The Peddler (11 page)

Interview number five with Louis Angelo. This was the biggest one yet, thought Tony. Last night Sharkey had suddenly ceased being number-one man under the Top. This afternoon … well, Tony would see. Nothing had yet been said by either Angelo or himself since he came in and Angelo had nodded him to his usual chair.

Angelo was getting his cigar Ughted. Tony watched him, waited for him to start the ball rolling. This interview might go a little differently, thought Tony. For two very dissimilar reasons: first, he actually respected Angelo more; and second, he hated him more. And Tony figured he’d been kissing Angelo’s behind in these interviews long enough.

Finally Angelo said, “I knew, of course, that you wanted Sharkey’s job badly; I didn’t think, however, you wanted it badly enough to kill him.”

“As usual, you were right. I wanted it, but not enough to knock him off.”

“You did kill him, however. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

“Yes, sir. I imagine the gun I did it with is down at the station now.”

Angelo favored Tony with one of his rare smiles. He didn’t look quite as frozen and bony when he smiled. Maybe the change in the shape of his mouth had something to do with it.

Angelo said, “That’s right, Tony. The men who took your automatic with them were Sergeants Ellis and Cowen. Ellis, oddly enough, is with the vice squad. He just happened to be with Cowen of Homicide.”

Tony didn’t say anything.

“Why did you do it, Tony? How did you feel when you shot him?”

Tony said, sober faced, “Well, Mr. Angelo, it’s hard to say. I never shot anybody before. I guess you’d say I felt … well, dopey. And then I got all excited when I shot him, all churned up inside. I got so excited I passed out.”

Angelo smiled faintly. Tony got out a cigarette and lit it. Tony spent another half hour in the oflSce, and the conversation became more businesslike, concerned with broad and specific details of running the houses. Sharkey was out now, and his killer, Tony Romero, was in. It was that simple, thought Tony; or that complicated.

Just before Tony left, Angelo handed him two slim silver keys. “These were Sharkey’s,” he said. “They are yours now, Tony.” He smiled slightly, “You might cail them symbols of your new responsibilities.”

Tony took the keys, puzzled. Angelo went on, “One key unlocks the front door of this building, the other the outer-office door here. Just come in and knock on my own door. I’ll let you in.” He paused. “You’ll be bringing the day’s receipts to me here each night—as Sharkey used to. So we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now, Tony.”

Tony looked at the bright silver keys thinking that Angelo’s word was the right one. These really were symbols, in a way; they unlocked much more than the outer door of “National Investment Counsellors.” They were symbols of the position, riches, power, that had been Sharkey’s and would be Tony Romero’s now. Maybe even, in time …

He left the half-formed thought unfinished as Angelo said, “You remember our first conversation here, Tony?”

“I remember it.”

“Don’t ever forget it. Don’t ever forget, either, that you killed Sharkey. Or why he was killed. Or that he is dead.”

“I got a good memory.”

“Fine.” Angelo stepped to his desk and pressed a button under its edge.

Tony knew that nobody but Angelo rented space here on the tenth floor, and that Angelo’s own office, in which they now stood, was sandwiched between two other rooms. One was the outer office in which by day a secretary sat typing— and to which Tony now had a slim silver key—and the other a “card room” in which at least one or two, usually more, of Angelo’s trusted men were always available. Angelo’s office could not be reached from the hallway, but only by passing through one of those two other rooms.

Within seconds after Angelo pressed the button, the door to the adjacent card room opened and Joyce stood there, right hand out of sight under his coat, face impassive, huge gray eyes moving from Angelo to Tony.

Angelo said to him smoothly, “Mr. Romero will be bringing the briefcase up here each night, Joyce. Treat him exactly as you treated Mr. Sharkey when that was his responsibility. Pass the word along. That’s all.”

Joyce nodded, stepped back and closed the door again.

Tony almost smiled. He was sure Joyce must already have known Tony was taking Sharkey’s place. So this little act wasn’t for Joyce’s benefit, but for Tony’s. You couldn’t really call it a threat; not exactly.

Angelo said pleasantly, “One other thing, Tony. Perhaps you should inform Mrs. Sharkey of the reason for her husband’s, ah, continued absence.”

Ginny? Hell, didn’t she know yet? “Sure,” Tony said. “Ill tell her.” He paused. “Well, I’ll get to work on the queer house and the movies and stags, all the rest of it. O.K. to go ahead, huh?”

“Yes. Keep in mind, Tony, that I have a number of other interests besides your, ah, end of it. You have carte blanche as long as you keep me completely informed.” He sighed and shook his head. “That was one of the late Mr. Sharkey’s troubles: he failed to keep me informed.”

Tony nodded and went out. What the hell was cart blansh?

Ginny let him in. She didn’t look like she’d been bawling. “Hello, Ginny.”

“Well, Tony! You haven’t been around for almost a month. Want a drink?”

“Well, I could use one. Uh, I came to tell you something about Sharkey. About Al.”

“May his dear slobbish soul rest in peace,” she said. “Scotch and water?”

“Yeah. You know he got pushed?”

“I knew it about an hour after it happened. They got you tagged for it, haven’t they?”

“Yeah. I didn’t push him, though.”

“I didn’t think you did. You’re not the type.” She peered at him. “Not yet, you’re not.” She started mixing the drinks.

Tony watched her, somewhat puzzled. “Well, Ginny, I see you’re aU broke up over this calamity. Don’t go to pieces.”

She glanced up and smiled. “Don’t cry for me, Tony, honey. I feel as broken up as if I’d just heard somebody chipped a piece off the rock of Gibraltar.” She finished the drinks and brought one to him. “I haven’t seen you for a hell of a time.”

Tony shook his head. “Poor Sharkey.”

“He wasn’t so poor. I made damn sure he fixed up a wiU with my name plastered all over it. He had maybe three million. It’s mine now, honey. And you know something? He didn’t rent this apartment; he bought it. His for life.” She looked around, a smug, pleased smile on her face. “The apartment’s mine now, too.”

That was hell. Tony had been kind of hoping he could get the place. It was a nice apartment.

“Yes,” Ginny said. “I’m a rich widow, Tony. I’m a rich, homy widow.”

Tony shook his head again and started to sit down in an overstuffed chair. She caught his arm. “Not that little chair, honey. That big leather one. That one over there, Tony, honey, honey.”

Tony started working in earnest the next day. He bought a new gun and holster, a smaller gun this time: a .357 Magnum with a 3Vi inch barrel, and had suits made and so tailored that the bulge wouldn’t show. He made an appointment, through contacts he now had, with a dealer in pornography; he saw Leo Castiglio and told him how sorry he was that Leo hadn’t been shoved into Shark’s spot, but—^well, he guessed Angelo knew what he was doing.

He put one of the men under him to work getting a list of all the conventions due in or near San Francisco. He got his photographer to take pictures of any prostitutes not already in his file, and brought his file completely up to date. He went carefully through that file, selecting certain cards and photos and cUpping them together in special groups.

Tony drove around Frisco in his Buick, casing locations for a couple houses he wanted to start. He foimd many that suited his purpose, even finding a closed-down night club that might be turned to good purpose some day in the future. A guy could put a few wheels in it, if the place were fixed up a bit, some girls dressed in evening gowns to mix with the guys as they made their bets, and to take the chumps upstairs after they’d lost enough dough.

Tony had looked up carte blanche in a dictionary.

After a month, what Tony called the “New Frontier” was running smoothly, and profits to the men at the top were just starting to pick up a Uttle. In addition to the extra “servicing” the customers were getting, there was added revenue from the sale of pictures, books, films, the stags and the rest, but all that was incidental to the basic commodity offered.

Tony operated in his new piosition as if it was what he had been made for. He loved the sense of power and importance it gave him. He was the Boss, for all practical purposes; with minor supervision by Angelo, he could hire and fire, hand out jobs or take them away. He thought, happUy, that it was like being in Congress or pohtics and having patronage, handing out postmasterships and judgeships and favors and using his considerable influence. And after all, he told himself, he and most politicians were in pretty much the same line of work when you came right down to it.

The next four months were busy, exciting ones for Tony. He learned that Sharkey had actually done much more than he’d previously thought. There was always something coming up that Tony had to take care of: girls would leave, get married, run off with a pimp, move out of the town or state; new girls would be coming in; there’d be a local mixup about the payoff; medical inspections, records to keep, complaints from a girl or house. Much of this was handled by Leo, Hamlin, or the new man, a husky kid named di Carli, but a large load of it was on Tony’s shoulders—and the responsi-biUty for everything that happened rested with him.

But at the end of four months, Tony met his first real trouble. This time it was bad.

He was having dinner about eight P.M., in the apartment with Maria. She had, he thought, become increasingly drawn and worried-looking the last few months. Tony wished he could spend more time with her, but he had to keep on the go, keep up with things. They were halfway through the meal when the phone rang. Tony answered it.

“Tony, this is Angelo. Get up here.”

“Your office?”

“Of course, my office. Hurry it up.”

“What’s the deal? Trouble?”

“Get up here; I’ll tell you about it.”

Tony hung up and started for the bedroom.

“What’s the matter, Tony?” Maria stood up and walked over to him.

“I don’t know. Angelo called. Wants to see me; didn’t say what for.”

She followed him into the bedroom and watched him while he strapped on his gun, then slipped his coat over his heavy shoulders.

“Tony, I hate to see you wear that thing. You’re not a cheap thug; why you got to—”

He interrupted, checking his pockets to make sure he had everything. “Look, I usually handle a lot of dough, and sometime I might need this heater. Let’s hear no more about it.”

“Oh, Tony,” she said softly, “I’m just afraid for you. You’re too—God, I don’t know. But you can’t go on like this without no trouble.”

“Oh, shut your face, Maria. I got enough troubles. I’ll talk to you later.” He started out.

“Will you, Tony? Talk to me later about it? I mean seriously. You always tell me to shut up or something. Will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, leave me alone.” He left.

Angelo got up when Tony came in. He said, “You’ve got a job tonight. You know the area around Lafayette Square?”

“Like the back of my hand. What’s up?”

“There’s two houses out there. On Laguna Street. Not connected with us—I just heard about this an hour ago. They’re operating in the open with fifty girls in the two places. They’re next door to each other and getting a big play.”

“Two places there? I didn’t know about them.”

“That’s the trouble.” Angelo stood in front of Tony, bright eyes glaring at him. “You should have known about it, should have stopped it. Now I have to worry about it.”

“They’re not part of our organization, huh?”

“Of course they’re not. The money involved isn’t much, but if one group breaks in that’s the start.” Angelo wheeled around and started pacing the floor. “There’s been a sUp-up somewhere, a double cross. They’re paying off so they can run. You’ve got to stop it before they get bigger ideas.”

“This, uh, this isn’t any Syndicate operation, is it?”

“No. I told you I’m independent here in San Francisco. Oo the prostitution, anyway. There isn’t any national tie-up with those two houses. It’s a bunch of lousy pimps and a smart operator or two that started this thing.”

“You say they’re paying off?”

“They have to be. You know these places can’t run without a fix, and they’ve been running two weeks. Romero, I’ll handle that part of it. You go out there tonight and close those places up. Either close them or tell them they’re now part of our organization and have to contribute the usual fifty percent cut.” Angelo started pacing the floor again. Tony had never seen him so worked up.

He wheeled around and walked up to Tony again. “You have a gun on you?”

“Sure.”

“There might be trouble. It won’t be a picnic. You’d better take some of the boys with you—and look, Romero. Don’t mess this up. I want this thing handled as quietly as possible, no mess, understand? Talk to them, tell them they can’t possibly buck the estabUshed organization—that’s me. I don’t want any stink about this.” He paused and said slowly, “But there might be trouble. They must have expected eventual difficulties with us.” He stalked to his desk, pressed the button under its edge.

Almost immediately the adjoining door was thrown open and Frame hurried in. He stopped inside the room. “Yeah, boss?”

“Kelly in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Who else?”

“Just Rock.”

“All right. The three of you go with Romero. He’ll tell you what to do.” Angelo turned to Tony. “You can tell them what to do, can’t you?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“All right.” He pointed to the door Frame had come through. “Go that way.”

Tony started out and Angelo stopped him. “One thing, Tony. Don’t come back here—don’t even phone. I don’t want any line back to me, just in case. Go straight to your apartment. I’ll call you there if I want anything. Here.” He fished in his pocket for a square of paper. “This is the address.”