Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [54]
She had started frowning about halfway through that. The frown indicated that in about ten years she’d look like hell, even if at the moment she did look heavenly.
She said, “You didn’t get everything right.”
“What did I miss?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” I prompted her. “What did I get wrong?”
“I wasn’t a cheerleader. I was a pom-pom girl.”
“Even better.”
“And I never danced. I was never a fucking…stripper.”
I could see that. Her boobs were even smaller than Candace’s.
“What were you, then?”
“I was a hostess at a restaurant.”
“An Italian restaurant?”
“Yes, an Italian restaurant! What of it?…Listen, I haven’t broken any laws or anything.”
“You haven’t? When did cocaine get legalized? While I was away on a boat trip?”
“I mean, it’s not illegal to fool somebody. Or to tell somebody else about somebody else.”
“You mean, not illegal to work for Jerry G and spy on Dickie Cornell? You could be right, but when you’re dealing with men whose business is illegal gambling, or in Jerry G’s case, gambling and prostitution and drug-running, legal doesn’t come into it. Somebody feels fucked over, so somebody else…somebody likeyou, for example…gets killed.”
Her chin came up. Her defiance was almost equal to her fear. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I don’t think so. You almost got me killed, though, tonight, so it’s a possibility.”
Her eyes and nostrils flared. “How did I get you…almost get you…killed?”
“You told Jerry G about the conversation you over-heard today—about me ‘taking care of’ Jerry G for Dickie bird. And then Jerry G handed me over to a couple of pals of his, who took me for what was supposed to be a one-way boat ride.”
The big blue eyes went to half-mast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know if you do. I don’t know if I care. Tell me, what’s on Jerry G’s mind tonight?”
She blinked; nice long lashes, under the mascara. “On his mind?”
“Yeah. You just came out of that private poker den of his. What’s his mood?”
“Well…good, I guess. Just getting ready for his regular Friday night poker game.”
“Didn’t seem anxious? Waiting for word on some pressing matter?”
“No. He was in a good mood.”
This was encouraging. He clearly felt I was out of the picture. No extra security measures were being put into motion at the Lucky, meaning no reason to think I’d be up against anything out of the ordinary. The only possible hitch was if he expected to hear from the boys in the boat.
But why should they report back? As far as Jerry G was concerned, I was a dead man. They were just out dumping the garbage. They’d probably either go home or resume their duties at the club, and with as many bouncers as Jerry G employed, on a busy Friday night, the pair might not be missed.
I hoped I wasn’t kidding myself.
“That Firebird,” I said. “Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“You make payments on it?”
“No. It was a gift.”
“From Jerry G?”
“Actually, from a nice man in Chicago who’s a friend of Jerry G’s.”
I frowned at her. “A man named Giardelli? Vince Giardelli?”
“…Yes.”
Vince was Jerry G’s godfather, just as Tony was Cornell’s, courtesy of wife Angela. That meant the insertion of Chrissy as an under-the-covers agent at the Paddlewheel was a scheme conceived at the highest lowlife level.
I said, “The Firebird—where do you keep the title?”
“Well, in my glove compartment. Where else?”
Oh, a safe deposit box maybe, or a fireproof