Angelo said, “What should I do, stop at a filling station and ask, or what?” They jostled across the railroad tracks that slanted across Dekalb’s main street, announcing the decline of the business district.
“No,” Nolan said, “we’re already on the right street. She must live over one of these stores downtown here.” He checked the street number on the list of names, checked it against the numbers they were passing. “Yeah, just another couple blocks. Keep it slow.”
Back on the Interstate they had stopped long enough to call Felix. Nolan had questioned the lawyer, hard, about the violent doings in Milwaukee, and Felix had said, “Do you really think we would do
“I don’t know,” Nolan had answered. “I been dealing with crazy people so much I’m feeling that way myself.”
“Nolan, be reasonable. We’re fighting the same battle, for Christ’s sake.”
“But who is on what side, is what I want to know.”
“Let me send some people to help you out. This is getting big.”
“I already got your Angelo along, and that’s one man too many. Oh, and you can call your man Greer and take him off those people in Iowa City. Not much chance of anybody warning Harry about anything anymore.”
“If you’re through making your ridiculous accusations, Nolan, I have something to tell you. Something important. We have a lead on Charlie.”
That had pleased Nolan, but still he said, “I thought this was my show.”
“I told you, it’s bigger than that now. We won’t get in your way, but we have interests in this affair far wider than your own, and resources at our disposal that a single man — even a most competent one, like yourself — could not hope to match.”
“So what have you got?”
“We’ve located a pilot who’d been chartered by Harry. He was to fly up to a private air field in the Lake Geneva area and take a passenger to Mexico.”
Felix paused, for applause Nolan guessed.
When he didn’t get any, Felix continued. “The guy, the pilot, has done some work for us before — has picked up merchandise of ours in Mexico, occasionally, if you get my meaning.”
“Go on.”
“Harry’s death was reported on the radio and television about half an hour ago, and this pilot heard it and immediately called Vito up and asked him if this chartered plane thing was still on. Vito knew nothing about it, but thought it smelled funny and called Chicago to see what we made of it.”
“What you made of it was the plane was for Charlie.”
“Naturally. I told Vito to tell the pilot to go ahead and be where he was supposed to be at the proper time. We’ll have our men waiting there, at the private field.”
“If the field’s near Lake Geneva, odds are Charlie’s holed up someplace close by.”
“I would think so. Seems to me he used to have a lodge or summer home of some kind in that neck of the woods. We’re running a check on it now, trying to see exactly where it was.”
“What time was that meeting at the airfield supposed to be?”
“It was set for last night but the ‘passenger’ ran into some difficulty and they’d rescheduled the next possible time. Which was one o’clock today.”
“Tonight, you mean?”
“This afternoon, I mean.”
“Jesus. Not much time. Where is this air field, anyway?”
Felix gave Nolan directions; they were complicated and Nolan had to write them down. He knew the Lake Geneva area fairly well, but there were a hell of a lot of country roads around there to confuse things.
“You don’t really think Charlie will go ahead with the flight, do you, Felix? He’s pretty likely to’ve heard the news about Harry and Tillis by now and figure something’s up.”
“Nolan, it’s pretty likely, too, that Charlie was responsible for what happened to Harry and Tillis. Tidying up after himself. He’s certainly ruthless enough to handle things that way. If our people aren’t responsible for what happened in Milwaukee — and Nolan, I assure you we aren’t — then who else could it be but Charlie?”
That was a good question, and it was still on Nolan’s mind even as Angelo wheeled the black Chevy down a side street and slid into a diagonal parking stall next to the cycle shop over which Charlie’s daughter lived.
“Don’t tell me,” Angelo grunted. “You want me to keep my ass in the car, right?”
Nolan nodded. “And if somebody comes at you with a silenced grease gun, try to get out of the way.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“But if you can’t, fall on the horn and warn me before you breathe your last, okay, Angelo?”
“Nolan, what the fuck makes you such a nice guy?”
“The company I keep.”
To the left of the row of motorcycles and the window full of Yamaha signs was a doorless doorway, beyond that a stairway. At the bottom of the stairs were two mailboxes: apartment one had somebody called Barry West in it; apartment two had Joyce Walters. Walters wasn’t Charlie’s name, and Joyce wasn’t married, but she was Charlie’s kid just the same.
