Westermann drank coffee from a yellow-stained mug in Kostas’ Diner in Praeger’s Hill, the glass front plastered with anticommunist posters—head shots of Stalin and Mao over the single word VIGILANCE—and blue-and-red TRUFFANT FOR MAYOR signs. Across the booth from him was Nicky Patridis, a small-time crook carrying a rap sheet that included busts for burglary, fencing, pimping, assault, and the rest of the usual, depressing list. Patridis dripping sweat into the gray eggs and dry toast he was eating on Westermann’s dime.
Westermann wiped his neck with a napkin. “Keeping your nose clean, Nicky?”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Nicky said, his mouth full of eggs. “What do you want? You buy me eggs, doesn’t mean I’ve got to put up with this shit.”
Westermann gave him a stare. Nicky was a true sociopath; no point in being reasonable with him because he didn’t respond to reason. Only one calculation mattered to Nicky—how anything affected him. Even when he was cooperating, it was with an eye to his own gain. He was small and hairy and ugly, and Westermann supposed that during his life people had rarely been predisposed to liking him. Westermann hadn’t been predisposed to liking Nicky the first time they had met, and nothing since then had changed his mind.
“Okay,” Westermann said, pushing his coffee cup out of easy reach because the acid was eating into his stomach. “I’m trying to get a read on Godtown.”
Nicky shrugged, took a bite of toast.
“You ever work anything around Godtown?”
Nicky held up a finger until he finished chewing. “Nobody works Godtown.”
“Nobody works Godtown, Nicky? All those religious fanatics and nobody’s interested? From what I hear, they spend most nights in church; nobody home. Can it get any easier for skeeves like you?”
Nicky waved his fork no, speaking with his mouth full. “You’d think so, but it doesn’t work that way.” He swallowed. “Word is that the place is buttoned up. Rudi Odeline and a couple of his boys took a crack at it, like maybe a year back, maybe two. Maddox has got some kind of security or something because it didn’t work out so well for them. Anyway, word got around after that and nobody cases Godtown. It ain’t worth the risk, if you see what I mean.”
Westermann did see what he meant, thinking about Ole Koss. But he pushed Nicky anyway.
“I don’t know, Nicky. Rudi Odeline getting scared off? It doesn’t wash.”
Nicky’s eyes went wide with indignation. “Doesn’t wash? Shit. You don’t believe me, ask fucking Odeline. He’ll tell you.”
“You know where he is?”
“Of course. He’s in that kraut fucking garage that he runs.”
Westermann had been there before. Rudi Odeline was a successful entrepreneur in the City’s underground economy, running an illegal book out of the garage office; probably stolen goods as well, though they’d never got the timing right on a bust.
Nicky’s eyes strayed over Westermann’s shoulder. Westermann turned and saw the waitress hovering a few feet back; dirty-blond hair, probably attractive if she got a decent night’s sleep. Her bangs hung greasy in her face; her waitress uniform didn’t fit.
Nicky leaned forward and whispered, “That broad can’t keep her peepers off you.”
Westermann shook his head, not wanting to get into it with Nicky about this.
“Jesus,” Nicky said, “I had your looks, I’d be getting cooz all the time. You get a lot of cooz?”
Westermann tensed, uncomfortable, the conversation getting away from him. He didn’t know how to talk with lowlifes like Nicky. Nicky was the dregs.
“No?” Nicky was wide-eyed. Westermann noticed with distaste a speck of congealed egg on the corner of Nicky’s mouth.
“I’m not going to talk to you about this, Nicky.”
“What, you a queer or something?”
“Don’t push it.” Westermann shook his head, took his cup of coffee, and poured what remained of it on Nicky’s eggs.
“All right, all right. I’m making conversation here. Don’t get all bent.”
Westermann threw some bills on the table, pausing for a last glare at Nicky.
Nicky said, “Hey, what with you and me pals and all, you think your dad’d take me on pro bono if I get nicked?”
Westermann considered responding, then thought better of it. What would be the point?
At the door, Westermann turned around, saw Nicky back at his eggs, picking them out of the puddle of coffee and eating them as if all were right with the world. It was tough thing dealing with Nicky; he was too indifferent to stay intimidated. He snitched to Westermann out of a calculation that he’d get more out of the relationship than he would lose. Westermann kept reminding Nicky of exactly what he had to lose, but was under no illusions that he scared Nicky. Nicky just added the threats to his calculations and either snitched or, occasionally, didn’t.