deadly serious.
"Why? Why would you want to get me out
of a murder charge? It's not even a federal beef."
He began to gesture with his hands. They were
clear gestures, easy to read, and they complemented his words.
"You know a lot of people in this
town, Doyle. The kind of people who might have the information I want. The kind
of people who wouldn't tell me shit."
"What kind of information?"
"We think Whitney's in bed with the
Russian mob. We also think they're down here establishing a base to move into
Cuba when Castro gives up. Probably to set up gambling and prostitution
operations. We're not sure of the details just yet."
I sat still while he got up to walk around,
burning energy.
"Like I said, Doyle, you name the
crime, Whitney's done it. But we don't have a shred of evidence on him,
especially for federal offenses. So I can't touch him, yet. However, if a
private citizen — yourself, for example — should suddenly get the
urge to dig something up on him, well … I'd certainly do what I could to grease
the way. Unofficially, of course."
"Yeah, but the FBI doesn't act
'unofficially'. What's your real reason?"
"I just told you. Anything else is my
business. Now are you ready to cooperate?"
"What's to keep me from just blowing
off the whole thing and skipping town? Which I've got half a mind to do
anyway."
He threw the cigarette hard onto the
concrete floor, stomping on it.
"Because if you do, there will be a
warrant issued for your arrest. You will be hunted down and arrested for an
armed robbery that will have taken place, an armed robbery for which you will
have no credible alibi, and one in which you will have been positively
identified by two eyewitnesses. That, plus the obvious violation of your
parole, which requires you to maintain weekly visits with your parole officer,
would mean a fifteen-to-twenty-year stretch, minimum. You ready for that?"
I didn't
answer. But I think he picked up the "no" in my eyes.
He lowered his voice a notch, losing the
bad-cop hard edge. "Look, Doyle. I know you better than you think I do. I
know you've been on the grift for a long time. You stood up for Sullivan, and
did your bit out in Nevada, and you kept your mouth shut. I know you
don't work with cops, especially the FBI. But I'm not like any other cop."
I was beginning to believe him.
He said, "Get us anything you can on
Whitney's link to the Russians."
He leaned closer toward me, slipping a
scrap of paper into my shirt pocket.
"This's my private phone number. I've
got one of those new cellular phones you carry around with you, so you can get
me twenty-four hours a day."
Then, he shifted his voice all the way down
to a cold, hard whisper. "Whitney's nothing but scum. He's going down. One
way … or another. You get my meaning?"
I got it, all right. I threw him a nod. Our
meeting was over.
SEVENTEEN
THE next day, I found Milton shooting pool in a smoky little joint behind one of
the shopping centers on North Roosevelt. His long hair flowed out from beneath
a soft-brim hat, which tried real hard to cover up a heavy bandage.
He was bent over the table, lining up the
seven ball for an easy long shot. The eight and the nine were cripples, hanging
on the lips of their respective pockets.
I reached beneath my shirt to adjust my
piece in my rear waistband, just in case I needed it, then moved over to a
point a few feet off the table, directly in his line of vision.
As soon as he saw me fill up the background
behind the seven, he stroked the cue ball, scuffing it with a loud, awkward
clack. It rolled harmlessly off to the right.
"Nice shot, Milton," I said.
"Real finesse. You got this game down."
He came up to me. "What do you
want?"
"I heard you were a world-class pool
player. I just wanted to see an exhibition. You know, the game as it was meant
to be played."
Meanwhile, his opponent sank the seven,
eight, and nine in quick fashion, scooping up the two twenty-dollar bills that
lay on the table's rail.
"Why? Why would you want to get me out
of a murder charge? It's not even a federal beef."
He began to gesture with his hands. They were
clear gestures, easy to read, and they complemented his words.
"You know a lot of people in this
town, Doyle. The kind of people who might have the information I want. The kind
of people who wouldn't tell me shit."
"What kind of information?"
"We think Whitney's in bed with the
Russian mob. We also think they're down here establishing a base to move into
Cuba when Castro gives up. Probably to set up gambling and prostitution
operations. We're not sure of the details just yet."
I sat still while he got up to walk around,
burning energy.
"Like I said, Doyle, you name the
crime, Whitney's done it. But we don't have a shred of evidence on him,
especially for federal offenses. So I can't touch him, yet. However, if a
private citizen — yourself, for example — should suddenly get the
urge to dig something up on him, well … I'd certainly do what I could to grease
the way. Unofficially, of course."
"Yeah, but the FBI doesn't act
'unofficially'. What's your real reason?"
"I just told you. Anything else is my
business. Now are you ready to cooperate?"
"What's to keep me from just blowing
off the whole thing and skipping town? Which I've got half a mind to do
anyway."
He threw the cigarette hard onto the
concrete floor, stomping on it.
"Because if you do, there will be a
warrant issued for your arrest. You will be hunted down and arrested for an
armed robbery that will have taken place, an armed robbery for which you will
have no credible alibi, and one in which you will have been positively
identified by two eyewitnesses. That, plus the obvious violation of your
parole, which requires you to maintain weekly visits with your parole officer,
would mean a fifteen-to-twenty-year stretch, minimum. You ready for that?"
I didn't
answer. But I think he picked up the "no" in my eyes.
He lowered his voice a notch, losing the
bad-cop hard edge. "Look, Doyle. I know you better than you think I do. I
know you've been on the grift for a long time. You stood up for Sullivan, and
did your bit out in Nevada, and you kept your mouth shut. I know you
don't work with cops, especially the FBI. But I'm not like any other cop."
I was beginning to believe him.
He said, "Get us anything you can on
Whitney's link to the Russians."
He leaned closer toward me, slipping a
scrap of paper into my shirt pocket.
"This's my private phone number. I've
got one of those new cellular phones you carry around with you, so you can get
me twenty-four hours a day."
Then, he shifted his voice all the way down
to a cold, hard whisper. "Whitney's nothing but scum. He's going down. One
way … or another. You get my meaning?"
I got it, all right. I threw him a nod. Our
meeting was over.
SEVENTEEN
THE next day, I found Milton shooting pool in a smoky little joint behind one of
the shopping centers on North Roosevelt. His long hair flowed out from beneath
a soft-brim hat, which tried real hard to cover up a heavy bandage.
He was bent over the table, lining up the
seven ball for an easy long shot. The eight and the nine were cripples, hanging
on the lips of their respective pockets.
I reached beneath my shirt to adjust my
piece in my rear waistband, just in case I needed it, then moved over to a
point a few feet off the table, directly in his line of vision.
As soon as he saw me fill up the background
behind the seven, he stroked the cue ball, scuffing it with a loud, awkward
clack. It rolled harmlessly off to the right.
"Nice shot, Milton," I said.
"Real finesse. You got this game down."
He came up to me. "What do you
want?"
"I heard you were a world-class pool
player. I just wanted to see an exhibition. You know, the game as it was meant
to be played."
Meanwhile, his opponent sank the seven,
eight, and nine in quick fashion, scooping up the two twenty-dollar bills that
lay on the table's rail.
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