Lucky at Cards by Lawrence Block Page B

Milani costume. I squinted at myself in the mirror, too. But not for very long.
    And then I called Joyce. She must have been sitting on top of the phone because she picked it up before the first ring was finished.
    I said, “All right. I’m in.”
    “Of course,” she said. “Because there’s no way out.” I called Murray’s office at nine o’clock the next evening. There was no answer. I let it ring long enough to make sure that no one had stuck around. Then I drove to the Rand Building on the double. I followed the established routine—I took the elevator to the seventeenth floor and walked the rest of the way. I let myself into his office, thumbed through the Yellow Pages, found a twenty-four hour messenger service. I called them and told them to send a kid over for a pick-up and delivery.
    During the day I had picked up a batch of singles from the bank, along with a couple hundreds. While the kid was on his way over I made a bundle of money, a sheaf of singles with two one-hundreds at the top and bottom of the roll. I stuffed the money into an envelope and started to scrawl A. Milani on it. Then I changed my mind and typed the name on Murray’s office typewriter. I sealed the envelope and dropped it on the table in the outer office. I left the hall door open and retired to Murray’s private office and sat in his chair, with the door closed.
    When the kid came in I called to him through the closed door. “There’s an envelope on the table there,” I said. “Run it over to the Hotel Glade near the station. It’s for a man named August Milani. Make sure you give it to him in person.”
    I had left a five-spot on the table along with the envelope. I told the kid to help himself to it. As soon as he left I got the hell out of Murray’s office, ran down seven flights of stairs and caught an elevator the rest of the way. I drove home, changed into my Milani costume, hurried over to the Glade. I made myself slow down on the way in, forced myself to walk with the head-back, shoulders-slouched swagger of my man Milani.
    The kid was there when I reached the hotel. He leaned up against the desk, waiting to deliver Milani’s envelope in person. I took it from him, gave him a quarter and watched him go. Then I turned to the desk clerk, a buddy by now—I’d been cultivating him carefully. I winked at him, then ripped open the envelope and snatched up the stack of bills. His eyes bugged.
    “Money,” I said.
    I fanned the bills for him. He saw the hundreds on the top and the hundreds on the bottom, and all the singles in the middle were just a big flash of green ink.
    “Money,” I said again.
    And I started dealing the bills out, slapping them one after the other onto the top of the counter. The basic principle is pretty much the same as the one used in a second deal or a bottom deal. Each time I was slapping down two bills, a hundred on top and a single under it. Each time fast fingerwork brought the hundred back on to the top of the stack for the next shot. By the time I was finished there wasn’t any question in the desk clerk’s mind. Quite obviously I had a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
    “Jesus,” he said.
    “I told you, didn’t I? I leave this town in the longest Caddy Detroit ever made.”
    “How did you get that kind of dough?” the clerk said.
    I winked at him. “A guy named Rogers,” I said. “The one who left me all them nasty messages.”
    “Yeah?” I nodded solemnly. “Yeah,” I said. “Can you keep a secret?”
    “Sure.”
    “So can I.” I laughed aloud. “And that’s where all this wonderful bread came from. I get paid for keeping secrets. I get paid real nice.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Who?”
    “Rogers,” the clerk said. I was glad to see he could remember the name. “What the hell did he do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “But—”
    “He’s a real nice guy,” I said. “A big-time lawyer. It’s just that he’s got this little secret, see? And he’ll pay to keep it.”
    I