Murder Me for Nickels (2 page)

The place turned out to be a bar in a shopping center, with a big New Management sign in the window and the blue tile facade not all finished. This being supper time there was all kinds of parking space by the curb, and the bar inside looked big with no customers. Of course Lippit was there. He was leaning on the bar.

I don’t think he had been there very long because the barkeep didn’t know Lippit’s brand. Lippit pointed up at the shelves with the bottles, and then the barkeep took down the bottle Lippit wanted. The barkeep poured out a double, a Chivas Regal double, which went in one toss. Lippit held the glass out and watched as it was refilled. The barkeep smiled, half like a strong man and half like a very weak one, because he was also the owner. Chivas Regal, it said on the little list on the wall, came at one buck a shot.

Lippit paid attention to none of that, nipped down half his double, and watched me come the length of the bar.

“Jack,” he said, “you don’t have to put on the dog for Mister Stonewall here,” and looked at my tux. Then he said to the barkeep, “Mister Stonewall, meet our man Jack St. Louis.”

Stonewall and I mumbled and smiled and had a firm handshake.

“You want a drink, Jack?” said Lippit. Stonewall’s hand became weak and fluttery.

I said, no, I didn’t want a drink, and that I was sorry to be late, and what a nice, new place Mister Stonewall had here. Stonewall smiled, but said nothing, because he was watching Lippit finish the rest of the drink. He held that smile when Lippit set the glass down on the bar and still didn’t relax when he saw clearly what Lippit did next. Lippit pulled a handful of bills out of his pocket, pulled four ones off, and fanned them out on the bar. “I never tip the owner,” he said, pushing the price of the scotch at Mister Stonewall.

Now Lippit was ready for business, and so was Stonewall. He was ready, it looked like, to allow Lippit free reign on installing a jukebox at every barstool in the place.

“With the decor like it is,” said Lippit, “elegant like it is, what we should put in here is the new one hundred we just got.”

Stonewall nodded and said, “Oh? Ah, yes—” and kept nodding his large head with no hair on it.

Stonewall, I thought, was about the same age as Lippit, just a little past fifty, but Stonewall had hardly any hair and Lippit had all of his. Stonewall was short and had a small chest and Lippit was tall and had a large chest. And his shoulders were large, and his hands and his belly.

I have found that a big man like that is either especially shy or especially confident. Lippit was neither. He was just sure. Like when he paid for his liquor, and when he told Stonewall about the most expensive model we carried.

“It plays one hundred discs, makes no mechanical sounds, and it’s got a soft light inside, like a fancy cocktail lounge.”

“Like Mister Stonewall’s,” I said, because Lippit paid me.

“What else,” said Lippit “The rest is glass and black wood. And we stock this model,” he went on, “with cocktail music and wee-hours-type music. I mean class.”

I had not heard of wee-hours-type music before and neither had Stonewall. But he nodded, shy and impressed.

“What you get special on this machine,” Lippit told him, “is a counter which tells us which record pulls and which doesn’t. And our statistical branch figures out how long to keep the hot ones before they get tiresome and how soon to toss the slow ones, before we lose money. Before you and me lose money, huh, Stonewall?”

I had not heard of our statistical branch before, even though I had been around for a while and was usually present when Lippit made a pitch for a new place. But he talked different every time. He was very inventive. He let each occasion inspire him afresh.

I felt what Stonewall offered as inspiration was nothing. He nodded and smiled and waited for more. This bored Lippit, I could tell, because he stopped inventing a pitch and turned to the figures. He did not enjoy conning a mouse.

“The machine costs as much as a good car. You couldn’t afford it. The machine is ours, we insure it, and you use it All you pay, Stonewall, is the juice to run it, which is less than your cooler back there, but with the following profit. Twenty per cent base cut on this model. The more nickels it makes, the higher your cut. Up to forty per cent, like it shows here on this contract. Now, let’s say something gets stuck. You call us. Except for willful damage, we pay all the expenses, except for repairs over fifty per month, where we cut your percentage to help with the cost. That’s still no money out of your pocket. That’s all, Stonewall, except for these figures I brought you,” and Lippit handed over a printed page.

We had that page made up to show how profit rose in various places after a jukebox was put in. We had some wonderful statistics there, with real names and real dates and most of the rest was basically true also.

And that was all the pitch Lippit gave the man, because what else was needed? Lippit could afford to be a pig without acting like one, since there was no competition. And he could leave a few things unsaid. Like the down payment, for security, part of which was not returnable. Like what was willful damage? And like when is a repair more than fifty a month? And what do you think happens when you say no to all this, Mister Stonewall?

Probably nothing, as a matter of fact, since Lippit had not acted the pig in a very long time.

“So you read this thing over,” said Lippit, “and you look at the contract, Mister Stonewall, and I’ll send a crew over tomorrow so you can look at the machine.”

“You mean you’re going to put your machine….”

“You want to try it out, don’t you?” said Lippit. “And if there’s something you don’t understand, Jack St Louis here will be over tomorrow and explain away what is troubling you.”

Which was all the pressure Lippit ever needed these days, my going around and explaining things. It was not the same as in the beginning, but at this point it made quite enough money. It was faintly boring for Lippit and me, but we never talked about that, just about money. Not that he and I had been broke that time we joined up, but there had been more action.

I want three things from my work. It’s got to move, it’s got to make money, and I’ve got to like whom I deal with. All this was true with the Lippit deal, was still almost true, except that it had lost a great deal of motion. As with Mister Stonewall’s bar. Mister Stonewall, now with contract and statistics in hand, had not even opened his mouth through all of Lippit’s spiel. And tomorrow, Mister Stonewall would have one of the new machines. Then Mister Stonewall did open his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I want one.”

Lippit had already started to go. He smiled, as if he hadn’t heard right, and put his big hands on the bar, gently.

“What?” he said. “You said what, Mister Stonewall?”

“I—uh, don’t find the deal very attractive.”

Lippit looked at me, as if to apologize for his friend, Mister Stonewall. Then he looked at Stonewall.

“I didn’t make clear that this costs you nothing? What I mean is,” said Lippit, “
if
you take my machine, then it costs you nothing?”

I think Stonewall got the tone all right, but Lippit was still quietly smiling, which was no theatrical trick with him but real amusement at how stupid Mister Stonewall was acting. However, Stonewall must have thought it meant Lippit was deaf. He said the same thing again. He said:

“I don’t find the deal very attractive.”

Lippit sighed, being bored, and I was bored. Lippit said, “You got a better deal?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“There was a—there is this Mister Benotti who was here.”

All of a sudden the boredom was gone.

But Lippit looked at his watch and then pushed away from the bar.

“Just look over the contract,” he said, “and then we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

He smiled, waved, and walked out. I had never seen him smile that much, leave that abruptly, or delay things for later.

I nodded at Stonewall and walked after Lippit. At the last moment, I thought, Stonewall looked as if he wanted to talk some more, which was no wonder, seeing how he had been left up in the air. I could appreciate that, because I felt the same way.

Chapter 2

H
e was waiting for me by his car which was built so long and low that when he leaned up against it he practically sat on the roof. He leaned like that and was clicking one thumbnail against his front teeth.

“That was the real touch of class,” he said, “you walking in there with that monkey suit on.”

“I notice how it helped.”

“Maybe blue jeans tomorrow,” he said, which was the sort of no-account comment he sometimes made, making you wonder about his humor and his intelligence.

“Ever hear of him before?” was the next thing he said.

“Huh?”

“Benotti.”

I had, of course, heard of Benotti before, the four times he had done outside repairs and that other time, which had nothing to do with Lippit.

“Yes,” I said. “Four jobs,” and told him about Morry having called for this outside repair man.

“He still sound like a repair man to you?”

“Mostly. Plus trying to place some machines of his own.”

“I’m sure he’s new in town,” said Lippit, “though that don’t mean he hasn’t heard about me.”

“Maybe Benotti’s just stupid.”

“Yes,” said Lippit. “That would be nice.”

Then he got into his long, low car, which put his head at about the level of my knees, and when he had the motor going he looked up at me and said, “Before the party, Jack, run on over to Louie’s.”

“Which Louie’s?”

“Delicatessen. He was due for a new stack today and for a collection. And our man couldn’t get in.” He drove off and left me standing there in my workday tuxedo.

Louie’s restaurant was way off on the East Side, and the errand could as easily have waited till morning. Except Lippit, not having talked much at all after Stonewall, must have been preoccupied with that repair man’s dumb stunt, or with his party that evening, or maybe with his girl, Pat. That would have been my reason, though the thought was useless. I got into my car and drove over to Louie’s, where he sold matzo balls, pizza, Danish pastry, and klops. I think Louie, in that way, took care of all the minorities on that side of town.

The restaurant was dark and two couples stood in front of the door, complaining and arguing. I couldn’t make out the language. I left the car and walked past these people when one of them looked at me and said, “Gangster—”. That lousy tux again. I had no time and went up the back stairs.

Louie had three rooms on top where he lived alone. At first he wouldn’t open.

“It’s Jack,” I said through the door. “Honest, Louie.”

“How do I know?”

“Come on, Louie. I’m in a hurry.”

“That’s Jack,” and he opened the door.

I didn’t recognize Louie. One ear was big and purple, one cheek was big and purple, and one eye was all gone where the purple cheek had blown up all over it. I said, “Jeesis Christ,” and closed the door.

Louie just nodded and sat down in the plush easy chair he had in the room. There was a lot of furniture that color. Like his cheek.

“Benotti?” I said.

“He was all right the first time,” Louie said.

“When you told him no.”

“And the second time he said he was sorry I don’t understand the polite-type English he talks.”

“And then he talked that kind,” I said, and nodded at Louie’s face.

Louie sighed for an answer. He raised his hand to his face because he had a gesture of stroking his nose, but halfway up he decided against it.

“This can’t go on,” he said. “All this for who’s gonna put a jukebox in my place, I ask you?”

I walked back and forth in the room a few times, around all the furniture, because I certainly didn’t know what to say to Louie.

When it came to a thing like Benotti, the fact was, we were hardly set up for a thing like that any more. The man had blossomed out on us just a little too fast. He’s a backlot electrician; he’s a hustler who wants to put a jukebox into a bar; then suddenly he turns into a hood who strongarms one of my customers. And all this time, neither Lippit nor I knew who Benotti was.

“Jack,” said Louie. “I’m real sorry, but this can’t go on.”

I nodded but his good eye wasn’t turned my way and he just heard the silence and thought I was thinking.

“So you got something figured?” he asked me.

I didn’t have anything figured. I said, “Have you seen a doctor, Louie?” but that wasn’t the right reply for what he wanted to know, namely what would Lippit and I do about this and how would we help Louie.

He asked all that, a small old man with his face beaten up, sitting there in his old furniture and me shiny and bright with a tuxedo and no answers.

“Not to speak of,” he said, “what this kind of thing’s gonna do to your organization.”

I stopped pacing and feeling like hell. “You didn’t have to say that, Louie. A lousy thing like that.”

I felt angry now, which was better than feeling like hell, because mostly it makes me active. There was a phone in the room and I called up a doctor. I gave him Louie’s address and told him to hurry it up. Then I put the phone down and sat down opposite Louie.

“Now from the beginning,” I said. “This Benotti comes in, gets a no answer, then beats you.”

“Not that fast. First he told the others they should mess up my place.”

“Others?”

“Three others. They and Benotti come in at the slack time, which is ten in the morning. They lock the door and pull the blind down that says Closed, and then like I said.”

I thought about the three others and wondered whether that would change the picture again.

“These three,” I said to Louie. “Did you know any of them?”

“I have never, and I hope I will never….”

“All right.” Then I wondered how to put it. “Did they—I mean speaking off-hand—did they look like, let’s say, electricians?”

Louie’s good eye looked at me for a moment and then closed. “I don’t know what electricians look like, Jack, but these didn’t look like no electricians.”