Mitchell gave him a surprised look. "Your friend Leo. Who'd you think?"
He watched the car drive out of the parking lot, then walked back through the plant to his office, sat down at the desk and wrote himself a note.
Call O'Boyle in the morning. See what his friend can find out about Alan Raimy and Leo Frank.
And went straight home.
15
"I don't know," Leo Frank said. "Deal looks clean and simple, then all of a sudden it gets complicated. There must be something. I mean the guy's got some dough, hasn't he?"
Bobby Shy looked over at Alan. Those two were talking. Bobby sat on a pillow with his back leaning against the wall. He was uncomfortable but he was listening, getting it clear in his mind. There was a funny sound in the talk: somebody jiving somebody.
Alan was over by the window that had a tree painted on the shade, a brown heavy line for the trunk and a green circle for the leaves. Alan was home. He was smoking a joint, exhaling with barely a trace of anything coming out of his mouth.
He said, "The man has money. I told you he had money. He can get his hands on more money when he cashes in his stocks and bonds and shit. But the government has got him by the balls. He owes them over a hundred and fifty grand on his income tax the last two years and he's got to pay up. If he doesn't they make him sell his house, his business, everything."
Leo said, "Then why did he have money the other day, in the envelope?"
"Because he had to hold us off," Alan said. "He was afraid we might jump and call the cops on him. So he let us smell the dough figuring we wouldn't do anything right away. That gives him time to set up the meeting."
"I don't know," Leo Frank said.
"I know you don't," Alan said. "Jesus, I'm glad he talked to me and not to you. He might be a fuck-up in business, but he had that much sense."
No, Bobby Shy was thinking, something is not right. He didn't like the sound of the talk. He didn't like being here in Alan's apartment. The place looked bare, like he'd just moved in and hadn't put anything where it belonged; and yet it was full of all kinds of weird shit on the walls, on the floor, even hanging from the ceiling. There were psycho designs and names and words in bright aerosol paint sprayed all over the white walls and on the shades-like the men's room of a jive joint or a New York subway station. Man had gooseneck lamps you could twist around in every direction, black lights and colored mood lights in white globes, Indian bells and shit, birds and mobile shapes hanging down, balls on aluminum sticks that hit against each other, rugs that looked like they were made out of animal hair, pillows from India lying around, a couple of straw chairs and all these big red and green and purple and yellow pillows. Like they'd turn the men's room in the jive joint into a Turkish whorehouse.
"I mean," Leo said, "if a guy makes that kind of dough, how come he doesn't have any left to pay the government?"
"He invested it. Look," Alan said, "he's supposed to pay the government quarterly, every three months. If he doesn't he has to pay a penalty at the end of the year, like six percent. But he figures he can put the dough to work and make more than six percent on it. So he invests. Only the stock he invests in goes down. A business he puts dough in folds. So he's not only lost the money he invested, he still owes the fucking government the income tax he didn't pay."
Leo was nodding, trying to understand it. "Don't they give him time to pay?"
"They call him in," Alan explained, ready for that one. "He talks to a clerk in the Internal Revenue office. He says look, I'll pay. Give me some time. The clerk looks over the guy's tax return. Shit, he sees the guy spends more on booze than he makes in a year and he throws the fucking book at the guy. Pay up, right now."
Leo said, "You know this for sure?"
"No, I'm making it up," Alan said. "Leo, I saw the correspondence with the Internal Revenue office, their stationery, Department of Internal Revenue across the top. I saw his books, I saw his bank balance. The guy gives us five bucks and they want to know where it went."
Alan squeezed the joint between his fingernails and got a last suck out of it before he dropped the burned brown stub in an ashtray. He said, "If you want to know something, I'll tell you. I had a gut feeling the guy was too perfect. We wait for somebody like him like a guy waiting for the most beautiful chick in the world. She comes along, man, there she is. But it turns out her fucking breath smells or something."
"Jesus, all the time we put in it," Leo said. "And the girl-"
"That brings us to something else," Alan said. "The girl. This part I don't like, what we have to do." He looked directly at Leo Frank. "You know why?"
Leo had a puzzled look. "I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Leo, I asked him. He said it was you told him where to find me."
"I didn't! I never even gave him your last name!"
"Leo, I ask him. I said hey, who told you where I work? He says who do you think? Your friend Leo. His exact words."
"Honest to Christ, I didn't."
"Leo," Alan said, "the show's over, or almost over. I don't give a shit really, it's done. You let me down. Okay, live and learn."
Bobby was still watching Alan, wondering why Alan hadn't mentioned this before, first thing when they came in. He was wondering also why Alan was so cool about it. Alan should be stomping Leo with words, cutting him up; but he was passing it over like it didn't matter. Live and learn-shit.
"But," Alan was saying, "we do have a problem. Somebody got killed. He saw it. At the time he didn't know about us, but now he does."
Bobby Shy spoke for the first time. He said, "He knows about you two. He don't know about me."
Alan looked at him. "That's right. That's why you're going to have to do it. You can walk up to him, shake hands and blow him away. Man won't even know what hit him."
"For what?" Bobby Shy said. "What do I get out of it?"
"Peace of mind," Alan said.
"I look nervous to you?"
"All right," Alan said. "You want to take a chance? He knows she's dead, right? He knows three of us did it. Not just me and Leo, also a spade wears a stocking over his face and packs a thirty-eight Special. Bobby, you been to Jackson. I believe you lived there ten years, armed robbery? You really want to take a chance? His conscience gets to him, he goes to the police and they start ripping the fucking walls out looking for us. Hey Bobby, you want that to happen?"
Bobby Shy grinned. "Listen to the man. Wants me to clean up his mess."
"I thought you were the pro," Alan said. "One likes to pull the trigger."
"Giving me some sweet jive now."
"Shit, you walk up, ring his bell, he opens the door, it's done."
"That's how you do it, huh?"
"Why not?"
Bobby Shy nodded. "Maybe. Do it in the man's house. Make it look like a B and E."
Alan was grinning now. "Hey, possibilities, right? You like it?"
"I'll think on it," Bobby Shy said.
Alan had him; he could feel it. He said, "While you're thinking I'll do a time-and-motion study on the man and I'll let you know when. In fact, you want, I'll go with you."
"Hold my hand?" Bobby Shy said. "I appreciate it."
"We just have to stick together," Alan said, and looked over at Leo to include him. "I mean we start something, we have to finish it. Then-we got time, we got nothing else to do-we look for another guy. Why not?"
He got them out of there and sat down on a pillow to smoke another joint and relax. Jesus, all that footwork took it out of you. Slipping and sliding around, juking the spade and fat Leo right out of their socks. Shit, right out of their shares. But the guy could still be pulling something and Alan decided he'd better think on that a while.
The funny thing was he started thinking about the guy's wife again. At home, in the living room standing there mad with her legs a little apart. Getting in the car in front of the show, giving him the show, her legs apart again, nice glimpse of some inside thigh. He said to himself, Now come on, there's a role in this piece for Slim. How about it? He sucked on the joint and pictured her at home, alone again, and started to put something together.