City Primeval

by Elmore Leonard

  You'd stop payment, huh? The caftan opened as he pulled down. She tried to hold it closed. He took her two hands and brought them away, standing close, looking into her face.

  I don't have anywhere near that much, Carolyn said, still sincere, so what difference does it make?

  How much you got?

  Let's go look in the checkbook.

  Take off the robe first. He let go of her hands.

  Clement, really, if you'll stop and think for a minute . . . His hands slipped inside the rough-cotton garment, moved up her body and felt her elbows come in tightly, her eyes staring into his.

  What you think I'm gonna do to you? . . . Huh? Tell me. He moved his thumbs across her breasts. Hey, your nobs're sticking out . . . That feel pretty good? Juuuust brush 'em a little, huh? . . . They get hard as little rocks. His right hand moved lightly down her side to her hip, their eyes still holding. Now what am I gonna do? . . . That your belly button right there? . . . My, we don't have no panties on, do we? His voice drowsy. Tell what you think I'm gonna do to you . . . Huh? Come on . . .

  Clement drew his right hand out of the caftan, bringing it down past his own hip, curled the hand into a fist and grunted, going up on his toes, as he drove the fist into Carolyn's stomach.

  Once he got her into the shower, the caftan off her shoulders, pinning her arms, Clement gave Carolyn a working over with a few kidney punches and body hooks, a couple of stinging jabs to the face before a right cross drew blood from her nose and mouth and he turned the shower on her. The job was trying to keep her on her feet, glassy-eyed and moaning, Clement doubting she had much air left in her. He gave Carolyn a towel and guided her back to the desk in the window bay, bright with afternoon sunlight. Opening the checkbook, Clement said, Let's see now how much you want to give me.

  He looked at himself in the mirrored walls of the first floor, grinned a little at the hotshot grinning back at him and walked out of there with a check for six thousand five hundred dollars in the pocket of his denim jacket, thinking: I believe you stumbled onto something, boy.

  It was sure nice out.

  There was a guy standing across the street. A young guy in a dark suit.

  It was sure easier than going in with a gun. Pick out the right party, impress on the party why they should not call the police, then go to a downtown bank at once and cash the check. See, then if the bank calls the party to verify the check, the party is still seeing life through pain and fear and would say, you bet it's good fast.

  There were three guys over there now, standing, talking.

  Carolyn was probably upstairs looking out the window. Man, but it was a big place. Weird. High picket fence, like spears, all around and a blacktop parking area in the side yard no grass like the place had once been a residence, then a commercial establishment of some kind, with its big kitchen and bathroom, then a residence again. His car sat over there all by itself, up against the iron fence.

  The three guys across the street, he realized now looking through the fence at them as he approached his car were wearing black suits. Dark-haired guys with mustaches and black suits . . .

  Jesus Christ, he had never even seen an Albanian before yesterday. He said to himself, Oh shit wanting to run for the Montego, but making himself walk, not wanting to get anybody excited just yet, least not until he was behind the car on the driver's side and could open the door and reach under the seat.

  The three guys were coming across the street. They looked like undertakers. They were opening their black suitcoats and reaching inside . . .

  Clement was still five long strides from the car when they drew pistols and began firing at him. He couldn't believe it. Right out on the street, three guys he'd never seen before in his life shooting at him through the fence, not asking him to wait-up there, find out if he was the party they wanted Christ, just blazing away at him! Clement got his door open and saw the windows drilled and patterns form at the same time, the windows shattered but held together. He got the Browning from under the seat, edged to the rear curve of the Montego, extended the Browning over the edge of the trunk and, as he saw them through the widely spaced pickets, the three of them coming toward the drive, he began squeezing the trigger, feeling the gun jump, hearing that hard report in his ears, and saw them scatter, running along the fence on the other side of the drive. Clement got in the Montego, backed up, headed toward the rear of the house and almost braked when he saw the chain across the exit drive thought, What, you don't want to scratch up your new car? kept going and tore through those links without even feeling a tug sailed out hanging a right into the alley and faced another split moment of decision as he saw the end of the alley coming up fast. Turn left, away from the boys in black? Or hang another right and have to drive past the front of the house, where they were presently swarming? To hell with them. He cranked a right . . . saw the black suits back in the street again, looking this way, then all three of them aiming with both arms extended, like they knew what they were doing. The sound of the shots came as pops, far away, but the windshield blossomed at once in fragmenting circles. Clement floored it right at them. Saw them run for the sidewalk and veered over to jump the curb and sweep along close to the fence. Two of them ducked into the drive, out of the way, while the third set a fence-climbing record, just pulling his legs up as Clement scraped the Montego against the metal pickets, swerved back onto the street and took a couple of more shots in the rear end before he got to Jefferson and turned without stopping into the westbound traffic.

  He couldn't believe he had never heard of Albanians.

  Chapter 24

  SANDY WAS WEARING her Bert Parks T-shirt with tight faded jeans. She let go of the door, resigned, walked ahead of Raymond into the living room.

  We alone?

  You mean is Clement here? No. But Del called. He's coming back this weekend.

  What's that do to your arrangement?

  It doesn't do nothing. I move out.

  Clement find another place?

  Sandy seemed worn-out. She didn't answer, she moved in a circle, indecisive, before dragging herself over to the couch and curling a leg beneath her as she sunk down.

  Tired?

  Yeah, a little.

  Out late last night, huh?

  Pretty late.

  Raymond came over and sat at the other end of the couch, playing with a folded piece of notepaper now, rolling it in one hand the way you might roll a cigarette.

  I'm tired too, Raymond said. You want to know where I've been?

  Not partic'larly.

  First I went to Hutzel . . .

  What's Hutzel?

  It's a hospital. Up at the Medical Center.

  Sandy held her hands close to her face, idly concentrating on a fingernail, putting it between her front teeth then, holding the nail with her teeth as she twisted the finger.

  I saw Skender.

  Then where'd you go?

  Skender's in traction. He's gonna be crippled the rest of his life. You can say, oh, what happened? And we can throw that back and forth a while, or you can tell me how you feel about it.

  I don't have to talk to you, Sandy said, so I don't think I will.

  You know the kind of person Skender is quiet, very nice guy

  Hey, come on. Sandy got up abruptly. She went over to the windows and stood with her back to Raymond, who rolled and unrolled the piece of notepaper between his thumb and fingers.

  What'd Clement call him, the chicken-fat Albanian? Sandy didn't answer. You don't have a typewriter, do you? I mean Del Weems.

  Sandy shrugged. I don't know.

  He handed her the piece of notepaper.

  What's this?

  Read it.

  Sandy unrolled it, saw:

  SURPRISE CHICKEN FAT!!! and let the paper curl up again. Raymond took it. He left her standing at the window and returned to the couch.

  He leaves the note and shoots up my apartment with a .22. The question is, was he trying to kill me, or was he just havi
ng some fun?

  Sandy turned to the television set that was in the corner between the banks of windows, dialed the knob through the channels, back and forth, stood looking at the screen a moment, then came back to her end of the couch and sat down on her leg, her gaze holding on Bob Eubanks talking to a panel of newlywed wives, asking them what film star will their husbands say you would most like to make whoopee with.

  Who would you? Raymond said.

  Robert Redford, Sandy answered, watching the television screen. An oriental-looking newlywed wife also said Robert Redford. The other three said John Travolta.

  One time, Sandy said, with a little more life in her now, Bob Eubanks asked them what was the most unusual place they ever made whoopee? And this girl goes it's bleeped out, but you can read her lips. She goes, 'yIn the ass.' And Bob Eubanks goes, 'yNo! I mean a place like a location.' I thought he was gonna die.

  You ever married? Raymond asked.

  Yeah, once. This shithead from Bedford. His big ambition was to move to Indianapolis.

  I guess you've seen some sights.

  Not a whole lot worth remembering.

  How old are you?

  I'm twenty-three. Giving the number an edge of panic in her tone.

  I don't mean to sound square, Raymond said, but you might consider a different way of life.

  Sandy was still gazing at the television screen. Look at that amazed all four of the husbands said John Travolta. Jesus. You know how many John Travoltas there are around? If I had my choice, who I'd pick, you know who it'd be?

  You said Robert Redford.

  No, he's the one I'd like to make whoopee with. No, I mean the one, like somebody I wouldn't mind being married to.

  Who's that?

  Don't laugh, but Gregory Peck.

  Is that right?

  I mean a young Gregory Peck.

  Yeah, I've always liked him.

  He's so . . . calm. You want to know something? When you first came here, the first time, you reminded me of him. A younger Gregory Peck that's what I thought of.

  Raymond smiled. Were you smoking?

  No. I didn't have nothing but seeds and stems. I told you that, didn't I? Didn't we discuss that one time?

  You've been smoking today though.

  Some, but I don't feel it. God, I wish I did.

  I know what you mean, Raymond said. Mr. Sweety told us about the gun.

  Sandy sighed and seemed tired again. Here we go.

  A Walther P.38 HP model, made in Germany about 1940, Raymond said. It's probably been to war, killed some people. But the only ones we know for sure it's killed are Alvin Guy and Adele Simpson. Mr. Sweety says you're the one gave it to him.

  He said that?

  It's true, isn't it?

  I don't know I thought Gregory Peck was cool, Sandy said, but I think you could give him some lessons. I've been seeing it coming and, I'll tell you the truth, I don't know what to do. If you think I'm gonna testify against Clement I mean even if he was paralyzed from the neck down and had to be fed with a spoon even if you swear you're gonna put him away forever, like the last time, make me all these promises if I'll say he had the gun, whatever it was that time, and I wouldn't do it and thank God, Christ, I didn't, cause he walked out of the courtroom, didn't he?

  He isn't gonna walk this time, Raymond said, not even convincing himself.

  Sandy said, Bull shit, you don't know. Practically everybody he knows made him in that house where was it, on St. Marys with that fucking gun and he walked. The only way in the world I'll tell you right now I'd ever testify against Clement is if he's dead and buried with a stake through his heart and even then I'd be nervous. Sandy got up. You can send me to jail you want, but I swear I'm not saying one fucking word. She went over to the front windows again and stood motionless, looking out.

  Bob Eubanks was saying, Now, gentlemen, listen carefully. Who will your wife say, of all your friends, is the most oversexed? First names only, please.

  Raymond got up. He walked over to the set thinking, Jerry. Turned it off and stood next to Sandy looking down at the city . . . cars coming off the Chrysler Freeway and turning onto Jefferson, the Renaissance Center, people in there coming out of work, conventions, meeting for drinks . . .

  Have you seen him today?

  No.

  You talk to him?

  No.

  Why do you stay with him?

  He didn't think she was going to answer; but she said, after a moment, I don't know. Listless again. He's fun . . .

  He kills people.

  I don't know that. She started to turn from the windows and Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, lightly, feeling small bones.

  You wish he'd disappear, leave you alone, Raymond said. You won't make the move because you're afraid to. He scares you to death. So you pretend he's a normal person, maybe just a little wild, and say he's fun. Was he fun when he put Skender's leg up and took the pipe? . . .

  I'm not saying one fucking word to you! She tried to turn and pull free, but Raymond put both hands on her shoulders now and held her facing the pane of glass, the view.

  All I want you to do is listen, Raymond said. Okay? Relaxing his grip, his hands moving gently over her shoulders before coming to rest. I wondered, why didn't he kill Skender? He killed the judge, he killed the woman with the judge. You see, I don't think Clement planned it or anybody paid him to do it. He kills in the line of business, or when he feels like it. I think he came out of the racetrack looking for you and Skender I know you were setting the poor guy up and I think the judge got in Clement's way, that's all, and one thing led to another and . . . what does Clement do when he gets mad at somebody? Well, he might shoot you. Or, if he halfway likes you or feels sorry for you, he might only break your leg, let you off with a warning. You see what I mean?

  You answer your own question, Sandy said.

  What question's that?

  Will I testify against him. You admit he kills people he gets mad at. Or breaks their leg. What do you think he'd do to me?

  I'm not asking you to testify. Have I said anything about testifying? Raymond paused. Are you thinking about something else?

  Are you kidding something else?

  I think you're missing the point here, Raymond said. What happens, say in the next day or so, before we pick him up, Clement finds out Sweety has the gun?

  Oh, Jesus

  He'd want to know how he got it, wouldn't he?

  Sandy came around and was looking up at him with a terrible fear in her eyes that seemed almost a yearning. Why? I mean he doesn't have to know that, does he?

  Raymond's hands moved gently on her shoulders. What were you supposed to do with the gun, get rid of it?

  Throw it in the river.

  There it was. Not something he could use; still, it was nice to hear, verifying what he had put together in small pieces.

  So why'd you take it to Sweety?

  Because I was going there. She was a little girl again, pouting, resentment in her tone. I'm not gonna walk out on the Belle Isle Bridge. What am I suppose to be doing if somebody sees me? Standing there on the bridge . . .

  I know, it sounds easy, Raymond said, but it isn't. What'd you tell Sweety to do with it?

  Anything he wanted. Just get rid of it.

  And he looked at it the same way you did. So he hid it down the basement. But weren't you afraid he might call Clement?

  Why would he? Her tone changed as she said, Listen, I'm not making a statement if you think you're being clever.

  I told you, I'm not asking you to snitch, Raymond said. But how come you didn't tell Clement you took the gun over there?

  God, I don't know. Weary again. He gets so picky and irritated sometimes . . . She turned to the window and Raymond kept quiet, letting her stare at her reflection against the fading light. Almost at once the T-shirt image on the window changed to white and she was looking up at him again. Wait a minute if you know where the gun is then you already picked it up, h
uh? You're not gonna leave it there.

  Sandy, Raymond said, what difference does it make where the gun is? What's that got to do with you?

  He'll find out

  Wait. Let me suggest something, Raymond said, before he finds out anything, tell him you took the gun over there. That's all. You're off the hook.

  But I didn't do anything to get him in trouble I didn't. Will you just, God, explain it to him? In desperate need of help, but not listening.

  Sandy, look, all you have to do is tell him the truth. You gave the gun to Mr. Sweety. Tell him, because you were afraid. Isn't that right? I don't think Clement was very smart to give it to you in the first place, but that's not your fault. At the time, I can understand him being a little nervous. What is this? He's hardly out of bed, reading about the judge in the paper and we're banging on the door. The gun's down in the Buick or somewhere he just wants to get rid of it, quick. Raymond paused. Sandy? Look at me. You listening?

  Yes . . .

  Do you see any reason to tell him anything else? Maybe get him excited, as you say, picky and irritated? No, just say, 'yHoney, I think I ought to tell you something. I was afraid to throw the gun in the river, so I gave it to your friend Mr. Sweety.' You can say, you know, looking at him very innocently, 'yWas that all right, honey?' And he'll say sure, fine. See, keep it simple. But you're gonna have to do it pretty quick. Next time you see him, or if he calls.

  God, I don't know, Sandy said, I got a feeling I'm in awful deep trouble.

  Well, you go with a guy like Clement you're gonna have some close ones, Raymond said. What I'd do, if you want my advice, I'd tell him and then split. Go find you a young Gregory Peck somewhere. Twenty-three, Sandy, you're not getting any younger.

  Thanks a lot, Sandy said.

  On the other hand you stick with Clement, you have a good chance of not getting any older, Raymond said. So there you are.

  Chapter 25

  RAYMOND SAID, What're we having, a telethon or something?

  Hunter was on the phone. He raised his eyes and one hand, motioning to Raymond, but didn't catch him in time. Raymond was moving from the squadroom door to the coffeemaker.