A Shared Confidence (21 page)

“What do we need to sell you?” Mattling asked.

“What you have on the table already works for me,” I told him. “A little elbow room, a chance to get my client's money back and keep it. If my name can be kept out of all this, if I can be just an anonymous informant, even better.”

“Then you are willing to help us?”

I nodded, swallowing a small piece of ice from my drink.

“I will if I can. And I think I can.”

I left the suite and walked down the hall to find Straker loitering by the elevator, ready to pounce like a praying mantis.

“How'd it go in there?” he asked.

I stood there looking pleased with my situation.

“We came to a pretty clear understanding.” I said. “I think this is going to work out well for all parties involved.” I gave Straker a knowing smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and stepped past him into the elevator.

“Keep me informed!” Straker called after me.

I winked and shot him with a finger pistol. Right through the heart, which, considering the size of the target, was damn fine shooting.

I was
walking down the sidewalk with Penny Sills on my arm, doing a little window shopping. There was still plenty of daylight left, and the foot traffic was sufficient that we were constantly angling back and forth to dodge it. We stopped to admire a diamond necklace in a jeweler's window, holding hands and smiling as we did so.

“Stanton cash the checks?” I asked softly.

“Oh yes,” she laughed. “Took them to the bank himself right after you left him, came back to the store this afternoon with three or four stacks of fresh greenbacks to show everyone.”

“He didn't run off to stash the thirty grand in his mattress or something?”

“Not if he wants his people to stay loyal to him,” Penny reminded me. “This thirty grand is part of their score, too, not just his. They've all been working hard to set up this Mr. Shaw. Besides, showing them the money is good faith. Lets them know there's plenty more to come if they all keep at it.”

We ambled on down the street again, still holding hands.

“He still think you stole forty thousand from me?”

“He did at first, but I'm pretty sure I convinced him otherwise,” Penny said. “I mean, I want my cut from the big score, don't I? If I do something stupid like clean the mark in his own hotel room, that could upset the whole game, probably scare the mark off for good.”

“But forty thousand is a lot more than your cut would be from this score, right?”

“Yeah,” she mused, figuring in her head. “I'll be lucky to get more than two or three grand from the big play, especially coming in late like I did. Of course, I am close to you and Stanton knows this, and that might bump it up a little.” She finished her mental accounting with a quick shake of her head. “But the thing is, Stanton knows I'm not an amateur, that I'm in this game for the long haul. If I pulled a stunt like grabbing the mark's cash myself, no one in this town would ever let me near a big con again. And if I did do something stupid like that, I sure as hell wouldn't show my face inside Stanton's place again.”

It made sense to me. Had Stanton bought it? He had to have for now, I decided. Penny had behaved like a real pro, and she was closer to Kelly Shaw than anyone these days. Stanton would be a fool not to keep using her.

“Has he mentioned Giarelli to you?” I asked.

“No. Not to anyone so far as I know. I don't think he wants anyone knowing some mobster might be after him.”

We stopped at another window so Penny could look at a long, red dress on a mannequin.

“You think I'd look good in that?” she asked.

“In the dress or in the window?”

She gave me a friendly jab in the arm, then turned her face to me, a teasing glimmer in her eyes.

“So how'd your friend Jennings make out the other night at the poker game?” She'd have already picked up the story from her buddies.

I threw my cigarette on the ground and crushed it under my shoe.

“Aw, hell, the kid lost a bundle.”

“And he's supposed to be some big-time card player you said,” she laughed. “Aw, don't take it so hard, Dev. Lots of small-town guys show up here thinking they're ready for some real action.”

I shrugged. “I guess that's true.”

“It screw up your plans? Him losing like that?”

I let out a sigh. “We'll just have to see.”

Stanton and
I enjoyed a leisurely dinner Wednesday evening at a nice restaurant across from the Lord Baltimore. Sated with after-dinner coffee and liqueurs, we strolled back to the hotel in splendid moods. I would give Stanton the last four cashier's checks, happy that I could hide money from my partners without them kicking up too much of a fuss. Stanton would pretend he was going to invest them for me instead of simply running off to the bank tomorrow and cashing them, confident that I wouldn't ask after the money again for at least a month.

We stepped off the elevator and headed toward my suite. My stomach started fluttering as we approached the door. I turned and saw one of Giarelli's torpedoes coming up the hall behind us, his bulk cutting us off from the elevator.

He jerked his head toward my door and said: “Inside.”

I took out my key and unlocked the door, stepping inside while the torpedo brought Stanton in just behind me and pulled the door closed after us.

Casper Giarelli sat comfortably in an armchair, a single, small lamp in the far corner throwing light on his cream suit and the lower half of his face, pretty much all you could see in the otherwise darkened room. He was still wearing his hat and leisurely smoking a cigar. He looked up at us dully as we entered.

“If you keep using my room like this,” I told him, “I'm going to hit you up for half the bill.”

Giarelli stared at me a moment but didn't say anything. Apparently I was beneath his notice. He turned his impassive gaze to Stanton.

“Seen your friend Ryland, lately?” Giarelli asked.

“We've been in conference over the matter you and I discussed last Saturday,” Stanton replied. His voice sounded smooth enough, but even in this dim light I could see his face was pretty pale. “I was under the impression,” Stanton continued, “that you and I would conclude our business this coming Saturday.”

“Your business?” I echoed. “You told me you didn't have any business with this guy. That you'd made that clear to him.”

“Keep quiet, Shaw,” Giarelli advised. “I want to hear what you got to say, you'll know it.”

I waited to see if Stanton would try to persuade Giarelli into going somewhere else to talk, some place far away from his prize mark. But maybe he wasn't all that keen on being alone with Giarelli, who kept staring at Stanton with cool, unblinking eyes.

“When's the last time you saw Ryland?” Giarelli asked again.

“Yesterday,” Stanton answered automatically.

“Where and when exactly?”

“At his hotel at four o'clock in the afternoon, I believe.” Only the experienced con in Stanton kept the answers quick and smooth; the man was scared.

“You've been meeting with Ryland
and
this man?” I asked Stanton. Regardless of the situation, I still had my part to play.

“Shaw,” Giarelli's voice was soft, making a nice contrast with his eyes which were hard as diamonds, “I ain't gonna tell you again.”

I shut my mouth and just watched.

“Yesterday at four o'clock, Ryland was with me,” Giarelli said. “Know what he was doing?” Stanton shook his head slowly. “He was doing the same thing you're doing now: lying to me.”

Giarelli took a casual puff at his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke, half in the light, half in the shadows.

“Know what I did?” he asked.

Another mute shake of the head from Stanton.

“I took offense.”

Giarelli reached out to the table lamp on his left and clicked the switch. The blackness to that side evaporated suddenly, revealing a man's body face down on the carpet. The face was turned toward us. It was Ethan Ryland, a dark, messy pool on the carpet next to his head.

I
could hear Stanton catch
his breath next to me, then he seemed to stop breathing entirely. I forced myself to exhale slowly before gradually drawing air back in. Neither of us made a move, both staring at the corpse. Ryland couldn't have been dead long; the stain on the carpet glistened wetly in the lamplight.

“Put the body in the tub for now,” Giarelli ordered his goons. “'Case some maid comes walking in. We'll have Tito and Spinoza get rid of it later.” He turned his dull gaze back to Stanton and myself, adding: “Want to have a little chat with these guys first.”

Giarelli's two thugs walked over and picked up the body at the shoulders and ankles, paying no attention to the flopping arms and lolling head, their attitudes casual and workmanlike. They might have been picking up a sack of feed. Meanwhile their boss continued to glare at the two of us, almost daring us to make a break for it. I noticed one of his hands had slipped inside the pocket of his overcoat. A moment later, the two thugs came out of the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

“Ryland didn't have my money,” Giarelli said. “He didn't have any money. Turns out that was the one thing he wasn't lying about.” He drew on his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke, fixing Stanton with his passionless stare. “Know what that means? That means I got to collect the whole two hundred thousand from you. You or your boyfriend here. Don't make any difference to me.”

“What do I have to do with any of this?” I demanded. “I never took any money from you.”

“You're investing with this guy, ain't you?” Giarelli answered softly. “How you gonna make any money, he's dead? Besides, you're a witness now. You see I get back what's mine, maybe I know I can trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

Stanton had to be wondering how much Ryland had told Giarelli in those last moments of life, pleading teary-eyed with a gun pointed at his face. Had he given up the fact that Stanton was a con man? Would that change anything if he had?

“You kill a man in my room,” I said, incredulous, “and then
you
try to blackmail
me
?”

“Not blackmail, Shaw. Giving you a chance to prove yourself to me, and you better take it.” Giarelli looked over at Stanton. “Haven't heard much from you so far.”

“This…this is all quite shocking,” Stanton said quietly. “I don't know what you want of me. Yes, yes, I know,” he said quickly in response to Giarelli's irritated scowl, “you want two hundred thousand dollars. Or at least half, and–”

“All,” Giarelli said flatly. “That other deal's gone now. I tried to be reasonable. We're past that. Besides, I'm on a timetable. I don't have time to wait till Saturday.”

“When?” Stanton asked weakly.

“You got twenty-four hours. Bring the money here to this room tomorrow night. Bring it all.”

“Mr. Giarelli,” Stanton said, “I don't know if I can possibly–”

“I don't know if you can either, Stanton. I just know what happens to you if you don't.” He glanced over at me again. “What happens to both of you.”

I glanced over at the bed for a moment, wondering if the wire recorder under it was running properly, if I could use anything it was catching.

“Now you two beat it,” Giarelli told us. “Find some place else to talk, figure out what you're gonna do about this. We got to get that body out of the tub and buried somewhere. Go.”

Slowly, not knowing what else to do, Stanton and I turned for the door. Giarelli's voice called out softly when we reached it.

“You two can try to run, but I'll catch up to you. And when I do, it won't be a quick bullet like Ryland in there. I've seen guys cut to pieces over six hours, begging the whole time we take something vital from them and end it.”

He stopped talking and we continued walking. Neither Stanton nor I said anything in the hallway. I told the boy in the elevator “Lobby” and we rode down together in silence. It wasn't until we were outside the main entrance, the cool night air reviving us, that Stanton seemed to regain himself a bit.

“I think it best, Mr. Shaw, if we separate for the present. We can meet up tomorrow at–”

I grabbed him just above the elbow and squeezed until he made a noise.

“Not a goddamn chance, you crooked old bastard!” I spat through clenched teeth, cold fury in my eyes. “We're going for a cup of coffee, you and me, and talk this thing over. You try to lose me beforehand, I swear to Christ I will break both your legs, carry you back to that monster in the cream suit, and feed you to his goons myself.”

Stanton didn't pale as much as he had upstairs looking at Ryland's body, but I could tell he got the message.

Stanton and
I sat together in an all-night diner, at a booth under lights that were too bright. Coffee was cooling in front of us as I was thinking what I wanted to say. My mind was working quickly. Stanton was obviously shaken from what we'd seen tonight. Shaken, scared, and desperate. I might never get a better chance.

“Ryland lost all his money with you,” I said, my voice low. “Every goddamn cent of it.”

“It was a risky investment from the start,” Stanton said, his hand trembling a little as he stirred cream into his coffee. “Extremely risky. I made that very clear to him. I even tried to dissuade him. I certainly had no idea he was staking his entire fortune on it.”

“And you didn't feel like sharing this information with me before now?” I stared hard into Stanton's face.

“I consider knowledge of my associates' investments sacrosanct,” Stanton replied. “I make it a practice never to hand over such delicate information to third parties.”

“Don't even try that with me. I was ready to invest half a million damn dollars with you, and now I've got some gangster threatening to put a bullet in me if you don't cough up two hundred grand by tomorrow night.” I honestly had to give Stanton credit; the man was as good as the game. He didn't try to calm me with his wiser, more mature influence, and he damn sure didn't trot out the poor, pitiful old man. His own eyes hardened somewhat as he made his next point.

“I am a businessman, Mr. Shaw, just as you are. No, I did not feel the need to inform you of my role in Mr. Ryland's misfortune. The same as you don't feel the need to inform your partners in the purchase of this building that you intend to hide additional funds from them.”

He kept his eyes level on me and I gave a small, appreciative nod. The man had figured out how to play Kelly Shaw.

“I regret that Mr. Ryland suffered for his rashness,” Stanton continued. “I tried my best to talk him out of it, and I do not blame myself for his misfortune.”

I blew on my coffee and took a sip. “You mean the misfortune of losing all he'd worked for or the misfortune of getting shot dead by a gangster?”

“I blame myself for neither. I had no idea he owed money to such a man when I agreed to handle his investment.”

“I never knew he was mixed up with people like that,” I agreed, shaking my head. It was time to start building a small bridge here. I looked up from my coffee and asked: “Have you got two hundred thousand?”

“In cash money? Certainly not on me, but even given twenty-four hours, it would be difficult to gather such an amount.”

“But could you?”

Stanton sighed and let his shoulders drop.

“It would seem I have no choice.”

I moved the salt shaker around in an aimless circle, not looking up.

“Maybe we can still help each other out,” I suggested cautiously.

Stanton looked at me a bit warily.

“How so, Mr. Shaw?”

I shrugged. “My goal is to hide some money. You know that. I'd have preferred investments for all of it, maybe make a little from it. But hell,” I ran a hand across my face, “now this gangster knows my face and has decided I'm on his list, too. Just because I happened to know Ryland and I know you. I guess it doesn't really matter where my money's hidden, so long as I can get it back in a month or so.”

Stanton was too much of a pro to act greedy. He appeared to consider what I was saying as he drank his coffee.

“Please continue, Mr. Shaw.”

“I'm sitting on four cashier's checks totaling four hundred and seventy thousand dollars. But I'm not about to hand those over to a man who may not live long enough to make it to the broker's window,” I said coldly.

“Mr. Shaw, I assure you I will get Mr. Giarelli's money to him. It won't affect our arrangements.”

“I'm afraid your assurances don't go as far with me as they used to, Mr. Stanton. Hell, even if you pay Giarelli, how do you know he'll let you walk back out again? You can attest to the fact that he murdered Ethan Ryland, and Giarelli knows that. He knows I can, too,” I added, shaking my head. It pleased me to see a worried look cross Stanton's face.

“I think, Mr. Shaw, that a man like Mr. Giarelli cares only about his own interests.”

“And you don't think staying out of the penitentiary would be one of those interests?”

“I have no desire to involve myself in so sordid an affair as a murder,” Stanton said smoothly. “I'm sure I can make that clear to Mr. Giarelli.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, “but it might be better if we had some insurance.”

“Such as?”

“We'll work that out later. Here's what I'm proposing, Stanton. I want to make sure you pay Giarelli off tomorrow night. I won't go see him with you, but I'll be nearby. When I know we're both in the clear, I'll hand over the remaining four cashier's checks.

“Now here's where I want you to pay attention,” I continued. “I don't want to worry that you're helping yourself to some of the money I'm giving you instead of investing all of it like we promised.”

“Mr. Shaw!” Stanton appeared shocked. “I give you my word–”

“Yeah, I'm sure you do. But I'd rather not have to worry about it just the same. So here's what we'll do: you go ahead and take two hundred thousand from the money I'm giving you, reimburse yourself for the money you had to pay Giarelli.”

Stanton stared at me, surprised and certainly confused.

“We'll call it a loan,” I continued. “Like I said, I won't miss it for a month or so. That should give you plenty of time to earn it back on the markets. The rest of the two hundred seventy thousand, you invest it for me just like we planned.”

“And the terms of this loan?” Stanton's eyes narrowed; the man wasn't stupid.

I leaned back in my seat and tilted my head to one side.

“You told me I could expect between three and five percent return on the money I'm investing with you.”

“That's correct.”

“Okay. For the two hundred thousand I'm loaning you to get Giarelli off our backs, I want fifteen.”

Stanton pretended to think about this for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was appear grateful or, worse yet, relieved.

“I suppose I do have to give Mr. Giarelli his money,” Stanton said. “And it would be a great help if I didn't have to use my own funds to do so. As you know, I have several deals in motion just now and the transfer of so considerable an amount–”

“Fifteen percent,” I repeated. “And I want it up front.”

The corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly for a moment, then he gave me a rueful smile.

“You have me in a position where I don't dare disagree with your terms, Mr. Shaw.”

My smile was more ruthless than rueful.

“You said it yourself, Mr. Stanton, I'm a businessman, too.”

At the
end of the night, I was back at my first hotel. It seemed like a half-decent idea to avoid the Lord Baltimore for the time being; Giarelli was making himself far too easy with my suite. I kept thinking of the two hundred thousand Stanton was supposed to bring Giarelli tomorrow night – and the thirty grand for me if he kept his word – turning the whole scenario over and over in my mind. I came up with at least half a dozen ideas, and would have gladly traded twice that number for one that was foolproof.

On the plus side, Penny Sills had accepted my hospitality for the night (though she had complained about the smaller room). We were sitting up in the bed, Penny resting her head against my chest as I smoked and thought and stroked her hair absently.

“Your friend Jennings not coming home tonight?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Got himself another poker game lined up.”

She pulled back and looked up at me for a moment, her eyes blue again.

“At the same place?”

I nodded.

“Poor kid,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I'm surprised he has any money left after the last time. Guess he's hell-bent on going up against some real talent or going broke trying.”

“You never know,” I shrugged. “The cards could run right for him this time.”

“Doesn't matter,” Penny said. “Those guys don't exactly run a fair game, not with a rookie in the crowd anyway.”

“He could still get the cards.”

She looked up at me again. “Dev, do you have any idea how good you'd have to be to win against a table full of guys working together?” I had a pretty good idea, in fact.

“You think Stanton will be able to get the cash together?”

“Maybe. Probably. He'll have to beg, borrow, steal, and then some to get it in one day,” she said. “And he may have to come up with a hell of a story for his people so they'll stay with him. But he couldn't do it twice, and won't him handing this money over to Giarelli put your plans right down the sewer?”

I shook my head and took a drag on my cigarette.

“Doesn't affect my plans at all, really. If anything, it keeps Stanton even more distracted from what I'm really trying to do. Lucky break, in a way.” I hadn't told Penny about Ryland; there'd been no need.