It was time to leave. Raymond got ready, looking at Skender again. Tell me how the leg was broken.
He tried with a heavy object at first, Toma said. It was very painful, but it didn't seem to injure him enough. So he raised Skender's foot up on a case, a box, with Skender lying on the floor and struck the leg at the knee with a metal pipe until the leg was bent the other way. He says he remembers the sound of the girl crying out, saying something, then the sound of the ambulance as he was riding in it, going to Detroit General, and that's all he remembers. This morning, Toma said, I had him brought here to a doctor I know.
You say he heard Sandy?
The girl? Yes, she cried out something.
He remember what she said?
Toma looked at Skender, asleep, then back to Raymond and shrugged. Does it make any difference?
I don't know, Raymond said. It might.
Hunter was in the blue Plymouth standing at the hospital entrance. He turned the key as Raymond got in . . . held the key, his foot pressing the accelerator, but the car wouldn't start. It gave them an eager, relentless, annoying sound, as though it was trying, but the engine refused to fire.
Toma was there. He wants to do Clement himself.
Who doesn't? Hunter said. Fucking car . . .
He was talking about his code of honor. Says he's gonna look Clement in the eye and blow him away.
Tell him, go ahead.
I said, what if he's unarmed? He says, what's that got to do with it?
Drive this piece of shit, you know why they're fucking going out of business. The engine caught and Hunter said, I don't believe it.
See, what he couldn't understand, we'd only shoot him if he was resisting.
Yeah? . . . Where we going?
Sweety's Lounge, over on Kercheval. But his point was . . . Raymond paused. Well, he didn't understand.
He didn't understand what?
I told him the guy's killed nine people and very calmly he says, 'yYes? If you know he kills people, why do you let him?'
What'd you tell him?
I don't know we started talking about honor then.
The Custom, Hunter said. Fucking Albanians are crazy.
Raymond looked over at him. He said, You sure?
A young woman with a full Afro and worried eyes, a scowl, holding a floral housecoat tightly about her, opened the door and told them Mr. Sweety was working. Raymond said, You mind if we just look in? I want to show him something. That picture over the couch.
The woman said, What picture? half turning, and Raymond moved Hunter into the doorway. He waited as Hunter peered in and then came around to look at him as if expecting a punch line. They went down the steps to the sidewalk.
You see it?
Yeah. Picture of some guy.
You know who it is?
I don't know some rock star? Leon Russell.
It's Jesus.
Hunter said, Yeah? Not very surprised.
It's a photograph.
Yeah, I don't think it looks much like him.
Walking next door to Sweety's Lounge Raymond didn't say anything else. He was wondering why things amazed him that didn't amaze other people.
There were white voices in the black bar. Two women in serious, dramatic conversation.
It was dark in here in the afternoon. Mr. Sweety looked like a pirate in his black sportshirt hanging open and a nylon stocking knotted tightly over his hair, coming along the duckboards to the front bend in the bar. The place smelled of beer, an old place with a high ceiling made of tin. Two women and a man sat at the far end of the bar. They looked this way as Raymond and Hunter came in and took stools, then turned back to the voices coming from the television set mounted above the bar. A soap opera.
Raymond said, I thought you worked nights.
I work all the time, Mr. Sweety said. What can I get you?
You want to talk here or at your house? Raymond asked. him. I don't want to get into anything might embarrass you in front of your customers.
Don't do it then, Mr. Sweety said.
No, it's up to you, Raymond said.
How 'bout if I serve you something?
There's only one thing you can give us we want, Raymond said and held up his two index fingers about seven inches apart. It's this big. It's blue steel. And it's got P.38 stamped on the side.
Hey, shit, come on . . .
Sandy told me she gave it to you.
Mr. Sweety leaned on his hands spaced wide apart on the bar so that he was eye-level with Raymond and Hunter seated on stools. Mr. Sweety looked down toward the end of the bar, seemed to wipe his mouth on his shoulder and looked back at Raymond again.
Sandy told you what?
She said she gave you a Walther P.38 that Clement wanted you to hold for him.
Wait, Hunter said, let me read him his rights.
Read me for what? I ain't signing no rights.
You don't have to, Hunter said. Those people down there're witnesses. Then we'll serve you with the search warrant.
As he said this Raymond took a thick number ten envelope out of his inside coat pocket and placed it facedown on the bar. His hand remained on it, at rest.
Mr. Sweety turned his head back and forth as though he had a stiff neck. Hey, come on now, man. I don't know shit about nothing. I told him that last night.
I'll tell you something, Raymond said. I believe you. I think you got caught in the middle of something and you're naturally a little confused. I would be too.
I'm not talking to you, Mr. Sweety said.
I can understand your position, Raymond said, sitting on a hot gun and here we are coming down on you. Raymond raised his hand from the envelope, palm up. Wait now. I also see you're still more confused than involved. Sandy laid this on you and you don't know what's going on. She comes in the other day, she tells you Clement wants you to hold the gun for him. But wait a minute. We come to find out Clement doesn't know anything about it. That's straight listen to me. Hear the whole thing. I told you last night Sandy doesn't want Clement to know she came here. And what do you do? You act very surprised. So I think about it why would you be surprised? Well, because she said it was from Clement. But if Clement doesn't know she was here then he doesn't know she delivered anything. Right? . . . You with me?
You losing me on the turns, Mr. Sweety said.
I know you've got some questions, Raymond said, but how much do you really want to know? See, all we want is the gun. Now. Listen very carefully. If we have to look for the gun, then what we're gonna find is a murder weapon in your possession. Then, you not only get your rights read, you get to see a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree, which carries mandatory life. On the other hand . . . you listening?
I'm listening, Mr. Sweety said. What's the other hand?
If you tell us of your own free will some person gave you the gun but you don't know anything about it, whose it is, how it was used, anything; then what we have here is still another example of citizen cooperation and alert police work combining their efforts to solve a brutal crime . . . You like it?
Mr. Sweety was silent, thinking.
He said, He don't know she gave this piece to anybody. I mean Clement. That what you saying?
That's correct.
Where does he think it is?
Well, I don't think she lifted it off him, Raymond said. Do you?
No way.
So I think he gave it to her to get rid of and she laid it off on you. It isn't as easy as it sounds, throwing a gun in the river. Maybe she was coming here anyway, you know? Or maybe she told you to get rid of it. I'm not gonna ask you that. But if she did, that puts a burden on you. You got to take it out in your car somewhere . . . somebody finds the gun, remembers seeing you . . . the way it always happens. You been around, you know these things. Who wants to be associated with a hot gun. No, I don't blame you. Raymond waited a moment. You coming to a decision?
Mr. Sweety didn't answer.
Where's t
he gun, at your house?
Down the basement.
Let's go get it.
I got to call Anita, have her come over here.
Raymond and Hunter looked at each other but didn't say anything. They waited for Mr. Sweety to come back from the phone that was halfway down the bar, by the cash register.
Raymond said, You feel better now?
Mr. Sweety said, Shit . . .
They got back into the blue Plymouth, Raymond carrying a brown paper bag. He said, It's work, you know it? It wears you out.
Hunter said, That's why they pay you all that money. Now where?
Let's go see Sandy. No, drop me off and get this to the lab. But don't tag it yet, I mean with any names on it.
Hunter held the key turned, his foot mashing the accelerator. Fucking car . . .
Raymond waited patiently. He thought back, reviewing the conversation with Mr. Sweety, pleased. Then said, I think I left the envelope on the bar, and patted his breast pocket. Yeah, I did.
You need it?
From Oral Roberts, Raymond said. No, I'll probably be hearing from him again.
Chapter 23
A HAMTRAMCK POLICE DETECTIVE by the name of Frank Kochanski picked up his phone and said to Toma, Where you been?
I'm still at the hospital.
This character you're looking for's at the Eagle. We saw his car by there and I give Harry a call. Harry says yeah, he's in there having a few pops, making phone calls.
The Eagle? Toma said, surprised that the man was still in the vicinity of Skender's apartment, little more than a mile from it.
The Eagle, on Campau, Kochanski said. How many Eagles you know?
Toma called the bar. Harry said, Yeah . . . no, wait a minute, he's picking up his change . . .
Toma walked down the hall to the third-floor visitor's lounge where the male members of the Lulgjaraj family were waiting. They watched him unfold a city map, study it for a few moments, then place it on the coffeetable and draw a circle with his finger to take in, roughly, Hamtramck and the near east side of Detroit. He said, He's somewhere in here. But he stays most of the time downtown; I think he'll go there. If he knows how, he'll take the Chrysler. If he doesn't, he may take McDougall. Toma paused. His finger began tracing the line that indicated East Grand Boulevard. But he could go this way, too, from Joseph Campau. We don't know him, so we have to look for him all these places.
About forty minutes later Skender opened his eyes to the beeping sound. It stopped and Toma was standing close to him, touching his face.
Go back to sleep.
At the public phone Toma called his service, was given a number and dialed it.
Where is he?
In a house on Van Dyke Place. We're at the corner of Van Dyke and Jefferson, the voice said in Albanian.
Wait for me, Toma said.
But if he comes out . . . the voice began.
Kill him, Toma said.
I think what happens to niggers is they come up here and find out they can talk back to you, Clement said, so all they do then's argue. I tole your nigger woman I know she's upstairs. I called her office enough times they finally told me she's home. So what're you arguing with me for?
I'm never home to clients, Carolyn said. I'll see you in my office or, more likely, the Wayne County Jail, but not here. So, Clement, you're going to have to leave.
All you're doing's reading. You sick? I see a person in their bathrobe the middle of the day I figure they work nights or they're sick.
Carolyn took off her glasses, brought her bare feet down from the hassock and placed the glasses inside the book as she closed it on her lap. I'm going to argue with you, too, if you don't leave, Carolyn said, and I promise you'll lose.
Clement didn't seem to hear her. He was looking around the room, at the abstract paintings, at the bar, his gaze moving past Carolyn sitting in the bamboo chair in a beige and white striped caftan, to the beige couch that was covered with pillows in shades of blue. He walked over and let himself fall back into it, his boots levering up and then down, hitting hard on the Sarouk carpet. He pulled a pillow out from behind him, getting comfortable.
Shit, I'm tired. You know it?
Carolyn watched him, curiosity soothing impatience, calming her as she studied the man half-reclined on her couch, his head bent against the backrest cushion, fingers shoved into tight pockets now. The Oklahoma Wildman. Born somewhere between fifty and one hundred years too late.
Or a little boy she could hear saying, I don't have nothing to do. Kicking at the Sarouk, at the ripple, with the heel of his boot, trying to flatten it.
That carpet you seem determined to destroy, Carolyn said, cost fifteen thousand dollars.
No shit? He looked down at the blue oriental pattern.
No shit, Carolyn said. It's worth much more than that now.
Why don't you sell it, get the money?
I enjoy it. I didn't buy it as an investment.
How much you make a year?
Enough to live the way I want.
Come on, how much you make?
Why do you want to know?
You don't keep any money in the house, do you? Clement grinned at her. I know, it's all in visa cards. That shit's ruining me, you know it?
Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?
No, but you could write me a check.
Why would I do that?
You know why.
Clement, you're a terrible extortionist.
I know. But there was that chicken-fat judge dead and nothing to come of it. Seemed a shame. Then I see your phone number in his book and I commenced to scheme. Clement squinted. How come he had your number?
He called a few times, wanted me to go out with him.
Jesus, you didn't, did you?
No, Clement, I didn't.
You ain't a young girl, but I know you can do better'n that.
Carolyn said, This chat's costing you money, Clement. If we're getting into your situation there's a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer to think about. If we go to trial, I'll need another seventy-five, in advance.
Clement blinked and squinted. Carolyn watched his act indifferently Clement shaking his head now.
First thing you must learn in school, I mean lawyers, is how to turn things around. I come up here to get a check and you tell me you want ten thousand dollars.
If I'm going to represent you.
For what? Shit, they're dickin' around, they're never gonna have a case. I'm pulling out, going down to Tampa, Florida, for the winter. But I don't have the stake I thought I was gonna. That's why I need you to write me a check.
Carolyn sat low in the chair studying Clement, her elbow on the arm, her cheek resting against her hand.
You never cease to amaze me.
I don't?
Always seem so calm. Never upset. How do you manage that?
Thinking good thoughts, Clement said. Go get your checkbook.
What do you need, a couple hundred?
Clement squinted at her again. Couple hunnert? He had come seeking no particular amount. She had mentioned a ten-thousand-dollar fee and that didn't sound too bad. Nice round number. But now shit, looking at him like he was the janitor, waiting for him to leave so she could open her book again he doubled the amount and said, Twenty thousand oughta do it.
Carolyn didn't say anything. She didn't move until he said, You're pretty calm yourself. Then watched as she came out of the chair, laying the book on the hassock, and went to the desk in the bay of front windows.
With her profile to him, leaning over the desk, she said, I'm doing this against my better judgment, opening a business-size checkbook and writing now.
Clement was surprised. He'd expected her to give him an argument. He could see the curve of her fanny against the robe. She tore a check from the book and walked across the room, right past him, not looking at him until she was standing in the doorway that opened on the upstairs hall. Clement could see the railing behind her and
now she was offering him the check.
Here. Take it.
Something wasn't right. Clement stared and watched her move out into the hallway now and hold the check over the railing.
All right, then pick it up on your way out, Carolyn said. But if you take it, please don't expect me to ever help you again, in or out of court. Understood?
Clement got up and crossed toward Carolyn. Her extended arm looked pale and naked sticking out of the robe. As he reached her she handed him the check. Clement looked at it.
This says two hunnert.
Carolyn called over the railing, downstairs, Marcie?
I said twenty thousand. You left out some oughts.
Carolyn turned to look at him. Even if I could write a check in that amount, do you really think I would?
Yes, I do, Clement said. 'yStead of me rolling up your rug or taking your jewelry sure, I do.
But a check you know I could stop payment as soon as you leave.
Then I'd come back, wouldn't I?
I don't believe this, Carolyn said. All I have to do is call the police.
Man, it's hard to get through to some people, Clement said. Where's your bathroom?
Carolyn hesitated, then gestured with her hand, a vague motion. Right there. The first door. She turned with her back to the railing for Clement to go past, then tried to pull away as he took her by the arm.
Let's me and you go toidy.
Now wait a minute Clement's fingers dug into her upper arm and she called out, Marcie!
She's locked in the pantry. Clement was moving Carolyn along now. I told you she was arguing with me. People argue you're a lawyer you got to make your point or shut 'em up, huh? He pushed Carolyn into the bathroom and swung the door closed behind them, looking around. Man, this is some biffy; you could have a party in here . . . big stall shower . . . I like a tub-bath myself, but this'll do fine. Take your robe off.
Clement? Carolyn began.
What?
Whatever you're doing . . . She tried a sincere expression with a slight smile. Can I offer you a little advice?
How much's the retainer?
No, this is free. Whatever you have in mind slowly, with a soft lilt to her voice I think you should consider very carefully the position you're in. Clement hooked a finger in the ring of the caftan's zipper. Clement, be nice, okay?