Unknown Man #89 jr-3

by Elmore Leonard

  “You might be right,” Ryan said.

  “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.

  But he should
have waited. As good as it felt hitting Bobby, it didn’t pay anything in prize money. He should have waited to see what this other money was about.

  Bobby Lear. Money waiting with your name on it.

  Then look at it another way. Dead or not, Bobby still owed him something. If he couldn’t collect from Bobby, then how about from his wife?

  Virgil sat down and closed his eyes to meditate, think it out.

  Something was going on between the wife and the ofay man who’d been looking for Bobby. Name of Ryan. Virgil had the name and the man’s phone number on a piece of paper in his wallet. He’d remember the name, anyway. Standing close to the drunk old man who’d called the number for him-sour-smelling old shitface bum who told him, drinking the two doubles, how he loved colored people, saying they were like little children to him-standing close, smelling the man, he’d heard Ryan say the name and repeat it and then spell it. Virgil knew he’d remember the name because it was the same as the name of a stripper he had seen at the Gaiety when he was a boy, Sunny Ryan, and she was the first white lady he had ever wanted to fuck. It was funny how you remembered things.

  Now the wife and the man name of Ryan both knew from the paper Bobby was dead. But something else was still alive that had to do with money. That part was hard to understand. If the man knew Bobby was dead, how come he put the second one in the papers? Money waiting. Or maybe he didn’t know Bobby was dead when he put it in. But wouldn’t the money still be waiting? If the money was for Bobby, would his wife get it now? Maybe. If it was like money left to him.

  The only thing to do, Virgil decided in his patience, was go see Bobby’s wife. Buy her some wine and ask her what she knew about it. If she didn’t know anything, then call up the man and sound real nice and arrange to meet him. Ask him the question. What’s this money with Bobby’s name on it? And if it sounded like the man was blowing smoke, pick him up and shake it out of him.

  It turned out to be easier than Virgil Royal thought it would. He went out looking for Bobby’s wife and at the first stop ran into the man name of Ryan.

  11

  THE MANAGER LOOKED as though he hadn’t smiled in a long time and had forgotten how. It was a shame, too, Ryan was thinking, because he had a wonderful job taking care of the Mayflower, the actual carved-in-stone name of the apartment building on Selden, in the heart of the Cass Corridor, where he could sit in his window and watch muggings in broad daylight and the whores go by and the people from Harlan County and East Tennessee on their way to the grocery store for some greens and cornmeal. The manager said he hadn’t seen her. She was still living in the apartment for all he knew.

  Ryan gave him a five-dollar bill, saying for the inconvenience. The manager stood there in his brown coat sweater, hands pushed down in the sagging pockets, watching while Ryan looked around.

  Ryan’s problem, this was the logical place to begin, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. He should at least appear to have a purpose, like he knew what he was doing. He wished the manager would go away. What would anybody want to steal? The only thing he sort of liked was a dinner plate from Stuckey’s that had Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson’s portrait on it, in color. It wasn’t bad.

  The dresser and closet were empty. The daybed had been stripped. The kitchen had been straightened up in sort of a half-assed way, the counter and sink cleared but the empty bottles still on the floor.

  The business card he had given her-search and serve associates-was in the bathroom, lying on the lid of the toilet tank.

  What did that mean? The medicine cabinet was empty. Okay, she’d taken her toothbrush and comb, that kind of stuff, and put them in her purse and saw his card in there and took it out. Because she was thinking about calling him again. Or because she had no use for it. He came out of the bathroom.

  The manager said, “You find what you’re looking for?”

  “Not yet,” Ryan said. He was looking at the black guy standing in the doorway, recognizing only the familiar shape of the hat, the nice curve to the brim, the hat sitting lightly on the man’s head, down a little, almost touching his wire-frame sunglasses. A tan leisure outfit today, dark-navy shirt open and pale-blue neck beads. It looked good on him. Ryan was thinking if he put it on, though, he’d feel like a showboat-look at me trying to look cool.

  Virgil said to the manager, “Go on downstairs. We need you, we let you know.”

  The manager might have been a tough little guy at one time who didn’t take any shit and maybe something that hadn’t withered yet stirred inside him. He said, “Who the hell you talking to? You come in here-I don’t know you. I don’t know him either. What business you got coming in here?”

  “Hey, Papa?” Virgil said. “Leave us. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “If you want to look around,” Ryan said, “it costs five bucks.”

  “Get the tour, huh?” Virgil took out a roll of bills and peeled one off for the manager. “Find out all the famous people got laid here. Thanks, Papa.”

  The manager grumbled something. Virgil didn’t move from the doorway and the manager had to edge sideways to get past him. Virgil was looking at Ryan with his easy, pleasant expression, almost smiling.

  He said, “I’m Virgil Royal.”

  “I know,” Ryan said. “From Wyandotte Savings and Loan by way of 4000 Cooper Street, Jackson, Michigan.”

  “Hey, shit.” Virgil was grinning now. “How you know that?”

  “No sense in keeping secrets from each other,” Ryan said. “A policeman told me.”

  Virgil hesitated a moment. “Yeah, looking for Bobby, finding out this and that. But you’re not a cop. What’re you?”

  “Confused,” Ryan said. “I know I saw you the other night. Did I talk to you on the phone? Last Friday?”

  “No, was a man I had call you.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t know if you were the first one or the second one.”

  “Other one must’ve been Bobby. Talk real slow? Like he gonna fall asleep?”

  “I don’t remember,” Ryan said. “I never did get to meet him, so I’m not sure it was him.”

  “Little too late,” Virgil said. “Now you back looking for his wife. Where’s she gone?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t leave me a note.”

  Virgil’s gaze moved over the room. “She didn’t leave much of anything, did she? Moved out.” The sunglasses came back to rest on Ryan. “Now she gets the money, huh?”

  Ryan didn’t answer, getting some words together.

  “Tell me about the money, say it’s got Bobby’s name on it. Somebody leave it to him?”

  “Something like that,” Ryan said. “It’s a legal matter.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  “Process server. You want a divorce, I’m the one hands the papers to your wife.”

  “I don’t want a divorce,” Virgil said, “I want some money Bobby owes me.”

  “You talk to him about it?”

  “Man, you getting sneaky now. When did I last see Bobby Lear? Other night? After I saw you? Where was I between three and six a.m. and all that shit.”

  “The police talk to you about it?”

  “Not yet. They do, I have to tell them I was at my sister and brother-in-law’s. Got there at three-something, slept till noon. What else?”

  Ryan shrugged. “You’re talking, I’m not.”

  “No, I’m asking,” Virgil said, “what this money deal is. See, now that the man’s dead, I should get the money from his-what you call it-his estate. Right?”

  “I don’t know,” Ryan said. “I told you, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, but you not serving papers either,” Virgil said. “You into something else. What’s it about?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Ryan said. “I’ve got no reason to sympathize with you or tell you anything about what I’m doing, because it’s none of your fucking business. Okay?”

  “Hey, shit, come on,” Virgil said, “talking like that. It’s to our mutual inte
rest, man. You gonna be looking for the lady, so am I. We both in it. We can help each other.”

  “You mean all three of us,” Ryan said. “You and I and the Detroit Police Department.”

  “That’s all right, it’s cool. Sure, let them do their job. Somebody’s gonna find her and then I’m gonna talk to her. So why don’t you tell me what it’s about now, case I’m wasting my time.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Ryan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You wear that hat.”

  Virgil gave him a little nod. “Yeah-thank you.”

  “See, she doesn’t know what the deal is yet,” Ryan said, “and nobody seems to know where she is, anyway, so why don’t you just be patient for a while. What’s the hurry?”

  “Yeah, you right. It messes up your stomach,” Virgil said. “Can cause your knuckles to get broken. No sense in having that, is there?”

  “It’s dumb,” Ryan said, “getting worked up, instead of being patient and letting it happen. You know what I mean? It works out or it doesn’t.”

  “I can dig it,” Virgil said. “I know, patience can help you through all kinds of anxieties and concerns, including deep shit and solitary confinement.”

  “That must be awful, solitary. I don’t think I could do it.”

  “If you don’t fight it,” Virgil said.

  “Well”-Ryan looked toward the kitchen-“I could make some instant coffee-since neither of us seems to know where the fuck we’re going, anyway.”

  “Yeah.” Virgil nodded. “That’d be fine. Something else I been meaning to ask you. Your name’s Ryan, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You got any relation name of Sunny Ryan?”

  12

  SHE WASN’T IN KEN’S, the Gold Dollar, the Good Times, the Temple, the Hotel Ansonia, the Royal Palm, the Willis Show Bar, or Anderson’s Garden.