South Central Noir

“That’s the one. If you’re looking for company, it isn’t the place. But she’s got a hell of a voice.”

“And a lot of depressing songs. No thanks.”

No problem — if Eckstine wasn’t playing it just meant less distraction for getting the job done. Vince looked over the list and numbered the names in the order he’d get to them.

The closest one, Bob Wilson, was familiar. The guy almost always had the dough. It was an easy commission. But still, “I’m not your fucking errand boy” is what he’d told Wilson the last time he’d had to hunt him down to collect. He was gonna pop him one this time. Nothing much, just something to get the point across. Vince wasn’t hard to find. The guys who’d come to him were the ones he never gave any trouble.

He wasn’t really in the mood. He had to get up for it. He dumped the rest of his beer in the sink and got out the can of Maxwell House. He packed it down hard into the top of the percolator and filled the tank with half the water it called for. It’d take a lot of sugar to make it drinkable, but he liked it sweet.

He lit the stove, set the pot down on the burner, and went to get ready. He splashed water on his face and combed his black hair so that some of it hung down over an eye. People said he looked menacing that way. He fished a couple of whites out of his sock drawer and swallowed them dry. Once the speed and the coffee kicked in, Vince’d be pumped.

It was too early for the serious night owls. Wilson was one, which meant he might still be at home. If he wasn’t, there was a poker-and-slots parlor in the back of the drugstore over on 67th. He’d be there sometime tonight, although not for long. His credit wasn’t any good until he forked over a payment.

Vince parked his Buick across Wilson’s driveway in case the jerk got any bright ideas. He tramped through the flower bed on the way to the front door. Might as well give the guy some extra grief. There was gonna be the late penalty and at this point a little something more for making Vince come over here so damn often.

Things were likely to be better than the last time Vince had to drop by. Wilson’s wife had left him and taken the kid since then. Nothing he hated worse than having to pound on some dummy while the little lady was hollering at him and a brat was yowling.

It was a small Spanish-style place, one of the few single houses on a street of four- and six-unit buildings. There was a light on in the living room and Vince could hear a ball game on the radio.

He rang the bell and stood back. He didn’t try to hide or anything, not wanting to tip Wilson off that he was going to get a beating.

Footsteps shuffled up to the other side of the door.

“Yeah, who is it?” The peep hatch opened and Wilson looked out from between the bars.

Vince didn’t say anything, just made sure Wilson could see his face.

“Oh, hey, Vinnie.” At least the slob knew better than to call him Ears. “I’ve got money for you. I was gonna look for you when I went out tonight.”

Yeah, like hell he was.

Wilson opened the door and waved Vince in. The place was a mess, empty beer bottles, moldering food cartons, a couple of weeks’ worth of newspapers and racing forms, most of it covered with dust. If the poor bastard was going to chase away his wife, the least he could do is get someone to come in and clean up from time to time.

Vince didn’t really want to sit down. The whites and coffee were buzzing in his veins. He just wanted to collect the cash, put a little hurt on the fool, and get to his next customer.

But he sat anyway, took a couple of deep breaths while Wilson went to the kitchen. It was better if he remained calm. He needed to bust the guy up, but not too much. Dead or disabled doesn’t make anyone a repeat customer.

Wilson came back with two open bottles of Blue Ribbon. It wasn’t Vince’s usual brew, but it would do. Wilson handed one to Vince then walked over to turn down the volume on the radio. He sat on the sofa across from him and took a long swallow of his beer. He set it down on the coffee table too hard. He was trying not to let it show, but he was nervous.

“Look, Vinnie, I’m a little short right now. I been having to send money to the wife. She’s staying at her mother’s. I don’t know what she does with it all.”

Vince took a swig from his bottle, then pointed the mouth of it at Wilson. He didn’t say anything. He scowled and cocked his fingers to look like the bottle was the barrel of a gun.

“No, Vin, Vinnie, it’s not like that. I’ve got the vig and another C-note on account. I just couldn’t pull it all together tonight. That’s okay isn’t it? So long as I’ve got the vig.”

The Lucca brothers weren’t going to mind. That was the point anyhow. Let a sucker lay down some bets, loan him some dough, carry him when he’s late, and keep racking up the interest, a lot of interest. It was a chump’s game. But so long as he could make a payment, and there was some hope he’d be around to make the next, bigger payment, Vince’s bosses were happy. And when they were happy, they made him happy.