Unknown Man No 89 (1977) (14 page)

Chapter
17

The whales were down from the wall, the sketches of the grays and humpbacks off California. In their place, in flowing black sumi, were the words No More . . .

"Then what?" Ryan said.

He was in one of the director's chairs. Denise came out of the kitchen with two glasses of red pop and found room for them on the low table with all the paint tubes and ceramic pots.

"I identified the body," she said. "Driving down, I was pretty nervous, I didn't know what it would be like. But the way they do it-they showed just his face on a television screen-it wasn't bad at all." She picked up the pottery ashtray heaped with cigarette butts and went back to the kitchen with it.

"The police were there?"

"A detective, we went to his office. No, first I called a mortuary and took care of that, then I went to the police station."

"Do you have money? I mean for the burial?"

"He's going to be cremated," Denise said. She came back in with the ashtray, her eyes moving briefly to the wall. "I'm still working on my new motto."

"I see that. How were the police?"

"Polite, official," Denise said, sitting down in the other chair. "They asked questions-when I'd seen him last, that kind of thing. I can't believe it. I mean, the way I found out, a man I don't know. I didn't read a thing about it, I guess I didn't see the papers at all for about a week. Mr. Perez had a picture of me he'd cut out, an old one from when I was at State they must've got from my mother. I don't know where else."

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine." She was lighting a cigarette. "You mean nervous? I just can't believe he's dead. It's over and I don't have to do anything about it. I must live right, huh?"

"What did this Mr. Perez say?"

"He said something about a property or assets I'm entitled to, if I'll sign an agreement. But Bobby didn't own property, anything of real value."

"Maybe," Ryan said, "it isn't property the way you think of property, real estate. You said assets. It could be stock, something like that."

"He didn't own stock. I doubt if he even knew what it was."

"Somebody could've left it to him." Ryan was edging in. "His dad or somebody?"

Denise was staring at him, making up her mind about something.

"We're not talking about a normal, ordinary person," she said. "As far as I know, he didn't have a dad, or a mother. He was a street hustler, he was an addict, an armed robber. He was ... he killed people."

"You knew that?" Ryan asked.

"I don't know, I suppose. I didn't want to know and I didn't ask about much. I drank. He was arrested, he was always being arrested, and if he was convicted they'd send him to a state hospital. He had a history of mental illness. He'd come out, I wouldn't see much of him. I guess he lost interest. Usually I'd hear he was living with somebody."

Ryan shook his head. He didn't know what to say. Denise was still looking at him.

"Did you read anything about him in the paper, that you remember? Bobby Leary?"

Ryan hesitated. "I don't know, I may have."

"The best way to describe him," Denise said, "picture a black heroin addict who killed people. But the reason we didn't hit it off, he was shorter than I am."

Ryan smiled. "Come a long way from Bad Axe, haven't you?"

"Almost full circle," Denise said. "But I'm sure as hell not going back."

"I heard a minister one time at a meeting," Ryan said. "He'd lost his congregation, they found out he was drinking and kicked him out, after about twenty years. He said if it hadn't happened he could have gone another twenty years being a minister, preaching, giving the sermons, and never look at himself and find out who he really is."

Denise said, "Is that me?"

"It's where you are," Ryan said. "You're not Mom's little girl anymore, or a drunk, or married to an addict who kills people. You're you, without a label."

"None of the other shows?"

"I don't see anything," Ryan said. "You could've been a nun before. What difference does it make?" He took a sip of red pop and let her think about it.

"Sometime, if you want," Denise said, "I'll tell you about him."

"Who?"

"Bobby."

"Sometime tell me about you," Ryan said. "If you want to. Right now, aren't you curious about this property, or whatever it is? What else did the guy say?"

"That's all. I'm entitled to something and he'll tell me what it is if I'll sign the agreement. It's in the kitchen. You want to see it?"

"That's all right. What does he take, a percentage?"

"He gets half."

"Half? For giving you something you own?"

"Well, he said I wouldn't know about it if it weren't for him and he went to a lot of trouble, but he said there wouldn't be any other charges or expenses taken out."

"He's generous with your money, isn't he? Did he say what the value of this asset is?"

"He said a considerable amount."

"Aren't you curious?"

"I think it's a come-on. I asked him if he was trying to sell me something."

"What'd he say?"

"He said no. What else would he say?" She drew on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke quickly, to say something. "I don't know what to do with Bobby's ashes. I have to decide."

"Where are they?"

"At the funeral home. They said I can have them buried in a cemetery plot or take them home-I can see that, Bobby sitting on the mantel in a Grecian urn. Or I can have the ashes scattered. That's another thought--rent a plane and have his ashes scattered over Jackson prison."

"I'd say you're taking your bereavement pretty well," Ryan said.

Denise looked at him calmly. "I'm glad he's dead. I could jump up and do a dance, but I can't get it into my head that it's true. I've never been this lucky before."

"And Mr. Perez comes along-things're looking up, uh? What're you going to do about that?"

"I told him I'd think it over."

"Did he seem anxious, try and get you to sign right away?"

"No, he was polite, courteous," Denise said. "Whatever it is, I guess to him it's still just a job."

"Besides the food and the lovely view of Canada over there in the rain," Mr. Perez said, "I'll tell you what else I don't like. I don't like sitting around waiting for a drunk woman who works in a grocery store to make up her mind."

Ryan didn't like sitting here listening to him.

If she hadn't signed the agreement yet and the deal was still up in the air, what good was he doing here? He could sit on the couch or go look out the window with Mr. Perez or watch Raymond hunched over the room-service table sucking his frog legs. They were always bitching about food, but one or the other always seemed to be eating or about to eat or had just finished.

"Three times I've called her," Mr. Perez said to the window. "Shit, twelve, fifteen times I've called, three times I've talked to her, and she hasn't decided yet what she's going to do. I asked her, 'Are you talking to your lawyer? That's fine, I'd do the same.' She says no, she's been busy, hasn't had time to think about it. Busy doing what?"

It wasn't a question. Mr. Perez wasn't looking at either of them. Ryan answered it anyway. He said, "Maybe staying sober."

Mr. Perez turned from the window now and seemed to study Ryan.

"If she's having a hard time, concentrating on it," Ryan said. "Maybe that's what she means."

"Staying sober," Mr. Perez said.

"It could be more important to her than money," Ryan said.

Mr. Perez waited. "You tell me you haven't seen or spoken to her?"

Ryan shook his head. "No, sir." Mr. Perez could believe him or not. Screw Mr. Perez.

"I recall you said you told her you're a process server. Is that right?"

"When I got her address, yeah."

"She wouldn't be surprised, then, if you walked up and served her some papers."

"For what? You going to bring suit now?"

"No, I'm thinking I'm going to pull it out from under her," Mr. Perez said. "Three times I tried to talk to her, offering to give her half. All right, three times and she's out."

"She doesn't know what it's half of," Ryan said.

"So she won't be disappointed. I think it's time to get this thing done."

Ryan was paying close attention now. "Are you talking about screwing her out of everything?"

"She won't feel it," Mr. Perez said, "if we handle it properly. I was thinking, if you were to serve her a paper that looks like a writ or a summons of some kind, and she signs it-"

"The one getting served doesn't sign anything," Ryan said.

Mr. Perez was patient. "Does she know that? You come to her, you represent the court. You tell her to sign some papers that have to do with her husband, a certification of his death. Use some legal-sounding bullshit. One of the papers she signs-she sees just the bottom part-gives us her power of attorney to get the stock from the company and sell it." Mr. Perez nodded, thinking about it. "It's crude, I'll admit, but I don't see why we have to finesse it any. Raymond, what do you think?"

Gidre sucked the bone as he pulled the frog leg out of his mouth. "Sounds good to me."

Ryan said, "And she gets nothing. You never meant to give her any of it, did you?"

"No, the agreement I gave her specifies half-"

"What, she gets nothing because she won't sign right away?"

"Why don't you shut up for a little bit and let me talk," Mr. Perez said. "I'm not punishing her. I can't hurt her if she doesn't know she's being hurt, can I?"

Ryan didn't say anything. He was on edge now and didn't want it to show. He watched Mr. Perez come over and stand behind the deep chair, resting his hands on the high back.

"What occurs to me," Mr. Perez said, "is that we have a unique situation. A great deal of money, much more than usually's at stake, and a beneficiary who either doesn't believe me or doesn't give a shit about the asset she's entitled to. All right, we reach a point, if she doesn't want it-and I offered it to her, didn't I?-then we'll take it. We're not stealing from anybody, we're picking something up that's been discarded. That's if you need a rationale."

"Pick it up?" Ryan said. "You got to fake her out to get her signature."

"I'm not finished," Mr. Perez said. "If that's hard for you to chew on, then how about this?" He rested on his arms, leaning over the back of the chair and looking directly at Ryan. "Since we double the profit, we double your fee from ten percent to twenty. That's somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars for playing like you're serving some papers. Does it sound better now?"

Ryan didn't say anything.

Mr. Perez waited, giving him a little time. Finally he said, "What is it you're thinking about, whether or not you want to do it? I'll tell you something, I'm not holding my breath. I can call your friend Jay Walt and he'll get the papers signed, won't he? What would he charge, about fifty bucks? You've put a lot of time in this, you've worked hard, and my feeling is you're entitled to a share. But as I watch you sitting there I begin to think, Wait a minute, what am I being so nice for? You work for me, but generally what I get are arguments and that's a bunch of shit when I'm paying you for what I want done. Isn't it? So what I'd like to hear you give me, without a speech or any more questions, is a simple yes or no."

"All right," Ryan said.

He took the elevator down to the lobby.

It was his own game he was playing, so he could make up the rules. All right, according to the game, wasn't yes or no, it was neutral, no more significant than a grunt, and meant nothing. It got him out of there and gave him a little more time. He could say to himself, in game-honesty, I haven't agreed. All I said was all right.

He could go in the Salamander Bar and think about it. The doorway was across the lobby. It would be a quiet place to relax and think-a clean, dimly lighted place. A hotel cocktail lounge in the afternoon.

It was almost two. Denise was off at four-thirty.

Get her to sign the agreement and take it to Mr. Perez. There, she signed it. Let's go ahead the way you originally planned, okay? Get it done. You can keep my ten percent. Really, I'd just as soon not have it or talk about it.

So he could say to himself, See? I didn't take anything. So I didn't take advantage of her, did I? Good boy. The game no one else knew about, going on in his head.

He took the escalator to the ground floor and walked outside and thought about Mr. Perez looking out the window bitching about the cold, wet April weather and traces of dirty snow. He began thinking about Florida. He hadn't had a vacation, a real one, in three years. Play the game on the beach, lying in the sun. Tell himself it had got too complicated. Christ, he didn't have to get involved in something like this. Take off. Never see any of them again.

It was just too goddamn involved. There was no way to do it without screwing somebody. There was no way to stay in the thing with even a questionable conscience, one you could talk to and bullshit a little.

He could tell the police Mr. Perez was extorting money. Whatever he was doing, whatever it was called, was illegal. Except he'd still be involved. He was a part of it. He could be facing Perez and Raymond Gidre in court, or, shit, he could be sitting with them.

Just take off.

Tell Denise first, everything, then take off.

No, that would be leaving her with it, getting her all f ucked-up and running out.

So just leave.

You have an organized mind, he told himself. But you think too much. Look. Go to Florida and lie in the sun and drink a little beer, that's all, just beer, and find some secretaries on their vacation and smile a lot and get laid every night and forget it.

Or, go along with Mr. Perez. Take the thirty thousand and don't think about it and go to Florida, shit, go to some place in the Caribbean and do it right.

Who was it had taught him to look at options? Somebody at a meeting had said pre-think your options. Then when something happens you're ready, you don't panic and fuck up.

He got his car from the parking lot and drove north on the Lodge Freeway.

Do it and take the money.

Don't do it. Forget the whole thing.

Go to the police. Call Dick.

Tell Denise everything and leave.

Or--

Christ. He saw it coming. He had seen it in his mind before, glimpses of it, but not as clearly as he saw it now.

tell Denise everything and don't leave. Turn the whole fucking thing around. Ace Mr. Perez.

How?

He was beginning to feel excited. Ace the son of a bitch. In his own words-pull it right out from under him.

How? He didn't know the name of the stock. He'd have to find that out first.

No, first tell Denise. Tell her everything.

She wouldn't believe him. Why would she? She'd have as much reason to trust Mr. Perez.

But why assume that? How did he know until he told her? What was all this assuming what people were going to think and do?

She'd believe him or she wouldn't. She'd go along or she wouldn't. He didn't have to try to convince her of anything. He'd say, Here it is. What do you want to do?

Simple?

Simple.

He had stopped playing the game with himself, and it was a good feeling.

Virgil lost Tunafish for a few days.

Tunafish was arrested and arraigned on charges of conspiring to commit extortion and great bodily harm and released on a $3,000 bond. He was out, awaiting the examination, but Lavera wouldn't let him have the car.

Virgil asked him what the fuck was wrong with him? What was this jive five hundred dollars extortion shit? You want five hundred dollars, go to the liquor store.

Tunafish said it was a friend of his, Bonzie, had been doing it, calling ladies at home in the evening and telling them he had their daughter and they was to bring five hundred to room 307 of the Ramada Inn on Telegraph or else he was going to jump on the daughter's bones. Tunafish said he listened to Bonzie make some calls while they were smoking joints, and Bonzie was laughing and fucking it up. Nobody believed he was serious.

Virgil said a woman would have to be severely retarded in the head to believe shit like that and come with the money. What's the man doing, sitting in room 307? He say thank you very much, here's your little girl? Shit. What women? How'd he know them to call?

Tunafish said Bonzie was hanging out in the dormitory lounges at Oakland University, giving his cool-nigger shit to the little white chickies new there, making out some and finding out things. See maybe, Bonzie's idea, maybe there was some mothers was dumb enough to bring the money and not call the police, they was so scared. Bonzie wouldn't be in the room, he be outside. He see the woman go to the room and come back to her car. If he don't see any police around, he take the money from her. See, but nobody believed him. They call the police, but nobody brought any money. This time they made a call, this time they told the woman, Hey, we got your daughter here and we gonna drop her out the window on her head, Mama, you don't bring the money. The woman come? Virgil asked. The woman come with three Southfield police cars, Tunafish said, and picked up him and Bonzie in the parking lot. Tunafish wasn't worried, though. The woman said she recognized Bonzie's voice. Tunafish grinned and said, Yeah shit, but it was me that talked to her.

That's why Virgil Royal was back on duty, following Ryan to the churches, the hospital, the Pancake House- not having any idea what Ryan was doing-and each day out to the apartment in Rochester.

There was something about the woman Ryan was with all the time. The way she walked? Something. Virgil couldn't put his finger on it.

The third day back on the job, following Ryan at four-thirty in the afternoon and pretty sure he was going to Rochester, cutting over Big Beaver to I-75, Virgil stopped off at Abercrombie and Fitch in the Somerset Mall and lifted a pair of $400 Steiner binoculars. At six o'clock Ryan and the woman came out of the apartment building. Virgil, in his Grand Prix, maybe two hundred feet away, put the glasses on the woman and adjusted the focus and saw Lee Leary up close with short hair and glasses, close to Ryan and looking at him, but not the way she had looked at him in the bar. A week ago in front of the pancake place, the same one. The man had been with her all the time.

There was no reason to get angry and say things to the man. It was the woman, Bobby's woman, Virgil wanted to talk to.

The next morning he watched her come out of her place and walk down the drive and across Rochester Road and the big open parking area and go in the A&P. She didn't come out.

She didn't come out until a quarter to five in the afternoon. He saw her in there, working a check-out counter.

It was the next day, and Virgil went in at four-twenty. He looked over the wine shelves for a few minutes before picking up two half-gallon jugs of Gallo Chablis Blanc, walked over to the express check-out counter, and placed them on the conveyor.

As Denise took the first bottle to bring it past her and rang up the amount with her other hand, Virgil said, "This is your brand, isn't it?"

She looked up at him. "Pardon me?"

Virgil said, "How you doing, Lee?" Maybe she recognized him, staring at him; he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He said, "Let's drink some wine this evening, have a talk."