The phone rang.
“Jerry, let’s see about putting MCMU on Sweety around the clock now.”
The phone rang. Raymond laid his hand on it.
“Put a couple guys in the bar-if they can hang around without getting smashed.”
The phone rang.
Raymond picked it up. He said, “Squad Seven, Lieutenant Cruz.”
Clement’s voice said, “Hey, partner. I got a complaint I want to make. Some crazy fuckers’re trying to kill me.”
He parked behind Piper’s Alley on St. Antoine, a few blocks south of 1300, came through the kitchen with the paper bag and Charlie Meyer, the owner, said, “Raymond,” almost sadly, “you don’t bring your lunch here. This is a restaurant.”
Raymond smiled, gave him a wave and continued out into the main room, looking past plastic fern and Tiffany lamps at the booths of after-work drinkers, a swarm of them at the bar, guys and girls unwinding or winding up for the evening, either way unaware of the policeman with the paper bag who was wondering what it would be like to drop the bag on Clement’s table-sitting there, next to one of the front windows in his denim jacket-say to Clement, Here, I got something for you, and as Clement’s hand goes inside the bag say, loud enough to stop the room, DROP IT! and pull the Colt out of his sportcoat and blow him away.
Clement said, “There he is.” Grinning. “You look like a man with pussy on his mind. See something here you like?”
Raymond sat down and placed the paper bag on the table, to one side. Clement had a drink in front of him-in his denims, someone off a freighter or a trail drive-sizing up the house.
“All these boogers come in here looking for quiff, you know it? Their badges and convention tags on, they end up looking at each other, I swear. What’s in the bag, your lunch?”
“Yes, it’s my lunch,” Raymond said. “You owe me seventy-eight dollars for a new window.”
Clement grinned. “Somebody shooting at you? Listen, partner, I got people shooting at me too. I see these fellas coming across the street, I’m thinking, what’re they, undertakers? Wearing these black suits. What I don’t understand is how come I never heard of Albanians.”
“Well, they never heard of you either,” Raymond said. “But now, it’s a question of who gets you first. You want to turn yourself in, I think you’d live longer at Jackson than out on the street.”
Clement was squinting at him. “You let those fellas loose like that, shoot at people?”
“You want to file a complaint, stop in the precinct. See, we don’t get attempted or assault. Like what you did to Skender.”
“Man, you keep on top.”
“He’d have to file a charge, but they’d rather handle it themselves.”
“And you let ’em?”
“If the man doesn’t report you broke his leg, then we don’t know about it, do we?”
“Jesus-” Clement shook his head. “You want a drink?”
“No, there’s something I have to do yet.”
He watched Clement drain his glass and look around for the waitress-not quite the leisurely, laid-back Clement this evening-half-turning and putting his arm on the table, his hand, Raymond judged, about eight inches away from the paper bag. Clement raised his other hand, motioned with it and looked at Raymond again.
“Reason I called you, I want you to understand something. I’m leaving town. I’m not leaving on account of the Albanians and I’m not leaving on account of you either. But I got no reason to sit around here with my thumb up my ass, so I’m moving on.”
“When,” Raymond asked, “tonight?”
“I was-send you a postcard from Cincinnati-till I got jacked around this afternoon and by the time I got to the bank it was closed. All three banks I went to. I just want you to know, partner, I’m not running, as you know the meaning of the word. But I’m not gonna wait while you dick around and I’m not gonna exchange unpleasantries with some people I don’t even know who they are ‘cept they wear black suits… Can you tell me why they dress like that?”
“One of them died,” Raymond said.
“Well, some more of ’em are gonna if I hang around, so tell ’em it’s just as well I’m leaving. I just don’t want them thinking they run me off, cause they haven’t. But shit, I get mixed up with those people-I got no incentive. You understand?” He looked up as the waitress took his glass. “Same way, hon.” As she turned to Raymond, Clement said, “No, he don’t want nothing. That’s Jack Armstrong, the all-American Boy.” Clement smiled at her and looked at Raymond again. “She don’t know shit who I’m talking about, does she?”
“Sandy going with you?”
“I don’t know, I suppose. She’s cute, isn’t she? ‘Cept when she gets stoned. I tell her quit smoking that queer shit and drink liquor like a normal person.”
“Some people,” Raymond said, “you can’t tell ’em anything.”
“That’s the truth.”
“But long as they don’t tell on you …” Raymond shrugged and let the words hang.
Clement stared at him.
Raymond was aware of the noise level in Piper’s Alley. It surprised him that when he purposely listened to the sound of the place it was so loud. Everybody working at having fun. He said, “Well, I got to get going.”
Clement stared at him. “You want me to think you know something I don’t.”
“You’re nervous this evening,” Raymond said. “But long as you trust your friends, what’re you worried about?”
Clement stared at him. His head turned a little and he stared at the paper sack. He said, “That ain’t your lunch, is it?”
“No, it isn’t my lunch. Isn’t a bag of fry cakes, either,” Raymond said. “You want it?”
“Oh, my,” Clement said, beginning to grin just a little. “We getting tricky, are we? Want to hand me somebody else’s murder gun?” His eyes raised, his expression changing abruptly as Raymond got up from the table. “Where you going? I ain’t done yet.”
Raymond said, “Yes, you are,” and walked out with the sack. He used the telephone in the kitchen, noise all around him, to call Hunter, told him not to move, he’d be right there.
A few minutes later Raymond walked into the squadroom.
“Maureen leave yet?”
“Right after you did. I put MCMU on Sweety’s place, told ’em to get somebody in the bar and the rest out of sight.”
“Good.” Raymond opened his address book to “S” and began dialing a number. “Clement made an announcement. He’s leaving town tomorrow.”
Hunter said, “We better have the party tonight then.”
Raymond nodded. “I think we should try.” He said into the phone then, “Sandy? This is Lieutenant Cruz. How you doing?… Yeah, I know, some are better than others. You having a nice talk with Maureen?… Yeah, well, let me speak to her a minute.” He put his hand over the phone as he looked at Hunter. “She says it isn’t her day.” Taking his hand away, Raymond said, “Maureen?… listen, tell her Clement’ll probably call or be over in a little while. In fact, any time now, so you better get out of there. Explain to her-she can say we questioned her about the gun, even leaned on her a little, tried to scare her, if she wants. But tell her to keep it simple. She took the gun over to Sweety’s, period. That’s all she knows. Was she crying?… Uh-huh, well, tell her if she feels like she’s going to save it for Clement, just in case… Hey, Maureen? Tell her you wish you were twenty-three again.”
“You’re all heart,” Hunter said.
“I can sympathize with Sandy a little,” Raymond said, “I can. But I’m not too worried about her. I mean, if she can hang around with Clement three, four years and she’s still in one piece…”
“She knows how to cover her ass,” Hunter said.
“If anything’s bothering me at the moment, that I feel a certain responsibility…” Raymond paused, thoughtful, and looked over at Hunter. “You got Sweety’s number?”
Hunter dialed it and stayed on the phone. Raymond picked up his phone and sat back, crossing his loafers on the corner of the gray metal desk. He said, “Mr. Sweety, how you doing? This is Lieutenant Cruz… What I was wondering, has Clement called you yet?”