ace, Toby,” I said. “Now do we go to your place or my place?”
“I got a room upstairs,” he told me.
“Where?”
“313.”
“Ten minutes. You take off first.”
It was a back-alley room that had the antiseptic appearance of all revamped hotel rooms, but still smelled of stale beer, old clothes, and tired air. Jersey Toby opened a beer for himself when I waved one off, then sat down with a resigned shrug and said, “Spill it, Mike.”
“Kid Hand.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know. I shot him. The top of his head came off and left a mess on the wall. He wasn’t the first and he probably won’t be the last.”
Toby put the beer down slowly.
“That’s the best you can say?”
“No,” he repeated. “
“Toby . . .”
“I mean it, Mike. Like word goes around fast. You don’t make a hit in this town without everybody knowing. You was crazy enough in those old days, but now you’re real nuts. You think I don’t know already? Hell, like everybody knows. I don’t even want to be in the same room with you.”
“You don’t have a choice, Toby.”
“Sure, so I’ll pay later. So will you. Damn, Mike . . .”
“Kid Hand,” I repeated.
“He took Tillson’s job. Everybody knew about that.”
“More.”
“Like what, you nut! How the hell should I know about Kid? We ain’t in the same game. I’m pimping. You know what he was? Like a big shot! Mr. Dickerson’s right-hand boy. You think I’m going to . . .?”
“Who?”
“Knock it off . . . you know.”
“Who, Toby?”
“Mr. Dickerson.”
“Who’s he, buddy?”
“Mike . . .”
“Don’t screw around with me.”
“Okay. So who knows from Dickerson? He’s the new one in. He’s the big one. He comes in with power and all the hard boys are flocking back. Hell, man, I can’t tell you more. All I know is Mr. Dickerson and he’s the gas.”
“Political?”
“Not him, you nut. This one’s power. Like firepower, man. You know what’s happening in this town? They’re coming in from the burgs, man. Bit shooters and they’re gathering around waiting for orders. I feel the stream going by but I ain’t fishing. Too long the mobs have been dead . . . now it’s like Indians again. A chief is back and the crazy Soos is rejoicing. That’s all I can say.”
“Kid Hand?”
“Crazy, man. A shooter and he knew where his bread was. He was on the way up until he decided to get back in the ranks again. He should’ve stayed where he was.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“He pulled on me. I don’t take that crap.”
“He knew it was you, maybe? He knew it was anybody?”
“Somebody said he might have been doing a personal favor.”
Toby got up and faced the blank window. “Sure, why not? Favors are important. It makes you look big. It proves like you’re not a punk. It proves . . .”
“It proves how fast you can get killed, too.”
Slowly, he turned around. “Am I in the middle, Mike?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Ask it straight.”
“Who is Dickerson?”
“Nobody knows. Just that he’s big.”
“Money? ”
“I guess.”
“Who takes Kid Hand’s place?”
“Whoever can grab it. I’d say Del Penner. He’s pretty tough. He had a fall ten years ago, but came back to grab off the jukes in Chi, then moved into the bolita and jai alai in Miami. He was pushing Kid pretty hard.”
“Then maybe Kid’s move in on me was part of a power grab.”
“Favors don’t hurt nobody.”
“It killed Kid.”
“So he didn’t know it was you.”
I looked at him a long time, then his face got tight and he turned away. When he gulped down his beer he looked at me, shrugged, and said, “Word goes it was a personal favor. You were a surprise. You just don’t know what kind of a surprise. It wasn’t with you. It was something else. That’s all. I don’t know . . . I don’t want to know. Let me make my bucks my own way, only stay loose, man.”
“Why?”
“You’re hot now, man. Everybody knows. Everybody’s looking.”
“I’ve had heat before.”
“Not like this.” He looked into his beer, shrugged, and decided. “You ever hear of Marv Kania?”
“No.”
“He’s a contract man from St. Loo. Punk about twenty-eight, got a fall for murder second when he was a teenager, joined with Pax in K.C., then did the route with Arnold Philips on the coast and back to St. Loo. They figured he was a contract kill on Shulburger, Angelo, and Vince Pago and the big Carlysle hit in L.A. He’s got plenty of cover and is as nuts as you are.”
“What does that make me, Toby?”
“A target, man. He’s in town with a slug in his gut and everybody knows how it happened. If he dies you’re lucky. If he don’t you’re dead.”
I got up and put on my hat. “My luck’s been pretty good lately,” I said.
He nodded gravely. “I hope it holds.”
When I went to open the door he added, “Maybe I don’t, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be around when it stops. You’ll make an awful splash.”
“It figures.”
“Sure it does,” he said.
Then I went back to her, the beautiful one whose hair hung dark and long, whose body was a quiet concert in curves and colors of white and shadow that rose softly under a single sheet into a woman’s fulfillment of mounded breasts and soft clefts.
She didn’t hear me come in until I said, “Velda . . .”
Then her eyes opened, slowly at first, then with the startled suddenness of a deer awakened and her hand moved and I knew what she had in it. When she knew it was me her fingers relaxed, came out from under the
