“I have to be, least most of the time. Now-anything else on your mind?”
Ryan realized he was being dismissed. “No, I guess that’s it.” He got up and walked over to where his raincoat was draped over the back of a chair. “I’ll follow up on the girl.” What else would he be doing? He wanted to say something, calm and matter-of-fact, and that was all he could think of.
“I’m going to be out of town a few days,” Mr. Perez said. “But Raymond’ll be here. Not right here, but he’ll let you know where he’s staying. Let’s get it done and we’ll all go someplace where it’s warm. How’s that sound?”
It sounded to Ryan like the principal talking again, patting him on the head. He didn’t like the feeling that came with the man’s patronizing tone. The man probably didn’t realize what he sounded like, thinking he was putting one over on the clucks-the dumb process server-with his easygoing one-of-the-boys delivery. Ryan had suspected it the first time they met, getting the feel of the man. Now he was sure of it. Hiding inside the gentleman from Baton Rouge was a pretty cold and heartless son of a bitch.
Ryan’s second insertion in the personal columns of the News and Free Press appeared the day after Robert Leary was found shot to death and his wife disappeared. Ryan had almost called the papers to cancel the insertions if he could, then changed his mind. The notice said:
BOBBY LEAR
MONEY
waiting with your
name on it. Contact
Box 5388
Virgil Royal read the notice and said, Shit.
He should have waited to see what the man wanted with Bobby, though it had felt good, what he’d done… walking into the Montcalm Hotel whore joint with his raincoat on and knit cap down over his head. He didn’t have to scare the night clerk any, because the night clerk didn’t give a shit, he was mostly drunk and looked like he had been mostly drunk and wearing the same shirt and pants twenty years. He took the ten-dollar bill, Virgil almost seeing him translating it into two fifths and a six-pack, and said, “I believe the party you’re looking for’s in 312. Light-skinned gentleman-”
“Where is that, in the front? Three-twelve?”
The night clerk had to stop and think. “It’s on the left, toward the back.”
Bet to it-on the side with the fire escape, by the parking lot. Virgil was counting on it for his cute idea to work-room with a fire escape out the window. It wouldn’t be all luck. Virgil would bet the shotgun under his raincoat Bobby’s room had two ways to get out.
He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, walked down the hall and knocked on 412.
A woman’s voice, irritated, said, “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Virgil said.
He took the stairs up to the fifth floor and knocked on 512. No answer. He knocked a couple more times before taking out his ring of keys and finding one that fit. Entering the room, he felt his patience paying off again-thinking, doing it the easy way-seeing the window in the darkness, the square of outside light and the rungs of the fire escape. Virgil took off his shoes. He went down the fire escape two floors with the shotgun in his hand, edged up to the window of 312, then past the drawn shade to the railing, reached out, and laid the sawed-off Hi-Standard twelve-gauge on the sill of the frosted-glass bathroom window.
It seemed like it was taking a lot of time, but that’s the way it was, being patient. He could’ve poked the shotgun through the glass and blown Bobby out of bed. He’d decided, though, he’d rather talk to the man first, ask him a question. Not while he was holding a shotgun on him. No, the way to do it, while Bobby had a gun and felt he was the boss.
Virgil remembered almost changing his mind, standing there at 312. Then he was knocking and it was too late to back out. Close to the door, he said, “Hey, Bobby? It’s me, Virgil,” keeping his voice low.
It didn’t take too long after that.
Once Bobby Lear was sure it was only Virgil, nobody backing him up, he had to play his Bobby Lear part: take the chain off and let him in, holding a nickel-plated .38 he could trim his mustache in, not pointed right at Virgil, holding it loose once Virgil’s raincoat was off and he’d given him a quick feel for metal objects.
Bobby asked him how he was doing. Virgil told him fine, there was nothing like going to bed at ten and eating home-cooked prison chow to make a person fit, was there? Bobby said that was the truth. Virgil asked him whatever happened to Wendell Haines and Bobby said Wendell had died. Virgil said he heard something like that, but who was it shot him? Bobby said it beat the shit out of him. Probably the police. Virgil said how come he was living in the Montcalm Hotel, on account of all the cute ladies? Bobby said that was it. Five floors of pussy. Virgil said, You hiding from somebody? Bobby said, It look like I am? Virgil said, Uh-huh. Bobby said, From who? Virgil said, From me. That got him to the question.
“Something I been waking up at night wondering,” Virgil said. “How much we get from the Wyandotte Savings?”
Bobby seemed loose, leaning with his arm along the top of the dresser and the nickel-plated .38 hanging limp in his hand. He had his pants on, his shirt hanging open, no shoes or socks. Very loose. But Virgil knew his eyes, the way he was staring. The man was here talking, but thinking about something else, making up his mind. Like a little kid’s open expression.
“We didn’t get nothing,” Bobby said.
Virgil nodded, very slowly. “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say. Nothing from the cashier windows?”
“Nothing,” Bobby said. “No time.”
“I heard seventeen big big ones.”
“You heard shit.”
“Told to me by honest gentlemen work for the prosecuting attorney.”
“Told to you by your mama it still shit.”
“Well, no use talking about it, is there?”
“Let me ask you something,” Bobby said. “You put that in the paper to me? Call this number?”
“No, I wondered you might think it was me,” Virgil said. “It somebody else looking for you.”
“How you know about it?”
“I saw it, same as you did. I saw the man that put it in.”
“What’s he want?”
“Man looking for you-I thought maybe you owed him money, too.”
“You telling me I owe you money? On the Wyandotte?”
Got him up, now push him a little.
“You owe me something,” Virgil said. “Or I owe you something. One or the other.”
“Shit,” Bobby said. “I think somebody give me the wrong information. You the one, Virgil, should be staying here. You all fucked up in your head, acting strange.”
“Wait right there,” Virgil said.
Bobby straightened up. “Where you going?”
Virgil was moving toward the bathroom. “Make wee-wee. That all right?”
“Don’t touch the coat.”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Virgil said. “Take it easy.” He went into the bathroom, turned on the light and swung the door almost closed. There was nothing more to talk about. Bobby knew it. Bobby would have a load in the chamber of the nickel plate and he might have already decided on his move. You couldn’t tell about Bobby. He could try it right now or in a week, or wake up a month from now in the mood. That’s why Virgil eased open the frosted-glass window and got the twelve-gauge from the sill.
Nothing cute now, the cute part was over. He’d like to take the time to see Bobby’s face, but not with the man holding his shiny gun.
Virgil used his foot to bring the bathroom door in, out of the way. He stepped into the opening and gave Bobby a load dead-center that pinned him against the dresser and gave Virgil time to pump and bust him again, the sound coming out in a hard heavy wham-wham double-O explosion that Virgil figured, grinning about it later, must have rocked some whores out of bed. Virgil picked up the nickel-plated .38, wiped it clean on Bobby’s pants, and took it with him.