The beauteous Belinda Beauvais is standin’ in front of me, one hand on hip, the other holdin’ a pic of the late Jimmy the Finger Doyle.
“It’s never been found, you know,” she says, battin’ the curly eye frames. “His body.”
“So?” I answer. “Tony D’Angelo’s rottin’ in the tank for offin’ him. Nobody seemed to care about the corpse then.”
“We do.”
Now I know the bodacious Belinda is an undercover Jane for the Feds so I tune up the old Dumbos.
“How come?” I ask.
“The pinstripes think he’s still alive. And that he’s got five million dollars worth of crack to finance his return from the great beyond.”
“What do you want with me?”
“For all intents and purposes, Jimmy’s dead. The Feds like it that way. And they want you to make sure he stays that way.”
Now I’m Sammy, the Gat: nine notches on my gun butt and a six-figure payoff when I work for the Feds. Better it goes to me than some phony penny-loafer consult.
“The usual, Belinda?”
“When you deliver the body, Sammy, not just information.”
We don’t even shake on it as Belinda and me, we got a thing and one touch would have us in the sack.
She takes off and twenty minutes later, I’m on my way to a field outside’a town where I know Jimmy’s body is stashed in the trunk of an old jalop.
I know, ’cause I put it there.
Got fifty g’s and half the snow from Jimmy’s widow for that hit.
Sammy the Gat 