Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [30]
“Crooked?”
“I don’t think so. Not that Jerry G isn’t a confirmed cheater, as a casino manager—I think you’ll find the gaming rigged for the house. But Jerry G takes pride in his poker playing. He thinks he’s a world-class player. And he’s done well in Vegas competitions, truth be told.”
“You wouldn’t have ten grand in cash around, would you?”
The aqua eyes in the heavily tanned face regarded me coldly, though he was working the smile on me, by way of distraction. “I already wired twenty thousand to your Cayman Islands account,” he said. “Would this be an advance, or…?”
“It would be your money. If I lose it, it’s gone.”
“And if you win?”
“You get the ten grand back.”
He chuckled. “And doesn’t that sound fair? Mr. Quarry, you are a cheeky devil. A regular card.”
“Cards sound like they may be the best way in for me, with Jerry G.” I shifted in my chair. “We haven’t talked about exactly what you want done.”
“No we haven’t.”
“You’d like me to remove whoever it was that hired that contract on you.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re convinced it’s either the father, Gigi Giovanni, or the son, Jerry G.”
He nodded. “Or possibly both. In concert.”
“So, do you want me to determine which it was?”
“Could you do that?”
“Possibly. Could be tricky. But might be possible.”
“What’s the alternative?”
I shrugged. “Just take them both out.”
“What would that cost me?”
“Well…double.”
“Forty thousand.”
“I was thinking fifty.”
He blinked. Stop the presses. “What’s the extra ten for?”
“For killing mob guys. Consider it hazardous duty pay.”
“And it’s twenty-five if you determine which G hired the hit, and take care of only him.”
“Yes. And that might prove a bargain, as it’s maybe the harder job. I have to play undercover cop and snoop around and not get killed doing it. Just popping them both, if I could stage-manage the right circumstances, could be relatively simple. In and out.”
The leather of his forehead grew grooves. “The Giovannis have a small army at the Lucky, you know. Bouncers and strongarms. No shortage of muscles and guns. You don’t expect me to pay for anybody else you have to take care of along the way.”
“What, collateral damage? No. That’s my problem. I don’t charge for soldiers, only generals.”
This he found amusing, the leathery flesh around the eyes crinkling with glee. His big white smile seemed genuine. Nice to know he had a sense of humor.
“Dickie,” I said, “you’re tied in with your wife’s father, back in Chicago—Tony Giardelli. I need to know if you’ve consulted him about this.”
He shook his head. “Uncle Tony expects me to take care of my own problems.”
“But would he back you up, after the fact?”
“Oh yes. He knows very well what’s at stake.”
“What is at stake?”
That stopped him, and he thought for several long moments, then got up and gestured me to follow him.
Soon we were in his third-floor office-cum-apartment. The little blonde, Chrissy, was in sheer panties and an athletic-style t-shirt with her bottom on the brown leather couch and her bare feet on the coffee table. She was watching The $25,000 Pyramid, or anyway it was on—she was lacquering her fingernails, a joint making its musky fragrance known, smoldering in an ashtray, while on the big screen, Dick Clark loomed like an Easter Island statue.
Cornell did not speak to the girl as he led me past the viewing area into the bedroom, where a big round bed was unmade; a mirror was on the ceiling—it would be. The river view from here would have been magnificent, but black curtains blotted it out. He ushered me to a big glass table with black metal legs and gestured to an elaborate architectural model.
“That’s the future, Mr. Quarry,” he said.
And it was, the future of Haydee’s Port, anyway. The downtown buildings were intact, but remodeled into a quaint, family-friendly assembly of projected shops, an almost Disneyfied downtown out of the ’20s or ’30s with a drugstore, ice-cream