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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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night.”
17
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_______________________________________________
“DID YOU GET up in the middle of the night and go out?” she asked, at breakfast. “Or was I dreaming?”
Even in the morning she looked good. She’d got up before me and washed her hair, and was wearing a towel around her head like a turban. Her face was clean and unblemished and free of make-up, though still dark with Florida tan, and she looked young, or anyway as young as those eyes of would allow.
She was wearing a housewifely patchwork robe that made her look less than glamorous, but there was no way known to make her look bad. She looked good.
I was in my underwear. My hair was greasy, my teeth unbrushed, my face unshaven. I was barely awake. I looked down at the plate of scrambled eggs. I looked back up and managed to say, “You weren’t dreaming. I did get up. I went out and drove around a couple hours.”
“What possessed you to do that?”
“It’s something I do sometimes. Just go out and drive. Helps me think.”
“About what?”
“In this case, about getting mugged by those guys last night. Wondering if there’s anything I can do about it. Any way to find them and get my money back and pay them back a little, too. I suppose I could go to the cops about it . . .”
“Why bother? That six hundred bucks of yours is long gone by now, don’t you think?”
“I suppose you’re right. I guess my ego was just a little bruised, that’s all.”
“Are you serious about asking Frank Tree for work?”
“I am if you’re serious about putting in a good word for me.”
“Sure.”
And so I asked her. I couldn’t see any reason why not. And I didn’t know anybody better to ask. So I did. I asked her, “What do you know about this guy Tree, anyway?”
She gave me a confused little smile for a moment, while she searched my face wondering what I was up to, no doubt.
“I don’t know a hell of a lot,” she said.
“Whatever it is, it’s more than me.”
“Well, the Barn is a relatively new thing, I know that much. It hasn’t been too long since the law passed in Iowa that makes it even possible for a place like the Barn to openly exist.”
“Must be a pretty liberal law. Or is Tree just greasing the right wheels?”
“Little of both, I’d say. The law makes gambling legal in situations where there’s a ‘social relationship.’ Such as a private club, or any place where the gathering is social, whether it’s bingo in the church parlor or poker in the back room of a bar. Certain things are still illegal . . . blackjack, craps, roulette, and there’s a fifty-dollar win or loss limit, in a twenty-four hour period. But all of that can be gotten around. Obviously.”
“Sounds like your employer knows how.”
“He should. I hear he used to have a place in Illinois, on the Mississippi, in some little town that was really wide open. Across from Burlington, Iowa. Anyway, he had a place there, like the Barn, only rougher. No restaurant number, just a casino set-up, and booze, of course. Booze wasn’t legal in Iowa on Sundays, so Sunday was a big night for a place like that, people coming across the river to sin in Illinois.”
“I wonder why he left.”
“The laws got changed. Booze on Sundays is legal in Iowa now, and you know about the gambling law. So he moved back to Des Moines and opened the Barn.”
“Back to Des Moines?”
“Yeah, I understand he was involved in some things here in the late ’40s and early ’50s, but I don’t know what. That’s all I know about the man. It’s just stuff I picked up off my girl friend Ruthy, and the bitches at work. They’re all hot for his bod, you know.”
“Really. Does he hump the help?”
“Not this help, he doesn’t. Anyway, he’s too good a businessman to do that, I think.”
“What’s your personal opinion of the guy?
17
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
“DID YOU GET up in the middle of the night and go out?” she asked, at breakfast. “Or was I dreaming?”
Even in the morning she looked good. She’d got up before me and washed her hair, and was wearing a towel around her head like a turban. Her face was clean and unblemished and free of make-up, though still dark with Florida tan, and she looked young, or anyway as young as those eyes of would allow.
She was wearing a housewifely patchwork robe that made her look less than glamorous, but there was no way known to make her look bad. She looked good.
I was in my underwear. My hair was greasy, my teeth unbrushed, my face unshaven. I was barely awake. I looked down at the plate of scrambled eggs. I looked back up and managed to say, “You weren’t dreaming. I did get up. I went out and drove around a couple hours.”
“What possessed you to do that?”
“It’s something I do sometimes. Just go out and drive. Helps me think.”
“About what?”
“In this case, about getting mugged by those guys last night. Wondering if there’s anything I can do about it. Any way to find them and get my money back and pay them back a little, too. I suppose I could go to the cops about it . . .”
“Why bother? That six hundred bucks of yours is long gone by now, don’t you think?”
“I suppose you’re right. I guess my ego was just a little bruised, that’s all.”
“Are you serious about asking Frank Tree for work?”
“I am if you’re serious about putting in a good word for me.”
“Sure.”
And so I asked her. I couldn’t see any reason why not. And I didn’t know anybody better to ask. So I did. I asked her, “What do you know about this guy Tree, anyway?”
She gave me a confused little smile for a moment, while she searched my face wondering what I was up to, no doubt.
“I don’t know a hell of a lot,” she said.
“Whatever it is, it’s more than me.”
“Well, the Barn is a relatively new thing, I know that much. It hasn’t been too long since the law passed in Iowa that makes it even possible for a place like the Barn to openly exist.”
“Must be a pretty liberal law. Or is Tree just greasing the right wheels?”
“Little of both, I’d say. The law makes gambling legal in situations where there’s a ‘social relationship.’ Such as a private club, or any place where the gathering is social, whether it’s bingo in the church parlor or poker in the back room of a bar. Certain things are still illegal . . . blackjack, craps, roulette, and there’s a fifty-dollar win or loss limit, in a twenty-four hour period. But all of that can be gotten around. Obviously.”
“Sounds like your employer knows how.”
“He should. I hear he used to have a place in Illinois, on the Mississippi, in some little town that was really wide open. Across from Burlington, Iowa. Anyway, he had a place there, like the Barn, only rougher. No restaurant number, just a casino set-up, and booze, of course. Booze wasn’t legal in Iowa on Sundays, so Sunday was a big night for a place like that, people coming across the river to sin in Illinois.”
“I wonder why he left.”
“The laws got changed. Booze on Sundays is legal in Iowa now, and you know about the gambling law. So he moved back to Des Moines and opened the Barn.”
“Back to Des Moines?”
“Yeah, I understand he was involved in some things here in the late ’40s and early ’50s, but I don’t know what. That’s all I know about the man. It’s just stuff I picked up off my girl friend Ruthy, and the bitches at work. They’re all hot for his bod, you know.”
“Really. Does he hump the help?”
“Not this help, he doesn’t. Anyway, he’s too good a businessman to do that, I think.”
“What’s your personal opinion of the guy?
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