“He said what difference does it make. Those were his words,” Raymond said. “What difference does it make?”
“You talking to him like that, what you talking to me for?”
“Because you’d like to help me,” Raymond said. “You’d like to get the wildman off your back, for good. But you’re afraid if you give me something, Clement’s liable to find out.” Mr. Sweety didn’t say anything. After a moment, Raymond got up. “Can I use your phone again?”
In the dark hallway the moving beat of the Motown sound was closer now, coming from a bedroom. Raymond held one of his cards toward the light to read a phone number written on the back, then dialed the number.
A male voice answered. “Lafayette East.”
“Let me speak to Sergeant Robinson, please.” Raymond waited. When he heard Wendell’s voice he said, “Where are we?”
“Got a call out on the Montego,” Wendell said. “Told ’em to get the number, see if it’s on the sheet and tell MCMU where the car’s at. But you see the problem?”
“Which one?” Raymond said. “That’s all I see are problems.”
“They spot him out in Oakland or Macomb County somewhere,” Wendell said, “then the local people got the case. They pick him up for driving without a license, but they can’t take a weapon out of the car less it’s in plain sight. Say they do. Then he’s out of our jurisdiction on some halfass gun charge. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Tell ’em-” Raymond paused. “I’m not worried about jurisdiction right now. But we have to be sure it’s admissible evidence. We find a gun on him, first it’s got to be the right gun, then it’s got to stand up in court the search was legal and the only sure way is if you take him in on the traffic charge and set a bond and he doesn’t make it. Then you can go through the car when you list his possessions. Otherwise, you say you had reason to believe he was carrying a murder weapon-based on what? Shit,” Raymond said. “I can see us losing him again on a technicality.”
“He won’t have the gun on him anyways,” Wendell said.
“He probably won’t, but what’s he doing, driving around? Where did he get the car?… How about Sandy Stanton?”
“Went out, hasn’t come back.”
“What’s your friend say about letting us in the apartment?”
“Yeah, Mr. Edison says fine. Wants to know if we have a search warrant, I told him you’re handling that.”
“Everybody’s into legal rights,” Raymond said. “We see something we want we’ll get a warrant and go back. How about the Buick?”
“Hasn’t moved. Nobody’s gone near it.”
“Okay, call a truck, have it picked up. I’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“I hear the Commodores now,” Wendell said. “You and Mr. Sweety spinning records?”
Raymond was thinking. He said, “Listen, let’s not worry about Clement, I mean picking him up. Tell ’em just try and locate him and stay close. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
He walked back into the living room, looking again at the illuminated photo of the man with the brown beard and long hair.
“Who’s that, a friend of yours?”
Mr. Sweety glanced over. He said, “This picture here?” and sounded surprised. “It’s Jesus. Who you think it was?”
“It’s a photograph,” Raymond said.
Mr. Sweety said, “Yeah, it’s a good likeness, ain’t it?”
Raymond sat down again, nodding, his gaze returning to the heavyset black man in the bathrobe.
“Are you saved?”
“Man, I hope so. I could use some saving.”
“I know what you mean,” Raymond said. “There’s nothing like peace of mind. But I’m afraid I might’ve upset you. You’re confused now. You don’t know whether you should call Clement or not…”
“Wait now,” Mr. Sweety said, with an expression of pain. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, to tell him I was here… tell him Sandy was here… But then you’d be getting involved, wouldn’t you? If I wanted to remain saved,” Raymond said, “especially if I was concerned about saving my ass, I think I’d keep quiet, figuring it’s better to be a little confused than involved, right?”
“Lift my voice only to heaven,” Mr. Sweety said.
“I’d even think twice about that,” Raymond said. “You never know, somebody could have you bugged.”
“YEAH, IT’S DARK IN HERE,” Clement said, looking around Uncle Deano’s, at the steer horns on the walls and the mirrors framed with horse collars. “Darker’n most places that play Country, but it’s intimate. You know it? I thought if we was gonna have a intimate talk why not have it at a intimate place?” Clement straightened, looking up. “Except for that goddamn pinball machine; sounds like a monkey playing a ‘lectric organ.” He settled down again. “I’ll tell you something else. If our mom hadn’t been carried away by a tornado last spring, we’d be holding this meeting in Lawton.”
Sandy said to Skender Lulgjaraj, “He means Lawton, Oklahoma.”
“Well, hell, he’s heard of Lawton, hasn’t he? If he hasn’t, he’s sure heard of Fort Sill… Here,” Clement said, “make you feel at home.”
He took off his K-mart cowboy hat, reached across the table and placed it on Skender Lulgjaraj’s thick head of black hair. The hat sat high and Skender tried to pull it down tighter as he turned to Sandy.
“Hey,” Sandy said, “you look like a regular cowpoke.”
“I don’t think it fit me,” Skender said, holding onto the brim with both hands.
“It looks cute,” Sandy told him. “Goes with your outfit nice.” She reached over to brush a kernel of popcorn from the lapel of Skender’s black suit, then picked another one from the hair that showed in the open V of his silky beige sportshirt.
Clement was reaching out, stopping their waitress with his extended arm. He said, “Hey, I like your T-shirt. Honey, bring us another round, will you, please? And some more popcorn and go on over and ask Larry if he’ll do ‘You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille’ the next set? Okay? Thank you, hon.” He turned to Skender and said, “Our mom loved that song. She’d listen to it and get real mad and say, ‘That woman’s just trash, leave four children, hungry children, like that.’ I believe she loved that song, I’d say just a smidge behind Luckenback, Texas. I know you heard that one.”
Skender said, “Luke… what?”
“He’s putting me on,” Clement said to Sandy. “You putting me on, Skenny? You mean to tell me you never heard Waylon do ‘Luckenback, Texas’? Time we got back to the basics of life?”
Sandy said, “It’s ‘Time we got back to the basics of love’… not life.”
Clement squinted at her. “You sure?”
Sandy glanced over at the bandstand in the corner where Larry Lee Adkins and the Hanging Tree-three guitars and a set of drums-were getting ready for the next set. “He just played it,” Sandy said. “Ask him.”
Clement was thoughtful. “He says let’s sell your diamond ring, get some boots and faded jeans…”
“And he says we got a four-car garage and we’re still building on,” Sandy said. “So maybe it’s time we got back to the basics of love.”
“That doesn’t rhyme.”
“I never said it did. But it’s love, not life.”
Skender, with his cowboy hat sitting on top of his head, would look from one to the other.
Clement grinned at him. “Well, it don’t matter. We’re here to talk about the basics of love anyway, aren’t we, partner?” He paused, cocking his head. “Listen. Hear what they’re playing? ‘Everybody Loves a Winner,’ “ Clement half singing, half saying it. “That’s a old Dalaney and Bonnie number.”
“You’re sure full of platter chatter this evening,” Sandy said. “You ought to get a job at CXI and get paid for it.”
“Well, I got nothing against work. I come a piece from the oil fields to the world of speculation,” Clement said, seeing Sandy rolling her eyes as he tightroped along the edge of truth. “But I’d rather see my investments do the work than me, if you know what I mean and I think you do.” He looked over at Skender and gave him a wink. “I understand you’re in the restaurant business.”