Hush Money

This afternoon he would go to the Tropical, hand the tapes over to Felix, collect his money, quit. With no fanfare. No harsh words. If he got a chance to catch Cotter some place dark, that would be fine. But that was a luxury he could only indulge in if the opportunity presented itself; he wouldn’t seek it out.

Oh, and he would mention to Felix that it was unfortunate that the Family (or Frank DiPreta or whoever) had decided to kill Steve McCracken, because there was no way, really, to know whether or not McCracken had had an insurance policy — that is, someone holding copies of the tapes and related documents for forwarding to certain authorities, should anything happen to the boy. Felix would moan and groan, but Nolan would disclaim responsibility. He’d been told the boy would be left alone; it wasn’t Nolan’s fault if somebody chose to kill McCracken and thereby set in motion the release of the tapes.

And the tapes, apparently, could do some real damage to the Family. Not put them out of business, of course — that would never happen — but cripple them for a time, cause them considerable grief. Especially if somebody should happen to inform Frank DiPreta that the Family was behind brother Vince’s murder, in which case Frank just might turn up in court as a key prosecution witness, getting revenge and limited immunity as a sort of package deal.

Maybe you can’t destroy the Family, Nolan thought. But you sure as hell can kick ’em in the balls now and then.

He dug in his pocket for the envelope he’d taken from Steve’s pocket when he’d found the boy’s body slumped over in the trunk of that car. The envelope contained an address on a slip of paper and a key. The key was to a bus station locker, and in the locker was the duplicate set of tapes and related documents.

He found a small cardboard box under the sink and brown wrapping paper and string in the cupboard. He put the key, with a terse explanatory note, in the box, which he wrapped and tied. He copied the address from the slip of paper onto the package, and signed as a return address: “R. Scott, Comiskey Park, Chicago.”

Then he went into the front room, where Jon was watching Elmer Fudd shooting Bugs Bunny with a shotgun and getting nowhere. He said, “I thought you were going to write a letter.”

“When this is over.”

“Do me a favor.” He tossed the package to Jon. “Mail that. First class.”

“Sure.” Jon looked at the address. “Carl H. Reed. Who the hell is he?”

“Never mind,” Nolan said. “Just mail it.”