Part 20 (1/2)

When I got through he asked me a few questions, and I fed him the answers. I tried to sound as tough as I could. It wasn't hard; I had the whole business down pat by now.

”That should do it,” he said suddenly, grinning. ”I want you to hear something, Mr. Boyle. I believe you'll find it interesting.”

He walked over to a cabinet on the wall that he had pa.s.sed while pacing the floor. He opened the cabinet, and I saw a tape recorder with the spools revolving slowly. My eyes almost fell out of my head.

His grin widened. ”Do you understand, Mr. Boyle? Or should I play it back for you?”

I started sweating. ”Okay,” I said. ”So what does it get you? You can't call copper or my a.s.sociate will play rough with Jerry. So where are you, Doc?”

”That's true,” he said. ”But you don't get your pound of flesh, do you? Not while I have this on tape. Fifty dollars a week would hardly send me to the workhouse, Mr. Boyle. But I don't like blackmailers and I don't plan on paying blackmail. Get out!”

I got out. I got out in a hurry, not wasting time to get in a last word. I was lucky to get out, for that matter. He had me by the throat, and the baloney about an ”a.s.sociate” was the only thing that saved me from a blackmail rap.

What the h.e.l.l, $200 was plenty. I still had enough to pay for the car and the liquor and the women and the rent, and I didn't need the extra fifty, not really. It would have been nice but I learned a lesson from it. I wouldn't get greedy anymore.

I stayed in my room all night, thinking how lucky I was and how I nearly shot everything to h.e.l.l. At one point I started to shake. Here I was with a perfect racket, and a stupid try for fifty bucks I didn't even need nearly bollixed up the works.

That was yesterday. Today was Sat.u.r.day, and it was another good day for the beach. I thought of calling up a woman but I figured it would be a good day to be alone. A few minutes after noon I hopped into the sportscar and headed for the beach. I found a little spot all to myself and took it easy, getting through the whole day without b.u.mping into anyone I knew or starting a conversation with anybody.

I was feeling good by the time I got back from the beach. The afternoon all by myself did it. That and the sun and the water got my mind off Dr. Sanders and the way I had balled things up. It was dark out by the time I parked the car out in front and walked up the stairs to my room.

I chalked up yesterday's goof to profit and loss. h.e.l.l, the best small business in the world can't come out ahead every time.

I stretched out on the bed and turned on the radio. It came on in the middle of a newscast, and I reached for the dial to try and get some music. News always bores the h.e.l.l out of me, and after lying in the sun all day I just wanted to listen to some music and relax. I got my hand on the dial and was ready to turn it, but the news item got through to me just in time. My fingers let go of the dial as if it was red hot.

It was a fairly ordinary news item, about some kid who got gunned down by a car that afternoon while I was at the beach.

It seems the kid's name was Jerry Sanders.

It seems the car was a little foreign job with wire wheels.

The radio's going now. I can't concentrate on the music too well, because all I can think of is how no matter how good a business you set up, something's going to pull it out from under you.

The cops should be here any minute.

THE WAY TO POWER.

HE OPENED THE DOOR IN HIS BATHROBE and motioned me inside. ”Have a seat, Joe,” he said. ”Relax a little.” and motioned me inside. ”Have a seat, Joe,” he said. ”Relax a little.”

I took a seat, and it was easy to relax in the soft, plush cus.h.i.+ons. I looked around the room and the familiar feeling of awe hit me. I had been to his house maybe a thousand times, but I never missed feeling the lushness of the place.

”Drink?”

I nodded, and went on filling my eyes while he went for drinks. I took it all in, from the Mexican jade on the mantel to the ivory-and-ebony chess table. He had done well. d.a.m.ned well.

He brought the drinks, and I forced myself to sip mine, rather than throw it straight down. It was Scotch, and straight from Scotland. Nothing but the best for him, ever.

I looked up at him from my drink. He had taken a seat in an equally plush chair across from me, and was waiting expectantly. I played the game.

”Thanks, Chief. What's up?”

”Lucci. He doesn't understand.”

I knew what he was talking about, but I also knew how he liked to play it. ”What do you mean, Chief?”

”Phil Lucci,” he said. ”Remember I mentioned him?”

”I remember.”

His eyes narrowed, until I could hardly see the red veins that mapped them. ”He's making book, still. Three weeks ago he was told to pay off or lay off, one or the other. He wouldn't join the mob, and he wouldn't quit taking bets. You know what that means, Joe.”

I knew, of course. The Chief was about as subtle as a Coney Island prost.i.tute. But the Chief ran every racket in Central City, and he had the town in his pocket. So when the Chief wanted to tell me something, I let him tell me.

”He's gotta lose,” he said. ”He has to lose all the way, the big loss.” He paused for effect, but I was so used to the gesture that it was lost on me. ”Joe, Lucci's gotta die.”

I could have dropped it there, but he would have missed all his fun. He was all keyed up for his big speech, and I couldn't afford to let him down. His eyes were waiting, expectant. So I let him have his kicks.

”Why, Chief? All he's costing us is maybe ten bucks a day. Why do we rub him out?”

He stood up then. He stood up and threw what was left of the imported Scotch straight into his stomach, and his eyes were s.h.i.+ning. ”Power,” he said, and the word seemed to come from the inside of a ba.s.s drum. ”Power,” he repeated.

”Joe,” he went on, ”the money doesn't matter. Oh, it's nice to have, but if you worry about it you're through. The money is just the chips in the pot, just a way to keep score. The thing is, you have to be on top. You have to have power.

”There was this German guy named Nietzsche who figured it all out, and for a Square-head he made a lot of sense. He said the important thing, the thing that makes a man superior, is his Will to Power. A man who wants to be on top, just for the h.e.l.l of it, he's the guy to be.”

He paused for a breath, and I finished my drink. ”A smart guy,” he said. ”I read every one of his books.”

He had told me this at least twenty times. ”Every one?” I marveled.

”Every one. Every G.o.dd.a.m.ned one.” He sat down heavily in his seat and let out a deep sigh. Evidently the performance had exhausted him.

”Joe,” he said, ”I can't let anyone get in the way. I gotta stay on top. I gotta keep every bit of my power, and that's why Lucci has to die. Does that make sense?”

”d.a.m.n good sense.”

”You said it, boy. You said it.” He seemed almost relieved, as if he had expected me to argue with him.

”Look, Chief,” I said, when he didn't say anything, ”what do you expect from me? I mean, you don't want me to gun him, do you? I will if you want, but I'm not a torpedo.”

”No, I don't want you for that. I got a million guns. But I don't want him gunned at all. Dammit, Joe, we can't risk another shooting. We've had five already this year.”

”I don't get it,” I said, because I didn't. ”Chief, you have the whole force in your pocket. If you give the word, every cop in town buries his head in the sand and stuffs cotton in his ears. What's the worry over a shooting?”

He shook his head. ”Sure I've got the cops. But the citizens don't know this. The citizens don't understand how the ball bounces. When there are enough unsolved homicides, they get upset. They switch mayors. They switch cops. They switch everything. And then where the h.e.l.l am I?”

I nodded slowly. He was no moron. He had used his head to get where he was.

”I want to nail him sort of indirect,” he said. ”But I'm not sure how. That's why I called you. Figure a way.”