He said, “Are these the two men?”
She felt Wayne’s arm slip around her shoulders, his hand creeping down her arm, moving with her to the counter. They looked down at the photos, posed, front-view mug shots: the photo of the Indian, Armand Degas, dark; the photo of the other one much lighter, pale skin, a drugged expression.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Wayne said. “They look different there, but those are the guys.”
After a few moments Carmen nodded and looked up at Scallen. “If you get them, you want us to identify them in court, is that it?”
“There’s nothing we’d like more,” Scallen said. “But I should tell you something about them first, before you agree to do it. These guys are both pretty bad.”
Carmen pointed to the one with long hair. “What’s this one’s name?”
Scallen glanced at the photo. “Richie Nix. He’s a convicted felon with a number of federal and state detainers out on him. That means he’s a wanted criminal.”
Carmen said, “Richie?”
“That’s the name on his birth certificate.”
She was looking at the photos again. “Both of them have killed people?”
Scallen nodded. “That’s right.”
Wayne said, “You know they’re the ones killed Lionel?”
Scallen nodded again. “Bullets taken from his body match the three that were found in Nelson Davies’s office, they dug out of the wall. And, the same gun was used to kill the girl in the Seven-Eleven, when Richie Nix was trying for you.”
Carmen looked up. “Is that what you want to tell us?”
“There’s more,” Scallen said.
Six p.m., nine miles north in Marine City, Armand found a gas station where it looked like only one man was on duty, a run-down place that offered discount prices. Armand drove Donna’s red Honda up to the row of pumps, got out and told the man to fill it up and check the oil and the tires. The gas-station man looked at Armand but didn’t say yes sir or okay or you bet or anything, just looked at him and walked over to the car. He wore a hunting cap cocked to one side and was older and bigger around in his dark-brown uniform than Armand, but seemed worn out, not much life in him.
Armand went inside the station, picked up the phone on the desk and dialed a number in Toronto. Standing away from the plate-glass window he watched the gas-station man take the hose from a pump and stick the nozzle into the Honda’s filler opening. A voice came on the phone saying this was L and M Distributing and Armand said, “This is the Chief. Let me talk to him.” He waited, watching the gas-station man move to the front of the Honda and raise the hood while gasoline continued to pump into the tank.
The son-in-law’s voice came on saying, “The fuck’re you doing? Where are you?”
Armand said, “You don’t want to hear about the old man, ’ey?”
There was a pause before the son-in-law said, his voice lower, “It was in the papers, pictures of both of them.”
Armand said, “Both?” And said, “Oh. Yeah, I forgot. Listen—what he said, don’t tell me it was in the papers. I’m the only one heard it.”
“Where’re you at?”
“He told me you’re a punk, you not gonna last six months. He told me to tell you that. Listen— but the main thing, I need a car, a clean one with papers. I want you to arrange it.”
“You call me up,” the son-in-law said, “you give me some shit—I don’t give a fuck what you need.”
“Yes, you do,” Armand said. “You don’t want me to get picked up for some reason and they start asking me who I work for, who sent me, was I in Detroit last Friday with your car, things like that. Pretty soon they mention, well, if I give them something maybe they let me go home. That’s not what you want. What you want to do is call that guy in Detroit, you know who I mean, guy with the cars, and arrange for me to get one tonight.”
Armand watched the gas-station man close the hood of Donna’s car as the son-in-law was saying he wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know what happened to the Cadillac, why it was left in Windsor. Armand said, “What difference does it make? It’s a blue car, that’s all. There’s nothing in it can hurt you.” Through the window he watched the gas-station man return the hose to the pump and hook the nozzle in the slot. Armand said, “Hold it a minute. Don’t go away.” He placed the receiver on the desk and stepped to the open doorway.
“You forgot to check the tires.”
The gas-station man, coming toward the station now, stopped in the drive. “What?”
“I want the tires checked.”
“You do that yourself.” Glancing off he said, “Over there,” and started toward Armand again. “That’s nine-forty for the gas.”
Armand moved to the desk, picked up the phone and said, “Listen to me. Tell the guy ten o’clock somebody will pick up the car.” The son-in-law started to speak and Armand said, “Listen to me. Ten or maybe later. This is for your good as much as for mine.”
The gas-station man entered as Armand was hanging up the receiver.
“You just use the phone?”
“It was a local call,” Armand said. “How much you want?”
“Local to where, across the river? You people, I swear. You come over here, you expect we’re suppose to give you everything. Well, I’m not one of them sees you as poor souls. Gimme nine-forty and go on get out of here.”
Listen to him. Armand had to take a moment to stare at this fat, worn-out guy talking to him like that. He said, “What you trying to tell me, I shouldn’t come here, ’ey? Is that it?”
“You start anything,” the gas-station man said, “I can have the police here in one minute. They’re just up the street.”
Maybe it was funny. Look at it that way. Armand shook his head. “Whatever you say.” He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the desk. “How about if you keep the change for the phone call? Okay?”
The gas-station guy didn’t answer. That was all right. Armand edged past him through the doorway, smelling grease and tobacco, and was crossing the drive almost to the Honda, when he heard the guy call out to him. Something about was he trying to cheat him.
Armand turned.
The guy was coming out, holding up the ten. “This here’s Canadian. You owe me another two bucks.”
When Armand got back to Donna’s house he told Richie about it, in the kitchen while he poured himself a drink. Donna was in the bathroom, taking a shower. Richie said, “Yeah? So what’d you do?”
“I gave him the two bucks. What would you do?”
Richie said, “Jesus Christ,” shaking his head. “You didn’t teach him a lesson?”
“I want to know what you’d do,” Armand said.
“If I had my piece on me? Shit. If I didn’t, I’d get it and go back there. No, I’d use the shotgun, blow the place to hell.”
“What about the guy?”
“Him too. I know that gas station you’re talking about. You go in there the guy doesn’t say a fuck
ing word to you.”
“He did to me.”
“That’s what I mean,” Richie said. “He ever talked to me like that and I was a Indian? I’d scalp the son of a bitch.” Richie paused and thought about it a moment. “I don’t know, that shotgun’s a lot of fun. Maybe what I’d do, shoot the place up and then scalp him.” Richie paused again and frowned, squinting at Armand, then opened a drawer and took out a paring knife, still frowning. “How do you scalp somebody ...?”