The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 91
“Give me your hat,” Early said, and I swapped my flat cap for his fedora. “Keep the car running. I’ll be right back.”
“You think something happened to Everett?” I asked.
“No,” Early said. “Change of plans.”
“What are you talking about,” I said. “Who is—”
And then I saw you.
You were thirty yards off, standing away from that clutch of people beneath a maple tree. You were wearing a fancy suit, gray-blue, with shiny new shoes, a vest, and a necktie looped into a perfect knot. Who taught you to knot that necktie without me there to do it? You shifted your weight and I could see it then, my God, you just wanted to belong.
You looked like a man dressed for a fancy club—
“No,” I said to Early, who was reaching around the backseat for the second satchel. “Not Rye.”
“Gig, he’ll be fine,” Early said. “It’s the only way.”
“Jesus, Early, no.”
“He wants to do this, Gig.”
“No.”
“He’s the one who can get close to Brand. It’s gotta be him, Gig.”
“How can he get close to Brand?”
He looked over at me. “Jesus, think for just a second, Gig. How is it you got out of jail? When the rest of that crew was getting six months, how did you get out in only a month?”
“I wasn’t an elected official—”
“Come on! Rye did that! He’s been Brand’s guy on the inside from the beginning. Him and Ursula.”
I closed my eyes. It’s never the whole truth. But it’s enough.
“And now he wants to make up for it,” Early said. “He’s carrying five thousand dollars from Brand. We take that and he takes this satchel to Brand. He’ll be long gone by the time Brand opens it.”
I looked up at you, Rye-boy, in your fancy suit. And you saw me.
“Five thousand,” Early said. “Think of what we can do with that.” And then he reached into the backseat for the satchel again.
34
On Sunday, the day before Gurley’s verdict, and the day before he was to meet Early at the courthouse, Rye took a streetcar up the South Hill, walked six blocks, and stood shivering at Lem Brand’s gate, on the street below Alhambra. A young man stepped out of the gatehouse. He asked Rye to wait, and a minute later, Willard came down the driveway in his Ford. He gestured and Rye got in.
“Mr. Brand’s out of town,” Willard said.
Rye delivered Early’s message: “He wants five thousand, and for that, he says he’ll give Mr. Brand the evidence of their deal and disappear forever.”
Willard wrote in a small notebook as he said, “What evidence?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Five thousand?”
“Yes. Delivered to me Monday morning. And then I give it to him.”
Willard wrote all of this down. Then he sent Rye back to the gatehouse and drove back to the main house. Rye stood with the guard, who kept blowing on his hands, even though he wore gloves. “Do you like your job?” Rye asked.
“Are you kidding?” the man asked.
Willard came back down the drive ten minutes later. Rye got in the car again.
“Okay,” Willard said. “I bring you the money Monday, and you give me whatever papers and evidence Reston has regarding his deal with Mr. Brand?”
“He wants the money first,” Rye said. “Then he gives me the evidence. And I bring that to Mr. Brand at the Spokane Club in the afternoon.”
Willard wrote all of this down. “Where are you meeting Reston?” he asked without looking up.
“I’m not supposed to say,” Rye said. “I’m supposed to tell you that if you follow me, the deal is off.”
Willard wrote this down. “And what assurance does Mr. Brand have?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“How do we know this is the end of it,” Willard said, “that Reston won’t keep coming after him?”
“I don’t know,” Rye said.
Willard wrote this down. He looked over his notes. “Okay,” he said, “give me a minute.” Rye got out and Willard drove to the house again while Rye stood with the guard in the small guardhouse, just a few feet from each other.
“You got a job?” the guard asked Rye.
“I work in a machine shop,” Rye said.
“You like it?”
“Yeah.”
The guard said, “Huh,” as if he’d taken some wrong turn in life.
“Can I ask you something?” Rye asked. “Is Mr. Brand really out of town?”
The guard glanced at the house, then back at Rye. He shrugged with one shoulder.
A minute later, Willard drove back down to the guardhouse. “Get in.”
Rye did and Willard drove him back down the South Hill, through downtown, over the river, toward Mrs. Ricci’s house. “I’ll bring you the money at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said. “Mr. Brand wants you to tell Reston that the only reason he’s agreed to this was that unfortunate business with Del Dalveaux. This closes the books between them forever. If, for some reason, Reston resurfaces, or tells anyone that Mr. Brand hired him, Mr. Brand will spend the rest of his fortune hunting him down and killing him and his compatriots.” He cleared his throat. “And Mr. Brand wants you to know that we’ll start with you.”
“I’m not—” Rye started to say.
But Willard held up his hand, as if embarrassed to have delivered such a threat. “Don’t worry about it, it’s just what people say.”
Rye looked out the window at the deep sky, thinking of Prince Andrey lying wounded in the battle of Austerlitz, believing he was dying, realizing too late his own insignificance, the emptiness of valor and honor, the finality of death.
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Willard parked in front of Mrs. Ricci’s house. He offered his hand and Rye shook it.
“After this, tell Mr. Brand it’s over. I really am done.”
“Sure thing, kid,” Willard said.
35
Rye had beef and cabbage with Mrs. Ricci and a new short-term boarder she had taken in, a thin Canadian salesman with a long, open face. “What line are you in, Mr. Dolan?” the Canadian asked.
“Machinery,” Rye said.
“There’s the future,” the man said.