Free Hour of the Assassins by Andrew Kaplan Page B

obscured by the baritone crooning that he had done it his way. For the first time Cassidy looked directly at Caine, stirred by curiosity. The baggy folds under his eyes gave Cassidy the appearance of an intelligent cocker spaniel.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he asked.
    â€œAn idealist reasons that because roses smell better than onions, they must make better soup.” The two men grinned at each other and for an instant they were almost friends.
    â€œOkay, Mr.…” Cassidy hesitated.
    â€œHillary,” Caine put in.
    â€œOkay, Mr. Hillary. Are you buying or selling?”
    â€œBuying. I want a name.”
    â€œWhat’s in a name, speaking of roses,” Cassidy remarked and signaled to the blonde for another drink.
    â€œOne thousand dollars,” Caine replied. “Five hundred dollars now, five hundred dollars when I meet the name.”
    â€œThat’s a nice name. What are you looking for?”
    â€œSuppose somebody wanted to buy a hundred-percent Grade A phony ID: passport, driver’s license, the works. Top quality and satisfaction guaranteed not to be used in this town. Would you happen to know somebody who might have that kind of merchandise for sale?”
    â€œMaybe,” Cassidy said, sucking his teeth. Then he winked at the waitress bringing his drink. He took a quick gulp and when he put the glass down, he saw that it was resting on a five hundred-dollar bill that Caine had laid on the table.
    â€œMerry Christmas,” Caine said, but Cassidy made no move to touch the money.
    â€œAre you with an organization, by any chance?”
    â€œRelax. If I were with an organization, would I have to come to you for help?”
    â€œNo, I guess not,” Cassidy said, rubbing his chin speculatively. After a moment he lifted the glass and took the money.
    â€œThe name,” Caine prompted.
    â€œThere’s this guy,” Cassidy began. “Name is Hanratty. Pete Hanratty. He did a stretch at Folsom for counterfeiting. I hear he does some quality paperwork for a certain organization, which shall be nameless. He might be interested in a little private enterprise. It’s okay to use my name. I’ve done him a few favors.”
    â€œWhere do I find him?”
    â€œHe works nights as a dealer at Billion’s Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch,” using the term the locals have given to the central casino area on downtown Fremont.
    â€œWhat’s he look like?”
    â€œShort fat guy. Mostly bald. Wears glasses too.”
    â€œGood enough,” Caine said. “You wouldn’t happen to know his address?”
    â€œIt’s in the book,” Cassidy said, finishing his drink. A burst of applause signaled the end of the baritone’s lounge performance. As people started to get up, Caine touched Cassidy’s arm.
    â€œJust one more thing,” Caine said. “Forget you ever saw me. Remembering won’t do either of us any good.”
    â€œWhat about the other five hundred dollars?” Cassidy asked.
    â€œIf Hanratty works out, you get the other five hundred dollars in the mail. If he doesn’t,” Caine added softly, “I’m coming back for my five hundred dollars.”
    â€œYou’re not threatening me, are you? Because I’ve been threatened before, by experts,” Cassidy replied, suddenly straightening up.
    â€œYou seem like a nice guy, Cassidy. I’m not threatening you. I’m giving you the best advice you ever got. Believe me, you never want to see me again,” Caine said, his cat’s eyes glinting green and cold. Cassidy felt a shiver of uneasiness pass up his spine, and nodded. Caine put a ten-dollar bill down on the table. “For the drinks,” he said, and left.
    Caine went to a lobby phone and placed a call to Wasserman’s number in Hollywood. An answering machine answered the phone and beeped. Caine spoke quickly to the machine.
    â€œYour last associate botched the job.