had bought, here in the Double- Seven, a week ago.
He reasoned: The money, or rather half of it, was counterfeit. So, obviously, were the three drivers' licenses and it seemed probable that they were from the same source as Miles's own fake license, given him last week by Jules LaRocca. Therefore, wasn't it likely that the credit cards were also counterfeit? Perhaps, after all, he was close to the source of the false Keycharge cards which Nolan Wainwright wanted to locate so badly. Miles's excitement rose, along with a nervousness which set his heart pounding.
He needed a record of the new information. On a paper towel he copied down details from the credit cards and drivers' licenses, occasionally checking to be sure the figure in the bed was not stirring.
Soon after, Miles turned out the light, locked the door from outside and took the billfold and credit cards downstairs.
He slept fitfully that night, with his door ajar, aware of his responsibility for the inmate of the cubicle across the hall. Miles spent time, too, speculating on the role and identity of the old man whom he began to think of as Danny. What was Danny's relationship to Ominsky and Tony Bear Marino? Why had they brought him here? Tony Bear had declared: He's important to us. Why?
Miles awoke with daylight and checked his watch: 6:45. He got up, washed quickly, shaved and dressed. There were no sounds from across the corridor. He walked over, inserted the key quietly, and looked in. Danny had changed position in the night but was still asleep, snoring gently. Miles gathered the plastic bags of clothing, relocked the door, and went downstairs.
He was back twenty minutes later with a breakfast tray of strong coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs.
'Danny!' Miles shook the old man's shoulder. 'Danny, wake up!'
There was no response. Miles tried again. At length two eyes opened warily, inspected him, then hastily closed tight. 'Go 'way,' the old man mumbled. 'Go 'way. I ain't ready for hell yet.'
'I'm not the devil,' Miles said. 'I'm a friend. Tony Bear and Russian Ominsky told me to take care of you.'
Rheumy eyes reopened. 'Them sons-o'-Sodom found me, eh? Figures, I guess. They usually do.' The old man's face creased in pain. 'Oh, Jesus! My suffering head!'
'I brought some coffee. Let's see if it will help.' Miles put an arm around Danny's shoulders, assisting him to sit upright, then carried the coffee over. The old man sipped and grimaced.
He seemed suddenly alert. 'Listen, son. What'll set me straight is a hair of the dog. Now you take some money…' He looked around him,
'Your money's okay,' Miles said. 'It's in the club safe. I took it down last night.' 'This the Double-Seven?' 'Yes.'
'Brought me here once before. Well, now you know I can pay, son, just you nip down to the bar…'
Miles said firmly, 'There won't be any nipping. For either of us.'
'I’ll make it worthwhile.' The old eyes gleamed with cunning. 'Say forty dollars for a fifth. Howzat?'
