“What do we need a computer for with Blaney?” Herzog said.
“That’s what I said to Norb. Art looks up at the ceiling, it’s like he wrote some notes up there. What do you want to know? Marcus Sweeton, a.k.a. the Dark Mark, Sweetwater, a couple more and Mr. Sweety. He makes about fifteen grand a year from the bar and another twenty-five or thirty from drugs, nothing worth busting, little neighborhood store.”
“This is how he stays pure,” Herzog said.
“Well, it’s relative,” Raymond said. “Pure compared to going in someplace with a gun. Art says Mansell used him as a bird dog. Mr. Sweety would go in a dope house-very friendly type of guy-sit around and chat a while, pass out some angel dust, tell a few jokes-that’s the way they worked. Get ’em laid back on the dust, then Clement comes in and takes ’em off easy-all these clowns sitting around grinning at him.”
“How many times can you do that?” Herzog said.
“In this town?” Raymond said. “You put all the dope stores on a computer the printout would reach down the hall, down the stairs, out onto Beaubien-”
“I get the picture,” Herzog said. “So now you’ve got a possible witness to one or more of these nine killings Mansell claims he did. Are you trying to tie in Mr. Sweety to Judge Guy and Adele Simpson?”
“Not necessarily,” Raymond said. “See, the original idea, find out who this old buddy is, tie him in to Mansell as an accessory and get him to cop on one of the earlier murders. Just in case we don’t get Mansell on the current one, the judge and Adele. I thought, ah, use a lead Mansell himself gave us and doesn’t even know it. Bring him in and watch his mouth fall open.”
“I’m not gonna hold up my vacation on that happening,” Herzog said.
“No, I said that was the original idea,” Raymond said. “But now-what is this? Mansell shoots the judge and Adele and the next day Sandy Stanton goes to see the old buddy, Mr. Sweety. What’s going on here?”
“So you are trying to tie him in.”
“Yeah, but not necessarily in the way I think you mean.”
“I’m not sure I know what I mean,” Herzog said.
“Look at it this way,” Raymond said. “If Mansell was hired to do the judge and then he hired Mr. Sweety to drive for him-”
“Then why didn’t Sweety get a car?”
“That’s the first question. The next one-since Mansell knows we’ve made the Buick, would he tell Sandy to drive over to Mr. Sweety’s house in it the next day?”
“I don’t know,” Herzog said, “would he?”
“Or-did Sandy go over there on her own?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you ask her.”
“I’m going to,” Raymond said, “soon as she gets home.”
“But then she tells Mansell and he’ll know you’re onto Mr. Sweety. How do you get around that?”
“It’s a game, isn’t it?” Raymond said. “Nothing but a game… Why don’t I just go find Clement and shoot him?”
Herzog said, “That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.”
CLEMENT BOUGHT A TEN-SHOT .22 Ruger automatic rifle, a regular $87.50 value for $69.95, and a box of .22 longs at K-mart in the Tel-Twelve Mall. He went over to the typewriter counter and asked the girl if he could try one. She said sure and gave him a sheet of notepaper. Clement pecked away for a minute, using his index fingers, pulled the notepaper out of the Smith-Corona and took it with him. He saw a black cowboy hat he liked, put it on and walked out with it… down a block to Red Bowers Chevrolet where Sandy Stanton was wandering around the used car lot in her high-heel boots and tight jeans.
She saw him coming with the black hat on, carrying the long cardboard box sticking out of the K-mart sack and said, “Oh, my Lord, what have you got now?”
He told her it was a surprise and Sandy brightened. “For me?” Clement said no, for somebody else. He looked around at the rows of “Fall Clean-up Specials” and asked her if she’d picked one out.
Sandy led him to a Pontiac Firebird with a big air scoop and the hood flamed in red and gold, sunlight flashing on the windshield.
“Isn’t it a honey? Looks like it eats other cars right up.”
Clement said, “Sugar, I told you I want a regular car. I ain’t gonna street race, I ain’t gonna hang out at the Big Boy; I just need me some wheels in your id till things get a little better. Now here’s seven one-hundred-dollar bills, all the grocery money till we get some more. You buy a nice car and pick me up over there-if I can make it across Telegraph without getting killed-where you see that sign? Ramada Inn? I’ll be in there having a cocktail.”
Sandy got him a ’76 Mercury Montego, sky blue over rust, with only forty thousand miles on it for six-fifty plus tax and Clement said, “Now you’re talking.”
A boy who was born on an oil lease and traveled in the beds of pickup trucks till he was twelve years old would be likely to have dreams of Mark VIs and Eldorados. Not Clement. He had driven, had in his possession for varying periods of time in his life, an estimated 268 automobiles, all makes and models, counting the used ‘56 Chevy four-barrel he’d bought when he was seventeen and the used TR-3 he’d bought one time when he was feeling sporty; all the rest he stole. Clement said cars were to get you from here to there or a way of picking up spending money. If you wanted to impress somebody, open their eyes, shit, stick a nickel-plate .45 in their mouth and ear back the hammer.
Clement drove back downtown and over to Lafayette East, but didn’t go to the apartment. Sandy said she wanted to get some Vernor’s. So while she was in the supermarket down the street from the apartment building, Clement found a telephone booth with a directory and looked up Cruz…
Cruz, Cruz, Cruz… no Raymond Cruz, which he didn’t expect to find anyway, but there was an M. Cruz-the kind of initial-only listing women thought would prevent dirty phone calls-and Clement bet twenty cents, dialing the number, that M. Cruz was Raymond Cruz’s former wife.
MCMU called Raymond Cruz. Sandy Stanton was back, crossing the street toward 1300 Lafayette with a bag of groceries. Alone. A 1st Precinct squad car got him over there, up the circular drive to the entrance, in less than four minutes. Sandy was in the lobby, pulling Del Weems’ credit-card bills out of the mailbox, when Raymond walked in.
“Well, hi there.” Sandy gave him a nice smile.
Raymond smiled too, appreciating her, close to believing she was glad to see him.
“What brings you around, may I ask? Del isn’t back yet, if you’re looking for him.”
Raymond said, “No, I’m looking for you, Sandy.” And she said, oh, losing some of her sparkle. They went up to 2504. Raymond walked over to the skyline view while Sandy ran to the bathroom. She was in there a long time. It was quiet. Raymond listened, wondering if she was flushing something down the toilet. She came out wearing her satin running shorts, a white T-shirt with a portrait on it, barefoot, saying she had to get out of those tight designer jeans. Saying she wished uncomfortable outfits weren’t so fashionable, but what were you supposed to do? You had to keep up. Like with cowboy boots now. Back home she’d worked at a riding stable at Spring Mills State Park and wore cowboy boots all the time, never dreaming they’d be the fashion one day and you’d even wear ’em to shopping centers… Sandy talking fast to keep Raymond from talking and maybe he’d forget why he came. It did give him time to identify the portrait on her T-shirt and read the words SAVE BERT PARKS.
She hesitated too long and he said, “Where’s Clement?”
“Well, so much for the world of fashion,” Sandy said. “I don’t know where he is.”
“You drop him off someplace?”
“You think I’m dumb or something? I’m not gonna tell you a thing. If I didn’t have a kind heart, I wouldn’t even be talking to you… You want a drink?”