Kreiger sat down at his desk and thought for several minutes. In the middle of it he got up and poured himself a schnapps. You could compute the geometry of Jack’s revelations in only one of two ways.
So he called Abramson in Palm Springs. Since Gid was having people over, he made Otto wait while he took the call in the den. Kreiger could picture the old kike there among his worldly possessions like one of the Seven Dwarfs in the gem mine. He preferred real wealth. Horses. Clean, outdoors,
manly
.
“So, Otto,” chirped Gid’s birdlike voice, “why did God make the
goyim
?”
“Why did he?” asked Kreiger in ill-disguised impatience.
“
Somebody
has to buy retail.”
Into Gideon’s chuckles, Kreiger said heavily, “Abramson, we seem to have been told a conflicting pair of tales in theAtlas Entertainment matter. You know Mr. Prince does not want that connection made public, so I think we’d better bring the matter to his attention.”
When the phone rang, a relaxed and reassured Jack Lenington—going to see the fucking kraut yesterday had been the thing to do, all right—was two-fingering a report while trying to remember if counselor, as in attorney, had one “1” or two. His spelling was atrocious but his reports, when he couldn’t get out of writing them, always managed to say what he wanted them to.
He grabbed up the receiver and barked, “Vice, Lenington,” into it. And heard for the first time the high-speed, high-pitched delivery of the man who never called himself anything but Burkie.
“My name is Burkie you got something I want sweetheart and I got something you want, cash.”
He stopped there as if he had said something significant.
“Yeah, Madonna’s got a red-hot snatch I want, too,” said Lenington in his angry voice, “but I ain’t liable to get it.”
He hung up. The phone rang again immediately.
Lenington picked up, snapped, “Vice, Lenington,” into it, and the same high-speed high-pitched almost-falsetto almost-fag voice began, “We got cut off I want—”
Lenington hung up on him again. When the phone rang a third time, again immediately, he snatched it off the hook. Some fucking guys never learned.
“Listen, asshole, I—”
“No, asshole,
you
listen,” said the voice, sounding suddenly not faggy at all. “Five large just to listen.”
This time the man calling himself Burkie hung up.
And then didn’t call again. Goddam him! Had he played the guy wrong? Jack already had started to think of those five dimes as
his
five dimes he didn’t have to do anything for except just
listen
. But how could he listen if the fuckhead didn’t call?
Couple of evenings later, Jack was gunning a few in Liverpool Lil’s, a neighborhood pub cattycorner across Lyon from the Presidio gates. It was a dark narrow place with red brick floors and wooden walls covered with photographs, and shiny wineglasses hanging upside down over the bar, and a good steak-and-kidney pie on the menu.
But he was here after making his monthly dual collections—gash and cash, Jack liked to call them—from a discreet high-price call girl who lived just up the street on the Presidio Wall. They’d have a drink, Jack would warn her if anything bad might be coming down, she’d take him home to lay him and pay him.
“Hey, Jack,” said the bartender, “telephone for you.”
Even though off duty, Jack had conscientiously left the number with Dispatch. Never knew when one of his other little arrangements might need servicing.
“Lenington,” he said in his hard, angry voice.
“Jack-baby—Burkie!” Then the familiar high-speed delivery began. “That secondhand store fronts a treasury book on Mission off Fifth near the old Remedial Loans around the corner from the Mint in the phone booth one hour.”
Dial tone.
Five large, just to listen. Against that, a setup. The mob? The kraut had assured him he had a plus ledger with them for his efficient handling of his part in the Moll Dalton hit.
The
So he called Abramson in Palm Springs. Since Gid was having people over, he made Otto wait while he took the call in the den. Kreiger could picture the old kike there among his worldly possessions like one of the Seven Dwarfs in the gem mine. He preferred real wealth. Horses. Clean, outdoors,
manly
.
“So, Otto,” chirped Gid’s birdlike voice, “why did God make the
goyim
?”
“Why did he?” asked Kreiger in ill-disguised impatience.
“
Somebody
has to buy retail.”
Into Gideon’s chuckles, Kreiger said heavily, “Abramson, we seem to have been told a conflicting pair of tales in theAtlas Entertainment matter. You know Mr. Prince does not want that connection made public, so I think we’d better bring the matter to his attention.”
When the phone rang, a relaxed and reassured Jack Lenington—going to see the fucking kraut yesterday had been the thing to do, all right—was two-fingering a report while trying to remember if counselor, as in attorney, had one “1” or two. His spelling was atrocious but his reports, when he couldn’t get out of writing them, always managed to say what he wanted them to.
He grabbed up the receiver and barked, “Vice, Lenington,” into it. And heard for the first time the high-speed, high-pitched delivery of the man who never called himself anything but Burkie.
“My name is Burkie you got something I want sweetheart and I got something you want, cash.”
He stopped there as if he had said something significant.
“Yeah, Madonna’s got a red-hot snatch I want, too,” said Lenington in his angry voice, “but I ain’t liable to get it.”
He hung up. The phone rang again immediately.
Lenington picked up, snapped, “Vice, Lenington,” into it, and the same high-speed high-pitched almost-falsetto almost-fag voice began, “We got cut off I want—”
Lenington hung up on him again. When the phone rang a third time, again immediately, he snatched it off the hook. Some fucking guys never learned.
“Listen, asshole, I—”
“No, asshole,
you
listen,” said the voice, sounding suddenly not faggy at all. “Five large just to listen.”
This time the man calling himself Burkie hung up.
And then didn’t call again. Goddam him! Had he played the guy wrong? Jack already had started to think of those five dimes as
his
five dimes he didn’t have to do anything for except just
listen
. But how could he listen if the fuckhead didn’t call?
Couple of evenings later, Jack was gunning a few in Liverpool Lil’s, a neighborhood pub cattycorner across Lyon from the Presidio gates. It was a dark narrow place with red brick floors and wooden walls covered with photographs, and shiny wineglasses hanging upside down over the bar, and a good steak-and-kidney pie on the menu.
But he was here after making his monthly dual collections—gash and cash, Jack liked to call them—from a discreet high-price call girl who lived just up the street on the Presidio Wall. They’d have a drink, Jack would warn her if anything bad might be coming down, she’d take him home to lay him and pay him.
“Hey, Jack,” said the bartender, “telephone for you.”
Even though off duty, Jack had conscientiously left the number with Dispatch. Never knew when one of his other little arrangements might need servicing.
“Lenington,” he said in his hard, angry voice.
“Jack-baby—Burkie!” Then the familiar high-speed delivery began. “That secondhand store fronts a treasury book on Mission off Fifth near the old Remedial Loans around the corner from the Mint in the phone booth one hour.”
Dial tone.
Five large, just to listen. Against that, a setup. The mob? The kraut had assured him he had a plus ledger with them for his efficient handling of his part in the Moll Dalton hit.
The
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