"D Unit. Sergeant Whiteside," a woman's voice said.
"Ron MacGregor, please."
"Sorry, he's gone. Someone else help you?"
"You still have Tony Antonelli up there?"
"Hold it." The voice went away, came back. "Says here Antonelli was just here answering questions, left hours ago. Who're you?"
"Richard Wilcox. You guys find Jimmy Antonelli yet?"
"Who's Richard Wilcox?"
"Jimmy's lawyer. Are you holding him, or is the sheriff?"
"Far as I know, no one is," she said cautiously. "You hear different?"
"My mistake," I said. "Thanks, Sergeant." I hung up.
Out in the kitchen an old refrigerator started to hum. I went back there, looked around. A cast-iron pan with a half inch of pale grease and crumbs in the bottom sat on a splattered gas stove. Dishes and crusted silverware were piled in the sink and a breadboard held a hunk of bread you could have thrown through a plate-glass window. I opened the fridge. What was in it I wouldn't have touched on a bet.
Except the three green bottles of Rolling Rock, lying on their sides on the bottom shelf. I took one out, twisted off the top, and went back to the living room. I moved one of the brown chairs so that I could see the front door from it, but someone looking in the window couldn't see me. I sat, lit a cigarette, sipped the Rolling Rock, and waited.
I was on the second bottle when I heard the faint rumble of an engine, coming closer fast. A minute later a pair of headlights swept into the front windows, stopped moving, went out. The engine stopped abruptly. Doors slammed, footsteps sounded on the loose boards of the porch.
I raised the automatic, held it steady in my right hand. The beer was in my left. The front door opened. Frank Grice stepped into the little hall, trailed by the big, friendly- faced guy with the mustache. Grice turned into the living room doorway, his mouth open as though he were about to say something.
Then he saw me. He stopped, frozen in a half-completed motion. The big guy stopped too, then started again, moved forward with a little growl. Grice put his hand up without taking his eyes off mine. The big guy stopped.
"Hi, Frank," I said. "Disgusting place you've got here."
He still didn't move. "Where are Ted and Otis?"
"Downstairs," I said. "They're not very good, Frank." I sipped the beer, waved the gun. "Sit down."
He came through the doorway, sat on the other chair, facing me. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. His twisted face was bruised; there were two Band-Aids over his right eye.
"You too," I said to the big guy. He looked at Grice, who nodded. He crossed to the couch and sat, leaning forward, eyes a little wide, hands rubbing his knees in opposite circles. In the light I could see that his lip was split and swollen under the mustache.
"You wanted me," I said. "I'm here. Why?"
"Last night," Grice said easily, "I didn't know who you were.”
"If you had?"
"I'd have shaken your hand. Your trick-pony lawyer saved me a lot of trouble last fall, when they dropped the charges against Jimmy. I never got to thank you."
"If I saved you any trouble, Grice, it was an accident. Any trouble I can make for you," I said, finishing the beer, "will be a pleasure. What do you want from Tony?"
He shook his head, dismissing the question. "Just business." He smiled a cockeyed smile. "You're right," he said. "Otis and Ted aren't very good. They're typical of what's available around here. You ever get tired of working for Tony, I could find a place for you."
"First, I don't work for Tony Second, I don't work for assholes like you."
"That's too bad. That was what I wanted to see you about."
I stared at him. "You sent two armed morons after me so you could offer me a job?"
He nodded. "What do you get?"
"Fifty an hour, plus expenses. Working for a guy like you, expenses could be high."
He lifted his uneven eyebrows, smiled his crooked smile. "That's all? Jesus, you're in a chickenshit business, Smith. I pay Arnold more than that." He gestured at the big guy, who smiled through his split hp. Arnold? Well, what did I know? Maybe since Schwarzenegger, Arnold was a tough name.
"What did you pay Wally Gould?"
He shook his head. "That was too bad, wasn't it? Wally was valuable. I'll miss him."
"Then why'd you kill him?"
"Me? You've got to be kidding." He looked at Arnold, who snickered. "Maybe you're not as smart as I thought. Why would I kill Wally? And if I did, why would I do it in Tony's basement?"
"Damned if I know. You were trying to shake Tony down for something last night. Maybe Wally wanted too big a piece of the action."
"Wally wasn't bright enough to want anything, except to be allowed to kill something once in a while."
"Like Tony or me, last night?"
"Sure, he would've enjoyed that. But like I say, I didn't know who you were."
"Well," I said, standing, the gun held loosely in my right hand, "you know now. Sorry I can't help you, Frank." I moved toward the door.
"Don't you at least want to hear the offer?"
"Okay," I said. "Okay, Frank. Let's hear it."
"A thousand dollars," he said. "I want to talk to Jimmy Antonelli."
I laughed. "Every cop in this county is probably looking for Jimmy by now. What makes you think I could find him first?"
Grice spread his hands, made a little self-deprecating smile. "You're a friend of his."
"Why do you want him?"
"Not your business, Smith. A grand for finding him and walking away. I'm not going to hurt him. In fact, I can help him."
"Why does he need help?"
"Murder's a harder rap to beat than disposing of stolen cars."
"There's always the chance Jimmy didn't kill Gould, just like you."
"Yeah," he grinned. "I guess there's that chance. But whether he did or not, he'll be better off if I find him than if Brinkman does."
"He'd be better off with Godzilla than with Brinkman. But I told you, I don't work for assholes."
Grice shrugged. "Think about it. The cops'll find him sooner or later. I'd like to find him first."
"Why?"
"Let's say I feel like I owe him one."
I leaned against the doorway, slipped a cigarette in my mouth. "You do owe him," I said. "But you don't know what that means or what to do about it. I'll tell you something. I was the guy he called, when Brinkman finally let him near a phone. My advice was to take the deal, sell you to Brinkman for as much as he could get. He wouldn't do it, Frank. Not because he likes you. He doesn't like you. But he wouldn't rat. Even on you."
Grice took a cigarette out of a gold case. He closed the case and tapped the cigarette slowly on it as Arnold hurried to dig a lighter out and hold it for him. Jesus.
He blew a thin trail of smoke and said, "I guess I'm a pretty lucky guy, then."
"Tell me something, Frank." I blew smoke of my own. "You're not much better than Otis or Ted. And Brinkman seems to want you a lot. So how come he hasn't been able to make anything stick to you yet?"
"Like I said: I'm lucky."
"Luck runs out, Frank. Keep away from Jimmy, and from Tony."
There was no sound of movement behind me as I opened the door and went out.
I stepped down the planks and walked to my car over the spongy earth. The night air felt sharp and clean. As I reached my car Grice stepped onto the porch. "I'll find him," Grice said. "You can make a grand on it or not, but I'll find him."
I turned to face him, saw him silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway. The silence was complete and heavy; there was no moon, no light but the glow from inside the house. Arnold appeared next to Grice. He was grinning.
I could have shot them both, two quick, surprising shots from Otis s big automatic; then to the basement, two more shots, and I could have driven away. No one would miss them, no one would wake suddenly in the night and know all over again and feel that helpless sick feeling start to grow.
Or maybe someone would. Maybe somewhere someone loved even men like this.