Unknown Man No 89 (1977) (19 page)

"I don't see you doing much," Ryan said. "You want something, but I don't see you breaking your ass especially to get it."

"I'm being patient," Virgil said, "waiting till everybody make up their mind. You want a real drink this time?"

"No, this is fine." Ryan still had half a Coke. He watched Virgil nod to the waitress. She was over at the bar where several black guys were sitting with their hats on, glancing at themselves in the bar mirror as they talked and jived around. "What's this, the hat club?" Ryan said. "There's some pretty ones, but they can't touch yours."

Virgil was looking at him from beneath the slightly, nicely curved brim of his uptown Stetson. "I get my money, what's owed me, I'll give it to you," he said.

"I'll take it," Ryan said, "and everybody'll be happy. If we can get you to do a little work."

"What kind of work?"

"First, how much we talking about? What you say Bobby owes you?"

"Half."

"Half of what I heard he got is nothing."

"No, I'm telling you. Round it off, ten grand," Virgil said. "Now you tell me, how much we talking about? The whole deal."

"We don't know yet."

"But you got an idea. Explain it to me again, what the man does."

The hatbrim rose as the waitress put another orange drink in front of him. Virgil gave her a look that was warm but sleepy. She smiled taking his empty, like they had something going.

"All the guy does," Ryan said, "as I told you, he tries to make the beneficiary sign an agreement for his fee or give him power of attorney to make the stock transaction, you know, get certificates issued by the corporation, and according to what his percent is, stated in the agreement, he gets that much on the sale of the stock."

"How much is that?"

"Whatever he thinks he can get." Ryan paused. "Does it make any difference what the guy does? You want ten grand. Okay, I'm not going to argue with you, I respect your position in this."

"My position."

"I do. I'd like very much for you to go away.and never be heard from again. But you're here, and since you are, you might as well be doing us some good."

"Doing what?"

"Break in the guy's hotel room. Can you handle something like that?"

"Go on."

"Collect his papers. Every paper you see, you take. Whatever's in his briefcase, files, folders, a note on the back of an envelope, you take it. Something written on a matchbook cover, everything."

"All the man's papers."

"And it's got to be tonight. Around eight o'clock, in there. Room 1705."

"You gonna have the man out for a while?"

"I hope so. I don't, I'll call you," Ryan said.

"That would be nice."

"Maybe bring a suitcase. Walk across the lobby you look like you're checking in."

Virgil gave him his lazy smile. "You gonna tell me how to do it?"

"Not if you know the way," Ryan said. "It's your show."

"And it's my ass if I get caught," Virgil said. "Must be very important stuff."

"Think of it like a paper drive. You go out collecting paper and bring it in and get ten grand," Ryan said. "I'll call you later."

It was five-thirty by the time Ryan got home. He sat down on the couch with his coat still on and called Denise.

"I just walked in," she said. "God, I'm dead."

"How'd it go?"

"I'm supposed to be sick and I come back with a tan. If you were the manager-you can imagine."

"If I was the manager," Ryan said, "I'd have you on the potato sacks. Listen, I'll be out later. The injunction thing didn't work-I'll tell you about it, it's kind of funny. I got hold of Virgil, that's set, and I hope I'm gonna meet Mr. Perez for dinner, get him away from the hotel. He hasn't called you?"

"I wasn't here all day."

"That's right. I've been trying to think, I still wish there was some place you could go for a while."

"I'm not going to hide," Denise said, "it's not worth it."

It irritated her when he brought it up, that she might need protection. Screw Mr. Perez, Denise said. She was through sitting alone with the shades drawn. It was a good attitude, but it made Ryan nervous.

He said, "All right, but don't open the door unless it's me. Or answer the phone unless I tell you before exactly when I'm gonna call. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Listen, when I come later, I could bring my toothbrush and a few things."

"Why don't you bring everything?" Denise said.

"Pretty soon. It won't be long."

"Hey, Ryan?" Denise said. "The money's a side issue now, isn't it? Like a bonus maybe, not something we have to have."

"Yeah, except it's right there."

"What I mean," Denise said, "they could threaten to break my legs or something, and if they do I'll sign anything they want. They can have the money, the fuckers. What're we out? So don't worry."

"I won't," Ryan said. "I'll see you later."

He called Mr. Perez, got him on the line, and gave him the sales pitch: the Paradiso on Woodward just north of Six Mile, softshell crabs, very good fish, steaks, or you can go Italian all the way . . . and greens. They actually cooked things like collards and escarole. . . . Fine. Seven o'clock.

Ryan turned on an FM station and listened to jazz while he cleaned up and changed from his business suit to a dark turtleneck and sportcoat. He got a handkerchief out of his top drawer and closed it. Then opened the drawer again and felt in under the jockeys. His hand came out with the .38 Smith and Wesson Chief's Special he'd bought three years before and had fired only a few times on a practice range. It was wrapped in green tissue paper. He had never carried it during the three years, and even now the idea of the revolver, holding it, made him a little tense. Still, the hard weight of it felt good in his hand. If he was ever going to pack, now seemed like the time.

"How is it?" Ryan said.

He'd taken his time and didn't get there until almost eight. They were in the bar section of the Paradiso, in the back by a mirrored wall, already eating.

Mr. Perez looked up at him. "This is the spot, huh?"

"Always a crowd," Ryan said. "White tablecloths and good food."

Raymond Gidre was eating frog legs and digging into his double order of escarole cooked with bacon. He said, "About on a par with some nigger places we got back home."

Mr. Perez was still on his snails with a bottle of German white in front of him, wiping his French bread in the juice on the hot metal plate. It made Ryan hungry watching him. As Ryan sat down Mr. Perez said, "You look like you're been on a vacation."

"I took the lady to Florida for a few days," Ryan said. "Get her straightened out."

"Also looks like we're going to bullshit awhile," Mr. Perez said. "I thought we might get down to facts."

"Okay," Ryan said, "how about this? You tell us what the stock is, Mrs. Leary cashes it in and gives you ten grand for your trouble."

"That's what I was afraid of," Mr. Perez said, pushing the metal plate away from him.

"Or," Ryan said, "we take you to court on the injunction. The first way saves time and legal fees. The second way, you don't get anything."

. "That first way also saves you from being prosecuted as part of the act, get your nose rubbed in it." Mr. Perez looked at his wristwatch. "Raymond, you going to make the hockey game, you better get moving."

Raymond looked at his own watch. "Yeah, I guess I better. You can get a cab all right?"

"I don't see why not." Mr. Perez said to Ryan, "Raymond's never seen a hockey game before."

"I been looking forward to it," Raymond said. He was finishing off his escarole, mopping up the juice with bread. When he got up, wiping his mouth with his napkin, he was still chewing. "I'll see you later on."

Ryan and Mr. Perez watched him hurry along the bar to the front of the restaurant and out toward the entrance. Why? Ryan was thinking. Leaves his boss here and goes to a hockey game.

Mr. Perez said to Ryan, "Now then. I think you're in over your head. I think you're being naive or somebody's giving you the wrong advice. I let you take me to court, you'll find out quick there's no grounds for an intent to defraud or anything that violates a statute. I'm making a business proposal to Miz Leary. She can accept it or reject it, there's no coercion. There's not a hint, a smell, of criminal intent. If you're going to tell me a lawyer drew up that complaint, then I say you're bluffing. In fact, what you're doing, you're fucking up. I offered you thirty grand, but you see more. The thing is you're not big enough to see more, because there isn't any way you can get it."

"You're worrying about what you think I want out of this," Ryan said, "and you start assuming things. Maybe I don't give a shit if I get anything or not. Maybe she doesn't either, it's not your concern. All you've got to decide is if you want ten grand or nothing."

"I see I better talk to the lady again," Mr. Perez said. "Point out she's getting some half-assed advice from a process server who doesn't know what he's doing."

"You've already talked to her, and she wasn't too impressed," Ryan said. "I told her what you wanted, and for some reason you getting the whole thing sounded to her like a piss-poor deal."

"You and I discussed possibilities, that's all," Mr. Perez said. He poured himself a little more wine. "Being realistic, what would she think of going halves?"

"At one time that might've sounded fine. Well, acceptable maybe. But now, see, she's made you a counter-offer. Ten grand," Ryan said. "So now it's up to you."

"You're right there, it's up to me," Mr. Perez said. "It's always been up to me. I could be dining at Commander's Palace this evening instead of this place. I'm here because this is my business. Now you come along, try and fuck up things-it's like you're telling me I don't know what I'm doing."

"I've got a feeling," Ryan said, "I could go back to Probate Court, look up the guy who left the stock in the first place, Anderson, dig around, locate his heirs. I find out what the stock is, all the talking's over, isn't it?"

"Or, I could have Raymond drop by and see you," Mr. Perez said. "How does that sound?"

"Throw me out the window? I'm on the first floor."

Mr. Perez shrugged. "Or we could wrap it up tonight. Meet with the lady, she signs an agreement that we split it down the middle. Then it's just a matter of some paper work. Everybody's happy, we shake hands and go home."

Some paper work. Something occurred to Ryan he hadn't thought of before. He said, "First, before anything's done, the stock's got to be transferred to her name, through probate."

"It does, huh? What stock? Transferred by whom?"

The waitress said, "Red snapper. I was able to get your tail piece."

"I went ahead and ordered," Mr. Perez said. "I hope you don't mind."

"And your cottage fries and vegetable." Making room for them on the table, the waitress said to Ryan, "Are you gonna order, hon?"

Mr. Perez looked at her for the first time.

"Not right now," Ryan said. He wanted her to finish and move off.

Mr. Perez gave him a put-on surprised look. "You're not going to eat? I thought this was the best restaurant in town."

"I'll let you know," Ryan said to the waitress. He felt awkward, unsure of himself, and didn't know why. Mr. Perez, with his dinner in front of him, squeezing lemon on his snapper, was in control again. The man was practiced, good at it. He made a little ceremony of tasting the fish and again acting surprised.

"Not bad, not bad at all." He did the same thing with the escarole. "Yeah, you might be right for once."

"If we go to court," Ryan began, "get it into probate . . ." He hoped that was enough; he wasn't sure how to make an explicit threat out of it.

"My friend," Mr. Perez said, "there is no stock until the lady signs the agreement. There is no way you or the court can find out what it is. If I'm subpoenaed, I'll say it again in court, 'What stock? What stock is it you want transferred to her name? Your honor, I don't know what they're talking about.' You understand?"

"Yeah, but I guess we're not communicating," Ryan said. He pushed his chair back and got up. "I hope you don't mind eating alone."

"Not at all," Mr. Perez said. "In fact, I enjoy it. We're through, anyway, aren't we?"

Shit, Ryan was standing there with his hand on the back of the chair and couldn't think of anything to say. He wanted to give the guy a good parting shot and walk away with the words hanging in the air.

"Well, call if you want the ten grand. Otherwise, let's forget the whole thing." That seemed about right. He was walking away from the table.

"Fine," Mr. Perez said, "I'll call if I need you for anything."

Ryan kept going, along the bar to the front and past the reservation desk to the foyer. The son of a bitch, he'd call if he needed him. What'd he mean, if he needed him? He got his raincoat from the checkroom lady and a couple of mints from the dish on the tobacco counter.