Raymond said nothing. He reached up with his right hand, felt the switch mounted on the wall and flicked it on.
As the wall began to close Clement said, Hey He didn't move right away, he said, My lawyer's standing right there, shithead. They saw him rise out of the chair now, saying, Hey, come on, goddamn-it They could see his fingers in the opening before he pulled them in. They could see a line of light inside and hear him scream, Goddamn-it, open this goddamn And that was all.
Raymond reached up again. The humming motor sound stopped. There was a silence. Carolyn turned, started for the stairs, and Raymond looked over.
Carolyn?
She didn't pause or look back. I'll be in the car.
He watched her go up the stairs no objections from her, no emotion and again there was silence. Hunter approached the cinderblock wall almost cautiously and ran his hand over it. He looked at Raymond and said, straightfaced, Where'd he go?
Toma said to Raymond, You see why I didn't kill him. This way satisfies both of us. For me, it's like Skender doing it to him, which is much better. For you, it seems the only way you're going to get this man who kills people.
Hunter said, You sure he can't open it?
He broke the switch himself when he was here before, Toma said.
Raymond listened as they spoke in low tones, almost reverently, Toma saying, He prepared his own tomb. There's water, a little food for his last meals, a toilet. He could last I don't know fifty, sixty days maybe. But eventually he dies. Hunter saying now, We had the place covered, but somehow he slipped out. I don't see any problem, do you? Man disappeared. Toma saying, It's also soundproof. Then Hunter wondering if after a while there might be an odor and Toma saying, One of the tenants complains we open the wall and say, 'yOh, so that's where he was hiding. Oh, that's too bad.'
It's done, Raymond thought. Walk away.
Chapter 30
THEY HAD SEVERAL DRINKS at the Athens Bar, quiet drinks, Raymond and Hunter alone at a table, with little to talk about until Hunter leaned in to tell what worried him. Like Carolyn Wilder. Would she blow it or not? Raymond said he didn't think so. She had walked out (her car was gone when they left the apartment building) and it was like saying to them, do what you want. Without saying it. He believed she could handle it. Carolyn had learned to be realistic about Clement: she could send him away for assault and robbery, but knew he would come back if she did.
Hunter said, You want to know exactly what it's like? It's like the first time I ever went to a whorehouse. I was sixteen years old, these guys took me to a place corner of Seward and Second. After, you're all clutched up, you don't know whether to feel proud of yourself or guilty. You know what I mean? And after a while you don't think of it either way; it's something you did. Hunter went home to bed.
Raymond walked back to 1300 Beaubien. The snack counter in the lobby was closed and he looked at his watch: 5:40. The squadroom was locked, empty. He went in and sat at his desk beneath the window. It was dismal outside, a gray cast to the sky; somber, semidark inside, but he didn't bother to turn on lights.
He had felt relief as the wall closed and Mansell disappeared; but the relief was an absence of pressure, not something in itself. He tried to analyze what he was feeling now. He didn't feel good, he didn't feel bad. He called Carolyn. She said, Are you worried I'm going to tell on you? He said, No. She said, Then why talk about it. I'm awfully tired. Why don't you call me tomorrow, maybe go out to dinner, get a little high? How does that sound?
A little after six Raymond looked up at the sound of the door opening. He saw the figure in the doorway backlighted from the hall.
Sandy said, Anybody home? . . . What're you doing sitting in the dark? She came in, letting the door swing closed. God, am I whacked out. She dropped her shoulderbag on Hunter's desk, sunk into his swivel chair and put her boots up on the corner of the desk.
Raymond could see her in faint light from the window. He didn't move because he felt no reason to. He had not been thinking of Sandy Stanton. He had obvious questions but did not feel like asking them. He did not feel like getting himself into the role, being the policeman right now.
I pulled in the garage downstairs, a guy goes, hey, you can't park here. I told him it's okay, it's a stolen car, I'm returning it. The guy at the desk downstairs what is that place?
First Precinct, Raymond said.
He goes, hey, where you going? I tell him I'm going up to five. He goes, you can't go up there. I'm thinking, try and get out of here, shit, you can't even get in . . . I thought you'd be looking for me. I sat in the apartment not knowing what's going on, finally the phone rang. It was Del. He isn't coming home, he's going to Acapulco. You ready for this? And he wants me to fly out to L. A . and go with him . . . and bring his pink and green flowered sportcoat that asshole gave to the doorman. How am I gonna get it back?
Raymond said, Is that what you came to ask me?
No, I wanted to know if it's okay to go or if you're gonna arrest me or what. I'm so fucking whacked I want to go somewhere, I'm telling you, and sleep for about a week. She made fists, holding them out, and said, My nerves are like that.
You left Skender's car?
Yeah, I told the guy it really wasn't stolen it was sort of stolen and that you know all about it.
What about the gun?
Sandy dug into her bag. She brought out the Walther and laid it on Hunter's desk.
She said, Do we have to get into it again? I haven't seen shitbird at all, he hasn't called, thank God, I don't know where he is, if he's in jail or what and I don't want to know. I'm twenty-three and I got to get my ass in gear and I think going to Acapulco could be very good for me. What do you think?
I think you ought to go, Raymond said.
Really?
Raymond didn't say any more. Sandy got up with her bag. I'll just leave the gun here. Raymond nodded. She said, Listen, I'm not mad at you, I think you've been a pretty neat guy, considering. I know you have a job to do and, you know so maybe I'll see you again sometime . . .
Raymond raised his hand to her. As the door swung in, closing off the light from the hall, he brought his hand down and got up. He went over to Hunter's desk and picked up the Walther, hefting it, feeling its weight. He shifted the gun to his left hand and brought out his Colt 9-mm from the shoulder holster, feeling both of the guns now, judging the Colt to be a good half-pound heavier. Two-gun Cruz. In a dark room all by himself. Two-gun Cruz, shit. Sneaky Cruz . . . Dead-ass Cruz . . . Or how do you like Chicken-fat Cruz, chicken fat?
After a couple of hours Clement put Donna Summer's Love To Love You, Baby on the record player to hear the sound of a human voice. He inventoried the canned goods, found all kinds of mashed chick peas and pressed meat and not one goddamn thing he liked to eat. There was nothing to drink except water and two cans of Tab and he expected they'd be turning the water off when they thought of it if the plan was to leave him here. He had thought the wall would open again within a minute or so after it closed. All right, five minutes. Well, give 'em ten. Okay, play the game with 'em, maybe a half hour, which was supposed to give him a good scare. No what they'd do, he realized after an hour or so, sure, they'd open it up and ask him if he wanted to confess, telling him if he didn't they'd close it up again and take out the motor. The dumb fucks. He'd look scared and say, yes, Jesus, just get me out of here, I'll confess to anything you want. Then come up for the exam and tell 'em to get fucked, the confession was signed under duress and he was not only walking, he was filing suit against the police department. A hundred thousand dollars for fucking up his nervous system. Look how he was shaking . . .
He had been glancing at his gold watch since the wall closed on him at a little after three and he had never seen time go so slow. He'd sit down, he'd get up and pace around a little to the music, then began picturing disco dancers and moved to the beat some more, seeing if he could do it shit, it was easy he could feel it and wished there was a mirror so he could see himself doing it shit
, dancing all by himself to the nigger girl singing in a secret basement room. Nobody in the world would believe it.
He looked at his gold watch at 6:50, 7:15, 7:35, 8:02, 8:20, 9:05 after some dancing, 9:32 turn-ing off the record player for a rest and at 9:42. It was right after that he heard the sound, the wall moving.
Clement got in the canvas chair facing the opening as it widened, seeing the clean basement a little at a time, the light reflecting off the cement floor it was so clean.
If it was the Albanian, he was dead.
It could be Carolyn, her heart bleeding for him. But she'd be too scared unless it was somebody she sent. No, it would have to be the cops, come back to make their threatening offer. Clement told himself to get ready to look scared.
He waited. The humming sound of the motor continued. No one appeared. Clement got up out of the chair and approached the opening, inched his head out, looking over at the furnace. Nobody there. Nobody jumped on him when he walked out. He went over to the switch, reached up and flicked it off.
Who?
See it ran through Clement's mind if it was a friend, the friend would be standing here. And if he wanted to run through his current list of friends, that could only be one person. So it wasn't Sandy. Unless she wanted to help him, but not be associated with him anymore ran like hell. Or it was somebody like the Albanians who wanted to take him outside, which didn't make sense. Or it was somebody with a guilty conscience, which could make sense even though it was hard to imagine.
Clement went up the stairs to the first-floor hall and followed it to the front entrance. He might as well keep going. Anyone meaning to get him would have considered his slipping out the back, so there was no point in getting tricky. Go on out. And he did, walked out to the street, and what did he see sitting there but Skender's black Cadillac.
Now, was it a coincidence, the car was picked up and returned? Or had Sandy left it here this afternoon and took off on foot? Or was somebody tempting him again? Or wait now was the gun in there and they'd stop him, arrest him with it?
No. He could be stopped for stealing a car number two hundred and sixty something but if there was a gun in it somewhere it would belong to the owner, not him. No prints anyway. Clement opened the driver-side door and felt under the seat. No gun. Just the keys. Did he want to think about this a while or did he want to haul ass?
Clement took the Cadillac south to downtown, got off at the Lafayette exit, just past the giant red Strohs Beer sign giving warmth to the night sky, and ten minutes later was in the elevator going up to 2504. He hoped Sandy was home and would be able to explain some of these weird things going on.
Chapter 31
CLEMENT STILL HAD A KEY to the apartment that Sandy had given him. He went in and saw lights glittering outside the windows but not one was on in the apartment. He listened a moment and called out, Hon?
It was about 10:30; she could be asleep, she had probably smoked enough reefers to send her off early. Clement turned on the light in the hallway as he walked into the bedroom. Hon bun?
Nope. The bed wasn't made. That was par but there weren't any of her clothes lying around. Clement turned the bedroom light on and went over to the closet. It looked like only Del Weems' stuff hanging inside. He went to the dresser, was about to bend down to open one of the drawers she used, but never got there.
He saw the Walther P.38 lying on the dresser about ten inches from his eyes.
She still hadn't dumped the goddamn thing. He could hear himself saying, with pain in his voice, Hon, I don't believe it. Twice now. Are you intentionally trying to fuck me or what? He had a mind to throw the goddamn thing out the window, man, just to be rid of it. Like the goddamn thing had stickum on it. He picked up the gun.
It felt good though. Fired straight and true. He checked the clip, pushed the spring down, saw it was loaded but lacking about two rounds, and punched it back into the grip with the palm of his hand.
He walked into the living room trying to recall something. Fired five at the judge, three at the woman. He had reloaded when he got back to the garage, before he hid it. He seemed to recall he had fully reloaded it. Hadn't he? . . . He turned on the desk lamp. A note written on pale-green paper lay squarely in position before the chair. Clement sat down without touching it, spreading his elbows to get low, close to the note, and laid the Walther to one side.
Dear Clement:-
If you read this then you don't know yet I have left. I am not telling you where I'm going for I am leaving you for good as my nerves can't stand any more of your kind of life and I'm getting too old for it. One thing I guess I have to tell you I did not throw the gun away again and I'll tell you why. There was somebody every place I went. I would start to get out of the car and somebody would be there watching. I don't know why but it is not easy to throw away a gun. I have had enough so goodbye.
Yours, Sandy
P. S. I think you better run!!!
P. P. S. IT'S TOO LATE.
Clement frowned, staring at the note. Something here was weird. The second postscript was bigger and in a different handwriting. If she scribbled it quick, maybe but it wasn't like that. It was in big printed letters. Clement felt goosebumps crawl up his arms, over his shoulders and neck, up under his hair. He stared at the notepaper in the soft glow of the lamp, the rest of the living room dark, almost dark, wanting to look up, wanting to look out past the green-shaded glow of light. He had not heard a sound, but he could feel it. Someone else was in the room, watching him.
There was a button switch attached to a light cord that ran along the floor by the front windows. It was behind Clement's chair, so that he had to turn half around and reach over with the toe of his boot. He punched the button and a chrome lamp beamed on, its light rising through the branches of a ficus tree.
Raymond Cruz sat only a few feet away from the tree, in a chair by the side windows.
Jesus, Clement said, his hand gathering the note, squeezing it into a ball.
I've read it, Raymond said. In fact, I wrote part of it.
Clement was still half turned; the desk, with the Walther lying on it, to his left now. Was it you let me out? He saw Raymond nod. Go have some dinner and think better of it, did you?
Yeah, I gave it some thought, Raymond said. That wasn't the way to do it.
I hope to tell you, Clement said. I thought what you'd do, open it up and tell me to sign a statement else you'd shut me in there for good.
I don't want a statement, Raymond said.
Clement cocked his head, looking at him warily. Yeah? What's this party about then?
Raymond got up. As he came over to the desk Clement turned in his chair to get both Raymond and the Walther lined up in front of him. I got something here, Raymond said. His hand went into his coat. Now don't get excited. The hand came out again holding the Colt 9-mm automatic. Clement sat rigid. Raymond moved the lamp aside and laid the Colt on the desk.
Pick up yours and I'll pick up mine. How's that sound?
Clement was squinting but starting to smile a little. You serious?
Stand up.
What for?
You'll feel better. Come on.
Clement wasn't sure. He sensed he should be laying back, not moving too much yet. It was true though, he'd have more choices on his feet. He rose, moving the chair back away from him. They stood now directly across the desk from one another.
Put your hands on the edge of the desk, Raymond said, like this . . . Okay, now whenever you're ready, pick up your gun. Or, whenever I'm ready.
Clement said, You think I'm fucking crazy or something? I don't even know this piece's loaded.
You checked it in the bedroom, Raymond said, I heard you. You want to check it again, go ahead. You're short two rounds we fired in ballistics, that's all.
Clement stared, amazed. You took the gun from Sweety, tested it and put it back?
With the same live rounds, Raymond said. You don't trust me we'll trade. You use mine, I'll use yours, I don't c
are.
Clement's expression seemed bland, open, as though he might be listening or might be off somewhere in his mind.
Raymond said, This was your idea. Remember?
I don't think you're serious, Clement said. Right here? It's too close.
We can go outside, or up on the roof, Raymond said. You want to go outside?
Fuck no, I don't want to go outside. You got some scheme I don't know what, but you're pulling something, aren't you? Trying to spook me into signing a statement. Man, you're going way around to do it.
I don't want a statement, Raymond said. I told you that. You sign a confession, we come up in court you say it was under duress, coercion, some chickenshit thing. This is fair, isn't it? You said, why don't we have a shooting match. Okay, we're doing it.
Just grab for the guns, huh?
Wait a minute, Raymond said. No, I think the way we ought to do it pick up the gun and hold it at your side. Go ahead. I think that'll be better. Raymond brought the Colt toward him and held it pointing down, the barrel extending below the edge of the desk. Yeah, that's better. See, then when you bring it up you have to clear the desk and there's less chance of getting shot in the balls.
Come on, Clement said, cut the shit.
All right, then you reach for yours and I raise mine, Raymond said, it's up to you. He waited.
Clement's right hand edged over to the Walther, touched it, hesitated, then covered the grip and brought it toward him, off the table. He said, I don't believe this.
Okay, you ready? Raymond said. Any time you want, do it.
Wait just a minute, Clement said.
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