Jon hadn’t realized yet what it meant, but he could remember seeing the safe door swung open and the shelves empty.
The money. Good God, the money.
“It’s gone,” he told Nolan. “All of it.”
Nolan was silent for a moment. A long moment.
“Nolan?” Jon asked, panic rising in his chest, catching in his throat.
“Yeah, kid,” the steady voice said. A rock again. “Go on.”
“The money’s gone. I just came in and... and found Planner and it must’ve all just happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Hell, I wasn’t gone more than an hour, and the... blood... it’s still wet, uh, fresh.” He remembered slipping in the stream of it on the back stoop. “You know, Nolan, you wouldn’t think Planner had so much blood in him. You wouldn’t think it could seep all the way back to the porch like that.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean somehow it ran from the back room, where the safe was cleaned out, back onto the porch and... shit, that couldn’t be Planner’s blood, could it? What do you figure?”
“I figure Planner got a shot off at whoever shot him.”
“Of course. Bad, you suppose?”
“Bad enough he left some blood behind.”
“Nolan, should I call the police or what? I mean, we were robbed and Planner was murdered and...”
“Christ no! Use your damn head.”
“That was stupid. I’m sorry I even said it, Nolan.”
“Never mind that. Did Planner have a gun in his hand?”
“I... I haven’t really looked that close yet. If you want to know the truth, all I’ve done so far is spot Planner’s body, puke out my guts, and call you on the phone.”
“You go look the back room over. I’ll hold on.”
Jon set the receiver on the counter and went back for a look. He found one of his uncle’s two.32 automatics clutched in an already stiffening hand, and he found across from Planner the place in the wall where one of the bullets had gone in. And the beginning of the trail of blood was at the safe, where the guy would’ve been crouched down, emptying the shelves. He went back to the phone and reported what he’d found to Nolan.
“Okay,” Nolan said. “Now listen to me. Are you pulled together? Are you settled down?”
“Yes. I’m settled down.”
And Nolan told him what to do. Told him to contact that doctor, Ainsworth, the one that patched Nolan up and treated him while he was holed up at Planner’s. Contact the doctor and pay him to make out a false death certificate, verifying Planner’s demise as by natural causes. Pay him plenty, to fill out the forms and such and help keep the cops from coming and having a close posthumous peek into Planner’s setup. Then clean the place up, get rid of the gun Planner fired at whoever shot him. Put Planner in a box and arrange to have him cremated. Do all of that, and then ask around at the places in the neighborhood, that Dairy Queen, the filling station next door, ask if they saw anybody leaving Planner’s around that time. But don’t act suspicious in asking. Make something up, like whoever it was was going to sell you something and didn’t leave an address, something like that.
“About that doctor,” Jon said.
“What about him?” Nolan said.
“What’ll I pay him with?”
“There should be eight thousand or so in the wall safe upstairs.”
“Oh, yeah, behind his framed Hoover buttons. Planner keeps — kept — the combination in the kitchen, in the silverware drawer.”
“Good. Pay Ainsworth, oh, four thousand. I know that sounds high, kid, but remember, as far as the doc knows, you could’ve murdered your uncle yourself and’re asking him to cover up. So he’ll be expecting a fat reward.”
“What then?”
“Sit tight. I’ll call you there at Planner’s when I get a chance. I have a notion of who maybe pulled this piece of shit.”
“You do? Who, for Christ’s sake?”
“Charlie.”
“That Mafia guy?
“He’s supposed to be dead. We’ll see. I’ll be looking into it.”
“Okay. When can I expect your call?”
“Just stay there at the shop. Get those things done I told you and otherwise sit tight. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Jon.”
“Yes, Nolan?”
“You’re doing fine.”
And Nolan had hung up.
