Armand said, “So you don’t trust her.”
“Man, I just got done explaining it to you. I don’t have to worry do I trust her, long as she trusts me.”
The Indian took time to finish his whiskey before saying, “What do you want to tell her?” Not sounding so goddamn sure of himself now.
Richie felt he had him. He said, “Watch,” and called, “Hey, Donna? Fix us up here, will you?”
There she was, looking like a cartoon spider with her skinny legs and arms and that big butt sticking out. She took their glasses out to the kitchen and returned with fresh drinks filled with ice, checking them now to tell which was which, handing the darker one to Richie, the Southern and Seven, their eyes meeting but he didn’t say anything to her, not yet. He knew the Indian was watching all this, watching Donna now coming to him on the sofa, giving him his whiskey, but not even a glance, serious in her hairdo and ornamental glasses. Richie waited until she turned to leave.
“Donna?”
She stopped and said, “What?” but didn’t turn around.
“I want to tell you something. You know the van?”
Donna said, “Yeah?”
“I swiped it.”
Donna came around about halfway.
“Over in Windsor, at the airport,” Richie said. “This blonde was sitting in the van waiting on somebody? After while out come this colored guy must’ve been seven feet tall, from the terminal. The blonde gets out, she has this real short skirt on, runs up and jumps in his arms and they give each other a big kiss, his hands holding her butt. Then this other seven-foot jig appears, she runs up to him. They stand talking a minute and the three of them go in the airport, I figured to get the two jigs’s bags. Soon as they went inside I hopped in the van and took off.” Richie frowned a little, staring at Donna. “I couldn’t help it, seeing this cute little girl waiting on those seven-foot jigs.”
Donna said, “What happened to your chin?”
“I got in a fight.”
“With the colored boys?”
“No, was way before. Guy got smart with me.”
“Well, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Donna said, “What happened to his car?” Meaning the Indian’s, but not looking at him.
“It broke down. We had to leave it for repairs.”
“So you decided it was all right to take that van?”
“I’m not gonna hurt it,” Richie said. “We’ll use it, do a little hunting, then I’ll leave it someplace.”
Donna said, “Did you want the Weight Watchers chicken patty or the regular?”
Richie grinned. “Who, me? Come on.”
“What about him?”
“Give the Bird a double Weight Watchers.”
He waited till Donna left them and was in the kitchen before looking over at his partner. “I did see that happen one time, not over in Windsor, it was out at Detroit Metro. Yeah, this cute girl picks up these two giant colored guys. I guess basketball players. You wonder how those people got so tall.” Richie noticed the Indian looking toward the kitchen.
“She believe that story?”
“Who, Donna? She knows it’s close to the truth if it ain’t right on. She’ll ask me some more questions later. Like sneak up and try and catch me. Hey, but what you do now, Bird, I mean Armand, go in there and give her a little pat on the ass. Show her we’re all friends here.”
8
RICHIE HAD STOLEN THE VAN so he was the driver now. It gave Armand the feeling he was along for the ride, that he was losing his hold on this punk who drove too fast and didn’t keep his eyes on the road. They were dressed as hunters, on their way to see the ironworker and his wife. Four days had passed since their visit to the real estate office. And there it was, Richie slowing down as they approached the big house on the river road, crept past, Richie hunched over the wheel to look at the upstairs window.
“You think he’s in there?”
Armand didn’t answer.
“If I knew for sure he was I’d walk in, go right up to his office. That’d be a kick, wouldn’t it? See his face?”
Armand still didn’t answer. He was thinking that either one of his brothers would look Richie over and say, “What are you doing with this guy? He’s a punk.” His dead brother would say, “Guy tries to steal your car, you don’t do nothing to him?” His brother in prison would say, “You don’t leave him out on the road, keep going?” Try to explain it to them. Well, the deal looked pretty good. His brothers, either one, would say, “Yeah? It did, ’ey? With this guy?” It would be the same as if they saw him in the Silver Dollar with his arm around an ugly woman, buying her drinks. It wouldn’t matter how drunk he was.
That place, the Silver Dollar, was changing, full of punks; he couldn’t go back there. So he was in this business and it was like waking up with the ugly woman and not knowing where he was, only that he had to find his way out.
His brothers would have something to say about Donna.
Last night Richie kept saying, “Go on, go in there and say something to her. Make her feel good. Give her a little pat on the ass.” Okay, so he went in there. She seemed nervous with him watching her getting dinner ready and he could see she was trying to act natural. She had perfume on that smelled pretty good. He liked her body, the way it showed in tight pants and sweater. She asked him if he wanted anything and he said, “If you could be any kind of bird there is, what kind would you be?” She looked at him funny. He told her how his grandmother was going to turn him into an owl one time and what she could make seagulls do. He watched Donna relax and become interested, Donna saying, “No way,” her glasses shining in the overhead light when he told her about the seagulls. Armand believed there was a certain type of woman who wore glasses you could tell liked sex a lot. He saw Donna as one of them. He didn’t pat her on the butt; he asked her again what kind of bird she’d want to be. Donna looked at him and said she would have to give that some thought. He was getting along pretty good with her until Richie came into the kitchen saying, “Hey, what’s going on here?”
Richie a problem since becoming the driver. Richie breaking the silence now.
“We’re almost there, Bird.”
Armand, alert as they passed fields and woods on both sides of the road, said, “Slow down. Watch for where you turn in.”
Yesterday they had followed a pair of ruts that tracked from the blacktop to a deserted, falling-down farmhouse, a patch of woods separating it from the Colson property.
Richie drove past it.
Armand straightened on the seat. “Where you going?”
“I want to look at the house.”
There it was, a barn-type roof and dormers coming into view, a big comfortable-looking house sitting among shrubs and old trees. The ironworker’s truck was in the drive, by the back porch.