Fly Paper by Max Allan Collins Page B

president of the goddamn Chamber of Commerce. Hell, I’m even a college graduate, would you believe that?”
    “I believe you can pass for one,” Bernie said, getting a fresh beer. “I joined this country club, and it’s full of those Phi Beta crappers. They’re some of the dumbest, most boring assholes I ever hung around with. If Thelma didn’t insist we belong, I’d get the hell out.”
    Bernie’s social-climbing wife, and the indignities he suffered because of her, was a topic Nolan could do without, so he steered around it, saying, “Anyway, Bern, my point is, there are certain of my former activities the Family doesn’t want me engaging in.”
    “Shit, you’re even starting to sound like a damn college man. Okay, so you’re here for a heist. And you want the lid kept on it.”
    “Right, Bern.”
    “What do you need, a car? You can have a car as long as you’re in town, Nolan. On the house. Course, if you wreck it, I’ll expect you to buy the thing. That’s only fair, I mean.”
    “More than fair. But you could help me another way.”
    “Whatever it is, I’ll do what I can.”
    “I need some supplies for the job. And I figure the less people I talk to, better off I am. Can you get me what I need?”
    “Think so. Anything short of a tank, anyway. What is it you want?”
    Nolan told him.
    “What the hell you need those for?”
    “I don’t want the guys I’m heisting to see me. If they see me, I’ll have to shoot them.”
    “Getting soft, Nolan? Ain’t fat bad enough?”
    “I never been one to kill without reason, Bernie.” That was true enough, but Nolan didn’t go into the rest of it—that his main reason was, he didn’t want to subject Jon to violence that extreme. If he could help it.
    “Well, okay, Nolan. You always known what you was doing. Sit and have another beer—there’s plenty in the cooler. I’ll go get a man to rustle that crazy shit up for you. Run you about twenty-five bucks per. What you want, a couple?”
    Nolan nodded.
    “Okay, good as done. But I were you, I’d remember those toys’re no substitute for firepower. You can’t beat a gun, no way.”
    “Oh, I’ll have a gun, Bern. I may be getting soft and fat, but I’m not crazy.”
     
     
    6
     
     
    THE BALLROOM was filled with long tables, tables stacked with the wares of dozens of individual dealers, and hundreds of kids-of-all-ages were filing past the tables, stopping to examine those wares. The dealers ranged from small-time local collectors getting rid of their duplicates, to big-time operators who’d come from either coast in vans loaded with boxes and boxes of rare material. The goods of both were scrutinized with equal suspicion by prospective buyers, who slipped the books from their plastic bags to make sure each was properly graded, fairly priced, going over each yellowing artifact like a jeweler looking for flaws in a diamond. A generally cordial mood reigned, however, and the horse-trading, the bickering over an item’s monetary worth, was considerably more amiable than what you might run into at a pawnbroker’s, say, or an antique shop. Jon, in his jeans and sweatshirt, fit in well with this crowd, who hardly looked prosperous, unless you noticed that greenbacks of just about every denomination were clutched in the countless hot little hands like so much paper. Though the throng included kids below teen-level, as well as men into middle age and beyond, most were closer to Jon’s age, and ran to type: male; glasses; skin problems; skinny (or fat) or short (or tall); ultra-long hair (or ultra-short); T-shirts with super-heroes on them. If Nolan were here, he’d look at this crowd and figure them for the bums of tomorrow—hell, bums of today —but in reality these were highly intelligent, if slightly screwball young adults, potential Supermen even if they did look more like offbeat Clark Kents.
    What was going on was a comic book convention. This ballroom in a downtown Detroit hotel had been