Tags:
Mystery,
Minneapolis,
Minnesota,
Poker,
comics,
Hautman,
New York Times Notable Book,
Hauptman,
Hautmann,
Mortal Nuts,
Joe Crow,
St. Paul
talk to the guy sheâs seeing. I donât even want to know who he is. I just want you to find him and get rid of him.â
Crow jerked his head back. âYou want me to kill him?â
âI want you to
pay
him,â Wicky said.
âYou want me to pay him,â Crow repeated, somewhat relieved.
Wicky turned to the pad of paper and drew a dollar sign over his wifeâs loverâs triangle. âPay him to go away,â he said.
Crow cleared his throat and looked off to the side. He felt as if Wicky was showing him a sore on his cock. Paying him to look at it. He was embarrassed to be in this sterile room with this lumpy man, taking his money, looking at his circles and triangles and dollar signs.
âThis isnât my sort of thing, Dickie,â he said, wondering as he said it what his sort of thing was.
âJoe, I trust you.â Wicky caught Crowâs eyes and held on. âI know you can handle it. Professionally. If I tried to do it myself Iâd lose it. Iâd kill the son-of-a-bitch. I can sit here and talk about it with you all rational like and calm, but if I saw the guy face-to-face I just donât think I could hold myself back. Iâd be like a wild animal.â He paused, his little eyes flickering back and forth over Crowâs face.
The image of Dickie Wicky becoming a wild animal was almost too much, but years of poker playing enabled Crow to hold his face rigid.
Wicky continued. âLook, Joe, I can afford to make it worth your while. And youâd be doing me a huge favor. Wait. . .â He held up a palm, halting Crowâs refusal. âDonât give me your answer now. I just want you to think about it. Would you do that for me? Think about it?â
The way he put it, it seemed so reasonable and fair. Crow tried to shake his head no, but found himself nodding. Why was he so gutless in the hands of a salesman? Was it the eyes? Later, on the phone, he could say no and he wouldnât have to look at those pale, quivering eyes.
âOkay,â he said.
Wicky stood up and gave Crowâs hand a firm, moist shake. âThanks, Joe. Thanks for listening.â
Crow felt as if he had just paid too much for something he didnât need. Wicky was still holding on to his hand. He clapped his other hand on Crowâs shoulder. âSay, do you like to have a good time?â
âNot particularly.â Crow pulled his hand away and stepped back. Wicky held his palms out, facing Crow as though to show him that they were empty, a magician about to perform sleight of hand.
âWe're having a little wingding tonight. Lots of food and booze. Or whatever you want. Iâll even have some of that fake beer stuff that you drink. Bring a friend if you want, or come aloneâthereâll be plenty of women there. Besides, itâll give you a chance to get a look at Catfish. Here.â He produced an expensive-looking pen and wrote on the back of a business card. âYou know where The Summit is? Where I live? Itâs right downtown, right on the river. Hereâs my address and security code. Just buzz yourself in and go right on up to the twenty-fifth floor. We got the whole floor opened upâswimming pool, game room, whateverâso come by anytime.â He held out the card.
âIâll try to make it,â Crow lied, dropping the card in a pocket, not looking at it. âWhatâs the occasion?â
âItâs my birthday,â Wicky said. âI'm going to be twenty-seven.â
Crow blinked. Twenty-seven? He would have guessed closer to forty. âCongratulations,â he said, apropos of absolutely nothing.
âThanks!â Wicky opened the conference room door.
âWhat about my fee?â Crow asked.
Wicky furrowed his brow, then brightened. âOh, of course. How much was it?â
âThree hundred.â
âOuch! You want to flip for it?â
âNo, thanks.â
Wicky opened
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