Ray arrived on time, wearing several layers of unmatched pastel linen and tasseled loafers without socks, looking like a man on a permanent vacation. If Zak had been trying to impress a new customer, he’d have worn something more formal, possibly tweedy, but maybe that was why Zak was just a shop assistant.
“What happened to your face this time?” said Ray. “Is that a rash or something?”
“Yeah, I’m kind of allergic to all kinds of things: cacti, dynamite, you name it.”
Ray was prepared to take it as a joke, and he didn’t need to understand his employees’ jokes.
“You look like crap anyway,” said Ray. “And this customer of yours is late.”
“Barely,” said Zak, looking at his watch. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here. He’s very reliable.”
There was already one customer in the store, in the back room, a woman in baggy pants and combat boots, a serious-looking camera slung over her shoulder, and her big dark eyes were looking out through ornate tortoiseshell glasses at an early map of America, one that had California depicted as an island, its northernmost part designated New Albion.
There was a newly framed item propped up on the floor, its face toward the side of Zak’s desk.
“What’s that?” Ray asked.
“A little something I picked up,” said Zak. “I thought you might like it. It’s not really a map, it’s more of a blueprint.”
Zak picked up the frame and turned it around so McKinley could see its design, its muted colors, its simple, schematized lines, that might be thought to look like an amoeba and its nucleus, or perhaps a fried egg. Ray made a wet noise deep in his throat to convey disgust, anger, contempt: a whole legend of resentments.
“Why would I want that?” he said. “The Telstar’s never been anything but trouble. Every day I own it I lose money.”
“Well, you’ve done your best, Ray. You got rid of the original architect, you got rid of the mayor’s right-hand man. What more could you do?”
McKinley’s face suddenly looked rather less carefree. Harshly, but quietly enough that he hoped the customer in the back room wouldn’t hear, he said, “I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s this buyer’s name, anyway?”
“Moore,” said Zak. There was no need to make up a false name. “I don’t know him very well. But he means business.”
“Maybe we can unload the Jack Torry map on him.”
“I doubt it,” said Zak.
“Get it out anyway. We’ll have the map case on your desk; that’ll pique his interest. Then you can roll it out with a big flourish. Go on.”
Zak hesitated a long time before he said, “It’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
Zak could see no point in lying. “I took it to Wrobleski.”
“I told you not to do that.”
“Yes, you did, Ray.”
“And what?” McKinley’s face opened up with anger and disbelief. “You let him keep it?”
“No. Wrobleski’s not in the market for maps anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he’s in a hole in the ground, one way or another.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Wrobleski’s gone. Missing in action. His compound burned, his collection too.”
Ray McKinley considered this. It wasn’t the very worst bit of news he’d ever received. “But what happened to the fucking map?”
“Well, there was a lot of stuff going on in the compound. You know, women and tattoos.”
“No, I don’t know ‘women and tattoos.’ What are you talking about?”
“But you do, Ray. You know all about them.”
“What’s up with you, Zak? You come off your meds?”
Zak ignored that. He said, “At one time I thought it was Wrobleski who’d done the tattooing, but I don’t believe that anymore. And Wrobleski assumed it had to be Akim doing it, which was a reasonable assumption, because Akim was there when Wrobleski did the murders, and he helped him dispose of the bodies, so he had all the information he needed to make a map. So Akim could have done it, but he didn’t. Wrobleski was wrong. Akim was only the messenger, right?”
Ray flicked a glance toward the customer in the back room. Was she hearing all this? He said, “This isn’t the time or the place.”
Zak continued, “Well, it’ll have to do. Since Akim knew the details of Wrobleski’s murders, he was always in a position to rat him out. And I guess he ratted to you first. He told you all the dirty details so you could make use of them, didn’t he? You seen Akim lately, Ray? I think he’s another one who won’t be around much anymore.”
McKinley folded his hands extravagantly in front of him. He now looked like a man whose vacation had been irredeemably ruined. He said, “You know, I think it might be much better for your future health if you just shut the fuck up now.”
On cue, Marilyn, all feigned casualness, strolled through from the back room of Utopiates. Ray McKinley directed a professional smile in her direction, though it was less than full strength.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We have to close up the store now. My employee here is having a breakdown or something.”
“Too late for apologies, Ray,” said Marilyn.
He hesitated, looked at her guardedly.
“Do I know you?”
“Well, you put a leather hood over my head, so I can see why you might not remember my face. And you brought me here, didn’t you? You brought me to Utopiates, took me down to the basement, did the inking down there. This place gave me the creeps the first time I saw it. Instinct, I guess.”
“I don’t know what you two are playing at,” said Ray, “but it’s very dangerous.”
Ignoring this, Marilyn continued, “You paid Wrobleski to kill the architect of the Telstar, and then you marked his granddaughter with a map of the murder. That was pretty ugly of you, Ray.”
“Ah,” said Ray, “I think I’m beginning to see.” It took him a moment or two to grasp the full implications, but it sank in before too long. “Yes,” he said, “that was pretty sick of me, wasn’t it?” He did not mean it as an apology.
A car pulled up outside. It was a cheap, clean rental. Billy Moore got out quickly, to distance himself from this piece of junk he was forced to drive while his Cadillac was out of action, having sustained a little fire damage. He was inside the store before Ray had decided what his next move was, before he’d calculated how many moves he might have left.
“Ray,” said Zak, “let me introduce you to Mr. Moore.”
Another customer, another interruption. Ray had no idea if this was good or bad, and then he knew it was the latter. Billy’s right fist made dry, brittle, solemn contact with Ray’s chin. His head seemed to pull him backward, sprawling on his back across Zak’s desk. Then he was viciously scooped up, dragged into the back room, and tossed into a corner, where he landed brokenly, beneath the map of Greenland. Between them Billy and Zak tied Ray’s hands and feet with cord, but left his mouth free, to do some talking, no doubt to try to talk his way out of it.
“Come on, Ray,” said Zak, “we’ve worked out most of the story. Fill us in on the fine print.”