Operation Bamboozle (9 page)

Between cars, he wondered how come Eugene Lutz was in El Paso. Someone in Chicago maybe gave Lutz a gun, told him to … No. Bookkeepers never did that kind of stuff, wouldn't know how. Crazy idea.

Lutz shouts his name, beats it in a taxi. Explain that. Doesn't add up.

Cars came and went.

Maybe Lutz was here on Mob business, just visiting, just bad luck they met. Business doing what? Putting in the fix on the rodeo shows? Chicago wouldn't waste its time on El Paso. Small potatoes. Forget it.

He was jimmying the smokes machine to get a few packs of Pall Mall before he locked up, when a fresh idea slid sideways into his brain and dazzled him, it was so brilliant. If Lutz was just visiting, he'd go away again, good, no problem. If not, that meant he lived here. Frankie found a phone book. Not a common name. And hey! There it was:
Lutz, E. B.
and an address, the only Lutz in town. Soon there'd be none. Frankie rejoiced.
Keep it simple, kid.
That was his mother's advice too.
Don't get in a pissin' contest with a polecat.
A boy's best friend, people said. Damn right.

Tonight was too late, he'd have to get Lutz out of bed, it would be noisy, neighbors might interfere. But Frankie was restless. He drove out into the desert and did some target practice, shooting at cactus plants under the full moon. He felt good, in command again. He drove home and quit the roominghouse, it was a dump, and he went and checked into a motel. From now on it would be motels for Frankie. He could afford it. Lutz must be loaded. He'd make it look like robbery. This was his trade, for Chrissake. God bless you, ma. Sleep came easy.

“So you slept on it. I have to say your decision surprised me. Worried me too. Considerably.”

“I don't see why,” Luis said. “Freddy Garcia's your client. I'm his get-out-of-jail card. You should be pleased.”

“It's not as simple as that.” They were in James de Courcy's office, facing each other across the glossy slice of redwood. “As
a lawyer I'm an officer of the court. I have a duty to act …” He frowned, and looked about the room, searching for the right word.

“Correctly.”

“Yes, that of course, and more. Decently, honorably. You don't know a lot about oil, do you, Luis?”

“So what? I know a lot about Freddie.”

“And even Freddie doesn't know everything about this oil well he's buying. Nobody does, because nobody can. He's not just gambling, he's gambling
blindfold.
That takes guts, more guts than I've got.” He stood up, and winced as the weight went on his right leg.

“Freddy never shirked a fight.”

James took a silver-topped cane and limped around the room. “They couldn't get all the bits of bullet out,” he said. “The debris wanders hither and yon, making a bloody nuisance of itself … Now: I wasn't going to tell you this until I heard your decision. Your ten-thousand-dollar investment buys you fifty thousand dollars'-worth of stock in Hanover Fields. If Freddy's right, you'll double that in a year, maybe less. If he's wrong …”

“That's out of my hands,” Luis said. “And now this is in his.” He put a fat envelope on the desk. “One hundred hundreds.”

“I'll wire it to him within the hour. He'll exercise his option, by nightfall you'll be part-owner of an oil well.” James came over and they shook hands.

“Tell me one thing,” Luis said. “Why did the Russian shoot you in the leg?”

“There could have been many reasons. By the time I'd put a bullet through his head it was too late to ask.”

“Good shooting, in the circumstances.”

“Yes. He had a very small head.”

Fitzroy installed a man named Slug Murphy in the Lutz apartment. The name was wrong, it suggested someone squat and loud. In reality he was neat and lithe, built like a welterweight, dressed entirely in black, even the shirt and tie. Murphy was 24 and he had a thin black mustache as sleek as sealskin.

“You probably won't have to say anything,” Fitzroy told him. “He'll just look at you and go.”

“If he asks, you're Eddie Lutz,” Tony Feet said. “Don't let him in. Then call us.”

“Be sure and shut the fridge door
firmly”
Eugene said.

“Anything goes wrong, don't touch the guy,” Fitzroy said. “No violence. Chicago wants to ask him questions.”

Murphy listened carefully. His gaze moved from one man to the next. He gave a very small nod. He said nothing.

“The phone rings, answer it,” Tony Feet said. “You're Eddie Lutz. The caller asks for Eugene, you never heard of him, hang up.”

“Don't fool around with the TV settings,” Eugene said.

“Eddie Lutz,” Fitzroy said. “I wrote it down for you. See?” He gave him a piece of paper. “Practice. Get so it sounds natural.”

“Eddieeee …
Lul-Lutz.”
Slug Murphy sang it softly. “Gotcha.”

“Don't slam the shower door. Treat it nicely.” Eugene gave him the keys. Murphy tossed them in the air and caught them behind his back.

On the way down, Tony Feet said: “You sure he's the right guy for the job?”

“He just has to remember his name,” Fitzroy said. “Besides, I thought you should meet him. He was a sniper in the army in Korea. Got a dishonorable discharge. Wants to work for you in Chicago. He never says much.”

“So I noticed. Maybe he's saving up the words until he has a full sentence.”

Upstairs, Slug Murphy was checking out the apartment. He went into the bathroom, saw the shower cubicle, opened the door and slammed. It. It fell off its hinges and smashed. Dumb stupid fuckin' door. He didn't want a shower anyway.

Frankie Blanco left the rifle in the motel. He drove to town and bought a secondhand Police .38, plus bullets. Then he bought two bottles of Coke, drank one and stopped at a coffeeshop, went to the men's room and stuffed the bottle with toilet paper. The neck made a snug fit over the muzzle of the .38. A poor man's silencer.

He'd had breakfast at a diner but this coffeeshop offered a 99-cent special, scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast, coffee, so he took a break and ate that too. What's the rush? Nobody ever got whacked before the hitman arrived.

The address was an apartment block. He parked the Chevy, found
Lutz
on the directory board in the lobby, and took the elevator. He held the .38 under his jacket, with his right thumb hooked inside his shirt pocket to take the weight. If anybody looked, he was scratching his left armpit. His other hand held the second bottle of Coke. Nobody suspected a guy strolling along, scratching his armpit, swinging a half-empty bottle of Coke. It was better than a clipboard.

He pressed the buzzer for Lutz's apartment. The door opened and the kid in black standing there was saved from taking three slugs in one heartbeat by Frankie's sheer professionalism. That, and the face that the kid had a Second World War British Army Sten gun in his hands.

“Lookin' for Eugene Lutz,” Frankie said.

The kid was holding a piece of paper between his teeth. He released it, unfolded it, looked at it and said: “Eddie Lutz.”

“That's your problem, pal. I want Eugene.” Frankie tried to see past him. A black shoulder blocked his view. “Eugene asked me here special. He'll kick your ass, you don't let me in. Who're you, his nephew?”

“Eddie Lutz.” He glanced at the paper, to make sure.

“Yeah, terrific, but what's your goddamn name?”

“Eddie Lutz.” This time, Frankie said it with him, in a high, flat, empty voice; and the Sten got raised. “Bet you made that scrap iron in the basement,” Frankie said. But he knew the box magazine held 32 rounds of 9-millimeter and this zombie could spray the lot in three seconds. “Tell Eugene that Maurice the Florist called,” he said, and went. Eddie Lutz, for Chrissake. Guys like him shouldn't be allowed to vote and make change. Just from the way Lutz held the Sten, Frankie knew he was a cowboy. Lutz the putz.

Slug Murphy called Fitzroy at the Bristol. “He just left,” he said.

“Give you a number? An address?”

Murphy thought about it. “Maurice the Florist.”

“No such place. Not in this town.”

Murphy thought about that. “Could have been maybe Horace. Horace the Florist.”

“Yeah, sure. Or Boris. Doris, even. Remember Doris Olivier? Big English actor, got the Oscar. Lock up, Slug. Go home.”

Tony Feet had been listening. “That name, Slug Murphy. It's got no class. In Chicago, Sam likes everyone in the family to have some class. So you can shoot straight and still do the crossword. That was always Frankie Blanco's problem. No class.”

“You can tell him that,” Fitzroy said. “Real soon.”

In the kitchen at Cliff Boulevard they were arguing about art, honesty and money, but mostly money.

“Princess's art is unique,” Julie said. “We're not going to give it away just so some dealer three stops down the line can make a killing from it.”

“Every journey starts with a single step,” Luis said. “What's the most we can get
now?”

“Each picture's worth a thousand dollars.”

“You got me cheap, then,” Princess said. She was grilling steaks. “Eight hundred bucks for seven lousy pictures, you paid.” She shook a bottle of Worcester sauce. “Empty.”

“Forget what it's worth. What will it fetch?” Luis asked.

“That stuff cost four bucks a bottle.” Julie said. “It's a rip-off. I'm not buying any more.”

“We should go back to Ma Chandler,” Princess said. “Her man can catch a ten-pound salmon an' play America The Beautiful on his harmonica, both at the same time, I'll do it for 250 bucks includin' tax. How d'you want your steak?”

“I'd sooner take in washing than betray great American art,” Julie said.

“You've gone very noble all of a sudden,” Luis said. “Six months ago you were broke and slinging burgers in an Irish bar on 86th Street.”

“Six months ago
you
were a lot broker than
me.”

Princess said. “Six months ago I was too poor to be a genius, an' the way things are goin' I was probably right. This genius shit ain't foolin' nobody.”

“We can't let the Ma Chandlers of this world buy us out,” Julie said. “If they could they'd give the Mona Lisa a big fat shit-eating grin. They'd give Hamlet a snappy ending, for Christ's sake.”

“Grub up,” Princess said.

“Shakespeare was a gloomy bugger,” Luis said. “Give me Cole Porter every time. You seen
Anything Goes?
Hot stuff.”

“I wanted rare,” Julie told Princess.

“Should of spoke up earlier. Everythin's medium.”

“We took a poll,” Luis said. “Medium is the majority taste. Mrs. Chandler agrees entirely.”

“We can't go on like this” Julie said. “It's a clash of cultures.” She stopped. Someone was pounding on the front door.

“See what happens when you mention culture in Texas?” Luis said. “They send men with clubs.”