Angels in Heaven

did, in the way that a combination of Baby Face Nelson,
Buddha, and a tax examiner might look scary—expensive one-button mohair suit,
lizard shoes, narrow tie with a diamond stud, gray gloves (a nice touch), gray
homburg, steel-gray mirror shades, black leather attaché case.
    We exchanged moderately emotional
greetings, as we hadn’t seen each other since early one mom in a swamp. Then I
said, “Benny, my boy, thanks for everything you did down south, we would have
been in deep shit without your brilliance, foresight, and everything else.”
    “Victor, my man,” he said, “my
pleasure. You must tell me some sunny day how you got on with the
Globetrotters.”
    “Let me sum it up this way,” I said.
“I don’t think they’re going to renew my contract. What did you tell Happy my
problem was anyway?”
    “Double paternity suit,” he said.
    “Is that all?” I said.
    “With twin sisters,” he said.
    “Is that all?” I said.
    “Just going on sixteen,” he said.
    “Is that all?” I said.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Thanks a million, pal,” I said. “It
will not be forgotten.” I handed over the jar, which he put in his briefcase,
outlined the action, then took the seat behind the desk, leaving the one facing
me free. Benny besat himself carefully in the corner on the one remaining
chair, underneath a framed photograph of our host just after he’d won the
$50,000 Phoenix Open back in ’76. The rotter hardly looked a day older now. I
unbuttoned my jacket so Goose could spot the cannon in my holster, and wondered
how John D. had managed to spot that I was carrying it with the jacket buttoned
up. Remind me to ask him about that sometime. Maybe it was just a lucky guess.
    A little after three there was a
knock on the door. I let a long minute go by before calling out, “It’s open.”
    In, warily, came Goose, who surprised
me because he didn’t look like I thought he would, like a racetrack tout or a
West Coast version of some Damon Runyon character. Goose was a short, pudgy,
tired-looking man who walked like his feet hurt and blinked his eyes a lot.
    “You Ace?” he asked me.
    I nodded and pointed to the vacant
chair across from me. His eyes glanced nervously toward Benny, in his corner.
Benny looked impassively back.
    Goose took a seat; his legs were just
long enough so his feet reached the worn carpeting.
    “This your place?” he said, looking
around. “I usta bowl. Looks like a nice operation.”
    “Turns a buck,” I said. “Just like
you’re trying to do.”
    “Everyone’s gotta make a living,
right?” he said with a grin.
    “OK, Goose, let’s cut the shit,” I
said, slamming one fist on the desk under his nose and letting my jacket flop
open so he caught a good glimpse of the .38. His grin went somewhere and didn’t
come back. “J. J. Hill. Not the smartest dude in the world—what jock is?—but
smart enough to know who to call when some little shitass starts puttin’ the
squeeze on. Right, Mr. G?”
    Mr. G took a cigar out of a leather
cigar case, rolled it between his fingers briefly, licked one end delicately,
then put the other end in his mouth. I almost tripped over myself getting
across the room to light it for him. When I was back at the desk, I said, “So
here it is, Goose. We got plans for J. J. that do not include some two-bit
jerkoff from Anaheim, for God’s sake.”
    “Come on, you guys,” the Goose
protested. “Why jump on me? What have I done?”
    “Nothin’,” I said. “And that’s the
way it’s gonna stay. Hey, I dig that, it sort of rhymes.”
    “Ace,” said Benny, which was to be
his entire contribution to the dialogue. He held up his briefcase.
    “Oh, yeah, sure, Mr. G.” I crossed to
Benny with alacrity, took the case from him, opened it up, took out the
gift-wrapped digits, and put them gently on the desk in front of Goose.
    “Here,” I said. “Birthday present
from Mr. G. He gives terrific presents, you’ll like it. I did the wrapping,” I
added bashfully.
    Goose looked at the parcel like a
committed vegetarian eyeing a plateful of fresh steak tartare.
    “But it ain’t my birthday,” he said.
    “So happy Labor Day,” I said. “Open
it, it won’t bite. If you open it careful, you can save the pretty paper.”
    He opened it ... gingerly, I
suppose, would be more accurate than carefully. With extreme
gingerliness. When he took in what was in the jar, he went green and dropped it
on the rug.
    “That’s no way to treat a gift,”