Nolan got up from the booth without excusing himself and felt Angelo’s eyes on his back as he headed for the cash register where a girl broke several of his dollars into change. He headed for the phone booth in the recession between two facing restrooms and closed himself inside the booth. A light and a fan went on and Nolan sat and looked over the list, though he knew already the best place to start.
Tillis.
Tillis was an enforcer who had worked for Charlie for the last five years or so, and was presently working for Charlie’s late wife’s brother Harry in Milwaukee. Tillis was one of a select few blacks serving the upper echelon of the Chicago Family, and had broken the racial barrier in a time-honored American way: he was an athlete, and a good one. The six-three, two-seventy black had played pro ball in the NFL, but left early in a promising career because of a bum knee, and it was long-time football buff Charlie who gave the ex- guard a new team to play for — the mob.
Nolan and Tillis had met last year, in the flare-up of the long-smoldering feud with Charlie. Being soldiers in opposing armies didn’t keep the two men from liking each other, and Tillis had, in fact, secretly helped Nolan in a tight spot with Charlie, and without Tillis, Nolan might not have been alive today.
But Tillis’ loyalty to Charlie was something to contend with, as Nolan had little doubt that without Tillis,
Four of the telephone numbers on the list pertained to Tillis. Two were work-oriented: Harry’s office and a Family-owned restaurant; the others were apartments: one was in Tillis’ name, the other in a woman’s. Nolan tried the woman and got Tillis on the line in ten rings.
There was a rumble, as a throat was cleared and a mind struggled to uncloud, and Tillis finally said, “Uh, yeah... yes, what is it?”
“How you doing, Tillis?”
“Is that you, Corio? Is something up? Am I suppose to come down or something?”
“No, it’s not Corio.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, fuck, who is this, do you know what time it is? Shit, it’s so goddamn late it’s early.”
“This is Nolan. Remember me?”
“Nolan! You crazy motherfuck, are
“Want to talk to you, Tillis. You going to be where you are for a while?”
“All day, unless I get a call from the Man, saying do some work. Got the day off and I’m planning on spending it in bed with my woman.”
“I’ll come talk to you, then.”
“Okay. You know how to get here?”
“I’ll find it.”
“When should I expect you?”
“Well, I’m calling long distance, never mind from where. I’m about three hours, maybe four from Milwaukee. Look for me late morning, early afternoon.”
“Okay, man. What’s this about?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. Well, do me a favor and don’t call your present employer, okay? I want to talk to you, not a roomful of Harry’s button men.”
“We were always straight with each other, Nolan.”
“Right. You’re the straightest guy that ever shot me, Tillis. You’re my pal.”
“Same old mouthy motherfuck, ain’t you, Nolan? See you round noon and my woman’ll whip up some soul food for you.”
“What kind of soul food?”
“Your people’s kind, man. Irish stew.” Tillis’ laugh was booming even over the phone. “Can you get into that?”
“I can dig it,” Nolan said, smiling.
Nolan hung up the phone, checked his watch. He could make it to Tillis’ place in forty minutes or so from here. Being five or six hours early should help avoid any problems that could come if Tillis decided to call Harry and some of the boys. He liked Tillis, but didn’t particularly trust him.
Phoning Tillis was risky, but it saved time. Going around to the various places on the list looking for him would have been a lengthy pain in the ass, and besides, nobody could shoot you over the phone. Now he had Tillis nailed down in one spot, and by lying about when he’d be there, Nolan was as protected in the situation as he could hope to be.
On his way back he ordered his third cup of coffee, then sat down in the booth, not even glancing at Angelo. He knew he should be moving faster, and that the twenty minutes he’d have spent in this truck stop could prove decisive. But he also knew that unless he got some caffeine and food in him, he wasn’t going to last. He’d been up all night, criss-crossing the damn Interstate, first to Iowa and now back to Illinois and Wisconsin, and he hadn’t had a meal since the scrambled egg breakfast he’d shared with Sherry some sixteen hours ago. A few years back all of this would have rolled off him; now was a different story. Happy birthday, he thought, with as much humor as bitterness.
He wasn’t thinking about Jon. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. If the boy was alive, Nolan would find him. If the boy was dead, Nolan would see some people suffer.
“I’m talking to you, Nolan,” Angelo was saying.
“I’m not listening,” Nolan said. He looked down and realized he’d finished his cheeseburger and fries; he didn’t remember doing it.
