"Told to you by your mama it still shit."
"Well, no use talking about it, is there?"
"Let me ask you something," Bobby said. "You put that in the paper to me? Call this number?"
"No, I wondered you might think it was me," Virgil said. "It somebody else looking for you."
"How you know about it?"
"I saw it, same as you did. I saw the man that put it in."
"What's he want?"
"Man looking for you-I thought maybe you owed him money, too."
"You telling me I owe you money? On the Wyandotte?"
Got him up, now push him a little.
"You owe me something," Virgil said. "Or I owe you something. One or the other."
"Shit," Bobby said. "I think somebody give me the wrong information. You the one, Virgil, should be staying here. You all fucked up in your head, acting strange."
"Wait right there," Virgil said.
Bobby straightened up. "Where you going?"
Virgil was moving toward the bathroom. "Make wee-wee. That all right?"
"Don't touch the coat."
"Hey, it's cool," Virgil said. "Take it easy." He went into the bathroom, turned on the light and swung the door almost closed. There was nothing more to talk about. Bobby knew it. Bobby would hnve a load in the chamber of the nickel plate and he might have already decided on his move. You couldn't tell about Bobby. He could try it right now or in a week, or wake up a month from now in the mood. That's why Virgil eased open the frosted-glass window and got the twelve-gauge from the sill.
Nothing cute now, the cute part was over. He'd like to take the time to see Bobby's face, but not with the man holding his shiny gun.
Virgil used his foot to bring the bathroom door in, out of the way. He stepped into the opening and gave Bobbv a load dead-center that pinned him against the dresser and gave Virgil time to pump and bust him again, the sound coming out in a hard heavy wham-wham double-O explosion that Virgil figured, grinning about later, must have rocked some whores out of bed. Virgil picked up the nickel-plated .38, wiped it clean on Bobby's pants, and took it with him.
But he should have waited. As good as it felt hitting Bobby, it didn't pay anything in prize money. He should have waited to see what this other money was about.
Bobby Lear. Money waiting with your name on it.
Then look at it another way. Dead or not, Bobby still owed him something. If he couldn't collect from Bobby, then how about from his wife?"
Virgil sat down and closed his eyes to meditate, think it out.
Something was going on between the wife and the ofay man who'd been looking for Bobby. Name of Ryan.
Virgil had the name and the man's phone number on a piece of paper in his wallet. He'd remember the name, anyway. Standing close to the drunk old man who'd called the number for him-sour-smelling old shitface bum who told him, drinking the two doubles, how he loved colored people, saying they were like little children to him- standing close, smelling the man, he'd heard Ryan say the name and repeat it and then spell it. Virgil knew he'd remember the name because it was the same as the name of a stripper he had seen at the Gaiety when he was a boy, Sunny Ryan, and she was the first white lady he had ever wanted to fuck. It was funny how you remembered things.
Now the wife and the man name of Ryan both knew from the paper Bobby was dead. But something else was still alive that had to do with money. That part was hard to understand. If the man knew Bobby was dead, how come he put the second one in the papers? Money waiting. Or maybe he didn't know Bobby was dead when he put it in. But wouldn't the money still be waiting? If the money was for Bobby, would his wife get it now? Maybe. If it was like money left to him.
The only thing to do, Virgil decided in his patience, was go see Bobby's wife. Buy her some wine and ask her what she knew about it. If she didn't know anything, then call up the man and sound real nice and arrange to meet him. Ask him the question. What's this money with Bobby's name on it? And if it sounded like the man was blowing smoke, pick him up and shake it out of him.
It turned out to be easier than Virgil Royal thought it would. He went out looking for Bobby's wife and at the first stop ran into the man name of Ryan.
Chapter 11
The manager looked as though he hadn't smiled in a long time and had forgotten how. It was a shame, too, Ryan was thinking, because he had a wonderful job taking care of the Mayflower, the actual carved-in-stone name of the apartment building on Selden, in the heart of the Cass Corridor, where he could sit in his window and watch muggings in broad daylight and the whores go by and the people from Harlan County and East Tennessee on their way to the grocery store for some greens and cornmeal. The manager said he hadn't seen her. She was still living in the apartment for all he knew.
Ryan gave him a five-dollar bill, saying for the inconvenience. The manager stood there in his brown coat sweater, hands pushed down in the sagging pockets, watching while Ryan looked around.
Ryan's problem, this was the logical place to begin, but he didn't know what he was looking for. He should at least appear to have a purpose, like he knew what he was doing. He wished the manager would go away. What would anybody want to steal? The only thing he sort of liked was a dinner plate from Stuckey's that had Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson's portrait on it, in color. It wasn't bad.
The dresser and closet were empty. The daybed had been stripped. The kitchen had been straightened up in sort of a half-assed way, the counter and sink cleared but the empty bottles still on the floor.
The business card he had given her-SEARCH AND SERVE ASSOCIATES-was in the bathroom, lying on the lid of the toilet tank.
What did that mean? The medicine cabinet was empty. Okay, she'd taken her toothbrush and comb, that kind of stuff, and put them in her purse and saw his card in there and took it out. Because she was thinking about calling him again. Or because she had no use for it. He came out of the bathroom.
The manager said, "You find what you're looking for?"
"Not yet," Ryan said. He was looking at the black guy standing in the doorway, recognizing only the familiar shape of the hat, the nice curve to the brim, the hat sitting lightly on the man's head, down a little, almost touching his wire-frame sunglasses. A tan leisure outfit today, dark-navy shirt open and pale-blue neck beads. It looked good on him. Ryan was thinking if he put it on, though, he'd feel like a showboat-look at me trying to look cool.
Virgil said to the manager, "Go on downstairs. We need you, we let you know."
The manager might have been a tough little guy at one time who didn't take any shit and maybe something that hadn't withered yet stirred inside him. He said, "Who the hell you talking to? You come in here-I don't know you. I don't know him either. What business you got coming in here?"
"Hey, Papa?" Virgil said. "Leave us. You understand what I'm saying?"
"If you want to look around," Ryan said, "it costs five bucks."
"Get the tour, huh?" Virgil took out a roll of bills and peeled one off for the manager. "Find out all the famous people got laid here. Thanks, Papa."
The manager grumbled something. Virgil didn't move from the doorway and the manager had to edge sideways to get past him. Virgil was looking at Ryan with his easy, pleasant expression, almost smiling.
He said, "I'm Virgil Royal."
"I know," Ryan said. "From Wyandotte Savings and Loan by way of 4000 Cooper Street, Jackson, Michigan."
"Hey, shit." Virgil was grinning now. "How you know that?"
"No sense in keeping secrets from each other," Ryan said. "A policeman told me."
Virgil hesitated a moment. "Yeah, looking for Bobby, Ending out this and that. But you're not a cop. What're you?"
"Confused," Ryan said. "I know I saw you the other night. Did I talk to you on the phone? Last Friday?"
"No, was a man I had call you."
"Yeah, well, I didn't know if you were the first one or the second one."
"Other one must've been Bobby. Talk real slow? Li
ke he gonna fall asleep?"
"I don't remember," Ryan said. "I never did get to meet him, so I'm not sure it was him."
"Little too late," Virgil said. "Now you back looking for his wife. Where's she gone?"
"I don't know. She didn't leave me a note."
Virgil's gaze moved over the room. "She didn't leave much of anything, did she? Moved out." The sunglasses came back to rest on Ryan. "Now she gets the money, huh?"
Ryan didn't answer, getting some words together.
"Tell me about the money, say it's got Bobby's name on it. Somebody leave it to him?"
"Something like that," Ryan said. "It's a legal matter."
"You a lawyer?"
"Process server. You want a divorce, I'm the one hands the papers to your wife."
"I don't want a divorce," Virgil said, "I want some money Bobby owes me."
"You talk to him about it?"
"Man, you getting sneaky now. When did I last see Bobby Lear? Other night? After I saw you? Where was I between three and six A.M. and all that shit."
"The police talk to you about it?"
"Not yet. They do, I have to tell them I was at my sister and brother-in-law's. Got there at three-something, slept till noon. What else?"
Ryan shrugged. "You're talking, I'm not."
"No, I'm asking," Virgil said, "what this money deal is. See, now that the man's dead, I should get the money from his-what you call it-his estate. Right?"
"I don't know," Ryan said. "I told you, I'm not a lawyer."
"Yeah, but you not serving papers either," Virgil said. "You into something else. What's it about?"
"Let me put it this way," Ryan said. "I've got no reason to sympathize with you or tell you anything about what I'm doing, because it's none of your fucking business. Okay?"
"Hey, shit, come on," Virgil said, "talking like that. It's to our mutual interest, man. You gonna be looking for the lady, so am I. We both in it. We can help each other."
"You mean all three of us," Ryan said. "You and I and the Detroit Police Department."
"That's all right, it's cool. Sure, let them do their job. Somebody's gonna find her and then I'm gonna talk to her. So why don't you tell me what it's about now, case I'm wasting my time."
"I'll tell you one thing," Ryan said.
"What's that?"
"You wear that hat."
Virgil gave him a little nod. "Yeah-thank you."
"See, she doesn't know what the deal is yet," Ryan said, "and nobody seems to know where she is, anyway, so why don't you just be patient for a while. What's the hurry?"
"Yeah, you right. It messes up your stomach," Virgil said. "Can cause your knuckles to get broken. No sense in having that, is there?"
"It's dumb," Ryan said, "getting worked up, instead of being patient and letting it happen. You know what I mean? It works out or it doesn't."
"I can dig it," Virgil said. "I know, patience can help you through all kinds of anxieties and concerns, including deep shit and solitary confinement."
"That must be awful, solitary. I don't think I could do it."
"If you don't fight it," Virgil said.
"Well"-Ryan looked toward the kitchen-"I could make some instant coffee-since neither of us seems to know where the fuck we're going, anyway."
"Yeah." Virgil nodded. "That'd be fine. Something else I been meaning to ask you. Your name's Ryan, huh?"
"That's right."
"You got any relation name of Sunny Ryan?"
Chapter 12
She wasn't in Ken's, the Gold Dollar, the Good Times, the Temple, the Hotel Ansonia, the Royal Palm, the Willis Show Bar, or Anderson's Garden.
Ryan checked the bars for a couple of days, thinking she might've felt safer with the drunks, the familiar atmosphere, and was still in the neighborhood. The trouble was, she could stay in a room drinking and seldom come out. She must have money, some, anyway. And if she did, she could have taken off. She could be anywhere.
He called his answering service several times a day-in case she remembered his number and phoned, which wasn't likely-and listened to the answering service girl recite the messages. Call Virgil Royal, and the number. Call Raymond Giddy? Gidre. Rhymes with hid-me. Staying at the Eldorado Motel on Woodward, and the number. Call Rita. Call Jay Walt. Call five, six, seven lawyers with papers waiting to be served. The list of lawyers kept growing. The others kept trying.
Ryan went back to the county clerk's files and checked the marriage license again.
Denise Leann Watson. Occupation: student. Birthplace: Bad Axe, Michigan.
He didn't notice it the first time he checked. Bad Axe. He'd worked in that area of the Thumb twelve years ago, in the sugar beet and cucumber fields. He might've seen her on the street in Bad Axe or Port Austin, the majorette with the blond ponytail and the perky ass, twirling for the consolidated high school marching band. Or in the backseat of a car at the drive-in, drinking Boone's Farm.
Father's name: Joseph L. Watson.
Ryan talked to Mrs. Watson on the phone. He could feel her withdraw and lock up when he said he was inquiring about Denise. Was she there? Mrs. Watson said she had not heard from Denise since Christmas. She did not see her then and did not care either, because Denise was not going to hurt her anymore. Ryan asked if, by any chance, Denise had gone to Wayne-picturing the psych or sociology major who'd got lost in the inner city and messed up. No, she'd gone to Michigan State and then to Detroit Arts and Crafts. Ryan thanked her.
He called the art school and found out Denise had studied there four years ago. Graphic design.
So he visited art studios in the Cass Corridor area- storefronts painted over in bright colors, a corner building that looked like the Alamo, painted white, and had been a Hi-Speed gas station. He talked to artists who looked like mechanics. The one who remembered a Denise Watson was building a sculpture out of hubcaps, welding them together. He turned off his torch, put his goggles up, and said, Denise. She did whales. She did wailing fucking whales, man. Denise's whales, man, she drew whales, she painted whales, she fucking carved whales better than the Eskimos.
Ryan called Dick Speed.
Nothing on Denise Leary yet. Sure they were still looking-a guy is killed and his wife disappears? Her name was at the top of the all-points. For questioning.
"How about Virgil Royal?"
"Yeah, we talked to him," Dick Speed said. "We talked to his sister, we talked to his brother-in-law. They say he spent the night with them. We talked to Virgil again. We had the night clerk at the Montcalm Hotel happen to pass through the office. He said he didn't know, maybe, they all looked alike to him. He said the guy had on a raincoat and a knit cap, maybe a beard. You remember Tunafish?"
"Sure."
"That's Virgil's brother-in-law."
"It's getting it's like everybody knows everybody," Ryan said.
"How about birds of a feather?" Dick Speed said. "If they're not screwing each other's sister, they strike up meaningful relationships at Jackson. They're all in the life together."
"You believe Tunafish? I mean since he's supposed to be on your side?"
"Tunafish, he gives us a little straight stuff and a lot of bullshit. With something like this-well, if you had a brother-in-law was a hard-time con who might've blown away a couple of people with a shotgun-would you get him sore at you?"
"So what do you do now?"
"Stay on it. Talk to people. Like the hairdresser out in Pontiac. He gave us the same description, raincoat, knit cap, but no beard. So we don't think much of the beard the night clerk might've seen. The hairdresser looked through the family album. 'Mmmmmm, no. No ... no ... no. That's cute, the earring. I know a fella wears his mother's wedding ring in his ear.' We say, How about this mother? And point to a nice full-face and profile of Virgil. He says, 'Mmmmmm . . . mmmmm. Well, there is a likeness ... no ... well, maybe. No, I can't say positively, so I'd better not say.' We parade Virgil through the office, Virgil looking around like he's never been here before-isn
't that interesting, a calendar, and a window, and all those mug shots on the wall-he probably knows half the fucking guys up there. The hairdresser, he'd glance at Virgil and look away, like he didn't want to be impolite and get caught staring at him. To make a long story, no positive I.D. Virgil's on the street."
"He keeps calling me," Ryan said. "He wants to talk to the wife."
Dick Speed said, "Who doesn't? The broad's sitting somewhere, she doesn't know how popular she is."
There was a story about the disappearance of Denise Leary on of the Free Press and a graduation shot of her out of the Michigan State Spartan. It became a before in the before-and-after pictures of her Ryan kept in his mind. Her blond hair was shorter then, dipping close to her eye in a soft curve, and she was smiling. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
The news story said she was being sought for questioning in the slaying of her husband. Ryan wondered where they dug up words like that. Slaying. He didn't see anything in the news story he didn't already know.
Ryan stopped by the Eldorado Motel to see Raymond and find out what Mr. Perez was doing. The Eldorado was a midtown motel on Woodward Avenue. Ryan couldn't figure out who would stay there. He asked Raymond how it was going.
Raymond Gidre said he had never seen so many niggers in all his life. He said he'd walked from the motel down to the river and all he'd seen was niggers.
Ryan asked him if he liked to walk, since it was about three miles.
Raymond said if he'd known it, he wouldn't have. He had walked over to the General Motors Building, but there wasn't nothing to see there. He liked the Fisher Building, though, the way they lit up the gold top at night. He said the street lights on Woodward were funny. They were kind of pink.
Ryan said he'd never noticed.
Raymond said near two weeks, he hadn't found a good place to eat other than a nigger joint he happened to go into. They had collards and okra. Nobody seemed to have heard of red beans and rice. Raymond couldn't believe it. He told Ryan he understood one thing now. At the Saint Charles Hotel in New Orleans, before they tore it down, and different places, the Monteleone, he'd wondered why a person couldn't get a shoeshine no more. It was simple once he saw why. All the niggers had come up to De-troit.