Two for the Money (29 page)

The lobster came, two nice tails surrounding a butter pot. And speaking of nice tails, that waitress was giving him a honey of a smile as she put the food in front of him. He
smiled right back at her, getting mileage out of the caps. She was blonde, or sort of blonde, having kind of light brunette hair streaked or tipped or whatever the hell they called it. When she served his iced tea, she spilled some of it in his lap, and be damned if she didn’t dab it up with a napkin, oh, sweet Jesus. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, and he told her the pleasure was all his. When she gave him the baked potato, she brushed a pert breast against his shoulder, and Joey couldn’t help but wonder if it was an invitation, especially the sexy damn way she said, “Sour cream on your potato, sir?”

Jesus, Jesus, what he’d give for some of that stuff tonight. The little broad had a fresh look to her, not like the Chicago meat—lookers, sure, but it seemed like every one of them been giving head since they was ten and humping since eight, and it would be something to get a piece of something that wasn’t up the ass with experience.

But he had little hope for any action in this dump. In fact, using college girl help was just one sign of this being a half-ass operation. Look at the place, just fucking look at it. The room was so tasteless, with fishnet on the phony-bamboo walls, and Hawaiian and Caribbean and African and Oriental and all sorts of mishmash goddamn stuff hanging on the walls. What’d they do, bring in some guy from Nebraska who saw a travelog once and give him fifty bucks and say, “Do it up exotic.” Tropical, my ass, he thought. No taste.

Now
his
place,
Joey Metrano’s Riviera,
that was a different story. (About $10 million different!) Take just one of the things he had going there. Take, for example, the lounge, the Chez Joey (just like in Sinatra’s movie) with its gold-brocade walls and the plush gold carpet, and the gold chairs and gold tablecloths and gold drapes and the girls dressed in Rome-type minitogas, gold also. Now there was class. Take the food, for instance. He forked a bite of lobster and studied it. This lobster was good, but the lobster
he
served, why, it made these suckers look like shrimps. What did Nolan know about running a restaurant, anyway.

The bit of lobster went down the wrong way, and, for a moment, he choked.

Nolan.

He shivered. (It was cold in here, damn air-conditioning.) Joey hadn’t wanted to think about Nolan, about Nolan being under the wing of the Family, about Nolan running this place here, this Tropical, for the Family. Word had it Nolan was going to move up, and fast. It was spooky, after Charlie and Nolan hating each other for so long, and an open Family contract out on Nolan for all those years. But times change, and Charlie the powerful underboss was now Charlie the deposed underboss.

And Joey? Joey was Charlie’s cousin.

Nothing to worry about, shit. Not a thing. Felix wouldn’t let Nolan do anything. Nolan was nothing to the Family, and Joey was so much.

Like the
Riviera.
Think how much money the Family made off just building the place, never mind the profit it was turning now. And he, Joey, was the one who wined and dined the various savings and loan guys, one firm anteing up $6 million (for an under-the-table inducement of a mere hundred grand). The rake-off for the Family from these multimillion buck loans was simple and immense. Family construction and supply outfits handed in inflated estimates of cost, and so
Joey Metrano’s Riviera
(which an appraiser today might put at, say $5 million) had had a provable projected cost of over $11 million.

After dinner he copped a few more feels from the waitress with the nice ass, then settled back with one last glass of wine. He was just starting the second one last glass of wine when Nolan came out of somewhere and approached Joey’s table.

“Hope you enjoyed your dinner, Joe,” Nolan said.

Why did Nolan look so tall, Joey wondered, when he couldn’t have been more than six foot or so? He supposed it was the long, hard lines in his face, the prominent cheekbones, the narrow, almost chink-looking eyes.

“How you doing?” Joey asked, motioning for Nolan to sit down.

Nolan sat.

“What are they calling you here?” Joey asked, in a whisper. “Felix told me but I forgot.”

“Logan,” Nolan said.

“Listen,” Joey said, “where is Felix, anyway?”

“Felix got called back to the city,” Nolan said. “He said I should put you up for the night. He’ll be back early tomorrow morning.”

“Aw, shit,” Joey said, unable to keep the infuriated feeling down inside him. “Aw, shit, goddamn shit. I come all the way down here, I cancel my goddamn evening, and aw, shit.”

“It’s not my fault, Joe,” Nolan said. “I’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”

“I know it’s not your fault, No . . . Logan. And listen, I want you to know something. Just because I was Charlie’s cousin, well, it doesn’t mean, you know.”

“Sure,” Nolan said. “No reason for hard feelings between us. You weren’t your cousin’s keeper.”

“Ha, that’s a good one. Uh, Logan, nobody was Charlie’s keeper, all right. He had a mind of his own, all right.”

“Too bad how he died.”

Joey swallowed. “Uh, yeah, real tragic is what it was.”

What was Nolan fishing for? Joey could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Surely Nolan knew Charlie’s “death” was a Family coverup. Surely Nolan knew Charlie was spared the usual blow-him-apart-and-stuff-him-in-the-trunk-of-a-car gangland execution, because Charlie was too high up for that. Charlie was a goddamn underboss.

Nolan said, “He was disfigured in the accident, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah . . . yes,” Joey said. “Burnt up. Both burnt up. He and . . . his son. They were in the car together.”

“Was quite a dropoff, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, it sure was.”

“Not much left of the bodies.”

“No . . . burnt to a crisp, like I said. No doubt it was Charlie, though.”

Did he know? Did Nolan know?

“I never doubted it was Charlie,” Nolan said.

“They could check it out through Charlie’s bridgework, through his dentist, you know. And rings and other identifying things like that.”

“Well, Joe, it’s not really a pleasant after-dinner topic, is it? Let’s let it pass. Let me just assure you I hold you no grudge, just for being blood kin of an old enemy . . . and let me say, too, that I hold no grudge for that old enemy, either. I’m not one to speak bad of the dead. Rest in peace, I always say.”

“R—right. Some wine, Logan?”

“No thanks.” Nolan bent close, like a conspirator. “Listen. I saw you flirting with Janey.”

“Janey?”

“The waitress.”

“Well, hey, I mean Christ, uh, I didn’t mean anything by . . .”

“Cool it,” Nolan said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, then, uh, why . . .”

“Why mention it? Now listen, Joe, just between the two of us, I mean, we’re two of a kind, right? You run a hotel; I run a motel. The only difference is you’re in the city and I’m in the country, right?”

“Uh, right.”

“Now tell me, you have some pretty foxy chicks working in that
Riviera
of yours, don’t you?”

“Well, sure, sure I do.”

“And sometimes you, you know, dip into the old private stock, know what I mean?” Nolan grinned, the grin of lech.

“I know what you mean,” Joey said, returning the grin.

“So if you like Janey, I think maybe I can work something out for you.”

“Oh . . . terrific, I mean, Christ, would you do that for me, Nolan? Er, Logan? I never expected . . .”

“Forget it. You just return the favor for me sometime, okay? Next time I’m in the city for an overnight, just fix me up with one of those foxy ladies in a Roman toga.”

“Hey, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, right?”

“Right, Joe.”

“Listen, I’m not checked in or anything.”

“I already took care of that,” Nolan said. “I sent your driver, Brown, back to the city to get a change of clothes for you.”

“Oh . . . well, Brown is . . .”

“Yeah, he’s sort of a bodyguard, too, I know, but don’t worry. You’re on vacation here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Nolan grinned again and whispered. “Unless some foxy chick bites you on the ass, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.”

Nolan got up. “Enjoy yourself, Joe.”

Half an hour later, Joey was in bed under the covers in his room. He was naked. He was waiting.

Too good to be true, he thought. He’d really misjudged Nolan. Back in the old days Nolan had been a tough customer, but the years must’ve softened him up. All those stories about Nolan being such a hardass, why, shit. He was friendly, would you believe it, and not just a little naive. If Nolan really thought Charlie could die accidentally, in a car crash, well . . .

A knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he said.

She came in.

“Lock it, will you, sugar?” he said.

She did.

“It’s dark,” she said.

“I’m over here.”

“Don’t you want to see me?” she said.

“I . . . I don’t know if you’ll want to see me. I . . . I could stand to lose some weight, sugar.”

“I don’t care about that,” she said.

“Turn on the light then.”

She was in a flowing red silk robe, tied at the waist, brushing the floor. She undid the belt. The robe fell in a red silk puddle at her feet.

“My God,” Joey said. “You’re beautiful.”

She was beautiful. She had brown skin, coffee-skin, ivory white where some wisp of a bikini had done its enviable job. Her nipples were large and copper-colored and as yet soft, but he would see to that; they would soon be as erect as he was. Her legs were long, muscular, tapering. She smiled at his appreciation. She turned in a circle, like a model, saying, “See anything you like?”

Her ass was perfection. Oh, that dimpled ass! Oh my God.

She stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, legs spread, that tangle of hair between them open and inviting and she said, “Anything I can do for you?” and she pulled the covers off him.

Joey patted the bed beside him. She crawled onto the bed like a cat, and wiggled into his arms, and he turned her on her side and he eased himself up against her, gently ever gently, saying, you sweetheart, oh honey, oh sugar, and the guy with the camera came in and the flashbulbs started popping.

“Jesus fuck!” Joey said. Spots in front of his eyes.

Blinking, Joey reached for her. She was gone. Where was she?

She had the robe on again, how could she have the robe on again so fast? She was standing back beside the door, which was closed, and Nolan was there.

Nolan was there.

Oh, God. Nolan was there and some guy with a camera. Oh God, some guy with a camera and . . .

And so what? Joey wasn’t married. Joey never had time for that. So, so what? What did he care? Scandal? A damn laugh. Nolan was an asshole.

“You’re an asshole, Nolan,” Joey said, “if you think those pictures are worth a goddamn.”

Nolan said, “How many shots did you get?”

The guy with the camera said, “Six. Six good ones. I got more than butts, too. I got faces plain as day.”

“Okay,” Nolan said. “Now get out of here.”

The guy with the camera did.

Joey got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. His dignity was ruffled, and he was a little confused, flustered, but that was all. He said, “Nolan . . .”

“Joe,” Nolan said, “allow me to introduce you to Felicia Colletta.”

Colletta?

“Who?” Joey said. “Colletta?”

“Colletta. That’s right. You know the name.”

He knew the name if it was
that
Colletta, the
Family
Colletta.

“You know how Mr. Colletta feels about his daughters,” Nolan said.

Colletta. Boss of the biggest New York Family. Colletta, with four beautiful daughters from age fourteen to twenty-two. Four beautiful daughters Colletta loved with an Old World paternal passion.

“You probably heard about his older daughter Angella,” Nolan was saying, “who is married now. You probably heard about the college kid who screwed Angella when she was fifteen.”

Colletta had a guy use acid on the kid, Joey didn’t want to think about where.

“Felicia’s going to turn eighteen this summer, aren’t you, Felicia? Mr. Colletta sent her here to the middle West where she could breathe some clean country air.”

This wasn’t happening.

“All right, Felicia,” Nolan was saying, “thank you so much. Don’t say a word about this to anyone, you hear?”

And she was nodding and leaving.

Joey sat down on the bed.

Nolan came and joined him.

Nolan said, “I want you to tell me about Charlie.”

Joey said, “No.”

“The pictures will be destroyed. I’ll bring you the camera and let you take the film out and expose it yourself.”

“This is a goddamn hoax.”

“Okay.”

“That isn’t Felicia Colletta.”

“Okay. See you, Joey.”

Nolan got up.

Joey grabbed Nolan’s sleeve. “That . . . that isn’t Felicia Colletta, is it?”

“If you say so, Joe. See you.”

Nolan walked to the door and put his hand on the knob.

“Nolan!”

“Yes?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“All right.”

“Charlie’s death . . . Charlie’s death wasn’t an accident. The Family did it.”

And Nolan started to laugh. “I’ll have the best shot blown up to poster size and send it to you, Joe.”

“You bastard.”

“See you, Joe.”

“Come back, you fucker!”

“What do you want, Joe?”

“Nolan . . . you
know,
Nolan. You
know,
don’t you?”

“I think so,” Nolan said, nodding. “But I want to hear it from you.”

Joey put his head in his hands. Sobbing was coming up out of him, out of his gut somewhere. It was hard to talk through it.

“Charlie,” Joey said, chest heaving, “Charlie is still alive.”

There was no moon and you could count the stars on your
fingers. Nolan lay on his back on the rubber raft, floating around the deep end of the pool, studying the sky. He was having a hard time deciding whether the sky was black or dark blue, and finally compromised on Smith and Wesson blue-black. He found watching the lustreless sky soothed him, and after a while he noticed he could make out some clouds up there and figured they were probably responsible for his problem pinning down the sky’s color. The clouds were like charcoal smoke clinging to the sky, blending with it, making the sky look light in places, as though it were wearing out.