The credit cards were made out to Fred W. Riordan, R. K. Bennett, Alfred Shaw, Each card was signed on the back but, despite the name differences, the handwriting in each case was the same. Miles turned the cards over again, checking the commencement and expiration dates which showed that all three were current. As far as he could tell, they were genuine.
He turned his attention to the billfold. Under a plastic window was a state driver's license. The plastic was yellowed and hard to see through, so Miles took the license out, discovered that beneath it was a second license, beneath that a third. The names on the licenses corresponded to those on the credit cards, but the head and shoulders photographs on all three licenses were identical. He peered closer. Allowing for differences when the photograph was taken, it was undoubtedly of the old man on the bed.
Miles removed the money from the billfold to count it. He would ask Nate Nathanson to put the credit cards and billfold in the club safe, but should know how much he was handing over. The sum was unexpectedly large five hundred and twelve dollars, about half in new twenty-dollar bills. The twenties stopped him. Miles looked at several of them carefully, feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertips. Then he glanced at the man on the bed who appeared to be sleeping deeply. Quietly, Miles left the room and crossed the fourth-floor corridor to his own. He returned moments later with a pocket magnifier through which he viewed the twenty-dollar bills again. His intuition was right. They were counterfeit, though of the same-high quality as those he had bought, here in the Double-Seven, a week ago.
He reasoned: The money, or rather half of it, was counterfeit. So, obviously, were the three drivers' licenses and it seemed probable that they were from the same source as Miles's own fake license, given him last week by Jules LaRocca. Therefore, wasn't it likely that the credit cards were also counterfeit? Perhaps, after all, he was close to the source of the false Keycharge cards which Nolan Wainwright wanted to locate so badly. Miles's excitement rose, along with a nervousness which set his heart pounding.
He needed a record of the new information. On a paper towel he copied down details from the credit cards and drivers' licenses, occasionally checking to be sure the figure in the bed was not stirring.
Soon after, Miles turned out the light, locked the door from outside and took the billfold and credit cards downstairs.
He slept fitfully that night, with his door ajar, aware of his responsibility for the inmate of the cubicle across the hall. Miles spent time, too, speculating on the role and identity of the old man whom he began to think of as Danny. What was Danny's relationship to Ominsky and Tony Bear Marino? Why had they brought him here? Tony Bear had declared: He's important to us. Why?
Miles awoke with daylight and checked his watch: 6:45. He got up, washed quickly, shaved and dressed. There were no sounds from across the corridor. He walked over, inserted the key quietly, and looked in. Danny had changed position in the night but was still asleep, snoring gently. Miles gathered the plastic bags of clothing, relocked the door, and went downstairs.
He was back twenty minutes later with a breakfast tray of strong coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs.
"Danny!" Miles shook the old man's shoulder. "Danny, wake up!"
There was no response. Miles tried again. At length two eyes opened warily, inspected him, then hastily closed tight. "Go 'way," the old man mumbled. "Go 'way. I ain't ready for hell yet."
"I'm not the devil," Miles said. "I'm a friend. Tony Bear and Russian Ominsky told me to take care of you."
Rheumy eyes reopened. "Them sons-o'-Sodom found me, eh? Figures, I guess. They usually do." The old man's face creased in pain. "Oh, Jesus! My suffering head!"
"I brought some coffee. Let's see if it will help." Miles put an arm around Danny's shoulders, assisting him to sit upright, then carried the coffee over. The old man sipped and grimaced.
He seemed suddenly alert. "Listen, son. What'll set me straight is a hair of the dog. Now you take some money…" He looked around him,
"Your money's okay," Miles said. "It's in the club safe. I took it down last night." "This the Double-Seven?" "Yes."
"Brought me here once before. Well, now you know I can pay, son, just you nip down to the bar…"
Miles said firmly, "There won't be any nipping. For either of us."
"I’ll make it worthwhile." The old eyes gleamed with cunning. "Say forty dollars for a fifth. Howzat?"
"Sorry, Danny. I had orders." Miles weighed what he would say next, then took the plunge. "Besides, if I used those twenties of yours, I could get arrested."
It was as if he had fired a gun. Danny shot upright, alarm and suspicion on his face. "Who said you could…" He stopped with a moan and grimace, putting a hand to his head in pain. "Someone had to count the money. So I did it." The old man said weakly, "Those are good twenties."
"Sure are," Miles agreed. "Some of the best I've seen. Almost as good as the U. S. Bureau of Engraving."
Danny raised his eyes. Interest competed with suspicion. "How come you know so much?" "Before I went to prison I worked for a bank."
A silence. Then the old man asked, "What were you in the can for?" "Embezzlement. I'm on parole now."
Danny visibly relaxed. "I guess you're okay. Or you wouldn't be working for Tony Bear and the Russian."
"That's right," Miles said. "I'm okay. The next thing is to get you the same way. Right now we're going to the steam room."
"It ain't steam I need. It's a short snort. Just one, son," Danny pleaded. "I swear that's all. You wouldn't deny an old man that small favor."
"We'll sweat some out you already drank. Then you can lick your fingers." The old man groaned. "Heartless! Heartless"
In a way it was like taking care of a child. Overcoming token protests Miles wrapped Danny in a robe and shepherded him downstairs, then escorted him naked through successive steam rooms, toweled him, and finally eased him onto a masseur's table where Miles himself gave a creditable pummeling and rubdown. This early, the gym and steam rooms were deserted and few of the club staff had arrived. No one else was in sight when Miles escorted the old man back upstairs.
Miles remade the bed with dean sheets, and Danny, by now quietened and obedient, climbed in. Almost at once he was asleep, though unlike last night, he appeared tranquil, even angelic. Strangely, without really knowing him, Miles already liked the old man. Carefully, while he slept, Miles put a towel under his head and shaved him.
In late morning, while reading in his room across the hall, Miles drifted off to sleep.
"Hey, Milesy! Baby, stir ass" The rasping voice was Jules LaRocca's.
Startled, Miles jerked awake to see the familiar potbellied figure standing in the doorway. Miles's hand
reached out, seeking the key of the cubicle across the hall. Reassuringly, it was where he had left it.
"Gotsum threads for the old lush," LaRocca said. He was carrying a fiberboard suitcase. "Ominsky said ta deliver 'em ta you." LaRocca, the ubiquitous messenger.
"Okay." Miles stretched, and went to a sink where he splashed cold water on his face. Then, followed by LaRocca, he opened the door across the hall. As the two came in, Danny eased up gingerly in bed. Though still drawn and pale, he appeared better than at any time since his arrival. He had put his teeth in and had his glasses on.
"Ya useless old bum" LaRocca said. "Ya always givin' everybody a lotta trouble."
Danny sat up straighter, regarding his accuser with distaste. "I'm far from useless. As you and others know. As for the sauce, every man has his little weakness." He motioned to the suitcase. "If you brought my clothes, do what you were sent for and hang them up."
Unperturbed, LaRocca grinned. "Sounds like ya bouncin' back, ye old fart. Guess Milesy done a job."
"Jules," Miles said, "win you stay here while I go down and get a sunlamp? I think it'd do Danny good." "Sure."
"I'd like to speak to you first." Miles motioned with his head and LaRocca followed him outside.
Keeping his voice low, Miles asked, "Jules, what's this all about? Who is he?"
"Just an old Beeper. Once in a while he slips away, goes on a bender. Then somebody has to find him, dry the old barfly out." "Why? And where does he slip away from?"