Yeah, I did see it, Maureen said, but I don't remember much about it.
That was a good picture, Raymond said, and was silent again.
Chapter 4
WHEN SANDY STANTON first told Clement about the Albanian, Clement said, What in the hell's a Albanian?
Sandy said, An Albanian is a little fella with black hair and a whole shitpile of money he keeps down in his basement. He says in a safe inside a hidden room. You believe it?
Clement said, I still don't know what a Albanian is even. What's he do?
His name's Skender Lulgjaraj pronouncing it to rhyme with Pull-your-eye.
Jesus Christ, Clement said.
And if I spelled it you wouldn't believe it, Sandy said. He's a little black-eyed doll baby that loves to disco. Owns some Coney Island hot dog places and tells me about all this money he's got every time I see him.
How many times is that?
I been seeing him at discos for months. Dresses nice; I think he's doing all right.
Well, let's go over and have us one with everything, Clement said.
Wait till I find out if he's for real, Sandy said. Skender wants to take me to the race track.
That had sounded pretty good. See what kind of a spender the Albanian was. Clement would tag along in Sandy's other boyfriend's car and Sandy would introduce him later that night like they just happened to run into each other.
Except Clement ran into something else.
Del Weems wasn't exactly Sandy's other boyfriend, but she was staying in his apartment while he was out of town giving management seminars. Clement was staying with her.
Clement had never met Del Weems. He prowled around the man's apartment learning about him: studying weird prints and pottery and metal sculptures the man had acquired as a member of the Fine-Art-of-the-Month Club and trying on the man's Brooks Brothers clothes, size 42 suits, size 36 pants, the length not too bad but the bulk of the garments obscuring Clement's wiry 160-pound frame. Sandy said he looked like he was playing dress-up, trying on his dad's clothes. She said a boy with his build and his tattoos ought to stick to Duck Head bib overalls. They'd laugh and Clement would come out of the bedroom wearing yellow slacks and a flowery Lily Pulitzer sports jacket Clement said looked like a camouflage outfit in the war of the fairies and they'd laugh some more: the thirty-four-year-old boy from Lawton, Oklahoma, and the twenty-three-year-old girl from French Lick, Indiana, making it in the big city.
Sandy had met Del Weems when she was a cocktail waitress at Nemo's in the Renaissance Center (and had quit after six months because she could never find her way out of the complex with all its different walks and levels and elevators you weren't supposed to use like being in Mammoth Cave you looked way up about one hundred feet to the ceiling, except the RenCen was all rough cement, escalators, expensive shops and ficus trees). Del Weems was a good tipper. She started going out with him and staying over at his apartment, at first thinking Clement would love Del's specs: forty-seven, divorced management consultant, lived on the twenty-fifth floor of 1300 Lafayette, drove a black Buick Riviera with red pin-striping, owned twelve suits and eight sportcoats; she hadn't counted the pants.
Clement had asked what a management consultant was. Sandy said he like put deals together for big companies and told corporate executives the way she understood it how to run their business and not fuck up. Clement was skeptical because he couldn't picture in his mind what Del Weems actually did. So when the man went off on this latest seminar and Clement came to stay, he pulled the man's bills and bank statements out of the teakwood desk in the living room, studied them a few minutes and said shit, the man didn't have money, he had credit cards. Clement said, You stick a .38 in the man's mouth all right, partner, give me all the money you been raking in off these fools, and what does the chicken fat do? Hands you his visa card. Shit no, it had to be cash and carry. Ethnics were the ones, Clement said. Ethnics, niggers, anybody that didn't trust banks, had a piss-poor regard for the IRS and kept their money underneath the bed or in a lard can. Ethnics and dentists.
That's why the Coney Island Albanian sounded good if Clement could ever get close enough to check him out. In the meantime, cross off the chicken-fat consultant as a score, but use his place to rest up and get acquainted with the finer things in life. Drink the man's Chivas, watch some TV and look out at the twenty-fifth-floor view of Motor City. Man oh man.
The Detroit River looked like any big-city river with worn-out industrial works and warehouses lining the frontage, ore boats and ocean freighters passing by, a view of Windsor across the way that looked about as much fun as Moline, Illinois, except for the giant illuminated Canadian Club sign over the distillery.
But then all of a sudden as Clement edged his gaze to the right a little there were the massive dark-glass tubes of the Renaissance Center, five towers, the tallest one seven hundred feet high, standing like a Buck Rogers monument over downtown. From here on, the riverfront was being purified with plain lines in clean cement, modern structures that reminded Clement a little of Kansas City or Cincinnati everybody putting their new convention centers and sports arenas out where you could see them. (They had even been building a modernistic new shopping center in Lawton just before the terrible spring twister hit, the same one that picked Clement's mom right out of the yard, running from the house to the storm cellar, and carried her off without leaving a trace.) Clement would swivel his gaze then over downtown and come around north looking at all the parking lots that were like fallow fields among stands of old 1920s office buildings and patches of new cement past Greektown tucked in down there he could almost smell the garlic past the nine-story Detroit Police headquarters, big and ugly, a glimpse of the top floors of the Wayne County jail beyond the police building, and on to the slender rise of the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, where they had tried to nail Clement's ass one time and failed. Clement liked views from high places after years in the flatlands of Oklahoma and feeling the sky pressing down on him. It was the same sky when you could see it, when it wasn't thick with dampness, but it seemed a lot higher in Detroit. He would look up there and wonder if his mom was floating around somewhere in space.
Sandy stayed with the Albanian all night and came home to the high-rise apartment about noon with a tale of wonders a secret door, a room hid-den away in the basement aching to tell Clement about it.
And what was Clement doing? Reading the paper. Something he never did. Sitting on the couch in his Hanes briefs, scratching the reddish hair on his chest, idly tugging at his crotch, hunched over and staring at the newspaper spread open next to him, his mouth moving silently as he read.
You reading the paper?
Clement didn't even look up. Now he was scratching the bright new blue and red tattoo of a gravestone on his right forearm that said In Memory of Mother.
Hey!
Hell with him. Sandy went into the bedroom and changed from her silk shirt and slacks to green satin jogging shorts and a T-shirt that said, Cedar Point, Sandusky, Ohio. She looked about seventeen, a freckled, reddish-blond 95-pounder with perky little breasts. Sort of a girl version of Clement, though a lot better looking. Not the type, at first glance, some management consultant would keep in his stylish apartment. But look again and see the fun in her eyes. It gave a man the feeling that if he turned her little motor on she'd whirl him back to his youth and take him places he'd never been.
Back in the living room she tried again. You still reading the paper?
You bet he was, every word for the second time, wondering how in the world he hadn't recognized the judge last night the face with the little tango-dancer mustache staring up at him from the front page. He had shot and killed Judge Alvin Guy and didn't have a thing to show for it. Not even peace of mind now. If there wasn't a reward for shooting the little dinge he ought to get a medal, something.
Sandy Stanton said, Well, I saw the secret room and I saw this little safe he's so proud of. I think me and you could pick it up without any fear of gett
ing a hernia. But it was weird. I mean the room, with all these cots folded up and a fridge, one tiny room like full of canned goods . . . Hey, you listening or what?
Clement sat back on the couch, exposing the pair of bluebirds tattooed above his pure-white breasts. When they had first met three and a half years ago at a disco, Clement had said, You want to see my birds? and opened his shirt to show her. Then he'd said, You want to see my chicken? When Sandy said yes he pulled his shirt out of his pants and showed her his navel in the center of his hard belly. Sandy said, I don't see any chicken. And Clement said, It's faded out; all that's left is its asshole.
He nodded toward the picture in the paper. You know who that is?
I saw it, Sandy said. She looked from the bold headline, JUDGE GUY MURDERED, and the grinning photograph to Clement's solemn face. Her mind said, Uh-oh, what does he care? And edged toward the answer, saying, He couldn'ta been a friend of yours. Why you taking it so hard?
Silence.
Uh-oh.
Sandy said, Hey, quit biting your nails. You want to tell me something or's it better I don't know?
Clement said, Wouldn't you think they'd be a bounty on the little fucker? A reward you could claim?
Who could claim? Sandy waited while Clement bit on the cuticle of his middle finger, left hand, like a little boy watching his dad read his report card.
You know how many people, Clement said, would pay money I mean real money to have this done? Jesus.
Maybe somebody did pay.
Nuh-uh, it was done free of charge. God damn it.
Oh, shit, Sandy said, with a sigh of weariness. Don't tell me no more, okay?
She was in the kitchen, Clement was still scratching, biting his nails, staring at the grinning ex-judge, when the security man in the lobby called. He was an older colored man that Sandy liked to kid with, calling him Carlton the doorman. They didn't kid around today, though. Sandy came out to the living room.
Maybe they come to give you the medal.
Clement hadn't even heard the buzzer. He looked up now. Who's that?
The police, Sandy said.
Chapter 5
RAYMOND SAID TO WENDELL ROBINSON, You want to be the good guy?
No, you be the good guy, Wendell said. I'm tired and grouchy enough to be a natural heavy, we need to get into that shit.
Raymond said, What're you tired from? But didn't get an answer. The door opened and a girl in a Cedar Point T-shirt and satin shorts was looking at them with innocent eyes. Raymond held up his I . D .
How you doing? I'm Lieutenant Raymond Cruz, Detroit Police. This is Sergeant Robinson. We understand the man downstairs says your name's Sandy Stanton? Very friendly, almost smiling.
The girl gave them a nod, guarded.
He said Mr. Weems is out of town. Raymond watched the girl's wide-eyed expression come to life.
Oh, you're looking for Del.
Raymond said, Is that right, Sandy, he's out of town?
Yeah, on business. I think he went out to California or someplace.
You mind if we come inside?
I know it sounds corny, Sandy said, as though she hated to have to bring it up, but have you got a warrant?
Raymond said, A warrant for what? We're not looking for anything. We just want to ask you about Mr. Weems.
Sandy sighed, stepping out of the way. She watched the two cops, the white one in the dark suit and the black one in the light-gray suit, glance down the short hallway at the closed doors as they went into the living room: the white cop looking around, the black cop going straight to the windows which is what almost everyone did to look out at the river and the city. The view was sharply defined this afternoon, the sun backlighting the Renaissance Center, giving the glass towers the look of black marble.
Raymond didn't care too much for the colors in the room: green, gray and black with a lot of chrome. It reminded him of a lawyer's office. He said, I understand you drove Mr. Weems to the airport.
The day before yesterday, Sandy said. What is it you want him for?
You drive him out in his car?
Yeah . . . why?
Buick Riviera, license PYX-546?
I don't know the license number.
What do you do for a living, Sandy?
You mean when I work? I tend bar, wait tables if I have to.
You use the car last night?
What car?
The Buick.
No, as a matter of fact, I didn't, Sandy said. I went to the race track with somebody.
What one, over in Windsor?
No, out to Hazel Park.
She saw the black cop turn from the window. He looked like a suit salesman or a professional athlete. A colored guy who spent money on clothes.
The other one was smiling somewhat. You win?
Sandy gave him a bored look. You kidding?
I know what you mean, Raymond said. Who'd you go with?
Fella I know. Skender Lulgjaraj.
Amazing. The white cop didn't blink or make a face or say, Lul-what?
What time'd you get home?
It was pretty late.
Skender drive?
There, again, like he was familiar with the name. Yeah, he picked me up.
Raymond frowned, like he was a little confused. Then who used Mr. Weems' car last night?
He had a little-boy look about him, even with the droopy mustache. The dark hair down on his forehead . . .
Nobody did, Sandy said.
She watched them give her the old silent treatment, waiting for her to say too much if she tried to fake it or tried to act innocent or amazed when all she had to do was hang tough and not act at all. It was hard, though; too hard and finally she said, What's wrong?
Raymond said, Did you loan the car to somebody?
Uh-unh.
Did Mr. Weems, before he left?
Not that I know of. Hey, maybe it was stolen.
It's downstairs, Raymond said. You have the keys, don't you?
Yeah, someplace.
Why don't you check, just to make sure.
Oh shit, Sandy thought, feeling exposed now in her shorts and T-shirt and barefeet, wanting to walk over to the desk and pick up the keys, but having no idea in the world what Clement did with them trying to picture him coming in then. No, she had come in and he was sitting on the couch reading the paper the paper still lying there pulled apart. She said, Gee, I never know what I do with keys, and got away from them, starting to move about the room.
Raymond said, Maybe we can help you, and began looking around.
That's okay, Sandy said, I think I know where they are. You all sit down and take it easy. She made herself walk down the short hallway, dark with the doors closed, went into the master bedroom and shut the door behind her.
Clement was stretched out on the king-size bed. He put his hands behind his curly head as Sandy entered and wiggled his toes, showing her how cool he was.
They gone?
No, they're not gone. They want the keys.
What keys?
The fucking car keys, what do you think what keys? Her whisper came out hoarse, as though from a bigger, huskier woman.
Shit, Clement said. He thought a moment, watching her feel the top of the dresser. They got a search warrant? She didn't answer him. Hey, you don't have to give 'em no keys.
You go out and tell 'em that, Sandy said. She had the ring of keys in her hand now, moving toward the door.
Well, it's up to you, Clement said. You want to give 'em the keys, go ahead.
Sandy stopped at the door. What else'm I supposed to do? Her whisper a hiss now.
Give 'em the keys, Clement said. It don't matter.
What if they find your prints in the car?
Ain't no prints to find. Clement's arms were reddish-tan, his body pure white, his bluebirds and ribs resting against the green and gray swirls of Del Weems' designer bedspread. Sandy started to open the door and he said, Hon? I had sort of an accident parking the c
ar when I come back.
I love the time you pick to tell me. Sandy took time herself to raise her eyes to the ceiling, giving her words a dramatic effect. What'd you hit?
You know those cement pillars? Clement said. I scraped one of 'em parking, took a little paint off the fender if they was to ask you how it happened. He paused, letting her stare at him. Why don't we keep it simple, say you did it. How's that sound to you?
Raymond Cruz looked at the desk, wanting to open the drawers. He looked at the metallic stick figures on the glass coffeetable. He looked at the newspaper lying open on the couch and then over to the dark hallway. What if he walked in there and started opening doors? . . .
Sandy Stanton. He could see the name in a typewritten report, a statement. He tried the name in his mind. Sandy Stanton. He tried it with Norb Bryl saying the name, Sandy Stanton, and then with Jerry Hunter's voice, Sandy Stanton. The name, just the name, was registered in his mind from a time in the past. He walked to the window and looked out. Then turned again, abruptly, and was facing the room as Wendell came out through the dining-L from the kitchen, Wendell shaking his head.
Raymond motioned to the window. You can see 1300 from here.
I noticed, Wendell said. You can see the window of the squad room.
Past the Blue Cross building and beyond the dome of old St. Mary's to the granite nine-story municipal building, police headquarters 1300 Beaubien to a window on the fifth floor, above the police garage.
You notice, Raymond said, that's 1300 and this is 1300?
No shit, Wendell said. I notice something else, too, while I'm busy noticing. You got hold of something in your head you're playing with.
Raymond frowned at him, amazed. What was going on? Everybody, all of a sudden, reading him.
You're laying back, savoring it, Wendell said. You gonna share it with me or keep it a secret?
Amazing. It was spooky. Raymond thought of the girl from the News and said, You tell your wife what you do?