Chapter 6

Steve Paul knocked at the office door, trying to contain his anxiety as he waited for the answering, "yeah?"

"Jay," he called through the door, "it's Steve. Could I see you a minute?"

Jay Snyder mumbled under his breath. Interruptions, he said to himself. Always these god damned interruptions. "Not now, Steve," he said. "I'm busy as hell."

Not too busy for this, Steve thought. "Jay," he said, "it's pretty important."

Snyder sighed. Something like this always happened when he was doing his most enjoyable work, which consisted of thumbing through photos of naked girls, trying to decide which ones might be better suited for prostitution. "Personnel management," Snyder called it, although in other circles it would be called something different, "white slavery" for instance.

"OK, Steve," he said. "Come on in."

The door opened and Steve Paul came in. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, wearing a wide-lapeled pinstripe suit, a flashing pink shirt, a wide red and white striped tie, and the light blue shoes that were his trademark, his badge of identification. Steve was always careful to maintain his calm, knowledgeable front, so that the legitimate businessmen he dealt with would not guess at his real vocation: sex and perversion.

"Jay," he said, "we've got problems."

"You're telling me we've got problems," said Snyder. "The first problem is that I can't get any god damned work done because every time I sit down to it some jackass comes in here to tell me we've got problems. I'm tired of hearing about these god damned problems. That's what I pay you guys for, especially you, to take care of problems for me."

Paul was used to this, knew it meant nothing. Jay liked to blow off steam, liked to pretend that he was swamped with work and had no time, but when it came right down to it, he liked to handle everything himself. "Never trust anybody," he often said. "The only one who knows exactly what you want is you."

"These are serious problems," said Paul.

"We could be in real trouble."

"How's that?" said Snyder.

"Two things. The first has to do with one of the girls, Judy Burton."

"Judy Burton?" Snyder said. "Nothing wrong with that girl; she's one of the best I've got. She's so good, in fact, that I fixed her up with Joe Carruthers last night."

"That's just it. She never showed." He knew this would get under Snyder's skin--if there was anything he hated, it was being crossed by one of his girls.

"She what?" Snyder said, rising out of his chair.

"She never showed."

"Well, what in the god damned hell happened to her?" Snyder had come around to the front of his desk, was standing over Paul, glaring at him.

"You have a kid who drives for you, right? A kid named Tim Huntley?"

"Sure. What about him?"

"Last night," Paul said, "he was seen with Judy Burton at the Gay Paree. They came in separately and left separately, but they were in there together for about two hours, and very chummy. About eleven o'clock, just after Slackjaws called to tell Judy about Carruthers, the kid, Huntley, left. Two minutes later Judy Burton left too. The bartender was curious, so he poked his head out the door, saw them walking down the street together. Again, very chummy."

Snyder slammed his fist into his palm. "Why that little bitch," he said. "And you mean to say that she never met Carruthers?"

"That," said Paul, "is exactly what I mean to say."

"Why that little bitch," Snyder repeated. He thought for a minute, pacing around the desk and muttering to himself. "OK," he said. "I'll take care of her. What else?"

"What about the kid," said Paul. "the driver."

"He's all right. Just a little too young and a little too dumb. All he needs is a good talking to. Now go on, go on, what else?"

"This one could be a lot worse," Paul said. "Last night at the convention this guy came up to me, made a real point of introducing himself to me and shaking my hand. Said his name was Johnson, Gus Johnson. He was so eager that I got a little suspicious, so I decided to check him out. I invited him up to the party--great party, by the way--and got him together with Cindy; they went back to her place and had a wild fuck. We've got her place so bugged that you can hear a leaky faucet on the tape."

"Good," Snyder said. "I don't trust that redhead bitch."

"With good reason," Paul said. "It turns out that this guy Johnson--actually his name's not Johnson at all; it's Kramer--is a cop, a lieutenant on the Vice Squad, and he's after your tail. He got Cindy to promise to turn evidence on you and testify against you in court."

Snyder stared at him, wide-eyed. "Is this true?"

Steve Paul looked hurt. "You know me, Jay," he said. "I'm no alarmist. Everything I said is true. I can play the tape for you if you want."

Snyder shook his head. "No," he said, "it's OK. I believe you." He paced around the room, absent-mindedly picked up a paperweight, put it back down on the desk. "OK," he said finally. "I think I know how to handle both problems at once. Send Slackjaws in here."

Paul pressed the button on the intercom. "Trudy," he said, "ask Mr. Nelson to step into the office. Tell him Jay wants to see him right away. Tell him it's important." He released the intercom button, sat back in his chair. "What've you got in mind?" he said. Paul's eyes were shining. He knew whatever his boss planned to do that he, Steve, would be assigned to carry the project through, that in the course of carrying out Jay's orders he would be able to amuse himself as well.

"Just hang on a minute," muttered Snyder. "You'll see."

Paul nodded. "By the way," he said, "the cop, Kramer; I did a little investigation of my own. He has a wife, Lisa, who's very very nice to look at, but, I understand, a little on the slow side in the sack."

"Excellent," said Snyder. "Excellent." He grinned. "Maybe we can speed her up a little, what do you think?"

"I think," said Paul, returning his bosses grin, "that it is quite possible."

Just then the door opened and Slackjaws Nelson walked in. Slackjaws had played football for UCLA for two years, had gone to work for Snyder immediately after he flunked out of school. He stood six five and weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, all of it solid muscle. He had a huge round head, small piggish eyes, and a protruding underslung jaw, from which his nickname was derived. On the football field he had been called "The Animal," and of that nickname he was quite proud. An animal he was, stupid and vicious, and he had only two pleasures in life: beating people half to death and screwing women.

"You sent for me, boss?" he said. He was almost drooling in anticipation, knowing that Snyder would not have called for him unless there was work to be done, work that involved at least one, and possibly both, of Slackjaws' hobbies.