Blood Money полностью

He’d been angry because it was four o’clock in the damn afternoon when Felix called to say come spend the evening with me. It was what, sixty some miles to the Tropical from the city, and all the rush-hour traffic to contend with on the expressway. And what kind of notice was that, anyway, four fucking o’clock in the afternoon, come down tonight, Jesus.

He’d been afraid because his life had taken on a constant undercurrent of fear since the fall of Charlie, and it took very little to bring that fear bobbing to the surface. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way, but there it was. He knew he was secure in his position. So what if he got his start with the Family because he was Charlie’s cousin, that didn’t mean there was anything to worry about now. He was too high, too big, too important, too valuable. It was unthinkable, Jesus.

After all, think of how much money he’d made for the Chicago Family these past years. How many millions had the housing project shuffle brought the Family coffers? He smiled, sipped the wine. And that was nothing next to the cigarette stamp dodge. When he was fronting that tobacco distributing company, the boys must’ve made fifteen million on the counterfeit tax stamp angle, and when it did fall through and went to court, the judge, being a Family judge, dismissed the case for lack of evidence.

And now, why, shit, he was a public figure. You can’t do nothing to a public figure. He was Joey, for Christ’s sake, not just any Joey, but the Joey, his name up in glittering lights for the whole goddamn town to see. The opening, last year, had been fabulous, greatest day of his life. All the big-name stars and the TV cameras and the reporters, it was something. One of the columnists had said, “Mannheim Road, the West Side’s answer to Rush Street, was the scene of Chicago’s biggest happening since the Fire: the opening of reputed gangland protege Joey Metrano’s $11-million-plus hostelry, Joey Metrano’s Riviera.” And that famous one, Kupcinet (Kup himself!) said, “Joey Metrano, called by some a ‘cheap braggart of a hoodlum,’ has brought Vegas to Chicagoland with his Riviera.”

The lobster came, two nice tails surrounding a butter pot. And speaking of nice tails, that waitress was giving him a honey of a smile as she put the food in front of him. He smiled right back at her, getting mileage out of the caps. She was blonde, or sort of blonde, having kind of light brunette hair streaked or tipped or whatever the hell they called it. When she served his iced tea, she spilled some of it in his lap, and be damned if she didn’t dab it up with a napkin, oh, sweet Jesus. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, and he told her the pleasure was all his. When she gave him the baked potato, she brushed a pert breast against his shoulder, and Joey couldn’t help but wonder if it was an invitation, especially the sexy damn way she said, “Sour cream on your potato, sir?”

Jesus, Jesus, what he’d give for some of that stuff tonight. The little broad had a fresh look to her, not like the Chicago meat — lookers, sure, but it seemed like every one of them been giving head since they was ten and humping since eight, and it would be something to get a piece of something that wasn’t up the ass with experience.

But he had little hope for any action in this dump. In fact, using college girl help was just one sign of this being a half-ass operation. Look at the place, just fucking look at it. The room was so tasteless, with fishnet on the phony-bamboo walls, and Hawaiian and Caribbean and African and Oriental and all sorts of mishmash goddamn stuff hanging on the walls. What’d they do, bring in some guy from Nebraska who saw a travelog once and give him fifty bucks and say, “Do it up exotic.” Tropical, my ass, he thought. No taste.

Now his place, Joey Metrano’s Riviera, that was a different story. (About $10 million different!) Take just one of the things he had going there. Take, for example, the lounge, the Chez Joey (just like in Sinatra’s movie) with its gold-brocade walls and the plush gold carpet, and the gold chairs and gold tablecloths and gold drapes and the girls dressed in Rome-type mini-togas, gold also. Now there was class. Take the food, for instance. He forked a bite of lobster and studied it. This lobster was good, but the lobster he served, why, it made these suckers look like shrimps. What did Nolan know about running a restaurant, anyway.

The bit of lobster went down the wrong way, and, for a moment, he choked.

Nolan.