He looked at himself in the mirrored walls of the first floor, grinned a little at the hotshot grinning back at him and walked out of there with a check for six thousand five hundred dollars in the pocket of his denim jacket, thinking: I believe you stumbled onto something, boy.
It was sure nice out.
There was a guy standing across the street. A young guy in a dark suit.
It was sure easier than going in with a gun. Pick out the right party, impress on the party why they should not call the police, then go to a downtown bank at once and cash the check. See, then if the bank calls the party to verify the check, the party is still seeing life through pain and fear and would say, you bet it’s good-fast.
There were three guys over there now, standing, talking.
Carolyn was probably upstairs looking out the window. Man, but it was a big place. Weird. High picket fence, like spears, all around and a blacktop parking area in the side yard-no grass-like the place had once been a residence, then a commercial establishment of some kind, with its big kitchen and bathroom, then a residence again. His car sat over there all by itself, up against the iron fence.
The three guys across the street, he realized now-looking through the fence at them as he approached his car-were wearing black suits. Dark-haired guys with mustaches and black suits…
Jesus Christ, he had never even seen an Albanian before yesterday. He said to himself, Oh shit-wanting to run for the Montego, but making himself walk, not wanting to get anybody excited just yet, least not until he was behind the car on the driver’s side and could open the door and reach under the seat.
The three guys were coming across the street. They looked like undertakers. They were opening their black suitcoats and reaching inside…
Clement was still five long strides from the car when they drew pistols and began firing at him. He couldn’t believe it. Right out on the street, three guys he’d never seen before in his life shooting at him through the fence, not asking him to wait-up there, find out if he was the party they wanted-Christ, just blazing away at him! Clement got his door open and saw the windows drilled and patterns form at the same time, the windows shattered but held together. He got the Browning from under the seat, edged to the rear curve of the Montego, extended the Browning over the edge of the trunk and, as he saw them through the widely spaced pickets, the three of them coming toward the drive, he began squeezing the trigger, feeling the gun jump, hearing that hard report in his ears, and saw them scatter, running along the fence on the other side of the drive. Clement got in the Montego, backed up, headed toward the rear of the house and almost braked when he saw the chain across the exit drive-thought, What, you don’t want to scratch up your new car?-kept going and tore through those links without even feeling a tug-sailed out hanging a right into the alley and faced another split moment of decision as he saw the end of the alley coming up fast. Turn left, away from the boys in black? Or hang another right and have to drive past the front of the house, where they were presently swarming? To hell with them. He cranked a right… saw the black suits back in the street again, looking this way, then all three of them aiming with both arms extended, like they knew what they were doing. The sound of the shots came as pops, far away, but the windshield blossomed at once in fragmenting circles. Clement floored it right at them. Saw them run for the sidewalk and veered over to jump the curb and sweep along close to the fence. Two of them ducked into the drive, out of the way, while the third set a fence-climbing record, just pulling his legs up as Clement scraped the Montego against the metal pickets, swerved back onto the street and took a couple of more shots in the rear end before he got to Jefferson and turned without stopping into the westbound traffic.
He couldn’t believe he had never heard of Albanians.
SANDY WAS WEARING her Bert Parks T-shirt with tight faded jeans. She let go of the door, resigned, walked ahead of Raymond into the living room.
“We alone?”
“You mean is Clement here? No. But Del called. He’s coming back this weekend.”
“What’s that do to your arrangement?”
“It doesn’t do nothing. I move out.”
“Clement find another place?”
Sandy seemed worn-out. She didn’t answer, she moved in a circle, indecisive, before dragging herself over to the couch and curling a leg beneath her as she sunk down.
“Tired?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Out late last night, huh?”
“Pretty late.”
Raymond came over and sat at the other end of the couch, playing with a folded piece of notepaper now, rolling it in one hand the way you might roll a cigarette.
“I’m tired too,” Raymond said. “You want to know where I’ve been?”
“Not partic’larly.”
“First I went to Hutzel…”
“What’s Hutzel?”
“It’s a hospital. Up at the Medical Center.”
Sandy held her hands close to her face, idly concentrating on a fingernail, putting it between her front teeth then, holding the nail with her teeth as she twisted the finger.
“I saw Skender.”
“Then where’d you go?”
“Skender’s in traction. He’s gonna be crippled the rest of his life. You can say, oh, what happened? And we can throw that back and forth a while, or you can tell me how you feel about it.”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” Sandy said, “so I don’t think I will.”
“You know the kind of person Skender is-quiet, very nice guy-”
“Hey, come on.” Sandy got up abruptly. She went over to the windows and stood with her back to Raymond, who rolled and unrolled the piece of notepaper between his thumb and fingers.
“What’d Clement call him, the chicken-fat Albanian?” Sandy didn’t answer. “You don’t have a typewriter, do you? I mean Del Weems.”
Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He handed her the piece of notepaper.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
Sandy unrolled it, saw:
SURPRISE
CHICKEN FAT!!!
and let the paper curl up again. Raymond took it. He left her standing at the window and returned to the couch.
“He leaves the note and shoots up my apartment with a .22. The question is, was he trying to kill me, or was he just having some fun?”
Sandy turned to the television set that was in the corner between the banks of windows, dialed the knob through the channels, back and forth, stood looking at the screen a moment, then came back to her end of the couch and sat down on her leg, her gaze holding on Bob Eubanks talking to a panel of newlywed wives, asking them what film star will their husbands say “you would most like to make whoopee with.”
“Who would you?” Raymond said.
“Robert Redford,” Sandy answered, watching the television screen. An oriental-looking newlywed wife also said Robert Redford. The other three said John Travolta.
“One time,” Sandy said, with a little more life in her now, “Bob Eubanks asked them what was the most unusual place they ever made whoopee? And this girl goes-it’s bleeped out, but you can read her lips. She goes, ‘In the ass.’ And Bob Eubanks goes, ‘No! I mean a place like a location.’ I thought he was gonna die.”
“You ever married?” Raymond asked.
“Yeah, once. This shithead from Bedford. His big ambition was to move to Indianapolis.”
“I guess you’ve seen some sights.”
“Not a whole lot worth remembering.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three.” Giving the number an edge of panic in her tone.