you do?’ I said, ‘Anything you tell me to do.’ž”
She waited for me to go on, but I was finished. That was the story, and it was the first time I’d told it to anybody in over five years, and it made me nervous just to talk about it.
She said, “What happened after that?”
“Ed brought me back to New York with him. I drove cigarettes to Canada for a while. I was a New Look union boy for a while. I came up in the world. Ed knew I was his boy.”
“Why, Clay?”
I closed my eyes. “Why? If Ed hadn’t come along that night, where would I be today? In jail on a twenty-to-life for manslaughter and stealing a car and half a dozen other counts.”
“It was a college prank,” she said. “You might have gotten just a suspended sentence.”
“The girl was dead, Ella. That doesn’t come under the heading of college prank. Nobody else lifted a finger for me. Ed was the only one helped me. He saved me, so I was his boy. Besides, I hadn’t known what I wanted to do. Nothing attracted me very much. Nine to five as a clerk or an accountant some place, I didn’t go for that.” I opened my eyes again, and looked at her. “I like this life, Ella,” I said. “You’ve got to get used to that idea. You’ve got to believe it. I like this life.”
“Which face is false, Clay?” she asked me.
“Neither one. Both. How the hell do I know? I’ve got a feeling for you. If I let myself, I’d have a feeling for Billy-Billy Cantell, even if I had to give him an accident. But I can’t let myself have any feelings there.”
“You can turn your feelings off and on?”
“Not on, Ella. Only off.”
This time, I was the one waiting for her to say something. Finally, I had to break the silence myself. “Will you stay?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Chapter Five
I left the apartment at eight-thirty, dead on my feet, and drove downtown to the building where Clancy Marshall, Ed Ganolese’s lawyer, has his office. Ella still hadn’t given me definite word one way or the other, and I worried about that all the way downtown. I didn’t even think about the fact that neither Fred Maine nor Jack Eberhardt had called me with news about Billy-Billy Cantell. By now, one of them should have. A punk like Billy-Billy couldn’t stay completely out of sight for very long. Either the cops would find him, or we would find him. One of us should have found him by now.
Clancy’s office is on Fifth Avenue, and I knew it would be impossible to find a parking space anywhere in the vicinity. So I drove down Columbus Avenue until after it became Ninth Avenue, and turned left on 46th Street. I left the Mercedes at a parking lot on 46th Street, and took a cab the rest of the way. If I’d been fully awake when I left the apartment, I would have taken a cab right from there and not bothered about the Mercedes at all.
Sitting in the back seat of the cab as we inched our way crosstown, I thought about Ed Ganolese, and about what I’d told Ella of my first contact with Ed. In the garbled goulash of the newspaper trade, Ed Ganolese would undoubtedly be referred to either as a “crime czar” (in the tabloids) or a “syndicate chief” (in the kind you fold), but neither of those pat phrases gets the right idea across. I would call Ed the man with the finger in the pie. Any pie. Show me a pie and I’ll show you Ed’s finger.
You may never have heard of Ed Ganolese, but he is a very important guy in your life. At one time or another, he has probably bought a politician for you to vote for. If you ever came to New York for a convention and did things the little woman shouldn’t know about, Ed probably wound up with some of your cash. If you ever guessed three numbers for money, Ed got a part of your dime. Likewise, if you have given money to horses or to other sports stars, or drunk much beer, or ever heated a spoonful of white powder over a candle while the hypo waited nervously in the wings, you have helped to make Ed
She waited for me to go on, but I was finished. That was the story, and it was the first time I’d told it to anybody in over five years, and it made me nervous just to talk about it.
She said, “What happened after that?”
“Ed brought me back to New York with him. I drove cigarettes to Canada for a while. I was a New Look union boy for a while. I came up in the world. Ed knew I was his boy.”
“Why, Clay?”
I closed my eyes. “Why? If Ed hadn’t come along that night, where would I be today? In jail on a twenty-to-life for manslaughter and stealing a car and half a dozen other counts.”
“It was a college prank,” she said. “You might have gotten just a suspended sentence.”
“The girl was dead, Ella. That doesn’t come under the heading of college prank. Nobody else lifted a finger for me. Ed was the only one helped me. He saved me, so I was his boy. Besides, I hadn’t known what I wanted to do. Nothing attracted me very much. Nine to five as a clerk or an accountant some place, I didn’t go for that.” I opened my eyes again, and looked at her. “I like this life, Ella,” I said. “You’ve got to get used to that idea. You’ve got to believe it. I like this life.”
“Which face is false, Clay?” she asked me.
“Neither one. Both. How the hell do I know? I’ve got a feeling for you. If I let myself, I’d have a feeling for Billy-Billy Cantell, even if I had to give him an accident. But I can’t let myself have any feelings there.”
“You can turn your feelings off and on?”
“Not on, Ella. Only off.”
This time, I was the one waiting for her to say something. Finally, I had to break the silence myself. “Will you stay?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Chapter Five
I left the apartment at eight-thirty, dead on my feet, and drove downtown to the building where Clancy Marshall, Ed Ganolese’s lawyer, has his office. Ella still hadn’t given me definite word one way or the other, and I worried about that all the way downtown. I didn’t even think about the fact that neither Fred Maine nor Jack Eberhardt had called me with news about Billy-Billy Cantell. By now, one of them should have. A punk like Billy-Billy couldn’t stay completely out of sight for very long. Either the cops would find him, or we would find him. One of us should have found him by now.
Clancy’s office is on Fifth Avenue, and I knew it would be impossible to find a parking space anywhere in the vicinity. So I drove down Columbus Avenue until after it became Ninth Avenue, and turned left on 46th Street. I left the Mercedes at a parking lot on 46th Street, and took a cab the rest of the way. If I’d been fully awake when I left the apartment, I would have taken a cab right from there and not bothered about the Mercedes at all.
Sitting in the back seat of the cab as we inched our way crosstown, I thought about Ed Ganolese, and about what I’d told Ella of my first contact with Ed. In the garbled goulash of the newspaper trade, Ed Ganolese would undoubtedly be referred to either as a “crime czar” (in the tabloids) or a “syndicate chief” (in the kind you fold), but neither of those pat phrases gets the right idea across. I would call Ed the man with the finger in the pie. Any pie. Show me a pie and I’ll show you Ed’s finger.
You may never have heard of Ed Ganolese, but he is a very important guy in your life. At one time or another, he has probably bought a politician for you to vote for. If you ever came to New York for a convention and did things the little woman shouldn’t know about, Ed probably wound up with some of your cash. If you ever guessed three numbers for money, Ed got a part of your dime. Likewise, if you have given money to horses or to other sports stars, or drunk much beer, or ever heated a spoonful of white powder over a candle while the hypo waited nervously in the wings, you have helped to make Ed
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