“This client of yours-he pays the bills?”
“Sure he does, he’s looking for the guy, I’m not. I’m helping him out strictly as a favor.”
Ryan got out his notebook. “How do you spell his name? The guy I’m looking for.”
“Robert Leary. L-e-a-r-y. Junior. J-u-n-i-o-r.” Jay Walt glanced over to see if the girl next to him was listening, appreciating him. She was biting into a club sandwich, then wiped some mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth. “Last known address 146 Arden Park.”
Ryan looked at him with a question.
“I know,” Jay Walt said, “it’s all colored down there now, but it’s still a pretty good street-big houses, mansions. I think a lot of colored doctors must live there, or else it’s all whorehouses, I don’t know.”
Ryan was sure the girl was still listening. Dumb guy. That’s what it was, not his confidence, he was just dumb, he didn’t have any feelings. Ryan said, “When did Robert Leary, Jr., live there? How long ago?”
“Nineteen forty-one. It was still solid white then, a very classy address.”
“That was thirty-five years ago-you don’t have anything else? Something current?”
“Jackie, if I had something current I’d have called the guy up by now. This is why I’m talking to the pro, guaranteeing a hundred and a half.”
The “Jackie” stopped Ryan. Jay Walt was the only person he knew who ever called him that. Ryan didn’t consider himself a Jackie. It hooked him, Jay saying it in his loud voice.
“You want me to do it,” Ryan said, “it’ll be twenty bucks an hour. A hundred and a half gets you one day. But I’ll probably have to make some inquiries and they’ll have to be followed up the next day or maybe even the day after, so it looks to me like we’re talking about three hundred guaranteed. If that’s too steep for you, then put your shitheads back on it.”
Jay Walt was staring at him through his tinted glasses. “What’d I say?”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“All of a sudden, on the muscle.”
“I’m telling you the terms, my rate on something like this.” Ryan kept his voice low, calm but with a little edge to it. “Since you’re not paying, what do you care what I charge, right? Or do you have to get an okay?”
“I got a little flexibility in negotiating,” Jay Walt said. “Naturally. It’s pretty much up to me.”
“So maybe I’m low,” Ryan said, “and we should start over.”
“No, I think you did pretty good. You’re coming along, Jackie.”
“Also, a hundred and a half in advance,” Ryan said. “I don’t mean in ninety days, I mean before I do anything.”
“I’ll call the guy,” Jay Walt said, “have him mail you a check.” He hesitated. “No, wait a minute-”
“How about if I pick it up? Save him the trouble.”
“Well, actually, see, he doesn’t want to deal with too many people. This guy, he’s from out of town, doesn’t have a lot of time.” Jay Walt was thinking and talking at the same time.
Ryan saw it. “If he sends me a check, I’m going to know who he is, anyway. What’s his name?”
“Let’s keep it simple.” Jay Walt had his billfold out and his thoughts in order. “I give you the advance, you won’t have to worry about it anymore. We keep the deal simple, strictly between you and me.”
“Why don’t you want me to know who it is?”
Jay Walt was holding the billfold open, looking inside.
Ryan watched him. The girl was eating her sandwich, not paying any attention. “Hey, Jay? What’s the big secret? What’s it about?”
“You wouldn’t know the guy, anyway. He’s from out of town.”
“Then what’s the difference?”
“You want the hundred and a half or not?”
Ryan didn’t ask any more questions.
He got right on it, beginning with the Detroit City Directory for 1941. Then looked up the next few years.
Robert Leary, Jr., was not listed as a resident of 146 Arden Park in any of the volumes. Allen Anderson was the only name that appeared.
Next he visited the records section, Detroit Department of Health. Robert Leary, Jr., finally showed up. Born at Harper Hospital. Parents, Robert J. and Clara Anne. Date of birth…
Ryan paused, looking at the date. Right there-July 20, 1941-his job ceased to be routine. Or else somebody had made a mistake. Robert Leary, Jr., at least the one on record, was not sixty years old. He was thirty-five.
Board of Education records confirmed it. Robert Leary, Jr., had attended Cass Technical High School during the years 1957-58. There was no record of his having graduated.
At the Wayne County Clerk’s office Ryan found out that Robert Leary, Jr., and a Denise Leann Watson had been issued a marriage license August 11, 1973.
There was no Denise Leary or Watson listed in the telephone directory.
Ryan was in a phone booth in the lobby of the Detroit City-County Building. He called his friend Dick Speed and arranged to meet him at the Athens Bar on Monroe, around the corner from police headquarters.
In an hour, Dick Speed said.
That was fine with Ryan. It would give him a chance to look up probate court records and see if he could learn something about the Allen Anderson family, who were living at 146 Arden Park the year Robert Leary, Jr., was born. There was a connection, or else Leary wouldn’t have been listed with that address.
Ryan had another idea. Before he left the phone booth he called both the Detroit News and the Free Press and dictated an insertion for their personal columns in the classified section. Both for tomorrow’s editions.
He almost called Jay Walt, to tell him what he had learned so far, then decided no, don’t appear eager. Make it look easy.
Ryan and Dick Speed had gone to high school at the same time, Catholic Central. Both had played varsity football and baseball and American Legion ball. Both their dads had worked at Ford Highland Park. Ryan remembered Speed’s brush cut in ’62, the year he graduated from Western Michigan with a Phys. Ed. major. He had tried out as a free-agent defensive back with the Browns, Bengals, Redskins, and Lions and finally put in his application at the Detroit Police Academy. Ryan had thought he’d make the pros on his name alone, Christ, Dick Speed, six-one, two-ten; but Speed found out he couldn’t back-pedal worth a shit and those skinny black wide receivers would show him a hip and be on their way.
Dick Speed had hair now, layers of it, and choker beads and tight faded Levi’s and a.357 Mag that was almost as big as Clint Eastwood’s.
Sipping his Stroh’s in the Athens Bar, he told Ryan he was with Squad Six now-a special unit of the Criminal Investigation Division that handled drug-related homicides: a lot of execution-type killings where the guy was tied up and gagged and shot in the head.
“Like in the movies,” Ryan said.
“The movies, shit,” Dick Speed said. “I mean you can’t imagine the mess, a guy gets hit in the head. All over the wall, the floor. Jesus, it’s something.”
“You ever get sick?”
“No, I never did. These other guys, the old pros, they’d wait to see how you’re going to take it. But I never have been sick. Knock wood. Shit, knock Formica in this place.”
“I wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor.”
“The movies, listen, you want to see the real thing,” Dick Speed said, “I can arrange it, ride in the meat wagon sometime. Shit, you’d die.”
“Then what would I want to do it for?”
“Sunday morning early’s the best time. Come back to Receiving with the meat wagon, then stop by the morgue, see all the Saturday night hotshots, the good time they had.”
Ryan was polite and listened and made a few comments, but he wasn’t buying him beer to learn about dope-related executions or Sunday mornings at the morgue.
“Listen,” Ryan said, “I got to get over to Probate before it closes”-where he had just come from-“and I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Look and see if you got a sheet on a Robert Leary, Jr.”
“What’s he supposed to’ve done?”
“Nothing I know of,” Ryan said. “But if a guy’s hard to find, I was wondering maybe it’s because he’s got something to hide. Am I wrong?”