Two for the Money by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

old age.
    At quarter till four, the first Scotch was gone, and he started on another.

7
    At ten after five Nolan looked up from his third Scotch as the saloon-syle doors swung open and a tall, burly black man in a well-tailored navy suit shoved through them. The big man stood in the doorway for a moment, briefly ran his eyes across the lounge’s half-dozen faces, then ambled over to the bar.
    Though they’d never met, Nolan recognized him.
    The hard face, with its rugged structure, nearly flat nose, close-set eyes, squared-off jaw, and forehead of solid bone, was unmistakable. And the six-foot-three, 270-pound frame, with its aircraft carrier shoulders, wasn’t exactly commonplace, either.
    His name was Tillis, and he’d played pro guard on an eastern NFL team a few seasons back, but was forced out in his third year of play because of knee trouble. The story Nolan had heard was that some mob guy fairly high up had been a fan of Tillis’s team, and when Tillis had to quit pro ball, the guy offered him a job. A job with the organization that, as Werner had told Nolan, was calling itself the Family these days.
    Nolan remembered seeing Tillis play ball a couple of times. He hadn’t impressed Nolan as the most savvy lineman in the NFL, but when he didn’t get faked out or double-teamed, he could be one mean, effective sonofabitch. Set an unnecessary roughness record his rookie year, Nolan recalled.
    Tillis was at the bar now, downing a shot of Jim Beam. He motioned for another, threw it down, then sauntered back out of the lounge.
    Nolan got to his feet casually and went over to the stillgently swaying doors and glanced out over them toward the check-in desk.
    Tillis was there, questioning the desk clerk, who was showing all the composure of a toastmaster who’s just discovered his fly is open. When the clerk had told Tillis what he wanted to know, the black man walked over to the two elevators, jabbed at the button between them, and got his ride right away. As the elevator doors met behind him, Nolan stepped out from the lounge and walked over to the check-in desk.
    The clerk was reaching for the phone when Nolan said, “Forget it. I’m here.”
    The clerk jumped slightly, then turned and motioned toward the elevators and said, “It’s a big colored man,” and Nolan nodded thanks.
    Nolan took the same elevator Tillis had used when it came back down. It was self-service, and Nolan had it to himself. By the time he’d reached his floor and the doors had begun to slide open, he had his .38 unholstered and palmed.
    His room was around the corner to the right of the elevators. When he got to the corner, he stopped and glanced carefully around it.
    Tillis was at the door to Nolan’s suite, trying a ringful of keys in the lock. When one key didn’t work, he tried another, and just as he seemed to be running out of them, one got results.
    Tillis gently prodded the door open, and behind him Nolan not-so-gently prodded the back of Tillis’s skull with the side of the .38 barrel.
    The big black tumbled like a small tree to the soft carpeting in the suite’s vestibule and lay still.
    Nolan shut the door and night-latched it. He was stepping around the bulky supine figure when a thick arm shot out, caught him behind the right ankle and jerked, setting Nolan down on his tailbone so hard that his spine did a xylophone imitation.
    A beefy black fist rushed toward his face, but Nolan batted it away with the .38, and seeing that Tillis was on his feet, Nolan had a flash memory of the ex-guard’s bad knees and drove a kick into the black’s right kneecap that would have been good for a forty-yard punt.
    Tillis landed on his side but started to spring back, and Nolan slapped him across the temple with the .38 barrel.
    This time Tillis seemed to be soundly out, but Nolan was getting to the point where he didn’t trust himself with knocking guys cold anymore. He leaned over cautiously, flipped open the well-cut navy suit, brushed