Double down, p.3
Double Down, page 3
Nevertheless, he did a slow drive-by, checking out the area, watching for any static signals. The way he saw it, caution was like money: never enough, business he was in. Everything looked clean, so he turned in at the far entrance and pulled up a few feet from the phones. He cut the engine. Down went the window. It was three minutes before seven. He waited.
Precisely on the hour, one of the phones began jangling. D’Marco got out of the car, glanced right, left, over his shoulder. At the agreed-upon fifth ring he lifted the receiver and said simply, “Yeah.”
The voice riding down the line was growly, anxious: “Frog? That you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You have any trouble findin’ the place?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“Huh?”
D’Marco sighed. “Your directions, they were good.”
“Good, good. You set to do some sharkin’ tonight?”
“Figured that’s what I drove up here for.”
“Okay. Here’s the skinny.”
THREE
At about the same time D’Marco Fontaine was finishing off his papaya cooler (though by Central Daylight Time an hour earlier on the clock), Sigurd Stumpley was bent to a heaping plate, plowing into his supper. He ate with the controlled intensity of a famine victim, fork moving rhythmically in one hand, thumb of the other busily engaged as pea scoop, sweat beads popping at his temples and eyes bulging in the transfixed gaze of pure internalized pleasure. Sigurd’s mom had fixed his favorite summertime meal: a mess of fried smelts, white rice, green peas with pearl onions, slivers of tomato and cuke floating on a sea of vinegar and oil, ice tea to drink, and prune whip for dessert. She hovered over him, watching fondly. Good old Mom. She looked out for her boy.
Except she could get on your nerves, too, all that twitchy fluttering. Mouth bubbling like a busted crapper: More that rice, hon? Get you a lemon for your fish? Eat, eat, you got to eat, Sig. Jesus, no wonder he weighed what he did, which was thirty pounds the wrong side of two hundred, which at his height was about sixty too many. Comes of being a widow, he supposed, and him an only child. He let her, she’d wipe out his ass for him, too, twenty-five years old or not.
She lived in the community of Downers Grove, Illinois, one of the series of faceless suburbs strung out west of Chicago like beads on the chain of the Burlington Railroad. Until he was twenty-one Sigurd had shared her cramped apartment, but after his release from Stateville (where he did a half a nickel on a botched smash-and-grab) he figured he’d better get a place of his own. Wouldn’t look right, fast starter his age still living with his mom. Anyway, when the old itch needed scratching—not that it got scratched that often—but when it did he didn’t want her on the other side of the wall, all the groaning going on. Man’s got to have his privacy, too. So what he did was find a spot in Lisle, one burb over, though he always managed to stop by three or four times a week, keep her company. Also to scarf up a decent meal, and to drop off and pick up his laundry, which she insisted on doing for him. Fuck, whatever kept her grinning.
That’s what she was crooning about now, laundry, mending socks, some kind of gas like that, he wasn’t paying much attention. Finally, three helpings down, he put the fork in the air, stop signal, and said, “Whyn’t you just pull up a seat there. Take a load off.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Sig, I ate already.”
“Do it anyway. Too hot to be on your feet today.”
Touched by his concern, she sank heavily into a chair opposite him, wheezing. She was a year-round wheezer, Mom was, but even more so, this kind of weather. Ninety-two in the shade out there, air sticky as Super Glue. And not a whole lot better in here. Didn’t help any, being on the top floor of a six-story building. Neither did all that heat rising off the stove in the narrow galley kitchen behind them, carrying with it the fragrance of smelt expiring in a spattery puddle of grease. The drapes were drawn at the window of the tiny dining nook, shield against the blaze of setting sun, but he could hear the Burlington rattling down the tracks half a block away. Had to be the 5:55, hauling in the commuters from the city. Least he wasn’t one of them, riding a fucking cattle car, scrambling after a couple coins to rub together. So there was always something to be grateful for, when you thought about it, even if it was hotter’n a hooker’s twat on New Year’s Eve.
Sigurd and his mom lit cigarettes, sagged back in their seats, puffed contentedly. Had a stranger happened on them just then, he would never have mistaken them for anything other than what they were—mother and son. Aside from the gap of thirty-five years and the toll exacted on her by gravity and time, they presented a pair of near-identical faces, absent of planes or edges, shapeless as two hunks of clay. Shocks of ginger hair (hers, discreetly tinted, inclining toward orange) ascended from meager foreheads. Mud-colored, thyroid eyes peered out over pouchy cheeks sprayed with freckles, pickle noses, wide red mouths. In girth they were approximately the same, though Sigurd carried most of his weight forward, in a parabolic arc of belly; and Mom aft, in a broad, high porch of rump. At the hips both of them sported accordion rolls of slack flesh creeping south over chunky thighs (and in Mom’s case all the way down, bottoming out at the ankles). There were times when Sigurd wondered, a bit regretfully, why he hadn’t had the luck to inherit more of his father’s frame and features. Course he’d never actually known the old man, got himself whacked before Sigurd was even out of rompers, but he’d seen plenty of pictures in the family albums. Those photos revealed a standup dude lean as a blade, wolfish face, black hair varnished smooth to the angular skull, black sunken eyes, smile on him a kind of wised-up, hard-guy smirk. Ringer for Uncle Eugene, which, when he considered it, made him feel a little better. In the looks department, Uncle Eugene wasn’t exactly mondo-class competition for your Robert Redford.
Mom was chattering away about her day, treating him to a nonstop blow-by-blow. Laundry first thing in the morning, lunch (complete with menu recital) at the Greek’s down on Main, grocery shopping out to the Jewel on Ogden, Oprah and her guests in the afternoon…Exhaustive detail. Only thing missing was a description of her daily dump, and if he’d asked she would’ve supplied that, too. They give a black belt in gum flapping, she’d have one for sure. Hire herself out as a human Sominex. Make a bundle.
Along about “People’s Court” Sigurd’s jaws unhinged in a flycatcher yawn. She paused, gave him a solicitous look, and said, “You tired, hon? Want to lie down on the sofa, take a nap?”
“Nah, can’t do that. Gotta go back to work tonight.”
“You shouldn’t work so hard, Sig.”
Sigurd shrugged, made a weary face that said man’s got to do what he’s got to do.
“Worries me,” his mom said.
“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. Fact is, job I’m on now might just roll over into something big.” He put a little swagger into his voice, watched for her reaction.
She made no reply. When he was alive, her husband had never ever spoken of business. Neither did her brother-in-law, Eugene, when he dropped by once a month to ask how she was doing and leave a roll of bills—her sole support—on the kitchen counter. Fine with her. Some things ladies weren’t supposed to know about.
Her silence only irked Sigurd, and at last he said, “Well, you wanta hear what I been up to?”
“I don’t know, Sig. You think you ought to be talking?”
“Won’t hurt none, just tellin’ you my end of it.”
Technically she was right, of course, if you was to put a fine point on it. And ordinarily, scut work they had him on, pigeon boy, couple bills a week and change, there’d be nothing worth spilling anyhow. But getting an invite inside the loop, running with the heavyweights, reporting direct to Uncle Eugene and even meeting Mr. Dietz f’Chris’sake—that was shit of your serious variety. That you had to share with somebody, and if you can’t trust your own mom, who you going to?
“Y’see,” Sigurd began, “couple days ago, Tuesday it was, Uncle Eugene gives me a call, says meet him out to O’Hare. Seems there’s this kike comin’ in from Florida and he’s pickin’ me, Uncle Eugene is, to put the sneak on him.”
“You always want to do what Eugene says, Sig. He’s a fine man.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know that, hey. That ain’t the point, purr say.” Sigurd had heard Mr. Dietz use that last, that purr say, when he was talking to Uncle Eugene, and even though he didn’t know exactly what it meant he liked the ring of it. Sounded like class, so he figured he couldn’t go wrong, using it himself.
“Well, don’t you forget what he’s done for us. After your father passed away. And all.”
By that pointed “and all” she meant what they both knew she meant: It was Uncle Eugene got him the high-powered shyster got him thirty months on what could have been a ten-year jolt; and it was Uncle Eugene found him a place in the enterprise once he was back on the sidewalks. Okay, so Uncle Eugene looked out for him. Okay, so he owed him. So what? “Look,” he said irritably, “you wanta hear this story or no?”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, we’re out to the airport and Uncle Eugene says just hang off in the weeds, keep him in your crosshairs, don’t let him make you. Plane comes in and the Jewboy, big sack a lard, gets off and starts happy-handin’ Uncle Eugene. They head down the pavement to the Floral Gardens, me on their bumper. At the Gardens they get a booth, throw back a couple pops. Kike’s mouth’s runnin’ like a storm sewer in a rainstorm, arms waggin’. Uncle Eugene, he just sits there eyeballin’ his glass, noddin’ his head every once in a while. Real cool.”
“Speaking of that, glass, you want yours filled up?”
Sigurd took a full breath, glared at her. “I’m tryin’ to tell you something heavy here, and you’re talkin’ ice tea.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Okay, gimme some more the goddam tea.”
She heaved herself up out of the chair and waddled into the kitchen. Sigurd lit another cigarette while she poured. He waited till she was settled again, then resumed.
“Y’gotta understand all’s I got is a balcony seat, so I don’t know what it is they’re turnin’ over. Looks of it, though, it ain’t no average chin-’n’-grin. When they get done, Uncle Eugene runs him down Ogden and leaves him off at the Downers Grove Motel up there, which you remember ain’t exactly your Palmer House.”
“Funny place to be staying,” his mom agreed. “Him being a Jew.”
“That was my first thought,” Sigurd said shrewdly. “Got to tell you something about the weight of his wallet.”
“So what did you do then, Sig?”
“What I’m told. Kept a watch on the place all night and into the morning, till Uncle Eugene comes by, says go home and grab some quick Z’s, he’s gonna need my services next couple days.”
“Bet you were all worn out.”
“Yeah, I was a little flogged,” Sigurd said toughly. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
“You got to take care of yourself, son. Good health is precious.”
“So’s loot, Mom, an’ what I’m thinkin’ is I’m maybe gonna be slidin’ into some. Real soon. See, yesterday afternoon Uncle Eugene calls me again, says meet him at the Hilton up to Arlington Park, one by the track up there. Says wear a suit. Know why, Mom?”
She looked blank.
“Why is because I’m gonna meet Dietz! How about that, hey.”
Sigurd’s mom’s mouth fell open. “Dietz? You met Mr. Dietz?”
Sigurd leaned across the dinette table and extended an open hand. “Here—shake the hand that shook the hand of Gunter Dietz.”
She pressed his hand between both of hers, drew it to her ample bosom, squeezed. Her eyes went watery. “I’m awful proud of you, hon.”
“Told you you’d wanta hear this story.” Sigurd reclaimed his hand, pushed on with it. “Now, course I was only with ’em a little while,” he said with a becoming modesty, “and then they went into a private huddle, hour or so. But you know, Mom, how I got a habit of keepin’ the wax outta my ears? Pick up quick on things? I think I got me a figure on what’s shakin’ here. Or gonna shake.”
Mom was twisting in slow circles around the seat of the chair, like she was trying to polish it with her butt. “It’s this part here, Sig, I don’t think you should be saying.”
Yeah yeah yeah yeah—right again. Trouble was, this was the part he wanted to tell. Good part. “No prol’um,” he said, “nothin’ you can’t hear.” Which was pretty much the truth. Fact of it was, he was still just peeking through the keyhole, though if he saw what he thought he saw it was Sugarland for your Sigurd Stumpley, dead ahead.
Still she looked unpersuaded. He said it anyway.
“Line is this kike—or a buddy his, it ain’t too clear—nicked some company product. ’Bout a year back, out in the boonies someplace, Michigan, thought I heard. Now, we ain’t talkin’ your nickel street bag here. Talkin’ the big buckaroos. Purr say.” He figured he better skip the part about the troopers went toes in all the action up there. She’d just worry.
“Mr. Dietz, he naturally ain’t too happy about this, so he puts the buzz in the wind. Takes some time but he gets ’em sniffed, down to Florida. How you gonna hide from Dietz and company, hey? So the kike comes up here to see can he squirm out, way them people always tryin’ to do. Knowin’ the jacket on Dietz, I’d say our matzoh ball’s couple bricks short of a load, that idea. Anyway, zipper on it is, I think Uncle Eugene’s gonna tag me to—”
Sigurd’s mom cut him off with a jabbing finger. Very firmly she said, “That’s enough, Sigurd. I don’t want to hear another word.”
No way could he stop now. Coming up was the absolute best part. “It ain’t what you’re thinkin’,” he said, even though it almost for sure was. “See, after we left the Hilton yesterday, Uncle Eugene puts me back on Jew patrol. Rest of the night and most of today. I pro’ly ain’t slept ten hours, last forty-eight. But that don’t matter. Also, Uncle Eugene, he says get a bag packed, be ready to roll. Right now they’re holdin’ a meet out to the Gardens—Dietz, Uncle Eugene, Israel. An’ dependin’ on what comes down, I could be the one trackin’ him all the way to Florida!”
“Florida?” she said doubtfully. “You?” She had every reason to be skeptical, for she knew Eugene didn’t have the highest opinion of her son. Back when Sigurd got himself into all that trouble, Eugene was furious, said Sigurd was so dumb he didn’t know if Christ was crucified or killed in a chariot race. That dumb. And looking at him now, his chubby face opened in a sunburst grin, she had to wonder if Eugene wasn’t right.
“That’s it, hey. You’re maybe lookin’ at the Florida Kid.” Since he’d never in his whole life been out of Chicago and its immediate environs (Joliet didn’t count), this announcement, even if premature, was occasion for no little pride.
“I don’t like to see you getting mixed up with Jews, Sig. They’re too…sneaky. For you.”
“Ahh, if this job comes through, be nothin’ to it. Room service.” That’s what he told her. He knew better. It come through, it was his big chance. Be a shooter at last, real Chicago shooter. Run his own program for a change. It was the giant chimichanga he’d be forking into.
“If,” was all she said.
An hour and two helpings of prune whip later, Sigurd reached behind him and picked up the ringing phone. He muttered a few words into it, but mostly he just listened. Eventually he said “Gotcha” and recradled the receiver and lumbered to his feet. He drew himself up to his full height, five-seven, narrowed his eyes, and said, “Time to go back to work.”
“You be careful now, Sigurd,” his mom lectured him on the way to the door.
FOUR
“I’m telling you, Care,” Robbie was telling her, voice booming through the open door linking their adjoining rooms. Depending on his mood or audience, he could use that rich baritone any way he wanted, pitch it smooth as butterscotch or corrosive as acid or any gradation between. Sixteen years of marriage had fine-tuned her ear to all its accents and cadences and modulations. What she was hearing now were the brassy resonances of bravado tempered by an undertone, ever so slight, of anxiety.
“The man’s indefatigable. Champion arm-twister, working at it all the time. This is a guy who could make a fortune peddling Amway on Worth Avenue. You should have seen him on the course today. Has to be pushing sixty, and he’s got the horsepower of a kid.”
He was singing the praises of his partner in this current venture (whatever it was, some swampland nirvana for the elderly, Dizzy World of the declining years), one Jack (“Call me Jock”) Appelgate. His hero. Jack and his frumpish wife, Avis. Jack and Avis. Sounded like a “Gong Show” dance team, heavy-shoe. First-order boors, to her thinking, added new dimensions of odium to the definition of nouveau riche. But that’s not the sort of thing a good helpmeet tells an already jittery spouse, so instead she said, noncommittal, “Must have a good motor.”
“What’s that?” he called back.
Her words had been drowned in the startup rasp of an electric razor. She didn’t bother repeating them. Nobody listening. Neither did she bother getting up out of the cushy chair. No reason to stir. And anyway, the magic red pellets, swallowed half an hour earlier, were gradually seizing hold. An oil slick slow-spreading through torso and limbs. Feathery lightness taking residence in the innermost chambers of her head, casting a soft-focus glaze on the world outside her eyes. Better living through chemistry.
