At first Mercantile American 4 страница

"Macshit," LaRocca said. "You wanna printed program?" He told the other two proudly, "See what I mean? This kid knows it all."

"Not quite," Miles said, "or I'd know how to make some money at this moment."

Two beers were slapped in front of him. LaRocca fished out cash which he gave the waiter.

"Before ya make dough," LaRocca said to Miles, "ye gotta pay Ominsky." He leaned across confidingly, ignoring the other two. 'The Russian knows ya outta the can. Bin askin' for ye."

The mention of the loan shark, to whom he still owed at least three thousand dollars, left Miles sweating. There was another debt, too roughly the same amount to the bookie he had dealt with, but the chance of paying either seemed remote at this moment. Yet he had known that coming here, making himself visible, would reopen the old accounts and that savage reprisals would follow if he failed to pay.

He asked LaRocca, "How can I pay any of what I owe if I can't get work?"

The pot-bellied man shook his head. "First off, ya got ta see the Russian."

"Where?" Miles knew that Ominsky had no office but operated wherever business took him.

LaRocca motioned to the beer. "Drink up, then you in me go look."

"Look at it from my point of view," the elegantly dressed man said, continuing his lunch. His diamond ringed hands moved deftly above his plate. "We had a business arrangement, you and me, which both of us agreed to. I kept my part. You've not kept yours. I ask you, where does that leave me?"

"Look," Miles pleaded, "you know what happened, and I appreciate your stopping the clock the way you did. But I can't pay now. I want to, but I can't. Please give me time. Ominsky shook his expensively barbered head; manicured fingers touched a pink clean-shaven cheek. He was vain about his appearance, and lived and dressed well, as he could afford to.

'Time," he said softly, "is money. You've had too much of both already."

On the opposite side of the booth, in the restaurant where LaRocca had brought him, Miles had the-feeling of being a mouse before a cobra. There was no food on his side of the table, not even a glass of water, which he could have used because his lips were dry and fear gnawed at his stomach. If he could have gone to Nolan Wainwright now and canceled their arrangement, which had exposed him in this way, Miles would have done it instantly. As it was, he sat sweating, watching, while Ominsky continued his meal of Sole Bonne Femme. Jules LaRocca had strolled discreetly away to the restaurant's bar. - The reason for Miles's fear was simple. He could guess the size of Ominsky's business and knew the absoluteness of his power.

Once, Miles had watched a TV special on which an authority on American crime, Ralph Salerno, was asked the question: If you had to live illegally, what kind of criminal would you be? The expert's answer instantly: A loan shark. What Miles knew, from his contacts in prison and before, confirmed this view.

A loan shark like Russian Ominsky was a banker harvesting a staggering profit with minimal risk, dealing in loans large and small, unhampered by regulations. His customers came to him; he seldom sought them out, or needed to. He rented no expensive premises and did his business in a car, a bar or at lunch, as now. His record keeping was the amplest, usually in code, and his transactions largely in cash were untraceable. His losses from bad debts were minor. He paid no federal, state, or city taxes. Yet interest rates or "vig" he charged were normally 100 percent p.a., and often higher.

At any given time, Miles guessed, Ominsky would have at least two million dollars "on the street." Some of it would be the loan shark's own money, the rest invested with him by bosses of organized crime for whom he made a handsome profit, taking a commission for himself. It was normal for an initial $100,000 invested in loan-sharking to be pyramided, within five years, to $1.5 million a 1,400 percent capital gain. No other business in the world could equal it.

Nor were a loan shark's clients always small-time. With surprising frequency, big names and reputable businesses borrowed from loan sharks when other credit sources were exhausted. Sometimes, in lieu of repayment, a loan shark would become a partner or owner of another business. Like a sea shark, his bite was large,

The loan shark's main expenses were for enforcement, and he kept those minimal, knowing that broken limbs and hospitalized bodies produced little, if any, money; and knowing, too, his strongest collection aide was fear.

Yet the fear needed a basis in reality; therefore when a borrower defaulted, punishment by hired goons was swift and savage.

As to risks a loan shark ran, these were slight compared with other forms of crime. Few loan sharks were ever prosecuted, fewer still convicted. Lack of evidence was the reason. A loan shark's customers were closemouthed, partly from fear, some from shame that they needed bus services at all. And those who were physically beaten never lodged complaints, knowing that if they did there would be more of the same to come.

Thus, Miles sat, apprehensive, while Ominsky finished his sole.

Unexpectedly, the loan shark said, "Can you keep a set of books'

"Bookkeeping? Why, yes; when I worked for the bank., He was waved to silence; cold, hard eyes appraisedhim. "Maybe I can use you. I need a bookkeeper at the Double-Seven."

"The health club?" It was news to Miles that Ominsky owned or managed it. He added, "I was there today, before…"

The other cut him off. "When I'm talking, stay quiet and listen; just answer questions when you're asked. LaRocca says you want to work. If I give you work, everything you earn goes to me to pay your loan and vig. In other words, I own you. I want that understood."

"Yes, Mr. Ominsky." Relief flooded Miles. He was to be given time after all. The how and why were unimportant.

"You'll get your meals, a room," Russian Ominsky said, "and one thing I'll warn you keep your fingers out of the till. If I ever find you didn't, you'll wish you'd stolen from the bank again, not me."

Miles shivered instinctively, less for concern about stealing which he had no intention of doing than his awareness of what Ominsky would do if he ever learned a Judas had come into his camp.

"Jules will take you and get you set up. You'll be told what else to do. That's all." Ominsky dismissed Miles with a gesture and nodded to LaRocca who had been watching from the bar. While Miles waited near the restaurant's outer door, the other two conferred, the loan shark issuing instructions and LaRocca nodding.

Jules LaRocca rejoined Miles. "You gotta swell break, Kid. Let's move ass."

As they left, Ominsky began to eat dessert while another waiting figure slipped into the seat facing him.

The room at the Double-Seven was on the building's top floor and little more than a shabbily furnished cubicle. Miles didn't mind. It represented a frail beginning, a chance to reshape his life and regain something of what he had lost, though he knew it would take time, grave risk, and enterprise. For the moment, he tried not to think too much about his dual role, concentrating instead on making himself useful and becoming accepted, as Nolan Wainwright had cautioned him to do..'

He learned the geography of the club first. Most of the main floor apart from the bar he had been in originally was taken up by a gymnasium and handball courts. On the second floor were steam rooms and massage parlors. The third comprised offices; also several other rooms which he learned the use of later. The fourth floor, smaller than the others, contained a few more cubicles like Miles's where club members occasionally slept overnight.

Miles slipped easily into the bookkeeper's work. He was good at the jobs up on a backlog and improving postings which had been done sloppily before. He made suggestions to the club manager for making other record keeping more efficient, though was careful not to seek credit for the changes.

The manager, an ex-fight promoter named Nathanson, to whom office work did not come easily, was grateful. He was even more appreciative when Miles offered to do extra chores around the club, such as reorganizing stores and inventory procedures. Nathanson, in return, allowed Miles use of the handball courts during some of his free time? which provided an extra chance of meeting members.

The club's all-male membership, as far as Miles could see, was divided broadly into two groups. One comprised those who seriously used the club's athletic facilities, including the steam baths and massage parlors. These people came and went individually, few of them appearing to know each other, and Miles guessed they were salaried workers or minor business executives who belonged to the Double-Seven simply to keep fit. He suspected, too, that the first group provided a conveniently legitimate front for the second, which usually didn't use the athletic facilities, except the steam baths on occasion.

Those in this second group congregated mainly in the bar or the upstairs rooms on the third floor. They were present in greatest numbers late at night, when the exercise-seeking members seldom used the club. It became evident to Miles that this second element was what Nolan Wainwright had in mind when he described the DoubleSeven as a "mob hangout."

Something else Miles Eastin learned quickly was that the upstairs rooms were used for illegal, high stakes card and dice games. By the time he had worked a week, some of the night regulars had come to know Miles, and were relaxed about him, being assured by Jules LaRocca that he was "okay, a stand-up guy."

Shortly after, and pursuing his policy of being useful, Miles began helping out when drinks and sandwiches had to be carried to the third floor. The first time he did, one of a half-dozen burly men standing outside the gaming rooms, who were obviously guards, took the tray from him and carried it in. But next night, and on subsequent ones, he was allowed into the rooms where gambling was taking place. Miles also obliged by buying cigarettes downstairs and bringing them up for anyone who needed them, Including the guards. He knew he was becoming liked.

One reason was his general willingness. Another was that some of his old cheerfulness and good nature were returning, despite the problems and dangers of being where he was. And a third was that Jules LaRocca, who seemed to flit around the fringes of everything, had become Miles's sponsor, even though LaRocca made Miles feel, at times, like a vaudeville performer.

It was Miles Eastin's knowledge about money and its history which fascinated it seemed endlessly LaRocca and his cronies. A favorite item was the saga of counterfeit money printed by governments, which Miles had first described in prison. In his early weeks at the club he repeated it, under LaRocca's prodding, at least a dozen times. It always produced nods of belief, along with comments about "stinkin' hypocrites" and "goddam gumment crooks."

To supplement his fund of stories, Miles went one day to the apartment block where he had lived before imprisonment, and retrieved his reference books. Most of his other few possessions had long since been sold to pay arrears of rent, but the janitor had kept the books and let Miles have them. Once, Miles had owned a coin and banknote collection, then sold it when he was heavily in debt. Someday, he hoped, he might become a collector again, though the prospect seemed far away.

Able to dip into his books, which he kept in the fourth-floor cubicle, Miles talked to LaRocca and the others about some of the stranger forms of money. The heaviest currency ever, he told them, was the agronite stone discs used on the Pacific island of Yap up to the outbreak of World War II. Most of the discs, he explained, were one foot wide, but one denomination had a width of twelve feet and, when used for purchasing, was transported on a pole. "Waddabout change?" someone asked amid laughter, and Miles assured them it was given in smaller stone discs.

In contrast, he reported, the lightest-weight money was scarce types of feathers, used in New Hebrides. Also, for centuries salt circulated as money, especially in Ethiopia, and the Romans used it to pay their workers, hence the word "salary" which evolved from "salt." And in Borneo, as recently as the nineteenth century, Miles told the others, human skulls were legal tender.

But invariably, before such sessions ended, the talk swung back to counterfeiting.

After one such occasion, a hulking driver-bodyguard who hung around the club while his boss played cards upstairs, took Miles aside.

"Hey, kid, you talk big about counterfeit. Take a looka this." He held out a clean, crisp twenty-dollar bill.

Miles accepted the banknote and studied it. The experience was not new to him. When he worked at First Mercantile American Bank, suspected bogus bills were usually brought to him because of his specialist knowledge. The big man was grinning. "Pretty good, huh?"

"If this is a fake," Miles said, "it's the best I've ever seen."

"Wanna buy a few?" From an inner pocket the bodyguard produced nine more twenties. "Gimme forty bucks in real stuff, kid, that whole two hunnert's yours."

It was about the going rate, Miles knew, for high-grade queer. He observed, too, that the other bills were just as good as the first.

About to refuse the offer, he hesitated. He had no intention of passing any fake money, but realized it was something he could send to Wainwright.

"Hold it!" he told the burly man, and went upstairs to his room where he had squirreled away slightly more than forty dollars. Some of it had been left over from Wainwright's original fifty-dollar stake; the rest was from tips Miles had been given around the gaming rooms. He took the money, mostly in small bills, and exchanged it downstairs for the counterfeit two hundred. Later that night he hid the counterfeit money in his room.

The next day, Jules LaRocca, grinning, told him, "Hear ya didda stroke business." Miles was at his bookkeeper's desk in the third floor offices.. "A little," he admitted

LaRocca moved his pot belly closer and lowered his voice. "Ya wanna piece more action?" Miles said cautiously, "It depends what kind."

"Like makin' a trip to Louisville. Movin' summa the stuff you bought last night."

Miles felt his stomach tighten, knowing that if he agreed and were caught, it would not only put him back in prison, but for much longer than before. Yet if he didn't take risks, how could he continue learning, and gaining the confidence of others here?

"All it is, is drivin' a car from here to there. You get paid two C notes."

"What happens if I'm stopped? I'm on parole and not allowed a driver's license."

"A license ain't no problem if you gotta photo front view, head 'n shoulders." "I haven't, but I could get one." "Do it fast."

During his lunch break, Miles walked to a downtown bus station and obtained a photograph from an automatic machine. He gave it to LaRocca the same afternoon.

Two days later, again while Miles was working, a hand silently placed a small rectangle of paper on the ledger in front of him. With amazement he saw it was a state driver's license, embodying the photo he had supplied. When he turned, LaRocca stood behind him, gnnning. "Better service than the License Bureau, oh?" Miles said incredulously, "You mean it's a forgery?" "Can ya tella difference?"

"No, I can't." He peered at the license which appeared to be identical with an official one. "How did you get it" "Never mind."

"No," Miles said, "I'd really like to know. You know how interested I am in things like this."

LaRocca's face clouded; for the first time his eyes revealed suspicion. "Why ye wanna know?"

"Just interest. The way I told you." Miles hoped a sudden nervousness didn't show.

"Some questions ain't smart. A guy asks too many, people start wondering. He might get hurt. He might get hurt bad."

Miles stayed silent, LaRocca watching. Then, it seemed, the moment of suspicion passed.

"It'll be tomorrow night," Jules LaRocca informed him "You'll be told wotta do, and when."

Next day, in the early evening, the instructions were delivered again by the perennial messenger, LaRocca, who handed Miles a set of car keys, a parking receipt from a city lot, and a one-way airline ticket. Miles was to pick up the car a maroon Chevrolet Impala drive it off the lot, then continue through the night to Louisville. On arrival he would go to Louisville airport and park the car there, leaving the airport parking ticket and keys under the front seat. Before leaving the car he was to wipe it carefully to remove his own fingerprints. Then he would take an early-morning flight back.

The worst minutes for Miles were early on, when he had located the car and was driving it from the city parking lot. He wondered tensely: Had the Chevrolet been under surveillance by police? Perhaps whoever parked the car was suspect, and was followed here. If so, now was the moment the law was most likely to close in. Miles knew there had to be a high risk; otherwise someone like himself would not have been sought as courier. And althoughhe had no actual knowledge, he presumed the counterfeit money probably a lot of it was in the trunk.

But nothing happened though it was not until he had left the parking lot well behind and was near the city limits that he began to relax.

Once or twice on the highway, when he encountered state police patrol cars, his heart beat faster, but no one stopped him, and he reached Louisville shortly before dawn after an uneventful journey.

Only one thing happened which was not in the plan. Thirty miles or so from Louisville, Miles pulled off the highway and, in darkness, aided by a flashlight, opened the car's trunk. It contained two heavy suitcases, both securely locked. Briefly he considered forcing one of the locks, then commonsense told him he would jeopardize himself by doing so. After that he closed the trunk, copied down the Impala's license number, and continued on.

He found the Louisville airport without difficulty and after observing the rest of his instructions, boarded a flight back and was at the Double-Seven Health Club shortly before 10 A.M. No questions were asked about his absence.

Through the remainder of the day Miles was weary from the lack of sleep, though he managed to keep working. In the afternoon LaRocca arrived, beaming and smoking a fat cigar.

"Ya whacked off a clean job, Milesy. Nobody's pissed off. Everybody pleased."

"That's good," Miles said. "When do I get paid the two hundred dollars?"

"Y' awready did. Ominsky took it Goes toward what ya owe him."

Miles sighed. He supposed he should have expected something of the kind, though it seemed ironic to have risked so much, solely for the loan shark's benefit. He asked LaRocca, "How did Ominsky know7" "Ain't much he don't."

"A minute ago you said everybody was pleased. Who's 'everybody'? If I do a job like yesterday's, I like to know who I'm working for."

"Like I told ye, there's some things it ain't smart to know or ask."

"I suppose so." Obviously he would learn nothing more and he forced a smile for LaRocca's benefit, though today Miles's cheerfulness was gone and depression had replaced it. The overnight trip had been a strain and, despite the horrendous chances he had taken, he realized how little he had really learned.

Some forty-eight hours later, still weary and disheartened, he communicated his misgivings to Juanita.

Miles Elastin and Juanita had met on two earlier occasions during the month he had been working at the DoubleSeven Health Club.

The first time a few days after Juanita's evening ride with Nolan Wainwright and her agreement to act as intermediary had been an awkward, uncertain encounter for them both. Although a telephone had been instated promptly in Juanita's apartment, as Wainwright promised, Miles had not known about it and came unannounced, at night, having traveled there by bus. After a cautious inspection through the partially opened apartment door, Juanita had taken off the safety chain and let him in.

"Hugo," Estela said. The small, dark child a miniature Juanita looked up from a coloring book, her large, liquid eyes regarding Miles. "You're the thin man who came before. You're fatter now."

"I know," Miles said. "I've been eating magic giant food." '- Estela giggled, but Juanita was frowning. He told her apologetically, "There was no way to warn you I was coming. But Mr. Wainwright said you'd be expecting me." "That hypocrite!" "You don't like him?"

"I hate him."

"He isn't my idea of Santa Claus," Miles said. "But I don't hate him either. I guess he has a job to do." "Then let him do it. Not make use of others." "If you feel so strongly, why did you agree…?"

Juanita snapped, "Do you think I have not asked myself? Maldito sea el diva que lo conoc`. Making the promise that I did was an instant's foolishness, to be regretted."

"There's no need to regret it. Nothing says you can't back down." Miles's voice was gentle. "I'll explain to Wainwright." He made a move toward the door.

Juanita flared at him, "And what of you? Where will you pass your messages?" She shook her head in exasperation. "Were you insane when you agreed to such stupidity?"

"No," Miles said. "I saw it as a chance; in a way the only chance, but there's no reason it should involve you. When I suggested that it might, I hadn't thought it through. I'm sorry." "Mommy," Estela said, "why are you so angry?"

Juanita reached down and hugged her daughter. "No te preocupes, mi cielo. I am angry at life, little one. At what people do to each other." She told Miles abruptly, "Sit, sit!" "You're sure?"

"Sure of what? That you should sit down? No, I am not even sure of that. But do ill" He obeyed her.

"I like your temper, Juanita." Miles smiled, and for a moment, she thought, he looked the way he used to at the bank. He went on, "I like that and other things about you. If you want the truth, the reason I suggested this arrangement was that it would mean I'd have to see you."

"Well, now you have." Juanita shrugged. "And I suppose you will again. So make your secret agent's reportand I will give it to Mr. Spider Wainwright, spinning webs."

"My report is that there isn't any report. At least, not yet." Miles told her about the Double-Seven Health Club, the way it looked and smelled, and saw her nose wrinkle in distaste. He described, too, his encounter with Jules LaRooca, then the meeting with the loan shark, Russian Ominsky, and Miles's employment as the health dub bookkeeper. At that point, when Miles had worked at the Double-Seven only a few days, that was all he knew. "But I'm in," he assured Juanita "That was what Mr. Wainwright wanted."

"Sometimes it is easy to get in," she said. "As with a lobster trap, getting out is harder." lintels had listened gravely. Now she asked Miles, "Will you come again?"

"I don't know." He glanced inquiringly at Juanita who surveyed them both, then sighed. "Yes, amorcito," she told Estela. "Yes, he will come."

Juanita went into the bedroom and returned with the two envelopes Nolan Wainwright had given her. She handed them to Miles. 'These are for you."

The larger envelope contained money, the other the Keycharge credit card in the fictitious name of H. E. LINCOLP. She explained the purpose of the card a signal for help.

Miles pocketed the plastic credit card but replaced the money in the first envelope and gave it back to Juanita. "You take this. If I'm seen with it, someone might become suspicious. Use it for yourself and Estela. I owe it to you."

Juanita hesitated. Then, her voice softer than before, she said, "I will keep it for you."

Next day, at First Mercantile American Bank, Juanita had called Wainwright on an internal telephone and made her report. She was careful not to identify by name either herself, Miles, or the DoubleSeven Health Club. Wainwright listened, thanked her, and that was all

The second encounter between Juanita and Miles occurred a week and a half later, on Saturday afternoon.

This time Miles had telephoned in advance and when he arrived both Juanita and Estela seemed pleased to see him. They were about to go shopping and he joined them, the three browsing through an open-air market where Juanita bought Polish sausage and cabbage. She told him, "It is for our dinner. Will you stay?"

He assured her he would, adding that he need not return to the health club until late that night, or even the following morning

While they walked, Estela said suddenly to Miles, I like you." She slipped her tiny hand into his and kept it there. Juanita, when she noticed, smiled.

Through dinner there was an easy camaraderie. Then Estela went to bed, kissing Miles good night, and when he and Juanita were alone he recited his report for Nolan Wainwright. They were seated, side by side, on the sofa bed. Turning to him when he had finished, she said, "If you wish, you may stay here tonight."

"Last time I did, you slept in there." He motioned to the bedroom.

"This time I will be here. Estela sleeps soundly. We shall not be disturbed."

He reached for Juanita and she came to him eagerly. Her lips, slightly parted, were warm, moist, and sensual, as if a foretaste of still sweeter things to come. Her tongue danced and delighted him. Holding her, he could hear her breathing quicken and felt the small, slim girl-woman body quiver with pent-up passion, responding fiercely to his own. As they drew closer and his hands began exploring, Juanita sighed deeply, savoring the waves of pleasure now, anticipating her ecstasy ahead. It had been a long time since any man had taken her. She made clear she was excited, urgent, waiting. Impatiently they opened the sofa bed.

What followed next was a disaster. Miles had wanted Juanita with his mind and he believed his body. But when the moment came in which a man must prove himself, his body failed to function as it should. Despairingly, he strained, concentrated, closed his eyes and wished, but nothing changed. What should have been a young man'sardent, rigid sword was flaccid, ineffectual. Juanita tried to soothe and aid him. "Stop worrying, Miles darling, and be patient. Let me help, and it win happen."

They tried, and tried again. In the end, it was no use. Miles lay back, ashamed and close to tears. He knew, unhappily, that behind his impotence was the awareness of his homosexuality in prison. He had believed, and hoped, it would not inhibit him with a woman, but it had. Miles concluded miserably: Now he knew for sure what he had feared. He was no longer a man. At last, weary, unhappy, unfulfilled, they slept.

In the night Milw awoke, tossed restlessly for a while, and then got up. Juanita heard him and switched on a light beside the sofa bed. She asked, "What is it now?" "I was thinking," he said. "And couldn't sleep." 'thinking of what?"

It was then he told her sitting upright, his head turned partially away so as not to meet Juanita's eyes; told her the totality of his experience in prison, beginning with the gang rape; then his "boy friend" relationship with Karl as a means of self-protection; the sharing of the big black man's cell; the homosexuality continuing, and Miles beginning to enjoy it. He spoke of his ambivalent feelings about Karl, whose kindness and gentleness Miles still remembered with… affection?… love? Even now he wasn't sure.

It was at that point Juanita stopped him. "No morel I have heard enough. It makes me sick." He asked her, "How do you think I feel?"

"No quiero- saber. I neither know nor care." All the horror and disgust she felt was in her voice. As soon as it was light, he dressed and left.

Two weeks later. Again a Saturday afternoon the best time, Miles had discovered, for him to slip away unnoticed from the health club. He was still tired from his nerve-straining trip to Louisville the night before last, and dispirited at his lack of progress.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14