I had imagined Reisner would be. But he was nothing like that. He was short and fat: like two
rubber balls; one on top of the other. He was pot-bellied and his legs were thick and short.
His shoulders were nearly a yard wide. He wore his thinning black hair long and plastered to
his head, spreading it out carefully, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to hide the dark skin
that showed between the strands of hair like the trellis work of a fence. His face was round
and fat and mottled with small veins that stamped him a drunk. He had snake’s eyes, flat,
glittering and as lifeless as glass. His lips were thick and set in a meaningless and perpetual
smile.
“I’m Ricca,” he said. “Where’s Nick?”
My foot touched a button under my desk that connected up with a buzzer in Della’s room.
We had agreed only to use the buzzer as a signal that Ricca had arrived.
“In a little urn on the shelf in the crematorium,” I said, and eased back my chair.
165
His expression did not change, nor did his smile go away. He put a pudgy hand on the back
of a chair and pulled it towards him, then he lowered himself into it and puffed breath across
the desk at me.
“You mean he’s dead?”
I said I meant he was dead,
“That’s very interesting. And who are you?”
I opened a desk drawer and took out a box of cigarettes. I left the drawer half open. I had a
.45 Colt automatic lying in there. All I had to do was to dip into the drawer and grab it if there
was trouble. We had Ricca’s reception pretty well worked out.
“I’m the guy who’s running this joint,” I said.
“That’s interesting, too.” His snake’s eyes went to the half-open drawer. From where he sat
he couldn’t see the gun, but; that didn’t mean he didn’t know it was there. “And who put you
in charge?”
“I did,” Della said from the doorway.
“That’s also interesting,” he said without looking round. He kept his eyes on me. “Where’s
Paul?”
Della came around the desk and stood behind me, facing Ricca.
“How are you, Jack?” she said. “It’s a long time no see. How’s Los Angeles?”
Ricca crossed his fat legs. He was careful to keep his hands folded across his belly. It began
to dawn on me he was dangerous. His smile was as wide and as meaningless as before, and
his expression hadn’t changed. He couldn’t have known Della was here. He had just learned
Reisner was dead. But neither of these items had dented him.
“Answering from left to right,” he said, his eyes still on me. “I’m fine. It sure is a long time
no see. Los Angeles is fine. Where’s Paul?”
“He’s dead,” she told him.
His expression didn’t change, nor did his smile shrink.
“And I always thought Lincoln Beach was a healthy town. Well, well, he had to die some
time, I guess. What happened to him? Did he catch cold or was he helped off this earth?”
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“He was killed in a car smash.”
He raised his right hand slowly and examined his fingernails.
“So you got yourself a young man and took over the casino?” he said, as if he were
speaking to himself.
“That’s just what I did,” Della said calmly. “And there’s nothing you can do about it, Jack.”
His smile widened.
“I always thought you were a smart girl, Della,” he said placidly. “Anyone else beside you
two know he’s dead?”
