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She had started to cry, of course, and he’d given her a reprimand and let it go at that, since it was her first day on the job. That was his problem, Nolan knew. He was just too damn softhearted. Once on a bank job, a guy whom Nolan had jumped on for roughing up employees needlessly, had said to him, “Shit, man, you probably cry at Disney pitchers,” and though the remark wasn’t true, it had struck home. Also, Nolan had struck the guy.

But for the next week the reports continued. She spilled coffee, tea, and milk, and plates and trays of food constantly into customer laps. If just once she could have landed the crap on the floor, even, but no... into lap after lap after lap, and soon she was on the carpet again, getting one of Nolan’s lectures, and then she was crying and suddenly was on Nolan’s lap. Which was certainly an improvement over drinks and food, and as the tears welled out, so did a sob story about how much she needed this summer’s job to pay for her college. This was patently untrue, Nolan knew. She had dropped out of college, according to the data on her application form, and as far as he knew, her main reason for taking a summer job at the Tropical was to get a nice tan.

However, he liked the feel of her in his lap, and before long Sherry was back on the carpet, but in a different sense, and out of her waitress uniform both temporarily and permanently. By that afternoon her name was listed on the payroll as “Social Consultant.” And so began a relationship that was clearly immoral, entirely corrupt and wholly enjoyable.

“Unnngghhh,” she said. Her eyes were still closed.

Nolan said, “Did you say something?”

“Ungh... what time is it, honey?”

Nolan looked at his wristwatch. “Five after two.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon.”

“We miss breakfast?”

“And lunch.”

“I’m hungry, honey.” Her eyes were open now; half open, anyway.

“That’s understandable,” Nolan said.

“What do they call it when you mix breakfast and lunch together?”

“A goddamn mess.”

“Don’t tease me, honey.”

“You call it brunch.”

“That’s right. Brunch. Let’s have brunch.”

“Good idea. Scrambled eggs and bacon and toast?”

“Good idea, honey.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and used the phone. “This is Logan. Put Brooks on.” Logan was the name Nolan was using right now.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Logan.”

“Good morning, Brooks. Send my usual breakfast over, will you?”

“For two?”

“I said my usual breakfast, didn’t I? And Brooks?”

“Yes, Mr. Logan?”

“You scramble the damn things, this time. With milk and some grated cheese the way you do. Don’t put one of those half-ass college kids on it, for Christ’s sake.”

“When did I ever do that to you, Mr. Logan?”

“Yesterday.”

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Logan.”

Sherry was getting out of bed, jiggling over to the dresser where she’d left her bikini. He watched her get into it. The bikini was innocence-white and Sherry was berry-brown.

Happy birthday, you bastard, he said to himself, grinning. You’re finally getting there. He was really enjoying this job, even though it was only temporary, only a trial run. The place was called the Tropical Motel, and consisted of one building, half restaurant and half bar-with-entertainment, and four buildings with sixteen motel units in each. There were also two swimming pools, both heated, one indoor, one out. The Tropical was located ten miles outside of Sycamore, Illinois, and was devoted to serving newlyweds of all ages, regardless of race, creed, or actual marital status. Nolan had known nothing about running the hotel end of it, but had been given sufficient help, so no sweat. What he was good at was running nightclubs and restaurants, that was something he’d done for years, though admittedly it had been years since he’d done it.

Seventeen, eighteen years, in fact, since the trouble with Charlie put an end to his career as a nitery manager. Nolan had managed several Chicago clubs to great success, but those clubs were owned by the Family. Of the many Families around the country (loosely united and known by various names — Syndicate, Mafia, Cosa Nostra, etc.), the Chicago outfit was the single biggest, most powerful Family of them all, and was in a very real sense the Family. And Charlie was one of the most powerful men in the Family.

It was after a violent clash with Charlie that Nolan had turned professional thief, using his organizational ability to put together strings of specialists who under his command pulled off one successful robbery after another. The world of organized crime and professional thievery don’t intersect as often as you might think, and Nolan steered clear of his old enemy Charlie for many years, without much trouble, just by staying away from places owned or controlled by the Family, avoiding Chicago itself altogether. Besides, a pro thief generally shied away from hitting any Syndicate operations, anyway, out of inter-professional courtesy.