I paid off the landlady and bought a couple shirts. I took a girl to my room for the evening. That damn near shot the fifty, but I wasn’t figuring on living the rest of my life on fifty dollars per; $250 would be a lot more like it.
I picked another customer Tuesday, a guy named Theodore Sims. He ran a big insurance agency on Wilkin Street, and I came on telling him I wanted to sell him some insurance. He tried to hustle me out the door, but by the time I finished my spiel he was sitting down again and doing some heavy thinking. I walked out of there ten minutes later with another fifty in my pocket and another client on my list.
Choosing my customers was the most important part. If I picked a guy who couldn’t drop fifty a week without noticing it, I’d get in trouble eventually. If I tabbed a muscle boy with more guts than brains, my bluff wouldn’t stand a chance.
But I was careful.
I added my name to another payroll on Wednesday and another on Thursday. Both times I spruced up my pitch a little, starting off with the insurance salesman bit and moving right into the regular routine. I got smoother and smoother, until by Friday I had myself believing that they were in for trouble if they didn’t come across.
Of course, no matter what they did they were safer than a virgin in a roomful of eunuchs. I wasn’t going to take a swipe at anybody’s kid, and I didn’t even have a car to run a kid down with if I felt like it. But the big boys don’t have to take chances, and that’s why I cleared two hundred bucks the first week.
Friday was a day of rest. I had plenty of time to find a fifth sucker, and besides it was a good day to go to the beach. I took a quick dip in the water and spread out a blanket on the sand, letting the sun burn down on me and thinking what a nice little business I had. The nicest thing was the absence of competition. There was no heavy operator to push me out of the catbird’s seat.
On Monday, Gargan started to make noises until I reminded him that I could always raise the ante if he didn’t behave himself. The others were respectfully quiet. Another week, another two hundred for me—and with no taxes to pay. Who could ask for a better setup?
Two hundred was enough, when you came right down to it. I’m not a guy with expensive tastes. Sure, I like a drink when I’m dry and a woman now and then, and I like expensive Scotch and high-priced women, but two hundred a week will buy plenty of liquor and sex. I’m not a pig.
It went on that way for about two months. It was a regular routine: Gargan on Monday, Sims on Tuesday, Lon Butler on Wednesday, and David Clark on Thursday. I had regular working hours, and my wages came to something like fifty bucks an hour.
It even became a routine for my customers. After a while we didn’t even bother to talk to each other. I walked into the office, picked up my money, and walked out. That was all there was to it.
My landlady was thrilled. She got her rent right on the button without asking twice, and she never had it so good. She must have wondered where the hell I was getting the dough, but that was none of her business and she had enough sense to keep her nose out. She was strictly business. As long as I paid on time, she kept her eyes closed and her mouth shut.
That was the main reason I kept on living in my little dump. But I found other things to spend the money on. I picked up an Italian silk suit and some decent shoes, bought a radio for the room, and even got some pictures for the walls. I gave one of my broads a silk nightgown and she was extra-good to me from that point on.
I even bought a car. With a steady income, it was no headache keeping up payments. I latched onto a little foreign job with wire wheels and plenty of speed. It was nice, sitting behind the wheel of the car and opening her up. It was particularly nice when I stopped to think how the car was being paid for.
Nice, huh?
But after a while the idea of another half a yard a week began looking better and better. I could get along without it all right, but fifty bucks more wouldn’t hurt. I took my time, trying to pick the perfect mark. I was set up so perfectly that there was no point in risking everything unless I had a sure thing. I took my time and waited.
And I found my mark.
He was a doctor, a rich man’s doctor by the name of Alfred Sanders. He had a good-looking wife and a little boy named Jerry. He loved his wife, he loved his kid. It looked pretty perfect.
I called Dr. Sanders during the week and made an appointment for Friday afternoon. He had a spot open, and that struck me as funny. My only open afternoon, and he could fit me in!
His layout on Middlesex Road was something to see—brick front, a lawn like a putting green, and rugs on the floor that you could get lost in. His nurse showed me into the office and I took a seat.
“I’m selling insurance,” I began.
He smiled. “I wish you had told me over the phone,” he said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Boyle, but I have all the insurance I need. As a matter of fact, I’m probably overinsured as it stands. You see—”
“Not this kind of insurance.” And then I let him have it from beginning to end.
“I see,” he said when I finished. He stood up and began pacing the floor slowly, swinging his arms as he walked. “Could you give me a quick run-down on your proposition again? I missed some of the details.”
I gave it to him again. Hell, I had all the time in the world.
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 passed 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 associate 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 “associate” was the only thing that saved me from a blackmail rap.
What the hell, $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 hell. 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 Saturday, 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 bumping 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. Hell, 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 hell 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.”
I took a seat, and it was easy to relax in the soft, plush cushions. 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. Damned 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 prostitute. 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 shining. “Power,” he said, and the word seemed to come from the inside of a bass 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.
