Split Images

by Elmore Leonard

  Cola on the dining-room table. One of those big plastic bottles."

  "So Mr. Kouza, he yelled at Darius, uh? What did he say to him?"

  "He called for him to remain where he was."

  "Yeah, but what did he say exactly?"

  "He said, 'Freeze, motherfucker. Don't move.' "

  "Like that?"

  "Somewhat louder."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Darius turned and started back."

  "Toward the living room?"

  "That's right. But he was still in the dining room when Mr. Kouza fired."

  "I thought Darius was shot in the spine," Mr.

  Randall said.

  "He was," Bryan said. "From the front."

  "Must have been a powerful weapon Mr. Kouza used."

  Bryan didn't say anything.

  "Was a Mag num," Curtis Moore said. He was standing now, Randall trying to get to him. "Was a big forty-four Mag num. Ask me what the motherfucker use. He want to shoot everybody, except this one"--pointing to Bryan Hurd on the witness stand--"stop him."

  Mr. Randall had his hands on Curtis now, easing him down, saying, "Your Honor, please take into account this young man's emotional state, seeing his brother--" And stopped there.

  Judge Solner said, "I've seen enough of Mr.

  Moore today. He can leave on his own or the court officer will throw him out. Right now."

  Angela watched Curtis Moore stroll out of the courtroom in his black leather jacket and tight maroon trousers. All he needed was the Bee Gees playing behind him, his drag-step pace right on the beat. She wondered if any magazine would go for an interview with Curtis. Outside of Easy Rider.

  Bryan Hurd was looking at her. He wasn't smiling now but almost. She looked at him with the same expression. She couldn't be cool with him.

  She didn't want to be. She wanted to make a face and see him smile, knowing he would. But the face would have to relate to something he would recognize. She knew him but she didn't know him.

  Mr. Randall said, "I've only one more area to cover, Your Honor," and turned to Lieutenant Hurd again. "Was Darius, at the time he was shot, was he holding anything in his hand?"

  "He was holding a knife," Bryan answered.

  "What kind? Big butcher knife?"

  "He was holding a silverware knife."

  "Just a plain, ordinary silverware knife?"

  "That's right," Bryan said. "With banana cream pie on it."

  Twenty minutes later it was over. Angela watched Walter Kouza coming out, glancing back, blunt arms hanging rigid in his tight gray suit, buttoned, banging through the low gate to the aisle and glancing back again, livid, to say, "Thanks a lot, you son of a bitch."

  Lieutenant Hurd was looking this way. He said, "Walter?"

  But Walter was out the door.

  Angela closed her notebook, slipped it into her canvas bag. As the homicide cop with the bandit mustache came through the gate she was ready.

  She said, "Lieutenant? . . ." As he came over she said, "Bryan Hurd, is it?" Aloud for the first time, wanting to hear herself say his name. He was taller than she had expected. Younger looking, close.

  He said, "Well, finally . . ."

  They stared at each other.

  He said, "You know how long I've been wanting to meet you?"

  She said, "Wait a minute. How do you know who I am?"

  He said, "I don't." Then said, making a statement, "You're not with one of the papers, are you?

  You're from somewhere else?"

  "I'm on my own."

  "That's what I thought. So am I, for the next ten days." He seemed to want to say something else, prevent a silence. "Actually I'm not off till Monday, then I've got the ten days . . . But see, I'm off this weekend, so it's like I'm off now." The silence began and he said, "Just stay with me through this part. I don't want to sound dumb and blow it, but you try too hard that's what happens . . . What's funny?"

  "Nothing."

  They stared at each other.

  She said, "I should've washed my hair."

  He seemed uncertain, or hopeful. Then began to smile and said, "You know what I'm talking about, don't you. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  "You haven't really said anything yet."

  "That's what I mean. I don't have to say anything. You know. And your hair's fine. It's perfect."

  She said, "Then I'm all set." And seemed confident again in her long navy blue coat, her jeans and cowboy boots. But she felt the need to say, "Boy, I don't know . . ."

  They stared at each other again until Bryan said, "Let's get a drink and talk for a few days."

  Neither of them spoke in the elevator going down.

  COMING OUT OF the City-County Building, walking east on Jefferson, they started over and spoke about the weather, looking off at the Ford Auditorium on the riverfront, the fountain misting in Hart Plaza, Bryan saying it was a little too nice, it wasn't like April, April in Detroit was miserable, wet and cold, with dirty snow left over from winter; Angela saying she lived in Arizona, Tucson, and didn't know much about weather, outside of weather in New York when you wanted a taxi; Bryan saying he thought that should about do it for weather, though he could tell her how muggy it got in the summer if she wanted.

  Angela said, "Boy . . ." and shook her head in amazement.

  "What?"

  She said, "We know each other but we don't."

  He said, "Maybe we're related. What do you think?"

  She said, "I hope not." And was silent.

  Bryan glanced at her. She was pulling in. But that was all right because she was still there. Her mouth and nose he had committed to memory and believed he could draw within a couple of tries with clean, simple lines. The awareness in her eyes . . .

  "You have blue eyes, right?"

  "Sort of blue."

  "So're mine."

  She said, "I know."

  It made him feel good. Walter was a half-block ahead of them and he was pretty sure where Walter was going. Maybe he'd buy him a drink.

  She said, "I think I'd like to do Curtis Moore sometime."

  "I think Walter would too," Bryan said.

  She looked at him now. "You know what I mean."

  "I've interviewed him a few times," Bryan said.

  He told her the only way to get his full attention was to talk about bikes. Curtis had a big trickedout scoot, a Harley, he kept in the house. He had a cane that telescoped out into a pool cue, with a grass pipe in the grip he smoked going sixty. Curtis painted a white girl brown one time and kept her a week.

  Angela said, well, it was a thought.

  He asked her how long she'd been writing. She said, making a living at it, just three years.

  "You like to write?"

  She looked at him. No one had ever asked her that before. She said, "I'm not sure. I've got a couple of problems. I don't know if I'm Oriana Fallaci or Studs Terkel. I'm serious. And I'm about to turn thirty and I'm having a little trouble with that, too."

  He said, "I'll tell you how to handle the age thing. But why can't you be Angela Nolan?"

  She said, "I don't know if pure Angela Nolan would sell."

  He said, "Well, as long as you don't show off.

  What do you write about?"

  "I do interviews. Not the usual type with famous people. Bum Phillips is the only one even remotely famous."

  Bryan stopped.

  "But why did you say that about not showing off?" Now Angela stopped and had to turn to look up at him. "What's the matter?"

  "I read it. It was in Playboy and your picture was in the front part, right? With all the pictures?"

  "Yeah, in the November issue. You saw it?"

  "I cut it out," Bryan said.

  "The interview?"

  "No, your picture." He held up thumb and index finger about an inch apart. "It's that big."

  "Come on--" She was smiling, amazed. "All the naked girls in there, you cut out my picture?"

  "I'll tell you
something else," Bryan said. "It's the first time in my life I ever cut out a girl's picture, naked or otherwise."

  "But why?"

  He said, "Why do you think? Why do you think we're here, right now?"

  She said, "It's getting scary."

  He said, "It's not getting scary, it's been. Ever since I saw you." They started walking again.

  She said, "It's funny--watching you in the courtroom, you reminded me of Bum Phillips."

  He almost stopped again. "You think I look like him?"

  "No, I mean something he said." She delivered the line with the hint of a Western drawl: " 'I make decisions according to what's right and what's wrong, not to keep my job' . . . Even the judge was surprised Randall called you."

  Bryan said, "Kenneth Randall--you ever get in serious trouble, hire him. He spends most of his time in Recorders Court, that's the criminal stuff; so I see him about once a week."

  Angela said, "You didn't give him anything, but you didn't hold back either. I mean considering Walter Kouza's a fellow police officer. Isn't there some kind of unwritten law, you don't tell on each other?"

  Bryan said, "He's not my fellow police officer. I don't need any Walter Kouzas."

  Angela said, "He's a bodyguard now."

  "Good," Bryan said. "Is that what you're doing, interviewing bodyguards?"

  "I was interviewing the body Walter's guarding," Angela said, "Mr. Robinson Daniels of Grosse Pointe and Palm Beach? Daniels Fasteners.

  They make something for Chrysler."

  "They make nuts and bolts," Bryan said. "Yeah, you see his picture a lot, Robbie Daniels. Or you see him at Lindell's with the jock sniffers. Every couple of years he offers to buy the Tigers and in between he buys 'em drinks. I hear he's a pretty nice guy."

  Angela said, "That seems to be the word. At least from the gang down in Palm Beach. I haven't talked to anyone up here yet."

  "What's he need a bodyguard for?"

  "That's the first question I'm gonna ask, if we ever get back together."

  "Did you ask Walter?"

  "Walter says, 'Why you think? Rich guys need protection from the fucking kooks in the world.' "

  "Well, it's not unusual," Bryan said. "Even if it's just for status. But, Robbie Daniels, he is pretty well known."

  "I know, it's possible." Angela said. "Last week I was gonna drop the whole idea. It wasn't worth all the waiting around. Either waiting for Robbie or waiting to see one of his friends and then getting the same old shit. Rich people don't think, they just assume things. They assume everyone thinks the way they do."

  "You just said they don't think."

  "Don't pick. You know what I mean," Angela said. "Then, when I'd finally get him to sit down and talk, he'd want to play around."

  "Make the moves on you."

  "No, not like that. The only time--when I met him the first thing he said to me. . . . I'm standing there, I've told him who I am, acting very legitimate and proper . . . he says, 'You know what I'd like to do, Angie?' And that's one thing I can't stand, I don't know why, being called Angie. He says, very straight, 'I'd like to tie you up and fuck your socks off.' "

  Bryan said, "No hugs and kisses first, huh?"

  "He was being cute. He says things with a straight face, then grins to show he's kidding.

  You're supposed to think he's a little off the wall but basically cute."

  "You don't like him."

  They were crossing Beaubien now toward Galligan's on the corner. Walter was already inside.

  "I think he's an asshole," Angela said. "But I have a feeling there's another Robbie Daniels inside the cute Robbie and that one could be pretty interesting."

  A young executive was holding the door open for two girls going into Galligan's, the girls smiling, touching the door, the young man finally letting go, giving the door to Bryan. He brought Angela past him into the foyer, touching her for the first time.

  She looked up at him. As the inner door opened, releasing voices and sounds, he said, "What's interesting about the Robbie Daniels inside the real one?"

  She said, "I think he likes to kill people."

  Walter threw his head back to drain the shot glass.

  He got his change from the bartender, checked it, picked up a draft beer and a straight-up martini and tried to narrow his shoulder as he came away from the bar, concentrating on the glasses. He looked up and stopped.

  Angela was saying, "It's New York. Third Avenue." She saw Walter a few feet away, holding the drinks, staring at Bryan.

  Walter said, "You know what you did to me in there? I start to think about it, I don't believe it."

  Bryan said, "Walter, I want to ask you something."

  Walter said, "A knife is a knife. I don't care it's got blood on it, banana cream pie, what it's got on it. A fucking knife is a knife."

  Bryan said, "Just tell me one thing. Who's Norma Zimmer?"

  Walter said, "I ever say another word to you, long as I live, I hope I bite my fucking tongue off."

  He walked away from them tight-jawed, concentrating on the glasses again as he moved between tables toward the booths against the wall. Now Owen Galligan was coming through the coat-rack hall from the back dining room, stopping at tables, the saloonkeeper officiating, getting the after-work crowd settled in. He saw the homicide detective and pointed to the first table against the brass railing that separated the tables from the bar patrons that were two deep, the young executives and clerks and lawyers who were checking out Angela now, rating her with cool deadpan approval.

  "That's yours, Bryan, grab it. Quick."

  Bryan said to Angela, "I come in with cops, I don't get this table. As a matter of fact I've never had it." He arranged the chairs so they sat with their backs to the bar and wouldn't have to look at the guys staring down at them. Angela looked the guys over, briefly, as she sat down, leaving her coat on, and that was that.

  She said, "Don't you know Norma Zimmer?"

  Bryan was looking for a waitress now. "The name's sorta familiar."

  Angela said, "How about Alice Lon? Or Ralna English?"

  Bryan was shaking his head.

  "At one time or another," Angela said, "Norma, Alice and Ralna were all Champagne Ladies. They sang with Lawrence Welk. I tried to interview him once."

  Bryan seemed relieved. "In court, I kept trying to think of who she was. Yeah, Norma Zimmer."

  "You want to tell me why," Angela said, "or would you rather take a look at Robbie Daniels?

  He's in the last booth with Walter."

  Bryan looked. He couldn't see much of Walter, but there was Daniels lounged against the wall, one foot up on the bench, his knee showing above the table. Daniels was wearing a beige tweed sport coat, white button-down shirt and striped rep necktie.

  "He's got a nice tan," Bryan said. "He looks like a tennis pro. The tan and the hair."

  "He's forty-one," Angela said.

  Bryan's gaze moved to a waitress, tried to catch her eye and missed. "What're you gonna have?"

  "I guess Jack Daniels on the rocks."

  "Yeah? Is that what you drink?"

  "Usually." Angela looked off again. "Robbie claims he runs six miles every day."

  "I guess it's the thing to do," Bryan said. "Go over to Belle Isle, even during the week, it looks like they're holding a marathon. I drove around Palmer Park--I live out that way--and measured off a mile. The next day I put on the outfit--sweat pants, one of those knit caps, it was cold that day. I ran the mile, came home and threw up. I said to myself, you were right. It's not only boring, it makes you sick. So I quit jogging."

  "When I'm home I like to hike in the mountains," Angela said. "Otherwise, I don't do much."

  Bryan couldn't take his eyes off her. He said, "Well, you're five-five, you weigh about a hundred and two. I don't see that you have a problem."

  She said, "You could work in a carnival."

  "I do," Bryan said. "I guess weights, read fingerprints. Tell fortunes--tell some poor dumbhead
he's gonna do mandatory life . . . but at least not the next ten days. I'm going down to Florida, sit in the sun and read."

  "Mysteries?"

  "No, I don't read mysteries. I'm gonna take the last twelve issues of National Geographic and read every word and look at the maps. Fall asleep on the beach reading. I like to wake up about five o'clock, there's nobody around. Then go in and get cleaned up . . . in the evening drink tall rum drinks and look at the ocean. That's the first couple of days.

  After that I switch to bourbon and go to the movies."

  She said, "Alone?"

  Bryan smiled at her. He said, "Angela. I didn't think your name would be Angela. I don't know why, I thought it would be Sally or Nancy. I like Angela though, very much." He said, "Yeah, I'm going alone." He smiled at her again. "We have to know certain things, don't we? Before moving ahead."

  She seemed hesitant now, getting to it. She said, "It isn't like meeting somebody at school; we've been out for a while . . . I was married when I was twenty, divorced, I was still twenty. It was really dumb. He was with a band and I was going through sort of a groupie period."

  "I was twenty-four when I got married," Bryan said. "Divorced at, I was thirty-four or -five."

  "How old are you now?"

  "I'm forty."

  "You don't look it. Do you have children?"

  "No, but I'd like to. Unless it gets too late."

  There was a silence. She said, "I'm gonna be thirty the day after tomorrow."

  He said, "That's right, and you're having trouble with it."

  She said, "It's not a major problem, I just have to get used to the idea. I know girls who panic and try to revert. They new-wave themselves over and look like clowns."

  He said, "You want to go to Florida next week?"

  "Where?"

  "Near Boca Raton."

  She made a face that was an expression of pain or mild confusion. "I didn't mean where. I don't know why I said that." She looked serious now, intent. "I knew you were going to ask me, as soon as you said Florida, and I didn't know what I was gonna say."

  "Let me build it up," Bryan said. "It's a nice place, the Ocean Pearl, right on the beach . . ."

  She said, "I'm not like this. Why am I nervous? I keep saying the wrong thing."

  "Just take it easy. Relax."

  "That's what I'm trying to do." Gritting her teeth a little.