Rozier had been behind that mirror, looking at him, gauging him, knowing that the police suspected something. Was Rozier home now? Or was he in his car searching for George, a long, sharp knife tucked into his belt?
Then, after a full hour of pacing and well into Oprah, George pulled out the painting of the murderer and the dying woman, packed it in cardboard, and taped it tight, then packed a bag and went upstairs.
"I'm going to Seattle, Ma," he said. "I'll call Tommy, tell him to look out for you. Anyone comes looking for me, you tell 'em I went to Seattle for an art show."
"With one painting you're going to an art show?"
"I shipped the others."
"When? Where you ship the others?"
"Last week. You were sleeping."
"Gregor, what's wrong?' "The damn television is too loud, that's what's wrong. I can't think. I can't paint. I'll be gone a week, maybe two. Promise. I gotta go. I'll call."
"What's wrong, Gregor?" she repeated, summoning the energy to rise from her chair.
"I'm going, Ma," he said. "I'll call you."
He left her standing heavily in front of the serious face of Oprah, who was talking about children with some rare disease.
"I'll call," he repeated at the door. "Don't worry."
He opened the door, took a step down, and found himself facing one of the cops he had seen after the lineup, a big cop with a pink face.
"Suitcase in one hand, what looks like a wrapped-up painting in the other," said Bill Hanrahan. "Being a good detective, I'm gonna conclude that you're taking a little trip."
"I was going to call my parole officer before I left," George said. "I've got a chance to make a big sale in Seattle."
"My partner thinks the Seattle stuff is a bunch of bullshit, George," Hanrahan said with a smile. "Why don't we go back in and talk about this morning, maybe look at some of your work? Abe says you've got talent."
"I'll miss my bus," George pleaded.
"That you will," agreed Hanrahan sadly, hearing his father's voice. "That you will."
Eupatniaks, that was die name, Harvey Rozier remembered. He had tried every Patniks in the book-well, the three listed-but now he was searching for a Eupatniaks. He wasn't sure of how to spell it, but how many variations could there be?
In five minutes, Harvey had narrowed the list down to three names. He called the first and asked if George was there.
"George doesn't live here," the woman said. "His brother Tommy lives here. You want George, you call him at Wanda's."
"I don't have the number."
The woman on the other end gave a put-upon sigh and gave Harvey a phone number.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning on the charm, "but do you have the address?"
He waited for her to question his request, but she simply gave him an address on Clyborne.
"Thanks," he said and hung up.
Simple, it had been so simple.
Betty was sitting in the living room waiting for him when he came down. She had a magazine in her hand. She dropped it to the floor and got up.
"I've got to go out, Betty," he said. "For a little while."
"But Harvey…" she began.
He smiled and stepped forward to embrace her but stopped when he realized someone else was in the room. He turned to face Lieberman, who sat drinking coffee.
"If you're in a hurry," said the detective, "I'll go with you."
"I'm… no. It can wait Just going into the office to take my mind off of things, take care of a problem the staff is having trouble with."
Lieberman nodded and looked at Betty Franklin, who was definitely on the edge and about to fall after Rozier's indiscreet move.
"Good, then let's talk about the lineup mis morning." said Lieberman.
Mean Streets
Lonny Wayne got off the Sheridan bus a stop before Irving Park and headed for Broadway. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was heading south and the general direction of home.
A cop car had passed die bus just before Irving. Lonny had slid down in his seat, certain that an old black man pretending to read a newspaper was watching him. When the cop car passed, Lonny turned to face the man with the newspaper. The man kept his face in the paper. The bus wasn't crowded: three old women and the man with the paper.
Through the front window of the bus Lonny could see the cop car slowing up. Lonny pulled the cord and the bus eased up at the next corner. Lonny got up languidly, wanting to run, forcing himself to stay cool, standing in front of the fuckin' door the driver was taking forever to open.
Then it opened with a clack and he leaped off. As the bus pulled away, the old man with the newspaper looked down at him through the window with something that looked like pity.
Lonny hurried toward Broadway, the gun in his jacket pocket bumping against his side.
He'd walk back to the neighborhood, sixty blocks. Not get trapped on a bus or an el. Walk back and then… what? lago was dead for sure. Damn. A cop. Walks right in. Gun in his hand, shooting. And that motherfuck doctor. He's shooting. And lago, he's shooting. And the cop goes down and Dalbert screams. Lonny had leaped over the fallen, groaning cop with lago behind him. They'd gone down the stairs, tripping over each other. And then in the street, lago waving the gun. The damn car gone. And then the shot and lago was down.
Lonny wasn't sure who had shot lago. He had picked up the gun and ran down an alley. Shit, for all he knew Dalbert was dead too, or talking to the cops right now.
Lonny was no fool. He kept himself from running. Long way to go and thinking to do. Even if Dalbert was dead too, they'd find out the three of them had been friends. The doctor with the gun could identify him. And what about Reno, the drug dealer whose car they had stolen? He'd see the newspapers or the TV, see lago's name, figure out who took his wheels, got him messed up with a cop shooting, and he'd be after Lonny too, maybe quicker than the cops.
There was a Burger King across Broadway. Lonny crossed, went in, bought three cheeseburgers and a Coke and sat down where he could see the door.
He had less than three dollars left and nowhere to go, but he had a gun and not much to lose.
Lonny watched the door, telling himself mat the cops weren't going to come into every Taco Bell and Burger King, not for him, not for one black kid. He'd never seen cops doing that. There weren't enough cops. He had time, a little time.
He had to get out of the city. That's it. Out of the city, maybe to Atlanta, where his cousin Jackie lived. Tell nobody. Lonny shivered and chewed a dry burger, wondering what had happened to his saliva. Lonny had never been more than ten miles from the city limits of Chicago. Atlanta was as far as China, but he had to go, had to have some money. He'd call his mother, sister, tell them he was sorry, not tell them where he was going. Cops couldn't be there yet Not yet. He had time. Not to go home, but to call.
Then he remembered Skilly Parker, the bar on Forty-second. Skilly was trying to sell his car. That was a week-no, two weeks ago. Skilly hung out at the Ease Inn Bar. He wanted three hundred for the car, cash, a '72 Chevy with the miles rolled back, had papers and everything.
Three hundred cash.
Lonny couldn't finish his second burger. He left it and the unwrapped one on the table and got up.
"Clean your trash," said a raggedy old white lady with a shopping bag on the table in front of her.
Lonny ignored her and went for the door. Shit, what did he have to lose? He had a gun. He had to get out of town. He needed money.
The rain was coming down again before he got a block from the Burger King. It wasn't much of a rain, but Lonny had a lot of walking to do in it. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and decided he would hold up the grocery store near the hospital, a little convenience stop for doctors, nurses, and clean-up people. Carryouts, some fruit, hot coffee. It was home turf. There were places to hide when he was done till he could move out of the city.