If everything didn’t work perfectly, there was a chance Raymond could get (a) killed; (b) injured, hospitalized, or in need of medical attention; (c) arrested; (d) arrested and injured. The risks were pretty much all Raymond’s.
There was also a chance, if everything didn’t work perfectly, if Raymond messed up and was arrested, the police might try to involve Mr. Perez. Or it might be the niggers’ lucky day and somehow they’d stomp or shoot Raymond. But by anticipating these risks, Mr. Perez was able to minimize them. He was reasonably confident Raymond would walk in with the suitcase. If the niggers came instead, he’d offer them a drink, sit down, and work out a deal. If the police came, he’d offer them a drink and ask if they’d recovered his stolen property yet. “Raymond? You don’t tell me. He did that? Well, officer, it was a lucky thing he had a gun, wasn’t it? Dealing with people like that. No, I simply asked Mr. Gidre if he would speak to them for me. Very frankly, I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid to myself.” Mr. Perez made up lines and rehearsed them.
He had been convicted and served time once, because he had been impatient and not properly prepared. It wasn’t going to happen twice.
The other thing he did during a high-risk period-just in case he was being watched-was maintain an appearance of business as usual.
This time, what Mr. Perez did, he rented an Avis car, drove out to the A&P supermarket in Rochester, and asked Denise Leary if she’d like to have lunch with him. Denise hesitated, then said okay. “But I’m surprised. I thought you’d be busy today.”
Mr. Perez smiled. “Too busy to see my most important client?”
They met at one-thirty and drove to the Burger Chef on the south end of Main. The script Mr. Perez had worked out: he’d play with her today, get her to feel he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Then, while she was relaxed, see if he could plant some doubts in her mind about Ryan and work him loose.
But Denise didn’t give him a chance. They both ordered Ranchers, and as soon as they were seated, while Mr. Perez was still undoing his paper napkin, she said, “Something you should understand. I don’t care that much about the stock or what it’s worth. If I don’t get it, I’m not out anything, am I? I mean, I haven’t lost anything. But I’ll go along with Ryan, whatever he wants to do.”
“Even if he wants to maneuver you out of the whole thing?” Mr. Perez said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I know him. While he was working for me he went along with anything I suggested.”
“That was before.”
“Before what? I’m talking about a week ago. See, he acts intelligent enough, he’s polite, gives you a nice smile. But it turns out he’s a street hustler inside, man trying to live by his wits on a fifth grade education.”
Denise shook her head, eating fries and then dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Look, and I know what you’re trying to do, too. You’re wasting your time. You don’t know anything about Ryan and me. But even if it was true, if he’s trying to maneuver me as you say, I still wouldn’t be out anything, because I don’t have my heart set on the money. I don’t need it.”
“Everybody needs money,” Mr. Perez said. “Perhaps not a hundred and fifty thousand, but some of it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“The whole thing is,” Denise said, “you look at money differently than I do. You’d push somebody out a window to get it. And if you said you were going to push me out, I’d give it to you. Because I honest and truly, whether you believe me or not, don’t care about the money.”
“Then why don’t you sign the agreement with me?” Mr. Perez said.
“Because it’s up to Ryan,” Denise said, “and for some reason he thinks you’re a tinhorn asshole. But let’s keep in touch, okay?”
It shouldn’t be this difficult, Mr. Perez thought then and at times later on. Why is it? How did it get out of hand?
The process server. Ryan.
It was the first time in Mr. Perez’s career he had misjudged anyone to the degree that it might cost him money. (Even on the New Orleans deal, the woman with the Jew lawyer, he had kept in touch with her while he was in Angola and got her to sign an agreement.) When the feeling gnawed at his insides, he took Gelusil tablets and blamed it on northern cooking. He would not admit his misjudgment as long as Mrs. Leary ate her fries with ketchup in the corner of her mouth and didn’t care about the money. He had to fool with her some more, stroke her, treat her kindly. If that failed, all right, then open the window. He was playing with children, was the trouble. They were unpredictable and threw him off his game.
He said, “If you insist on Mr. Ryan advising you, that’s fine. But why don’t the three of us sit down, forget anything was said before that might’ve made somebody mad, and get this thing worked out. What do you say?”
“If it’s all right with Ryan.”
“Can you call him?”
“He’s supposed to call me later.”
“Where is he, out serving paper?”
“No, he’s doing something with the police.” Denise cut into her hamburger patty. “Mine’s a little well done. How’s yours?”
“The local police, here?”
“The Detroit police,” Denise said, taking a bite of the hamburger patty but watching Mr. Perez. “I mentioned, I thought you’d be busy today.”
Mr. Perez saw it coming. Her delivery wasn’t bad at all, good timing, playing it dumb, but with the glint of awareness in her eyes if he wanted to notice it. Nice touch with the hamburger being well done. Well done-it was a piece of shit, but served as a nice piece of business.
He said, “Where was it I’m supposed to be busy today?” And she says:
“Buying a suitcase.”
He had to smile at that. She was good. “Tell me something,” Mr. Perez said. “Why should I pay to get my own property back?”
“I don’t think you’re gonna get it back,” Denise said.
“Why not? It’s mine.”
“Because Ryan’ll be there and you won’t.”
“How can he claim it if it isn’t his?”
“I’m not saying he will,” Denise said. “What he’ll do is identify the man who tried to kill him. Your friend Raymond.”
“Now we’re talking about something I don’t know anything about,” Mr. Perez said. “What’s it got to do with me, or the suitcase?”
“You better finish your Rancher,” Denise said. “They pick you up, you might not get anything to eat for a while.”
Mr. Perez smiled at her again, watching her dab a couple of fries in the ketchup on her plate.
“Honey, you’re pretty good, you know that? But I’ll make you a bet I have my suitcase back before the day’s over.”
“How much?”
“A dollar,” Mr. Perez said.
Ryan didn’t know if he was supposed to stay or leave. Nobody told him anything. He hung around, looking in the squad room offices that were crowded with old desks. Seeing guys in their shirtsleeves with sidearms drinking coffee. Looking at mug shots of black guys on the wall. Watching a fairly attractive black girl operate a Xerox machine. Dick Speed would pass him without a word, very busy, coming in and out of his office, going into Olsen’s office a couple of times where the suitcase was open on a table. Ryan watched them through the glass picking up papers, looking at them. After about a half hour of being quiet and polite, letting them play their grade school game with him, Ryan left.
The place reminded him of a grade school he’d gone to in Detroit-the principal’s office, waiting, looking up at the picture of George Washington, the high windows that reached to the ceiling, the solemn gray sky outside. He wasn’t a little boy anymore and didn’t have to say please and thank you and kiss ass if he didn’t want to. He left.
He didn’t go far, though. He went to a coffee house across from the Athens Bar on Monroe, a block from police headquarters, ordered a cup of Turkish, and shot bumper pool. Shit, he was still waiting around.