Two for the Money (37 page)

Karen freed the night latch, opened the door.

Behind Karen was a bureau with mirror and in it Nolan could see Ainsworth in the doorway; he hoped Ainsworth wouldn’t notice him in the mirror, but wasn’t worried, as things would be moving faster than that. Ainsworth was standing there with a pompous, fatherly smile on his face; he was wearing a dark suit and green tie. What an asshole, Nolan thought; an emergency phone call and he still takes time to put on his country doctor outfit.

“I came as soon as I could,” Ainsworth was saying, “what’s the problem, young lady?”

Nolan grabbed the doctor by the arm and yanked him into the apartment. Behind him, Karen shut the door, locked it, refastened the night latch. Greer got into full view, holding the .38 in his right hand with that casual but controlled grasp that only a professional knows how to master.

Ainsworth said, “Oh, my God!” and his pudgy face looked very white around the brown mustache.

Nolan slammed him into the kitchen chair and tied him up. Ainsworth still had his black doctor’s bag in hand as he sat roped to the chair. Nolan knocked the bag out of his hand and glass things rattled and maybe broke. Ainsworth repeated what he’d said before, though this time it sounded more a prayer and less an expression of surprise.

Nolan put both his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and said, “How’s it going, Ainsworth?”

“Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .”

“Try not to shit. This lady has an expensive carpet down and if you shit, I’m going to make you clean it up.”

“No . . . No . . . No . . .”

He wasn’t saying no; he was trying to say Nolan.

“I’m glad you remember me,” Nolan said. “I put on weight since you saw me last. And believe I’d let my beard grow out. How’ve you been, Doc?”

Ainsworth began to make a whimpering sound.

Nolan turned to Greer and Karen. “Ainsworth here is a good old friend of mine. I owe him a lot. Don’t I, Ainsworth?”

“I . . . I helped you,” he said. “Don’t . . . don’t forget I helped you.”

“Saved my life is what you did,” Nolan said. He grinned. Nolan didn’t grin often and when he did, it wasn’t pleasant. Knowing that, he reserved the grin for special occasions. “I’ll never forget what all you did for me. And it only cost me, what was it? A paltry seven thousand bucks. Why, hell. You must’ve been running a special that day, Ainsworth.”

“What . . . what do you want with me?”

Nolan’s grin disappeared. “Don’t fuck around.”

“I’m . . . I’m not . . . oh Lord, good Lord, man!”

“You know why I’m here.”

“They . . . they made me do it.”

“Who made you do what?”

“Your friend . . . Jon . . . the boy . . .” The doctor closed his mouth, his eyes.

“Ainsworth,” Nolan said, his voice flat, nothing in it at all, “I’m the one who advised Jon to go to you. To help him about his uncle. So I share the guilt I’m sure you feel right now. Why don’t you get that guilt off your shoulders? Pretend this is confession and I’m a priest. Pretend you’re face to face with Christ himself and you can’t lie, because the consequences are too goddamn great.”

“I was helping Jon,” Ainsworth said, his face tight with sincerity, “believe me. I
like
the boy. You know that, you believe that, don’t you, Nolan? I like him, and Planner, too. He came for help and . . . so did these other men. I didn’t . . . didn’t know, didn’t guess there was any relation between these other men and Planner’s . . . death.”

“What did these men look like?”

“One of them was old, the other was young. Father and son, I think they were. Sure of it, from . . . from their conversation. The father was short and thin, had a dark tan. His hair was white and cut in a butch. He was maybe sixty
years old. His eyes, I noticed his eyes especially . . . they were set close together, and dark. His son had the same eyes, but not so . . . so frightening. The son was light-complected, skinny, his hair was sort of long, and, brown, I think. His hair wasn’t as long as . . . as Jon’s, but it was longer than his father’s.”

“Did they use any names?”

“The son’s name was Walter. I think. I only heard the name used once, and I can’t be positive about it. The father’s name was . . . it was Charlie. At least that was what . . . what Jon called him.”

Nolan sighed. “You better tell it all.”

“The older man had been shot in the thigh. It wasn’t a bad wound, but he passed out from it and that scared his kid enough to bring him to me. While I was treating the older man, Jon showed up . . . we had some papers to fill out, regarding Planner’s death, you see, and . . . well, he just showed up. It was a coincidence that they were here at the same time, you have to believe that! I didn’t . . . betray Jon, you have to believe that! I like the boy.”

Nolan put his hand on Ainsworth’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, or grip the flesh; he just laid his hand alongside the doctor’s throat and said, “What happened to Jon? What did they do to him?”

“They . . . they took him with them.”

Nolan removed his hand. He took a step back, then another. He began to pace for a moment. He was stunned by what the doctor had told him. He was also somewhat relieved, as it meant Jon was maybe still alive. But it made no sense. Charlie should have shot Jon, should kill him, and then take right off. Get the hell out of the country. Now.

But this was no ordinary man. No sane, reasoning mind.

This was Charlie.

Nolan walked back over to Ainsworth and slapped him hard. “Is that the truth?”

Ainsworth’s eyes teared, and his tongue licked feebly at blood in the corner of his mouth. “Why . . . why’d you hit me?”

“Is it the truth?”

Ainsworth nodded and kept nodding until Nolan took Ainsworth’s chin in one hand and looked at him, like an archeologist studying a skull.

“Was Jon all right when you saw him last?”

“Yes. Yes he was. Well, he
was
unconscious, but . . .”

“Unconscious?”

“Yes, you see I gave the boy something to put him out, so he wouldn’t be any trouble to them in the car. The older man . . . Charlie? The older man, Charlie, said he wanted me to give Jon something that would keep him out for four hours . . . which I assume was the approximate length of time they had to travel.”

“You saw them put Jon in their car? What kind of car was it?”

“I . . . I helped them. We wrapped him in a blanket and put him on the floor in the backseat. Of an Oldsmobile, last year’s model, I believe, blue, dark blue. It . . . it was a good thing that I gave him a shot and put him out, you know.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because that . . . that older man, Charlie, he . . . didn’t seem to like Jon much. Jon . . . sassed him. And the one named Charlie was . . . was rough with the boy.”

Nolan heard Karen make a noise behind him. He turned and she was crying. He should have thought about that before, should have known her emotional attachment to the boy would make this hard for her. He should’ve had her leave the room. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought of anything, really. Just get to Ainsworth and shake the truth out of him.

“Are you . . . are you going to let me go, now?” The doctor was much more calm now; his face had returned to its natural color.

“Not just yet,” Nolan said.

Greer was lighting up a cigarette. “You want one, Nolan?”

“No thanks, I gave it up.”

Greer shrugged. “Thought you might have some other use for it.”

Ainsworth’s face turned pale again.

Nolan said, “No. I can do fine with just my hands.”

All at once the doctor began to shake and sweat, as though he were going into a dance routine. “I told you everything, Nolan! Those men forced me to help them, at gun point! I wouldn’t . . .”

“How much did they pay you?”

“Nothing. I assume I’ll be paid through . . . nothing.”

“You assume
what
?”

“Nothing . . . nothing. I just meant to say I . . . assumed I was lucky to get off with my life.”

“You said you assumed you’d be paid through somebody. Who?”

“Nolan, please . . .”

“I don’t want to hit you, Ainsworth. I’m not the sort of guy that gets his rocks off hurting people. Don’t make me do something I find distasteful. That’ll just make me mad and you’re the only one around I’d have to take it out on. So tell me who.”

“His name is Sturms.”

Karen said, “There’s a Sturms in town who has an insurance agency. I’ve heard some rumors about him. Having to do with drugs.”

Nolan turned to Ainsworth. “Well?”

“It’s true,” he admitted. “Sturms is . . . important in town. I help him out with things. He’s the one that sent those two men to me.”

Nolan turned to Greer. “Untie him.”

Greer nodded and went over to Ainsworth and did so.

Nolan said, “Karen, how you doing?”

She smiled and said, “At least Jon is alive.”

“That’s how I look at it.”

“Do you think you can find him?”

“Yes.” He went over to Ainsworth and picked him up by the lapels. He dragged him over to the couch and plopped
him down, kicking the kitchen chair to one side. He picked up the phone from off the end table and tossed it on Ainsworth’s lap. “Call your Sturms. Get him over here.”

“I . . . I can’t do that.”

“Ainsworth.”

“Okay. Okay, okay, just give me a moment to . . . compose myself.”

“If you try anything, I’m going to feed that phone to you.”

“Listen, I’m scared of you, all right? Does that satisfy you, Nolan? I’m scared to death of you, is your ego satisfied? I’m scared to death and I’m going to do whatever you say so . . . so don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

Ainsworth swallowed. He picked up the receiver and dialed. It took a while to get an answer, but finally the doctor said, “Sturms? Ainsworth . . . I’m sorry, really I’m sorry, but we got a problem . . . you got to get over here right away, I can’t talk about it on the phone . . . I can’t . . . I can’t handle it, I don’t have my bag with me. Okay.” He told him the address and hung up.

Ainsworth smiled and Nolan said, “What did you tell him?”

“What?”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you mean, what did I tell him? You were right here, you
heard
what I told him!”

“You said, ‘I don’t have my bag with me.’ What’s that, some kind of signal, some goddamn code, what?”

“I . . . I . . . I just meant, I couldn’t handle it, I mean, you, uh . . .”

“Do you remember when you were treating me?”

He swallowed again, touched his face where Nolan hit him, his mouth where the blood had been. “Sure I remember.”

“What d’you treat me for?”

“You’d been shot. I . . . I took care of you after you were shot.”

“And what did you do for Charlie?”

“For Charlie? I . . . patched him up. Patched up a bullet wound.”

“Let me ask you a question, then. You’re a man of science, you’re a man of logic. What do you suppose happens to people who fuck around with people like Charlie and me?”

Ainsworth said, “I told Sturms he should bring a gun with him.”

“You asshole,” Nolan said, and hit him in the face.

“My nose,” Ainsworth sputtered. “My nose, you broke it, I think you broke my nose, I told you and you hit me anyway, broke my nose. What am I going to do?”

“Heal yourself,” Nolan said. “Karen, get him a towel or something. Greer, get that bag of his, look in it.”

Greer went after the bag, fished around inside, held up a small low-caliber automatic, the sort a woman might carry in her purse.

“Toss it here,” Nolan said.

Greer did, and Nolan caught it in his left hand, without looking. He dropped the little gun into his sports coat pocket.

The doctor’s self-diagnosis proved incorrect; a simple nosebleed was all it was, and after it subsided, Nolan tied Ainsworth back up to the chair and dragged him into the kitchen, where Karen found herself a carving knife and sat watch over him.

Nolan and Greer positioned themselves the same way as before, except this time Nolan had his .38 in hand, and when the knock came at the door, Karen did as she’d been told and held the knife to her charge’s throat and Ainsworth yelled from the kitchen, “Come on in, it’s open!”

He may have been important in Iowa City, but Sturms wouldn’t have been shit elsewhere. His arm, extended awkwardly, came in first. He had the silenced automatic clutched tight in a whitening hand, his gun arm held straight out in front of him, elbow locked, like a man groping through the dark, trying not to bump into furniture. All but
smiling, Nolan grabbed Sturms by the wrist and shook gun from hand and held the four-inch barrel of the .38 against the man’s temple.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Sturms said.

Nolan bit into the cheeseburger.

Angello said, “Why be pissed at me? It’s not my idea.”

Of course not. It was Felix’s idea. But that didn’t make it any more palatable. Nolan chewed the bite of cheeseburger, dragged a French fry through ketchup.

Angello sat across from him in the booth, wearing a light blue sports jacket and dark blue shirt and light blue tie, also Felix’s idea. The thin gunman with the fat face sat and stuffed himself with a big plate of pancakes, saying, “My wife’d kill me if she found out I gone off my diet.” It was nearly dawn, and breakfast had seemed in order to Angello, though Nolan had gone for cheeseburger-in-the-basket. They were in a truck-stop restaurant on the tollway, not far from Milwaukee.

Angello said, “Anyway, here are the addresses Felix sent for you. He said you’d be needing them.”

Nolan put down the sandwich and took the piece of paper. He looked over the names, addresses, and phone numbers and thought, well, at least Felix did a good thorough job of it. He folded the paper and slipped it in his sports coat pocket and said thanks to Angello.

“You’re welcome. And look, I’m as sorry as you are I got to tag the hell along.”

“You’re not tagging along.”

“An order is an order, Nolan.”

“An order is a bunch of words.”

“And those words got meaning, and this order means I
got to stick to you like batshit, Nolan, like it or not.”

“Angello, it’s a shame you lost all that weight.”