Free Hush Money by Max Allan Collins Page A

looked more like a big old house than a place of business, which was only right because, other than the Dairy Queen and grade school across the way and the gas station next door, this was a residential neighborhood, a quiet, middle-class Iowa City street lined with trees still thick with red and copper leaves. The inhabitants of this shady lane would’ve been shocked to know of the different sort of shadiness attached to various activities centered for some years now in the harmless-looking old shop. This thought occurred to Nolan as he opened the trunk of the Eldorado, reaching behind the spare tire for the holstered Smith & Wesson .38 stowed there. Not that the thought worried him. It was late now, approaching midnight, the street was empty, no one at all who might notice him. Even the gas station across the alley was closed. He shut the trunk, slung on the shoulder holster, grabbed his sports coat out of the back seat, slipped into the coat.
    He’d immediately recognized the Lincoln Continental as Felix’s, but that only served to confuse him further. What in hell was Felix doing in Iowa City? The answer to that was obvious enough: he was here to see Nolan. But why? No obvious answer there.
    No pleasant one, anyway.
    The side door to the shop wasn’t locked. Nolan withdrew the .38 and went in, cautious to the point of paranoia. There was always the chance that Jon had lost control of the situation since calling or, worse yet, that Jon had been forced to make the call in the first place. Nolan doubted the latter, as he felt pretty sure Jon would’ve sneaked a warning into his words somewhere, some indication, implication of trouble, and Nolan had been over Jon’s words and their inflections a dozen times in the course of the ten-minute drive from Wagner’s house out on the edge of town.
    But being careful never hurt, and when the footing wasn’t sure, Nolan was the most careful man alive. Because alive was how he intended to stay.
    “Nolan?” Jon called from upstairs. “Is that you, Nolan?”
    “It’s me.”
    “Come on up.”
    Nolan leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairwell. He said, “How you hanging, kid?”
    “Loose, Nolan. Nice and easy and loose. Come on up.”
    That convinced him. Jon’s voice had nothing in it but relief Nolan was there.
    And once upstairs he found that Jon did indeed have things well in hand. Sitting on the couch was a rat-faced little mustached man, his blue suit cut large in the coat to accommodate shoulder holster and gun, though the latter was presently being trained on its owner by Jon, and the way the suit was rumpled it was apparent the guy had been on the floor a couple of times lately and not making love, either. Also the guy was holding some Kleenex to his nose and had a generally battered look about him. Nolan put his gun away and Jon said hello.
    “You’re getting better all the time, kid,” Nolan said, unable to repress a grin. “I got to learn to stop underestimating you.”
    Jon, too, was unable to suppress his reaction, getting an aw-shucks look, which faded quickly as he said, “I’m not so sure you did underestimate me, Nolan. The first time I fouled up. I hit him in the nose—” Jon bobbed his head forward to indicate what he’d hit the guy with—”but he bounced back and it wasn’t till I kicked him in the balls that I finally got him.”
    Nolan nodded. “That’ll do it.”
    The rat-faced guy lowered the Kleenex and said, “You two fuckers gonna gloat all night, or can we get over to the Howard Johnson’s and see Felix? He’s been waiting half an hour. What do you say?”
    “Felix sent you?” Nolan said, acting surprised. “I don’t believe it. And you say he’s waiting to see me out at the Howard Johnson’s? I don’t believe that, either.”
    “I wouldn’t fuck around, I were you,” the guy said. “You think Felix came all the way from Chicago just to check out the fuckin’ Howard John son’s.”
    “Maybe he likes the