Operation Bamboozle Read online

  Lutz wouldn’t speak to anybody but Sam Giancana. Sam ran his end of the Mob like it was General Motors, and Lutz knew he’d handle this surprise like a product recall.

  “Tell me you’re homesick, Gene,” Sam said. “Your job here’s waiting for you.”

  “Got a pencil, Sam?” Lutz gave him the number of the pay phone in a nearby drugstore. The FBI couldn’t bug every phone in El Paso.

  Ten minutes later Giancana called him from a pay phone in Chicago. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Frankie Blanco’s alive. I saw him half an hour ago, here, in the street. One hundred percent certain. I called his name and he froze. It’s 85 degrees here, Sam, but he froze.”

  “Got an address for him?”

  “No. But it’s a small town.”

  “We have contacts at your end can do the legwork. Tony Feet will fly down. I can’t leave here right now. You keeping well?”

  “Never better.”

  3

  All the ladies who sat in Daniel’s chairs loved the paintings. Some simply adored them. Everyone thought it must be wonderful to have such talent. Nobody bought anything.

  Mrs. Susan Chandler took home the one of the fly fisherman up to his thighs in a broad, bubbling trout stream. He was seen from the opposite bank, which allowed Princess to make the most of the swirling water, partly shaded by overhanging trees. A rock created eddies. Leaves floated by. It was a nice place to grow up in, if you were a fish. Wonderfully wet. Mrs. Chandler brought it back.

  “My husband goes fishing,” she said. “He loves this picture, says it’s very … authentic. He sees himself standing in that river, you know?”

  “The sympathetic eye,” Julie said. “A great gift.” It was late afternoon and the salon was empty. She could see Luis waiting in the car.

  “Sure. The thing is … Bob’s a tall man, six foot two, and this guy looks kind of medium height.”

  “Think so?” Julie held it at arm’s length. “Up to his thighs. Could be a deep river.”

  “Yeah … the real problem, I’ve got to tell you, is the hair. There really isn’t much, is there? And Bob’s fair-haired, almost blond, it grows real thick with a natural wave. If you could fix that, and maybe get rid of those dark glasses, Bob hates dark glasses, always has.”

  “This is an original painting,” Julie said. “It’s the artist’s vision. We’re not in the Identikit business.”

  “Yes, but … Well, I took a couple of art courses at college, so I know how easy it is to … I mean, painter’s don’t always get it right first time, do they?”

  “This one did.”

  “I don’t understand.” Mrs. Chandler was a quiet, well-mannered lady, and now she was genuinely puzzled. “We’re the ones who’ll get the benefit. Don’t you want to make people happy?”

  “Find another artist, Mrs. Chandler. Go commission a work. Make your requirements known.”

  “Bob’s dog always goes with him.” She pointed to a spot on the bank. “Sits right there and watches. Beautiful springer spaniel.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Only a little dog.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  Mrs. Chandler turned away and looked at all the other paintings. “Not doing much trade, are you?” she said; still calm, still quiet. “You’re from the East, right? New York, I believe. We do things kind of differently here. There’s a lot of give and take in El Paso. This was a frontier town not long ago. Being neighborly came natural in hard times, and folk still like to help each other. Maybe that’s why we don’t have too many psychiatrists in El Paso. No demand.”

  “Not many artists either. Same reason.”

  “There you go again,” Mrs. Chandler said sadly. She left.

  Driving home, Luis wanted to talk about lunch with James de Courcy. Julie let him. It wasn’t until they were indoors that he asked her what sort of day she’d had.

  “Utterly totally stinking godawful bloody lousy,” she said. “Those were the good bits.”

  “Keerice!” Princess Chuckling Stream said. “I wanna hear the bad bits.”

  She told them about Mrs. Chandler. “Way she was going, we’d of had swans, clowns an’ the US Cavalry comin’ over the hill, so I said not for sale. End of story.” She stood the painting on a shelf.

  “Next time, ask me first,” Princess said. “I’d of done it.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Not to a gem like that.”

  “She has a point,” Luis said to Princess. “Mrs. Chandler’s changes were all crap.”

  “Who gives a shit? My stuff is crap. What we’re talkin’ about here is crap on crap.” They were in the kitchen, and she was preparing supper. “Difference is, when Ma Chandler pays cash we can eat.” She cut the head off a big catfish.

  “She has a point,” Luis said. “And that’s the ugliest animal I ever saw.”

  “I won’t do it,” Julie said. “I won’t desecrate beauty, and if you say I have a point I’ll punch your teeth in.”

  Princess picked up the head and pointed it at Luis. “All the other catfish think this cutie is Audrey Hepburn. They ain’t so sure about you. You win the ugly prize down catfish alley.”

  He looked at the painting. “You know, I sort of like the idea of a dog on the bank.”

  “Mrs. Chandler won’t come back,” Julie said. Defeat had flattened her voice. “She’ll tell her friends we’re New York snobs.”

  “Well, she got a point.” Princess said. “I favor garlic, anchovies and a hot chili with this beauty. That how you cook it in New York?”

  “We’re bust,” Julie said. “Finished.”

  “I don’t think New York ever saw a catfish,” Luis said. “Immigration hasn’t got a catfish quota.” He had meant to tell them about saving Freddy Garcia from the wolves, but now wasn’t the right time. “Chin up, old girl,” he said, and wished he hadn’t. This wasn’t World War Two. This was serious. This was Art. Unless it was crap. He gave up.

  4

  When he was eight, and visiting his uncle’s farm, Tony Feet got too interested in the action and the rear wheel of a tractor ran over his feet. Luckily his boots were new, the ground was soft, and the broken bones healed, but ever afterward he walked delicately, as if he didn’t completely trust the ground beneath him. When he joined the Organization he was called Tony Feet, not in mockery, but because a lot of Tonys worked there.

  He came down the steps from the airliner and Eugene Lutz met him. They talked in the car. “So we buried the wrong body,” Feet said. “I used to wonder who put Blanco in the lake. Problem was, he blew the whistle on so many of our people, it could have been any one of them. Or anyone’s brother-in-law. Some cop, even. Plenty on the payroll.”

  “I know. I paid them.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  Lutz nodded. “I could tell straight off. I called his name and he jumped three point seven feet off the ground and pissed himself a pint and a quarter.” Feet laughed. “Two percent margin of error,” Lutz said. “Either way.”

  “Get a load of this sunshine. Why can’t Chicago be in Texas, Gene?”

  “It’s a penance,” Lutz said. “For inventing chewing gum.”

  A man called Fitzroy was waiting in the lobby of Lutz’s apartment block. Fiftyish, thin, anonymous except for his eyes. He had tailor’s eyes: they felt your wallet while they measured your inside leg. “Mr. Giancana mentioned a photograph,” he said. Tony Feet gave him a dozen prints. “He’s put on fifty pounds,” Lutz said. “Lost a lot of hair, too.”

  “I’ve got my people out looking,” Fitzroy said. “If he’s in El Paso, we’ll find him.”

  “If he’s in El Paso he might want to find you,” Feet said to Lutz. “You scared him. Go pack a bag. You and me, we’ll stay at a hotel. What’s the best?”

  “The Bristol,” Fitzroy said. “My cousin’s the manager. It will be an honor. No charge.”

  “See?” Lutz said. “You should live here, Tony. People are real friendly.”r />
  “One of your guys goes in the Lutz apartment,” Feet told Fitzroy. “In case Blanco calls.”

  Fate had been a big disappointment to Frankie Blanco. He’d given it his best shot, and what had it come up with? First off, nothing much. And now, too much. Fuck fate. You’re fired.

  That was one good decision, and it made him feel better, so he had another idea: go hide in Mexico. For what? Forever? The idea began to hurt his brain. Lousy idea. Stick to what you’re good at, Frankie, his mother had always said. He was good at whacking people and at pumping gas. He had the Texaco job, no strain on the brain, so long as you didn’t smoke near the pumps. He went back to work.

  Between cars, he wondered how come Eugene Lutz was in El Paso. Someone in Chicago maybe gave Lutz a gun, told him to … No. Bookkeepers never did that kind of stuff, wouldn’t know how. Crazy idea.

  Lutz shouts his name, beats it in a taxi. Explain that. Doesn’t add up.

  Cars came and went.

  Maybe Lutz was here on Mob business, just visiting, just bad luck they met. Business doing what? Putting in the fix on the rodeo shows? Chicago wouldn’t waste its time on El Paso. Small potatoes. Forget it.

  He was jimmying the smokes machine to get a few packs of Pall Mall before he locked up, when a fresh idea slid sideways into his brain and dazzled him, it was so brilliant. If Lutz was just visiting, he’d go away again, good, no problem. If not, that meant he lived here. Frankie found a phone book. Not a common name. And hey! There it was: Lutz, E. B. and an address, the only Lutz in town. Soon there’d be none. Frankie rejoiced. Keep it simple, kid. That was his mother’s advice too. Don’t get in a pissin’ contest with a polecat. A boy’s best friend, people said. Damn right.

  Tonight was too late, he’d have to get Lutz out of bed, it would be noisy, neighbors might interfere. But Frankie was restless. He drove out into the desert and did some target practice, shooting at cactus plants under the full moon. He felt good, in command again. He drove home and quit the roominghouse, it was a dump, and he went and checked into a motel. From now on it would be motels for Frankie. He could afford it. Lutz must be loaded. He’d make it look like robbery. This was his trade, for Chrissake. God bless you, ma. Sleep came easy.

  5

  “So you slept on it. I have to say your decision surprised me. Worried me too. Considerably.”

  “I don’t see why,” Luis said. “Freddy Garcia’s your client. I’m his get-out-of-jail card. You should be pleased.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.” They were in James de Courcy’s office, facing each other across the glossy slice of redwood. “As a lawyer I’m an officer of the court. I have a duty to act …” He frowned, and looked about the room, searching for the right word.

  “Correctly.”

  “Yes, that of course, and more. Decently, honorably. You don’t know a lot about oil, do you, Luis?”

  “So what? I know a lot about Freddie.”

  “And even Freddie doesn’t know everything about this oil well he’s buying. Nobody does, because nobody can. He’s not just gambling, he’s gambling blindfold. That takes guts, more guts than I’ve got.” He stood up, and winced as the weight went on his right leg.

  “Freddy never shirked a fight.”

  James took a silver-topped cane and limped around the room. “They couldn’t get all the bits of bullet out,” he said. “The debris wanders hither and yon, making a bloody nuisance of itself … Now: I wasn’t going to tell you this until I heard your decision. Your ten-thousand-dollar investment buys you fifty thousand dollars’-worth of stock in Hanover Fields. If Freddy’s right, you’ll double that in a year, maybe less. If he’s wrong …”

  “That’s out of my hands,” Luis said. “And now this is in his.” He put a fat envelope on the desk. “One hundred hundreds.”

  “I’ll wire it to him within the hour. He’ll exercise his option, by nightfall you’ll be part-owner of an oil well.” James came over and they shook hands.

  “Tell me one thing,” Luis said. “Why did the Russian shoot you in the leg?”

  “There could have been many reasons. By the time I’d put a bullet through his head it was too late to ask.”

  “Good shooting, in the circumstances.”

  “Yes. He had a very small head.”

  Fitzroy installed a man named Slug Murphy in the Lutz apartment. The name was wrong, it suggested someone squat and loud. In reality he was neat and lithe, built like a welterweight, dressed entirely in black, even the shirt and tie. Murphy was 24 and he had a thin black mustache as sleek as sealskin.

  “You probably won’t have to say anything,” Fitzroy told him. “He’ll just look at you and go.”

  “If he asks, you’re Eddie Lutz,” Tony Feet said. “Don’t let him in. Then call us.”

  “Be sure and shut the fridge door firmly” Eugene said.

  “Anything goes wrong, don’t touch the guy,” Fitzroy said. “No violence. Chicago wants to ask him questions.”

  Murphy listened carefully. His gaze moved from one man to the next. He gave a very small nod. He said nothing.

  “The phone rings, answer it,” Tony Feet said. “You’re Eddie Lutz. The caller asks for Eugene, you never heard of him, hang up.”

  “Don’t fool around with the TV settings,” Eugene said.

  “Eddie Lutz,” Fitzroy said. “I wrote it down for you. See?” He gave him a piece of paper. “Practice. Get so it sounds natural.”

  “Eddieeee … Lul-Lutz.” Slug Murphy sang it softly. “Gotcha.”

  “Don’t slam the shower door. Treat it nicely.” Eugene gave him the keys. Murphy tossed them in the air and caught them behind his back.

  On the way down, Tony Feet said: “You sure he’s the right guy for the job?”

  “He just has to remember his name,” Fitzroy said. “Besides, I thought you should meet him. He was a sniper in the army in Korea. Got a dishonorable discharge. Wants to work for you in Chicago. He never says much.”

  “So I noticed. Maybe he’s saving up the words until he has a full sentence.”

  Upstairs, Slug Murphy was checking out the apartment. He went into the bathroom, saw the shower cubicle, opened the door and slammed. It. It fell off its hinges and smashed. Dumb stupid fuckin’ door. He didn’t want a shower anyway.

  Frankie Blanco left the rifle in the motel. He drove to town and bought a secondhand Police .38, plus bullets. Then he bought two bottles of Coke, drank one and stopped at a coffeeshop, went to the men’s room and stuffed the bottle with toilet paper. The neck made a snug fit over the muzzle of the .38. A poor man’s silencer.

  He’d had breakfast at a diner but this coffeeshop offered a 99-cent special, scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast, coffee, so he took a break and ate that too. What’s the rush? Nobody ever got whacked before the hitman arrived.

  The address was an apartment block. He parked the Chevy, found Lutz on the directory board in the lobby, and took the elevator. He held the .38 under his jacket, with his right thumb hooked inside his shirt pocket to take the weight. If anybody looked, he was scratching his left armpit. His other hand held the second bottle of Coke. Nobody suspected a guy strolling along, scratching his armpit, swinging a half-empty bottle of Coke. It was better than a clipboard.

  He pressed the buzzer for Lutz’s apartment. The door opened and the kid in black standing there was saved from taking three slugs in one heartbeat by Frankie’s sheer professionalism. That, and the face that the kid had a Second World War British Army Sten gun in his hands.

  “Lookin’ for Eugene Lutz,” Frankie said.

  The kid was holding a piece of paper between his teeth. He released it, unfolded it, looked at it and said: “Eddie Lutz.”

  “That’s your problem, pal. I want Eugene.” Frankie tried to see past him. A black shoulder blocked his view. “Eugene asked me here special. He’ll kick your ass, you don’t let me in. Who’re you, his nephew?”

  “Eddie Lutz.” He glanced at the paper, to make sure.r />
  “Yeah, terrific, but what’s your goddamn name?”

  “Eddie Lutz.” This time, Frankie said it with him, in a high, flat, empty voice; and the Sten got raised. “Bet you made that scrap iron in the basement,” Frankie said. But he knew the box magazine held 32 rounds of 9-millimeter and this zombie could spray the lot in three seconds. “Tell Eugene that Maurice the Florist called,” he said, and went. Eddie Lutz, for Chrissake. Guys like him shouldn’t be allowed to vote and make change. Just from the way Lutz held the Sten, Frankie knew he was a cowboy. Lutz the putz.

  Slug Murphy called Fitzroy at the Bristol. “He just left,” he said.

  “Give you a number? An address?”

  Murphy thought about it. “Maurice the Florist.”

  “No such place. Not in this town.”

  Murphy thought about that. “Could have been maybe Horace. Horace the Florist.”

  “Yeah, sure. Or Boris. Doris, even. Remember Doris Olivier? Big English actor, got the Oscar. Lock up, Slug. Go home.”

  Tony Feet had been listening. “That name, Slug Murphy. It’s got no class. In Chicago, Sam likes everyone in the family to have some class. So you can shoot straight and still do the crossword. That was always Frankie Blanco’s problem. No class.”

  “You can tell him that,” Fitzroy said. “Real soon.”

  In the kitchen at Cliff Boulevard they were arguing about art, honesty and money, but mostly money.

  “Princess’s art is unique,” Julie said. “We’re not going to give it away just so some dealer three stops down the line can make a killing from it.”

  “Every journey starts with a single step,” Luis said. “What’s the most we can get now?”