The two Seventh Squad detectives moved in. One of them put his foot on the wrist of Raymond's outstretched arm and pulled the Luger out of his hand. The other one ran inside the bar. Within the next half minute there were uniformed policemen all around them. One of them, Ryan realized, was staring at him and seemed about to say something or make a grab for him. But it was Dick Speed, getting up from Raymond, who spoke.
"What's that?"
"What?" Ryan said.
"In your hand."
"Oh." He stuck the .38 back in his raincoat pocket.
"You recognize this man?"
"It's Raymond."
Dick Speed continued to give him the look, relaying a no-bullshit warning to stay out of it, until he turned abruptly, spoke to one of the uniformed cops, then went into the bar.
Ryan heard the Seventh Squad detective, kneeling over Raymond, say, "He's dead. Or else he's holding his breath." Ryan stared at Raymond, at the suitcase partly under him.
"What happened to him?"
The Seventh Squad detective looked up at him. "He's been shot. What do you think happened to him?" He pushed Raymond off the suitcase, rolling him onto his back on the wet pavement. Raymond's eyes were closed. His hand still gripped the suitcase until the detective pried his fingers loose.
The suitcase was free, lying on its side in the street. Ryan could take two steps and touch it with his foot. He got a cigarette out and lit it. There were sirens coming, getting louder. He saw black people on the sidewalk edging in to get a look past the parked cars. The suitcase lay there. None of the cops touched it. They'd come over and look down at Raymond and say something or shake their heads. Pick it up, Ryan kept thinking.
But maybe there wasn't anything in it and that's what started the shooting.
No, Raymond wouldn't have come out with it. Mr. Perez's papers were in there. A sheet with Denise's name on it and the name of the stock.
Nobody paid any attention to the suitcase. Ryan drew on his cigarette. For a moment he wondered about Virgil and Tunafish, if they were all right. He wanted to go inside and find out, but he didn't want to leave the suitcase. He felt responsible for it. What if somebody walked off with it? He stooped down and set it upright as he rose, then stepped away from it, chickening out with the cops standing around him. There was more noise and confusion than before. Good. But he wished the cops would turn around or walk away for a minute. A van-type ambulance, an Emergency Medical Service unit, was rolling toward them now, its dome lights revolving, siren dying. The van edged past to bring the rear end to Raymond's body. Ryan picked up the suitcase again, as if to get it out of the way. A cop glanced at him, but didn't say anything, the cop not sure who he was. Ryan set the suitcase down at his side. The cigarette had burned almost to the filter. He had to do it now or forget it. Open the suitcase and give it a quick look. Not out here, Christ no. He couldn't walk down the street with it, get on a bus. There was only one place. He picked up the suitcase, not looking at the cops or the medical attendants now and walked around the EMS unit to Dick Speed's car.
Ryan got in the back seat with the suitcase, jammed himself in there with it, half-turned with his back to the EMS unit outside, feeling hidden and for the moment safe. It passed through his mind the suitcase might be locked and the key in Raymond's pocket-being loaded into the ambulance-but it wasn't locked, it clicked open and there were Mr. Perez's files and letters and legal documents, and a flattened roll of toilet paper, all in a jumbled pile the way they'd been thrown in. Going through the papers at random, without a plan, he found several sheets bearing Mr. Perez's letterhead, F. X. Perez and Associates, Investment Consultants, his name on agreements and letters to corporations, and blank sheets of hotel stationery. Ryan set aside, on his lap, the letterhead sheets he took out, and dug into the loose papers, hoping to see Denise's name or Robert Leary's underlined or circled in red. There were files labeled with names of corporations and others marked Indianapolis, Fort Wayne, Chicago, Detroit . . . a list of maybe a dozen names in the Detroit file . . . there, Robert Leary, Jr., and the address on Arden Park. There were handwritten notes and initials next to the names that Ryan couldn't make out. There were notebook sheets with names and addresses: Jay Walt's, Ryan's, Denise's address and phone number in Rochester. He didn't know what to look for. He needed time to start at the top and go through each sheet of paper if he had to- before they gave it back to Mr. Perez. Would they?
Sure, once he proved it was his. Why not?
Ryan wasn't sure about that or what Mr. Perez would do now; but he began folding Mr. Perez's letterhead and the agreement forms with his name on them, and the Hotel Pontchartrain stationery, and sticking them in the inside pocket of his sportcoat. They were bulky in there but flat underneath the raincoat. The siren made him jump, going off right outside as the EMS unit pulled away. He didn't look around, though. He didn't turn until somebody opened the door behind him.
"Is that your property?"
Dick Speed was standing there with one of the Seventh Squad detectives.
"I was just looking through it."
"I can see that. I asked you was it yours."
"No, not really."
"Not really. What's that mean?"
"You know whose it is, for Christ's sake." That was a mistake, he shouldn't have said it.
"You can identify it as who it belongs to?"
"I've never seen it before."
"So what you're doing," Dick Speed said, being an official smartass now with his hair and leather jacket and big gun, "you're going through somebody's property that doesn't belong to you."
"I guess so," Ryan said. Act nice. Then when they were alone, driving downtown, he'd talk his friend into letting him go through the papers. Just while they were in the car.
"Detective Olsen here'll take it in his custody," Dick Speed said, and Ryan's hopes died.
He got in the front seat and they took off. He didn't say anything for several blocks, until they were turning off Livemois onto the Lodge Freeway.
"How come all of a sudden, all the help you've given me on this, you want to act like a prick?"
"How come you haven't asked about your friend Virgil?" Dick Speed said. "You got him into this, don't you want to know how he is?"
He'd forgot about Virgil. "You saw him-is he okay?"
"He's dead."
"Virgil? Come on-"
"You want to know about Tunafish? He's dead too. Raymond Gidre, from New Iberia, Louisiana. Three guys dead by gunshot over a suitcase, you want to know how come I'm acting like a prick."
They didn't talk after that. Ryan thought about Virgil, about the times he'd been with him and the time he'd met Tunafish. He couldn't picture them dead and was glad he hadn't gone in to see them. Most of the way downtown, though, Ryan thought about the suitcase, wondering what would happen to it.
Chapter 24
What happened that time in New Orleans, they'd had a Jew lawyer they were dealing with and Mr. Perez had lost his patience and wound up an accessory to murder. He had been new in the business and had not yet learned to avoid risks by shifting the brunt of them to someone else. The situation wasn't unlike the present one: a woman who'd inherited stock and didn't know it and her adviser, the Jew lawyer, telling her to hold out and get it all. He had promised the Jew lawyer a commission and had paid him in advance by check on two occasions. That was the first mistake. He'd met the Jew lawyer several times in the Jung Hotel and had been seen with him, in the company of Raymond. Another mistake. The Jew lawyer- in his unpressed seersucker suit, talking and chewing with his mouth open, waving his fork around with red-bean gravy stuck to it-had said, "No, it seems to me it's a question of my client paying you a commission, what we deem is equitable based on the value of the stock." Raymond had given him what was equitable in the Jew lawyer's car parked on Lee Circle, five rounds in the chest as the Jew lawyer was shaking his head no for the last time. The final mistake, pissant thinking, having Raymond staying in the same hotel room with him to
save money in those early days-and being there when the police busted in and three of them knelt on Raymond, holding his arm twisted behind him, while the fourth cop poked around and found Raymond's Army Colt .45 in the toilet tank.
Mr. Perez made lists of eventualities now. One column, if everything worked perfectly. The other column, if everything didn't.
If everything worked perfectly, Raymond would take the suitcase from the two niggers and that was that. How he did it was up to Raymond. Mr. Perez let Raymond do the heavy work any way he wanted because it was Raymond's business. He knew how to scare the shit out of people and get things done.
If everything didn't work perfectly, there was a chance Raymond could get (a) killed; (b) injured, hospitalized, or in need of medical attention; (c) arrested; (d) arrested and injured. The risks were pretty much all Raymond's.
There was also a chance, if everything didn't work perfectly, if Raymond messed up and was arrested, the police might try to involve Mr. Perez. Or it might be the niggers' lucky day and somehow they'd stomp or shoot Raymond. But by anticipating these risks, Mr. Perez was able to minimize them. He was reasonably confident Raymond would walk in with the suitcase. If the niggers came instead, he'd offer them a drink, sit down, and work out a deal. If the police came, he'd offer them a drink and ask if they'd recovered his stolen property yet. "Raymond? You don't tell me. He did that? Well, officer, it was a lucky thing he had a gun, wasn't it? Dealing with people like that. No, I simply asked Mr. Gidre if he would speak to them for me. Very frankly, I don't mind telling you, I was afraid to myself." Mr. Perez made up lines and rehearsed them.
He had been convicted and served time once, because he had been impatient and not properly prepared. It wasn't going to happen twice.
The other thing he did during a high-risk period-just in case he was being watched-was maintain an appearance of business as usual.
This time, what Mr. Perez did, he rented an Avis car, drove out to the A&P supermarket in Rochester, and asked Denise Leary if she'd like to have lunch with him. Denise hesitated, then said okay. "But I'm surprised. I thought you'd be busy today."
Mr. Perez smiled. "Too busy to see my most important client?"
They met at one-thirty and drove to the Burger Chef on the south end of Main. The script Mr. Perez had worked out: he'd play with her today, get her to feel he wasn't such a bad guy after all. Then, while she was relaxed, see if he could plant some doubts in her mind about Ryan and work him loose.
But Denise didn't give him a chance. They both ordered Ranchers, and as soon as they were seated, while Mr. Perez was still undoing his paper napkin, she said, "Something you should understand. I don't care that much about the stock or what it's.worth. If I don't get it, I'm not out anything, am I? I mean, I haven't lost anything. But I'll go along with Ryan, whatever he wants to do."
"Even if he wants to maneuver you out of the whole thing?" Mr. Perez said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I know him. While he was working for me he went along with anything I suggested."
"That was before."
"Before what? I'm talking about a week ago. See, he acts intelligent enough, he's polite, gives you a nice smile. But it turns out he's a street hustler inside, man trying to live by his wits on a fifth grade education."
Denise shook her head, eating fries and then dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Look, and I know what you're trying to do, too. You're wasting your time. You don't know anything about Ryan and me. But even if it was true, if he's trying to maneuver me as you say, I still wouldn't be out anything, because I don't have my heart set on the money. I don't need it."
"Everybody needs money," Mr. Perez said. "Perhaps not a hundred and fifty thousand, but some of it would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"The whole thing is," Denise said, "you look at money differently than I do. You'd push somebody out a window to get it. And if you said you were going to push me out, I'd give it to you. Because I honest and truly, whether you believe me or not, don't care about the money."
"Then why don't you sign the agreement with me?" Mr. Perez said.
"Because it's up to Ryan," Denise said, "and for some reason he thinks you're a tinhorn asshole. But let's keep in touch, okay?"
It shouldn't be this difficult, Mr. Perez thought then and at times later on. Why is it? How did it get out of hand?
The process server. Ryan.
It was the first time in Mr. Perez's career he had misjudged anyone to the degree that it might cost him money. (Even on the New Orleans deal, the woman with the Jew lawyer, he had kept in touch with her while he was in Angola and got her to sign an agreement.) When the feeling gnawed at his insides, he took Gelusil tablets and blamed it on northern cooking. He would not admit his misjudgment as long as Mrs. Leary ate her fries with ketchup in the corner of her mouth and didn't care about the money. He had to fool with her some more, stroke her, treat her kindly. If that failed, all right, then open the window. He was playing with children, was the trouble. They were unpredictable and threw him off his game.
He said, "If you insist on Mr. Ryan advising you, that's fine. But why don't the three of us sit down, forget anything was said before that might've made somebody mad, and get this thing worked out. What do you say?"
"If it's all right with Ryan."
"Can you call him?"
"He's supposed to call me later."
"Where is he, out serving paper?"
"No, he's doing something with the police." Denise cut into her hamburger patty. "Mine's a little well done. How's yours?"
"The local police, here?"
"The Detroit police," Denise said, taking a bite of the hamburger patty but watching Mr. Perez. "I mentioned, I thought you'd be busy today."
Mr. Perez saw it coming. Her delivery wasn't bad at all, good timing, playing it dumb, but with the glint of awareness in her eyes if he wanted to notice it. Nice touch with the hamburger being well done. Well done-it was a piece of shit, but served as a nice piece of business.
He said, "Where was it I'm supposed to be busy today?" And she says:
"Buying a suitcase."
He had to smile at that. She was good. "Tell me something," Mr. Perez said. "Why should I pay to get my own property back?"
"I don't think you're gonna get it back," Denise said.
"Why not? It's mine."
"Because Ryan'll be there and you won't."
"How can he claim it if it isn't his?"
"I'm not saying he will," Denise said. "What he'll do is identify the man who tried to kill him. Your friend Raymond."
"Now we're talking about something I don't know anything about," Mr. Perez said. "What's it got to do with me, or the suitcase?"
"You better finish your Rancher," Denise said. "They pick you up, you might not get anything to eat for a while."
Mr. Perez smiled at her again, watching her dab a couple of fries in the ketchup on her plate.
"Honey, you're pretty good, you know that? But I'll make you a bet I have my suitcase back before the day's over."
"How much?"
"A dollar," Mr. Perez said.
Ryan didn't know if he was supposed to stay or leave. Nobody told him anything. He hung around, looking in the squad room offices that were crowded with old desks. Seeing guys in their shirtsleeves with sidearms drinking coffee. Looking at mug shots of black guys on the wall. Watching a fairly attractive black girl operate a Xerox machine. Dick Speed would pass him without a word, very busy, coming in and out of his office, going into Olsen's office a couple of times where the suitcase was open on a table. Ryan watched them through the glass picking up papers, looking at them. After about a half hour of being quiet and polite, letting them play their grade school game with him, Ryan left.
The place reminded him of a grade school he'd gone to in Detroit-the principal's office, waiting, looking up at the picture of George Washington, the high windows that reached to the ceiling, the solemn gray sky outside. He wasn't a little boy anymore
and didn't have to say please and thank you and kiss ass if he didn't want to. He left.
He didn't go far, though. He went to a coffee house cross from the Athens Bar on Monroe, a block from police headquarters, ordered a cup of Turkish, and shot bumper pool. Shit, he was still waiting around.
He phoned Denise and told her what had happened and what was going on. She told him about having lunch with Mr. Perez and he felt good again. He didn't have to be down. If he was down it was because he chose to be down, and that was dumb.
Denise said, "If they don't want to talk to you, what're you hanging around for? We've got better things to do."
"Right," Ryan said. "But what exactly did you have in mind?"
Denise said, "Go home and pack your bag, and when you pick me up I'll tell you."
That's what he did. In fact, he got out most of his summer clothes, his jeans, lightweight stuff, and packed them in the twenty-nine-dollar Sears footlocker, reactivating it, no longer a coffee table, something to put his feet on. It was a good feeling.
But then he sat down and got up and walked around the silent apartment and looked out the window. It was after seven, nearly dark outside.
He phoned Dick Speed.
And Speed, with a tone of mild surprise, said, "Where'd you go? I look around, you're not here."
"I didn't know I was supposed to wait."
"Did I say it was okay for you to go?" Still playing the game, punishing the bad boy.
"You want me to come down and wait some more?"
"You're too late," Dick Speed said. "You waited, you'd have seen your friend Mr. Perez."
"You picked him up?"
"No, he walked in by himself. Had a very interesting discussion-not with me so much, with Olsen. Left a few minutes ago."
"Can I ask you," Ryan said, trying hard to sound calm, "did you give him the suitcase?"
"Let's talk about it in the morning," Dick Speed said. "I'm about to piss on the fire and head for the ranch."
"Dick, come on, for Christ's sake, just tell me, will you?"
"There're a few things I want to sit down and talk to you about, as I'm sure you know, you rascal. Long as you're not gonna leave town, there's no rush."