Spree (8 page)

Lyle shook his head in disbelief.

“Your uncle was fighting back, fighting for his life, when this kid, this Jon, fucking shot him. So Nolan and the kid left your uncle to bleed to death, but Sam was a tough old cookie, and he fooled ’em. He lived. And when his son Terry—your cousin Terry—got out of jail on that statutory rape charge a few months later, they went looking for Nolan, and Jon. And you know what become of your uncle and cousin?”

“They were killed,” Lyle said.

Cole nodded frantically, sneered. “Shotgunned and framed for a bank heist that Nolan and this kid pulled! To this day the cops think your uncle and cousin robbed that bank, when those sons of bitches not only killed your kin but walked away with the take.”

“Something has to be done,” Lyle said.

Cole walked over and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re absolutely right, boy. And we’re just the ones to do it.”

“Shouldn’t we get the money back, too?”

“The money?” Cole said. Sitting again.

“From the bank robbery. He looks sort of rich.”

“Rich? Nolan?”

“That restaurant. I think maybe he owns it.”

“You may have a point.” Cole wasn’t used to this, Lyle thinking. “Hmmm. Tell me more about his restaurant.”

“Well,” Lyle said, brow furrowed, the strain of thought starting to show, “it’s in a shopping place . . .”

“Shopping place?”

“You know—a mall? Right up at the front.”

“A mall,” Cole said. Smiling. “A shopping mall . . .”

A chirpy female voice cut in: “Are we going shopping?”

It was Cindy Lou, barefoot on the stairs, in a pink baby doll, not sheer but you could see her little nipples trying to poke through; she’d slept in, too. Her strawberry blond hair, Thedy Sue’s hair, was tousled sexily.

“Are we?” she repeated, leaning against the banister. “Going shopping?”

“I think maybe we are,” smiled her pa.

6

SUNDAY NIGHT
, at 11:37 (give or take a second), Nolan sat up in bed, two pillows propped behind him, the lamp next to the bed on; he was reading Las Vegas travel brochures, looking for a bargain. There were three travel agents in the Chamber of Commerce, so he’d get a discount either way. But he wanted the best package.

He hadn’t been to Vegas in years, and it would be an interesting trip; he probably wouldn’t recognize the Strip—he heard the casinos were side by side there, now, jammed together, no breathing room. He had mixed emotions about that—he’d always liked having some space between casinos, liked the sprawl of that, glittery sin leisurely strung out along a desert road. But he had no argument with success, or the change it brought. Progress was progress; money was money.

The best package seemed to include the Flamingo, which almost made him smile. All roads led to the Family. He’d met Bugsy Siegel once; he’d come in the Rush Street Club with Campagna. Hell of a nice guy, Siegel was; charming. Campagna, on the other hand, Little New York himself, while nice enough, seemed menacing in that quiet way that meant the worst. Nolan had known, just looking at them, that neither of these guys was anybody to cross.

He’d also been to the Flamingo in the fifties several times, ’51 the first time; but that was several years after the Family cashed Bugsy’s chips in. The Fabulous Flamingo, Bugsy’s dream, his pink palace which gave birth to the modern Vegas Strip, was in the red, in the early days, and word was he was skimming to sink dough back in the joint, cheating his Family friends/investors, like Accardo and Ricca and, out East, Lansky. So they killed him.

It would be fun to go back to the Flamingo, with all its memories. And it seemed to be the best buy, too.

The Vegas trip was Sherry’s idea; she’d never been there and it sounded exciting to her. She deserved a vacation, so he figured why not—you only live once. What she was having trouble understanding was Nolan’s attitude about gambling: he didn’t. Not in Vegas, not in any casino, with the exception of poker, if he was in the right mood. Any other game was out of the question. Nolan never thought about it, but his life was lived by a strict set of rules, and one of the strictest was: You never play against the house.

Nolan put the travel brochures on the nightstand and turned off the lamp; he sat in the dark, naked under the covers, hands folded on his plump belly, which looked plumper than it was, contrasted with the rest of his lean, scarred, muscular frame.

He was waiting for Sherry. This was the ritual, on the nights they made love, which was perhaps every other night, except in her period, of course.

She would say, “I’ll meet you in the bedroom in five minutes.” He would say fine, and would slip downstairs to shower in the can, off the guest bedroom. She would be upstairs, readying herself. Bath; diaphragm; makeup; perfume. The perfume was this hundred-and-fifty-buck-an-ounce shit from Beverly Hills, which even with his fifteen percent discount from Petersen’s was a crock. His Christmas gift to her last year. It did smell good.

Within the specified five minutes, Nolan would be between the sheets; nothing but him and his Old Spice, powder and after-shave both. Another ten to fifteen minutes would pass, during which he would either read or think. He didn’t mind the wait; he liked time to himself, and with all the hours he was putting in at Nolan’s, ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there, meant something. He found these lulls relaxing. Calming.

Just about when he’d given up, she’d appear in the doorway, her slim, curving form a silhouette against the hall light behind her. Sometimes she’d switch on the overhead bedroom light and be naked for him. Most women are beautiful in the dark; Sherry was beautiful with the lights on. Her legs were long, sleek—not muscular, not fleshy—sleek. Supple. Her waist was impossibly narrow. Her breasts were full, nipples very pink against her creamy white flesh, translucent flesh gently marbled blue, life flowing through her. The hair between her legs was darker blond than the hair on her head, but just as well tended; she trimmed the bush, brushed it—he’d seen her do this, from time to time; this is for you, she’d say, smiling wickedly. Driving him crazy.

The only imperfection was an appendix scar, and this, too, he liked: it made her human. Her breath was very bad in the morning, like anybody else; and without her makeup she was better than plain but less than pretty. He liked that too. He liked the fantasy of his bedroom but he also liked the reality of daily life with her, a smart, funny cookie who was getting good at helping him run his business.

Tonight she didn’t switch on the light, as she stood in the bedroom doorway; tonight she was in a red and black corset affair, breasts almost spilling out the top, mesh black stockings that rose to midthigh; beneath the corset, silhouetted, was her pubic fringe. The sheet between his legs rose to salute her.

She came over and flipped the covers back and, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over and put him in her mouth; he closed his eyes and began to believe in a life after death.

Then she climbed on top of him and rode him till they both came; it took a while, a nice while. She tumbled off to one side and Nolan reached over to the bed stand and got them both some tissues.

“I love to fuck you,” she said.

“I hate it,” he said.

She kissed him and snuggled close. “Sometimes I just have to do that—take charge of you.”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

She kissed his shoulder. “I get tired of you dominating me all the time. Sometimes I just have to strike back.”

“Feel free to get back at me this way anytime.”

“I wonder if it would be any less fun?”

“What?”

“Making love. After we were married.” That again.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been married.”

“Me either. Have you been giving it some thought?”

He had been.

“Not really,” he said.

“I think maybe we should. Get married.”

“Oh?”

“For your standing in the community, if nothing else. You’re a respectable businessman. Living with a young woman.”

“In sin,” he added.

“In sin,” she smiled.

“I could adopt you.”

“Incest is against the law.”

“Well we can’t have that, can we. Breaking the law.”

“That’s right—you’re reformed.” Sherry was well acquainted with Nolan’s criminal past.

“I’m a different man, now,” he said.

“Do you really think so?”

“Sure. I like crossing the street with the light. It’s a whole new thing.”

“You never miss it? The excitement?”

Sometimes.

“Never,” he said.

“I bet you had a lot of women.”

“Yes, but you were my first virgin.”

“Very funny.”

“When
did
you lose your virginity?”

“Junior high.”

“Some young stud.”

“No. One of my teachers.”

“Dirty old man, then. Should’ve been shot.”

“Not really. He seemed old, at the time, but I think he must’ve been about twenty-three. He was married, but unhappy. He got a divorce, later. Wonder what became of him?”

“Doesn’t seem like a memory you’re troubled

“I’m not. He was cute. He screwed me on his desk. A bunch of times.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Are you lying?”

Getting screwed on a teacher’s desk sounded like a
Penthouse
magazine letter to Nolan.

“No,” she said. “I’ve always liked boys.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve always liked men.”

“Yeah. I always went with the older guys. In junior high, it was high school guys, once I broke up with the teach. In high school, I went with college boys. And I always put out.”

“Are you bragging?”

“No. I just want you to know something—you’re the first man I’ve ever been with who’s made an honest woman out of me.”

“I haven’t married you yet.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I never lasted with anybody more than a few months; then I’d get bored. It took you to settle me down, Nolan. I haven’t wanted anybody but you, since the day we met.”

For a second there, Nolan expected violins; but there weren’t any. That was a relief.

“What are you going to tell me next?” he said. “That the time we were apart, you were faithful to me, too?”

“Of course not. But I’ve stayed faithful to you, since the day I moved into this house. And I’ll stay faithful to you till the day you boot me out.”

“That day won’t come, doll.”

She smiled on one side of her face; she liked being called “doll.” She told him, once, she liked those old-timey sounding terms of endearment. Doll. Baby. Sweetheart. Nolan didn’t know what she was talking about.