Missing Amanda Page 15

  Lou shrugged. “Trust him,” he muttered. “Okay.”

  They were in a yellow cab heading for Tony Scolio’s house in rural Schaumburg. It looked the same, sprinklers hissing over a green summer lawn, and their feet made deep indentations as they walked up to the sidewalk. “How come we’re not driving? What if we have to make, as they say, a getaway?”

  “If this works, we won’t need one.” Monk pressed the doorbell and a deep gong sounded from inside.

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we won’t need one either.”

  A man opened the door and jerked slightly upon seeing them. He recovered his composure and asked them to wait while he spoke to his employer. Lou and Monk stood outside and watched the water buzz and sputter around them. Near the sidewalk was a faint rainbow.

  “Nervous?” asked Lou.

  “Terrified.”

  “Great.”

  “Mr. Scolio will see you,” said the butler. He led them down the same hall to the sun room where Lou noted that the windows had been repaired. Scolio stood near the door in the same suit he’d worn before, looking as much like a gangster as ever. Lou felt he appeared posed, as if this meeting surprised him and he didn’t want to show that.

  “Mr. Fleener,” Scolio said politely. “And Mr. Monkton. I am very surprised to see you here.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Lou, and Monk nudged him to silence.

  “I would have thought my response to our last meeting would have convinced you to run away.”

  “You blew up my mother’s house,” Monk said.

  Lou could feel him trembling slightly but he faced the gang boss firmly without showing fear. Lou felt proud of him.

  “I did. You weren’t in it.”

  “No, we weren’t,” agreed Monk. “But Cermak was.” The conversation was like some surreal drawing room exchange, as if death attempts weren’t actually being discussed.

  “That’s very true.”

  “Which is, potentially, a good thing for you,” Monk said.

  Scolio stared at them through the sunlight and the cigar smoke, his eyes squinting in his fat face. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged.

  “Did you read about the robbery yesterday?” Scolio looked confused. “Malcolm Warburton? The candidate for mayor?”

  “The same. He’s Braddock’s man, you know.”

  “I know that,” said Scolio. He paused for a moment, thinking, and said, “sit down.” He pointed to a single wicker chair near the window and settled himself into one opposite. He made no gesture toward Lou Fleener.

  “Get him a drink,” Scolio commanded to one of the guards.

  “What about Warburton?” asked Scolio when the drinks had been poured.

  “If he becomes mayor, Braddock’s going to have a lot of power, don’t you think?”

  “So?”

  “So, it was us who robbed him,” said Monk.

  Scolio again paused to consider this. “If this is true, why tell me? Why come here?”

  “Because we’re dead men,” Monk said and for the first time Scolio smiled. He looked like a lion with a new Christian.

  “You are that.” He laughed out loud, coughed and sucked on his cigar.

  “What I propose, Mr. Scolio, is a trade. If you tell us where to go and who to hit, we’ll go after Duke Braddock for you. Think about it—a couple of guys with nothing to lose doing your dirty work. We’re loose cannons. Whatever we do, no one can pin it on you.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Revenge,” said Monk. “And a temporary stop to you trying to kill us. Braddock tricked us into coming after you. We want to take him down.”

  Tony Scolio sat for several minutes quietly considering the offer. The room was hot and humid and Lou sweated, wondering how the fat little killer could stand it in that wool suit. Finally, Scolio asked, “Suppose I say yes?”

  “We go after Braddock with a vengeance. Eventually he’ll get to us, but not before we’ve caused him one hell of a lot of hurt.”

  “Would you be willing to hit somebody else?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Monk. He leaned forward as if interested but Lou felt the tension radiating from him. He got the impression that this is what Monk was after.

  “There’s a certain disorganization in Cermak’s operation. It would be in my interest to increase that.”

  “You want us to hit Cermak’s guys as well?”

  “Yes.” Would you do that?”

  “If you’ll call off your dogs and tell us where to go, we’ll hit him.”

  Scolio nodded, his expression pleased. Lou could see the wheels turning.

  “Very well,” Scolio said. “I will tell you certain things.”

  “And not kill us?”

  “For the moment,” agreed the mob boss.

  Two hours later they walked to a cab with a notebook filled with names and places. No one shot them as they walked out. No one raced to cars to begin a deadly chase. In the back of the cab Monk said, “That went well.”

  *

  Cassidy said, “Is that the biggest one you’ve got?”

  The appliance man, dressed casually in a light blue cardigan sweater and red bow tie nodded spastically, falling over himself with agreement. This was by far his biggest sale of the year. He pointed out features of the mammoth wooden box, a Magnavox with a twelve-inch screen and built in record changer, as well as hidden speakers on both sides for a realistic pseudo stereo effect. His manner, while deferential, was also condescending, as if a woman couldn’t know about these things.

  “Where’s your husband?” he inquired at the end of a long sales spiel. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “My husband’s not available. He’s at a convention.”

  “Oh, what does he do?” The question, merely polite, made Cassidy momentarily distracted. What did he do? Her imaginary husband, what was his job? She hesitated, thinking she should have been better prepared.

  “Um, he’s a dentist.” That was good, she thought and smiled happily, pleased with herself. Maybe she was going to be good at this.

  “Yes, a dentist. He’s at a convention now, in Las Vegas. That’s where a lot of the better dental conventions are held you know.” Warming up, she took the salesman’s arm and led him to the desk where contracts were written up, chatting amiably all the while. “They usually stay at the Sands. Have you ever been to Las Vegas, Mr...?”

  “Ralph,” he stammered, overwhelmed by the flood of words. “Just call me Ralph.”

  “That’s so strange! That’s my husband’s name, Ralph. He goes there about twice a year, but I only go with him occasionally. It’s important to have space in a marriage, don’t you think?”

  “Um, certainly.”

  Cassidy frowned sadly. “The kids miss him though, especially, Timmy, he’s the youngest, only three years old. He dotes on Ralph, that’s my husband, Ralph Winston, he’s from Elmhurst, has a small practice there. But growing,” she added judiciously. “It’s growing, slowly but steadily. That’s the way, don’t you think, Ralph? Slow but sure?” Without waiting for a reply, she added, “Can we have that delivered? On Wednesday?”

  Ralph, completely at a loss, could only nod and say, “Sure.”

  Chapter 23

  Of course, we’ll need a forger

  “Of course, we’ll need a forger,” Monk said.

  “Of course,” agreed Lou complacently.

  On the settee, sipping from a fluted champagne class, Cassidy giggled.

  “A good one,” Monk clarified.

  “Sure.” Lou lit a Camel, thinking about cigars.

  Lately he’d been feeling that unfiltered cigarettes just didn’t fit with the whole Hilton experience. Maybe one of those new filtered ones? A Marlboro maybe. “How about Truffles?”

  “Truffles?” Cassidy asked. “You know a forger named Truffles?”

  “Antoine Trufout,” Lou explained, pronouncing it True-foe. “He’s a French expatriate from WW II. Came to America to pract
ice his art.”

  “Art. What does he really do?”

  Monk smiled. “He makes perfect copies of great artworks and sells them as original. He does ID’s, the occasional twenty—”

  “Not anymore. He did five years in Joliet for that. Got out a couple of years ago after we got back from Korea.”

  “Is he available?” asked Monk.

  “I guess.”

  “Find out, will you?”

  “Sure.” Lou sat back and waited. When the silence and Monk’s bland stare eventually got through he said, “You mean now?”

  “Ideally.”

  “Oh. All right. Tuesday morning, I’ve gotta find a forger.” He got up and shuffled off to the bedroom. “I’ll make the calls from in here.” He closed the door behind him and Monk turned to Cassidy.

  “Did you get it?”

  She nodded. “The best they had—a twelve-inch Magnavox. Oh, Monk, you should have seen it.” Stars appeared in her eyes. “It’s so beautiful. Solid mahogany, twin speakers, built in antenna and a recessed panel that covers the screen when not in use.”

  “Cassidy?”

  “Hmmm...?”

  “You got it delivered?”

  “Yep. Right where you said.”

  “And you’re going along on the delivery?”

  “Sure.”

  Monk was greatly pleased.

  “What’s this about?” asked Cassidy. “It doesn’t make any sense that I can see.”

  “Just wait and see,” said Monk. He leaned forward and poured some champagne in her glass. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Cassidy Adams was having the best time. She’d already bought a Magnavox under false pretenses, lied—and convincingly—to Ralph the appliance salesman—and now she was going to see a forger named Truffles.

  She felt like she was in a film, maybe one of the bedroom comedies with Rock Hudson and Doris Day. She cast a sideways look at Monk, her companion in this mysterious undertaking. He so fit the role, appearance-wise at least. Big, handsome and smart, he was everything she could ask for in a leading man. But there was something about him, she thought, studying his profile. Like he’d been broken and would never be right again. The romance of that had a certain appeal, of course; all women like to think they can fix a man, but, and this was a surprising thought for her, Cassidy decided she didn’t want that sort of relationship again.

  Herbie, the guy in Vegas who’d taught her to deal twenty-one had his problems—like a marijuana habit that had led him to clean out her bank account one day. She hadn’t fixed him, had she? Or Keiffer the rodeo rider who’d shown her the ways of the world back in Rawlins. He was another sort—a rodeo junkie. Cassidy pictured him ten years on, battered and broke and holding out for another ride, and shuddered.

  Lou Fleener... her thoughts drifted his way and she smiled at the image of them together. She wasn’t vain, but she knew she looked good and Lou... well, didn’t. Not that he was a troll or anything, but he couldn’t match up to Monk in the good looks department.

  It was confusing. Right in the middle of this incredible roller coaster ride, she was starting to have feelings for someone she’d never have given a second glance. How was that possible? Maybe it was the situation. Killers and hit men and secret plots and her heavenly suite at the Hilton. She thought about room service and sighed. And the money. And Lou holding her when they danced. But was that enough? Was there going to be anything left when this was all over? Realistically she doubted it. This plan of Monk’s, whatever it was, was certain to fail. There was just too much going against it.

  Right? Sadly, to herself, she agreed. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending here. No ugly ducklings—and she thought of Lou here—turning into swans. No fairy Godmothers with wands, no Prince Charming, no magic red apples. She turned her head and watched traffic go by. No damn magic kisses.

  “We’re here.”

  Cassidy came back to reality. The cab had pulled up in front of a plain brick building with unwashed windows. It could be a drugstore or a local drycleaners or anything, really. A forger, she thought, looking at the grimy facade. A forger!

  She shrugged out of her somber thoughts as if discarding a second skin and smiled at Monk. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  Truffles, the forger, was nothing at all like what Hollywood would cast. He was too short, for one thing, and not jovial as the name Truffles suggested. Nor did he wear a beret or smoke cigarettes in that funny way French people do. Instead he looked like her uncle Ed, overfed and underdressed and smug; like he was going to fall asleep watching football after Thanksgiving dinner. He wore thick black glasses and was unshaven, just like Uncle Ed. Cassidy felt like giggling.

  He led them through a crowded shop full of boxes of paper and heavy machines that smelled of ink and grease. Evidently the business was a print shop, and obviously it wasn’t where the main income came from. They entered a backroom with a heavy workbench glowing beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Piles of paper and pens and odd equipment covered the table.

  “So,” said Truffles, “what do you need?”

  “A lot of things,” said Monk.

  “Such as...?”

  “A whole identity. Birth certificate, school records, medical forms.”

  “Driver’s license?”

  “Won’t need one of those, but dental visits would be nice.”

  “Uh-huh.” Focused, Truffles seemed more professional and less Uncle Ed. “You got samples?”

  “I’m getting them,” Monk said. “And hey? It’s a rush job.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “This time for sure. A lot of guys are looking for me—us—and they’ll kill us if we’re found.”

  “Killed, eh? Now that’s important.” He peered through his thick lenses like a myopic librarian. Cassidy couldn’t tell if he was taking this seriously or not. He gestured with his chin. “What’s the broad for?”

  “She’s the go between. The bad guys don’t know her and she’s safe to pick stuff up. I can’t come here often; it’s too dangerous.”

  “I don’t like dangerous, Monk, you know that. I do what I do in peace, minding my own business.” Now he looked like he was taking them very seriously indeed, and not happily.

  “Give me a break, Truffles. Have a heart.”

  “I don’t have one, Monk. You know that. No offense.”

  “None taken. How about this?” Monk reached into a pocket and pulled out one of the stacks of hundreds, still banded; a thousand dollars. Truffles eyes widened as he took it. He held it close to his eyes and peered at it carefully.

  “This is clean,” he decided. “Not funny.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Truffles. Not to you.”

  “A hurry you say?” He held the money close to his face and Cassidy thought he might be smelling it. “A matter of life and death.” His fingers caressed the paper like it was a lover’s cheek. He stood up straighter as he made the decision.

  “Bring me the stuff and I’ll make it good.”

  Chapter 24

  Somehow, we’ll need to get the police involved

  “That’s gonna take some thought,” Monk admitted.

  “It’s not like we know anyone.”

  “I know some,” said Cassidy. Monk stared at her with a comically confused expression.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know some cops. I know a couple who might be able to... I mean I think they might... you know, maybe they’re...” She faltered under his stare. “What?”

  “You know some cops who might be of help? Cassidy, I am impressed.”

  She beamed, encouraged like a little girl in her first ballerina outfit. “I don’t know if they’re crooked though,” she said, ruining that image.

  “Oh, I don’t need crooked,” Monk said. “It would be nice, of course, but a couple of honest cops could work.”

  “Work for what?” Still in the dark with Monk’s plans, Cassidy’s curiosity was a constant pressure. She’d gone as far as sneaking
into the common area and snooping through the secretary desk for scribbled clues. All she found was a single note on a yellow pad that said, “Part mid-level, part obsession. Does he? The Goose is golden.”

  Which hadn’t helped at all. Who did what? She wondered and why geese? She went to bed and didn’t sleep for an hour wondering about it.

  But here was a clue; it involved police. “I could take you there,” she offered.

  “Why not?” Monk got up and gestured for the door. “No time like the present.”

  The cops remembered Cassidy. “Hey, the show was terrific!”

  “What?” She had no idea what he was talking about. The cops didn’t look like they’d changed clothes since her last visit and Cassidy was experiencing Deja Vu big time. Why didn’t their wives make them dress better, she wondered.

  “Teddy Nedderling’s Swinging Sounds,” explained the white shirted one. To Monk he said, “she told us about the Aragon last week. This band there with a chick singer—”

  “Dee Malone,” said blue shirt and Cassidy’s memory bobbled. Hadn’t they done this routine already?

  “Malone, yeah,” agreed white shirt. “We took the wives last Friday night and had the best time. Danced until midnight.”

  “I got lucky,” said blue shirt proudly and Cassidy said, “Ew.”

  “Officer...?” Monk suggested.

  “Bristol,” said white shirt.

  “Cassowary,” said blue shirt, smiling at the memory of his success. He was still marveling. Imagine, a little wine, some dancing and pow! Right in the sack. He was determined to try it again.

  “I have a situation you might like to hear,” said Monk.

  Ten minutes later, Sargent Cassowary had forgotten most of his ardor. “Duke Braddock?” His mouth had been open for the last five of those minutes and he peeled the wrapper off a pink square of Double Bubble gum, shoved it in and chewed.

  Bristol meanwhile, had been taking notes.

  “They’re trying to kill you?” He wrote, ‘kill them’ on his pad and nibbled the end of his orange pencil.

  “Me and my partner,” Monk said.

  “Lou Fleener,” added Cassidy. Hearing the story told outright like this, she was feeling sort of impressed. Lou and Monk had caused quite a lot of commotion and they hadn’t even mentioned the Warburton robbery. Common sense said that one should stay under wraps.