You talking to him like that, what you talking to me for?
Because you'd like to help me, Raymond said. You'd like to get the wildman off your back, for good. But you're afraid if you give me something, Clement's liable to find out. Mr. Sweety didn't say anything. After a moment, Raymond got up. Can I use your phone again?
In the dark hallway the moving beat of the Motown sound was closer now, coming from a bedroom. Raymond held one of his cards toward the light to read a phone number written on the back, then dialed the number.
A male voice answered. Lafayette East.
Let me speak to Sergeant Robinson, please. Raymond waited. When he heard Wendell's voice he said, Where are we?
Got a call out on the Montego, Wendell said. Told 'em to get the number, see if it's on the sheet and tell MCMU where the car's at. But you see the problem?
Which one? Raymond said. That's all I see are problems.
They spot him out in Oakland or Macomb County somewhere, Wendell said, then the local people got the case. They pick him up for driving without a license, but they can't take a weapon out of the car less it's in plain sight. Say they do. Then he's out of our jurisdiction on some halfass gun charge. You understand what I'm saying?
Tell 'em Raymond paused. I'm not worried about jurisdiction right now. But we have to be sure it's admissible evidence. We find a gun on him, first it's got to be the right gun, then it's got to stand up in court the search was legal and the only sure way is if you take him in on the traffic charge and set a bond and he doesn't make it. Then you can go through the car when you list his possessions. Otherwise, you say you had reason to believe he was carrying a murder weapon based on what? Shit, Raymond said. I can see us losing him again on a technicality.
He won't have the gun on him anyways, Wendell said.
He probably won't, but what's he doing, driving around? Where did he get the car? . . . How about Sandy Stanton?
Went out, hasn't come back.
What's your friend say about letting us in the apartment?
Yeah, Mr. Edison says fine. Wants to know if we have a search warrant, I told him you're handling that.
Everybody's into legal rights, Raymond said. We see something we want we'll get a warrant and go back. How about the Buick?
Hasn't moved. Nobody's gone near it.
Okay, call a truck, have it picked up. I'll be leaving here shortly.
I hear the Commodores now, Wendell said. You and Mr. Sweety spinning records?
Raymond was thinking. He said, Listen, let's not worry about Clement, I mean picking him up. Tell 'em just try and locate him and stay close. I'll see you in a few minutes.
He walked back into the living room, looking again at the illuminated photo of the man with the brown beard and long hair.
Who's that, a friend of yours?
Mr. Sweety glanced over. He said, This picture here? and sounded surprised. It's Jesus. Who you think it was?
It's a photograph, Raymond said.
Mr. Sweety said, Yeah, it's a good likeness, ain't it?
Raymond sat down again, nodding, his gaze returning to the heavyset black man in the bathrobe.
Are you saved?
Man, I hope so. I could use some saving.
I know what you mean, Raymond said. There's nothing like peace of mind. But I'm afraid I might've upset you. You're confused now. You don't know whether you should call Clement or not . . .
Wait now, Mr. Sweety said, with an expression of pain. Why would I want to do that?
Well, to tell him I was here . . . tell him Sandy was here . . . But then you'd be getting involved, wouldn't you? If I wanted to remain saved, Raymond said, especially if I was concerned about saving my ass, I think I'd keep quiet, figuring it's better to be a little confused than involved, right?
Lift my voice only to heaven, Mr. Sweety said.
I'd even think twice about that, Raymond said. You never know, somebody could have you bugged.
Chapter 21
YEAH, IT'S DARK IN HERE, Clement said, looking around Uncle Deano's, at the steer horns on the walls and the mirrors framed with horse collars. Darker'n most places that play Country, but it's intimate. You know it? I thought if we was gonna have a intimate talk why not have it at a intimate place? Clement straightened, looking up. Except for that goddamn pinball machine; sounds like a monkey playing a 'ylectric organ. He settled down again. I'll tell you something else. If our mom hadn't been carried away by a tornado last spring, we'd be holding this meeting in Lawton.
Sandy said to Skender Lulgjaraj, He means Lawton, Oklahoma.
Well, hell, he's heard of Lawton, hasn't he? If he hasn't, he's sure heard of Fort Sill . . . Here, Clement said, make you feel at home.
He took off his K-mart cowboy hat, reached across the table and placed it on Skender Lulgjaraj's thick head of black hair. The hat sat high and Skender tried to pull it down tighter as he turned to Sandy.
Hey, Sandy said, you look like a regular cowpoke.
I don't think it fit me, Skender said, holding onto the brim with both hands.
It looks cute, Sandy told him. Goes with your outfit nice. She reached over to brush a kernel of popcorn from the lapel of Skender's black suit, then picked another one from the hair that showed in the open V of his silky beige sportshirt.
Clement was reaching out, stopping their waitress with his extended arm. He said, Hey, I like your T-shirt. Honey, bring us another round, will you, please? And some more popcorn and go on over and ask Larry if he'll do 'yYou Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille' the next set? Okay? Thank you, hon. He turned to Skender and said, Our mom loved that song. She'd listen to it and get real mad and say, 'yThat woman's just trash, leave four children, hungry children, like that.' I believe she loved that song, I'd say just a smidge behind Luckenback, Texas. I know you heard that one.
Skender said, Luke . . . what?
He's putting me on, Clement said to Sandy. You putting me on, Skenny? You mean to tell me you never heard Waylon do 'yLuckenback, Texas'? Time we got back to the basics of life?
Sandy said, It's 'yTime we got back to the basics of love' . . . not life.
Clement squinted at her. You sure?
Sandy glanced over at the bandstand in the corner where Larry Lee Adkins and the Hanging Tree three guitars and a set of drums were getting ready for the next set. He just played it, Sandy said. Ask him.
Clement was thoughtful. He says let's sell your diamond ring, get some boots and faded jeans . . .
And he says we got a four-car garage and we're still building on, Sandy said. So maybe it's time we got back to the basics of love.
That doesn't rhyme.
I never said it did. But it's love, not life.
Skender, with his cowboy hat sitting on top of his head, would look from one to the other.
Clement grinned at him. Well, it don't matter. We're here to talk about the basics of love anyway, aren't we, partner? He paused, cocking his head. Listen. Hear what they're playing? 'yEverybody Loves a Winner,' Clement half singing, half saying it. That's a old Dalaney and Bonnie number.
You're sure full of platter chatter this evening, Sandy said. You ought to get a job at CXI and get paid for it.
Well, I got nothing against work. I come a piece from the oil fields to the world of speculation, Clement said, seeing Sandy rolling her eyes as he tightroped along the edge of truth. But I'd rather see my investments do the work than me, if you know what I mean and I think you do. He looked over at Skender and gave him a wink. I understand you're in the restaurant business.
Coney Island red-hot places, Skender said. I start out, I save eighty-three dollars and thirty-four cents a month. The end of a year I have one thousand dollars. I buy a HUD house, fix it up and rent it to people. I keep saving eighty-three dollars and thirty-four cents a month. I buy another house, fix it up. Then I sell the first house and buy a Coney Island. I buy another house, more houses, fix them up, sell some of them, buy an apartment, buy another Coney Is
land. In twelve years I have two apartments now I keep for rent and four Coney Island red-hot places.
Sandy reached over to touch Skender's arm, looking at Clement. Hasn't he got a cute accent?
Clement said, Yeah, I 'ymagine you're paying Uncle Sam a chunk, too.
Skender shrugged. Yes, I pay. But I have money.
You ever been married?
No, thirty-four years old, I never marry. My cousin Toma and my grandfather, the houseman, the head of the family, they try to get me to marry someone from Tuzi, in Yugoslavia, bring her over here to marry. But I say no and make them very angry, because I want to marry an American girl.
Clement was listening intently, leaning over the table on his arms. He said, I know what you mean, partner. Nice American girl . . . knows how to fix herself up, shaves under her arms . . . uses a nice perfume, various deodorants and flavors winking at Skender if you know what I mean. See, Clement said, I don't mean to get personal with you, but I got to look out for sis here or I swear our mom'll come storming back from wherever she's at and give me the dickens. I said to her, Sandy didn't I? it's entirely up to you. But if this fella is sincere he won't mind satisfying some of my natural curiousity and concern. I said, after all, if you're gonna be Mrs. Lulgurri . . .
Sandy rolled her eyes.
Skender said, Lulgjaraj. It's a very common name. When I look in the telephone book I see there are more Lulgjaraj than Mansell. I look hard, I don't see your name. Another question I have, you don't mind, if you sister and brother, why do you have different names?
One thing, Clement said, you can look at us and tell we both got shook out of the same tree, can't you? Well, it's a pretty interesting story how Sandy come to change her name . . . while she was out in Hollywood, was right after the Miss Universe contest . . .
Skender was nodding, smiling. Yes? Sandy was sitting back in her chair, rolling her eyes.
Clement stopped. I'll tell you, I sure like a man with a natural smile like you got. It shows good character traits. Clement stared hard at Skender, nodding slowly, thoughtfully, as Skender smiled, the smile becoming fixed in an awkward, almost pained expression.
I'll tell you something else, Clement said. I've been all over this country, coast to coast wherever my work as a speculator takes me, but believe it or not, you're my first Albanian . . . Where you living now, Skenny?
Skender went to the Men's as they got ready to leave. Clement said to Sandy, I wasn't able to get a gun.
She seemed nervous now, which surprised Clement, and said, Be nice. You don't have to do it tonight.
Clement said, Hell I don't. I got seven dollars to my name and no place to sleep.
Clement stayed close behind Skender's black Cadillac, not letting any traffic get between them: straight down Woodward from Royal Oak into Detroit, east on the Davison Freeway to Joseph Campau and a ride down Hamtramck's main drag, then a right at Caniff to head west, back toward Woodward, Clement thinking, This bird doesn't even know how to get home. He turned a corner and parked behind the Cadillac in front of a U-shaped, three-story apartment building, 2781 Cardoni.
Skender told them he had been in this place four years. He had moved in right after his brother was shot and killed. Clement paid attention, looking away from the street signs in the light on the corner, and followed Skender and Sandy into the building.
Say he was shot? Clement asked and found out, yes, by a member of another family. It was a long boring story that Clement didn't understand, something about an argument in a bar leading to the shooting of the brother, then a cousin and two from the other family were killed before some guy came over from Yugoslavia and settled the matter.
On the stairway Clement asked Skender if he had shot the two from the other family. But Skender didn't hear him or else ignored the question, telling Sandy, yes, he still lived on the first floor. Sandy wanted to know why they were going up to the second floor then. Skender said wait and see.
Clement couldn't picture this skinny camel-jockey-looking guy shooting anybody anyway.
He seemed to make a ceremony of unlocking the front apartment on the right and stepping back for them to enter. It was a big apartment. Clement was struck by the newness of everything. He thought it looked like a store display and found out he wasn't far wrong.
For my new bride, Skender said, smiling, showing white teeth and gold caps in the light Clement getting a good look at him for the first time Skender sweeping the cowboy hat from his head to present the room, Decorated with the Mediterranean suit by Lasky Furniture on Joe Campau Skender, Clement judged, going about five-nine, a hundred and thirty, maybe shorter, his hair giving him height Skender showing them the master bedroom then, the other bedroom that would be a sewing room Clement giving Sandy a nudge the pink and green bathroom, the fully-equipped kitchen, ice-maker in the refrigerator, two bottles of slivovitz chilled for the surprise celebration . . .
Sandy looked surprised all right. She said, Gee, it's really nice.
Clement wasn't in any hurry. He let her walk around the apartment touching wild-animal figurines and the petals of the plastic tulip lamps, looking at the twin stardust-upholstered recliner chairs, looking at the painting of the big-eyed little girl and what looked like a real tear coming down her cheek, while Skender opened a bottle of slivovitz and brought it out to them with his fingers stuck in three stem glasses and the cowboy hat on the back of his head.
Clement kept calling Sandy sis. Saying, Hey, you're gonna love this place, aren't you, sis? Or, How 'bout that sewing room, sis? God darn but he's a thoughtful fella, isn't he? He said, Man, this is choice stuff, and got Skender to open the second bottle, Clement deciding it tasted something like bitter mule piss, but he wanted the Albanian good and relaxed. Near the bottom of the second bottle he said, Now what's this about a secret room somewhere? I hope it ain't for locking sis in when she's pouty or mean . . . Sandy appeared to sigh with relief.
It was about the cleanest basement Clement had ever seen, with separate locked stalls for each of the building's twelve tenants, a big furnace that was like a ship's boiler with aluminum ducts coming out of it and running along the ceiling, cinderblock walls painted light green . . .
Skender said, Now watch, please.
As though Clement was going to look anywhere else as Skender reached up to what looked like a metal fuse box mounted high on the wall by the furnace, opened it and snapped a switch to the up position. Clement heard a motor begin to hum; he located it in the overhead and followed an insulated wire over to a section of cinderblock wall. About three feet of the wall, from cement floor to unfinished ceiling, was groaning on unseen metal hinges, coming open right before his eyes, the motor high-pitched now, straining to actuate the massive load. Son of a gun . . .
The room inside was about ten-by-twelve. Clement stepped inside saying out loud, I'll be a son of a gun. He saw the floor safe right away. About two feet high, with a telephone and a phone book sitting on top. There was an office-model refrigerator that contained a two-burner range, a record player on a stand, a half-dozen folded-up canvas chairs, a pile of sleeping bags, a table with a sugar bowl on it, prints on the wall of a white seaside village, one of Jesus showing his Sacred Heart and one with a lot of funny looking words Clement couldn't read. Behind a folding door was a smaller room with a sink and toilet and shelves stocked with canned goods.
As Clement looked around, Skender turned on the record player. In a moment Donna Summer was coming on loud, filling the cinderblock room with disco music from one of her Greatest Hits.
Clement tried to ignore the sound. He said, My oh my oh my. You play house down here or you hide for real?
Skender, smiling, said, I'm sorry. What?
I heard of Eye-talians going to the mattresses how come I never heard of you people?
Specially since you read so much, Sandy said.
Clement grinned at her. Little bugger, she was loosening up. That was good; they'd have some fun. He had said to her many times, as he did now, I
f it ain't fun, it ain't worth doing, is it?
She said, You want me to leave?
Hell no, I don't want you to leave. Do we? Looking over at Skender and seeing him kneeling down at the safe now, opening it the safe wasn't even locked and shoving a window envelope inside he had taken out of his inside coat pocket.
Right before your very eyes, Clement thought. You believe it? He would love to be able to tell this later on. Maybe to Sweety. Watch his old nigger face . . .
He said, Hey, brother-in-law feeling a nice glow from the plum brandy and the bourbon he'd had before what you got in that box there? The music wasn't too bad . . .
I keep some money, some things. Skender drew an automatic out of the safe, held it up for Clement to see. Clement stepped over hesitantly, reached out and let Skender hand the gun to him. He felt Sandy watching, gave her a quick glance.
This here's a Browning.
Yes, and this one is a Czech seven-six-five. This little one is a Mauser. This one, I think, yes, is a Smith and Wesson. This one . . . I don't know what it is. Skender was laying the pistols on the floor next to the safe.
Clement released the clip from the Browning, looked at it and punched it back into the grip. You keep 'em all loaded?
Yes, of course, Skender said.
What else you got in there?
No more guns. I keep some money . . .
How much?
Skender looked up at him now, for a moment hesitant, then reached up quickly to keep the cowboy hat from falling down his back. I put some in last week. I think now . . . four hundred, a little more.
Four hundred, Clement said. He waited. Four hundred, huh?
A little more.
How much more?
Maybe fifty dollars.
Clement frowned. You keep money in the bank?
Skender hesitated again.
Sandy said, It's okay, he won't tell nobody.
In a saving certificate, Skender said, taking the envelope out again and opening it to look at a pink deposit receipt, forty thousand three hundred and forty-three dollars.
City Primeval Page 13
