I didn’t need to open the shades to know it was morning. I reached onto the night table and lit a cigarette. Melanie immediately sat upright, as if she had been waiting for me to stir. “Are you cold?” I asked.
She shook her head and reached out her hand. I passed her the smoke and lit another. “Is something wrong?”
The pupils of her eyes dilated. She shook her head again. “No, nothing is wrong.”
I pulled her down and kissed her. She twisted away with a crooked smile. “We’re shadow people, Matt. We can’t be together in the day.”
Her harshness chilled me. Soul-stripping in daylight was something I, too, only did alone. But her voice recalled my middle of the night fears.
I rolled out of bed and ran right into body hurt. As I stretched my back into working order, I watched her dress. She didn’t bother with the gray hose.
“Would you like coffee, or something to eat?”
“Coffee would be fine,” she said. “Also another cigarette.”
I flipped the pack and lighter, then pulled on some clothes. Eventually we sat in the kitchen smoking quietly, waiting for the coffee. I looked at the clock, surprised to see it was still very early. Melanie followed my glance. “I work today,” she said, smiling in a distant way. “I want to keep to my schedule.”
The mention of schedule reminded me that Prezoil hadn’t suggested a meeting time. I began to rise, but unless I wanted to see him at his house and engage in another round of dope-dealer domesticity, I had plenty of time to be anywhere. Besides, the coffee wasn’t done.
Melanie watched me sit back down. “You look like you remembered something,” she said. “Yeah. My appointment.”
“The grand conclusion of your case?”
“Yeah,” I grinned. “Turns out the guy I want to talk to is a banker named Prezoil. But it’s too early for anything but the money machines to be awake.”
A small smile played at her lips. “I knew you weren’t finished with us.” “With us?”
She hesitated before answering in a calm voice. “I mean with Peter.”
“What does Lonny Prezoil have to do with Peter?” I asked. “Who the hell is he?”
She looked sharply into my face. “You don’t remember? Lonny was a fundraiser for Hope House when you lived in The End. Everyone called him ‘Pretzel.’? She paused, then added with contempt, “He was a real slick phony.”
I thumped my forehead with my palm. “I thought he looked familiar but I couldn’t place him.” I kept knocking at my head. “We’re all getting old. It’s hard to recognize people once they pack a life.”
Melanie sat quietly until the coffee perked. I played host and was back in my chair before I asked, “What did Lonny Prezoil have to do with Peter?”
Mel lit another cigarette, drank from her cup, then spoke deliberately. “There had been a party the night of Peter’s death. At Lonny’s place.” She looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I leaned forward to ask for more, but she shook me off. “No, Matt. I’m not going to talk about this.”
I nodded my okay, but she hadn’t finished. “When you and I are together I feel very close to Peter. I won’t have that disappear under a barrage of questions.”
“There’s no need to talk, Mel. By tonight I’ll be finished with all of it,” I reassured her. “I already am.”
I stood up and walked around to her side of the table. I leaned down, lifted her chin, and kissed her. She put her hands around the back of my head and pulled me tight. Her mouth felt alive, hungry.
I stepped back out of her grasp. “Shadow people or no, if we keep that up neither of us will get to work.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then got up. “Where’s my coat?” She sounded sad.
We finished our morning holding each other in the alley. Melanie buried her face in my neck. “I want you to remember last night. No further back than that.” She pulled away from me, her eyes now bright and hard. “I’m finished with ancient history.”
I nodded. “Be here now.” Babba Ram Mel. I watched as she drove away.
I went back to the bedroom, picked the joint off the night table, and lay down. I could smell Melanie’s body and last night’s passion as I lit the dope and closed my eyes. Maybe I could sleep. I thought of Boots, and knew that while I too might be finished with the past, the present was unfinished and obscure.
I woke cursing the pitch-black bedroom. I thought I’d slept through the entire day. The clock radio read 2 p.m., but I didn’t trust it and yanked the shades open. My city was locked in an ongoing audition for Blade Runner 2; the darkness just another gloomy day.
I worried about banker’s hours, searching my wallet for the Perm’s business card. I dialed the number and exhaled with relief when I heard his voice on the other end.
“Just checking,” I said, working to squeeze the sleep out of my words. “I don’t like vacant-signs.”
“Where have you been, Jacob? I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
It was clear he wasn’t accustomed to cooling his heels. “It’s nice to figure so prominently in your plans,” I said.
“You have a loose mouth when you’re on the telephone.”
I laughed. “No, I just like to make a pleasant first impression.” “It’s too late for that.”
“Well, stay where you are and I’ll try again.” I pushed the button down before he could refuse. While I dressed I debated bringing the gun. Despite an ugly scab, my left arm felt almost normal, but my right shoulder was beginning to chafe under the stiff leather of the holster.
I stalled the decision by walking into the bathroom. Brushed my teeth with cold water, staring into tired eyes. I spat the water into the sink and threw the toothbrush in after. It wasn’t difficult to understand my ambivalence. The finish line was in sight; I didn’t like approaching it. I had only recently been reminded that work put my life’s potholes in perspective, made them almost possible to dodge. I had been reminded how much I liked any mystery that wasn’t me.
“That was then, this is now.” The phrase had galloped through my head from the start of this frustrating, fruitless track. At the outset it had represented twenty years. Now it meant maybe two weeks. The long and short of it was unsettling and I whipped myself to leave. The one phrase I hated in The Racing Form was “hung.”
I strapped the holster on with a sharp, savage twist of my wrist. They didn’t let you wear a gun in the malls.
The fat security guard reminded me only five minutes remained in the day’s money grubbing. I reminded him that banks were eating dirt all over the region. He took it personal and patted me down. When I told him who I intended to see, he shrugged as if expecting it. After I showed him the wallet-sized PI photostat he led me to a room on the second floor. The Perm stood in the hall, Italian-elegant, hands on hips. My arrival had already been announced.
He profusely thanked the florid-faced fat man. I suppose a quick frisk and caddy to the second floor constituted “above and beyond.”
Prezoil urged me into his office and closed the door. “You don’t visit quietly, do you? That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.”
He took a seat in one oversized wing chair and motioned me to take the other. Sitting there, a table between us, made me feel like an actor in a surrealistic Dreyfus commercial. I gripped the arms of the chair and tried to look like a lion.
“Why did you bring a gun?” he asked. “The way you dress, you probably imagine that no one would notice one more wrinkle.”
I smiled. “Okay, I get it. If you weren’t a drug-dealing banker, you’d audition for the Borscht Belt. You want to tell me exactly what got me into trouble?”
“Relax, Mr. Jacob. I didn’t stay around late to avoid going home.”
“You had twenty-four hours to make it plausible, Prezoil. Give it your best shot.”
“My only shot.” He motioned toward a mahogany cabinet standing in front of a side wall. “Bourbon straight.” I watched as he stepped l
ightly to the wood, opened it, and deftly poured a couple of Turkeys. He was back in his seat, the drinks on the table, when I asked, “Is this supposed to help you tell the story, or help me to believe it?”
“Neither. From what I’ve learned about you, one drink isn’t going to help with anything.”
I lifted my glass and tilted it in his direction. “I’m not surprised you did your homework. But I’d like to know how.”
He raised his glass in return. “Don’t we all? They say information is everything.” He paused to show me his gleaming dental work. “Please don’t act the fool. I’m not going to tell you where I get information. But I am going to give you some. I wanted privacy and you were an interference.”
I drank half my glass. “Whatever Lonny wants, Lonny gets. There are lots of reasons for privacy, Lonny. Some violent.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What violence? A large sugar transaction was set to occur and there was no room for a wild card. I wanted you out of The End for a couple of days.” He put his glass down on the table. “The reason I’m talking to you is simple. You didn’t get hurt, were never meant to. But you know where I live, and I don’t want any lingering bad feelings. If you want money for your roll in the snow tell me how much?”
I took another sip and wished the bottle wasn’t across the room. “Who drove the truck?” He looked at me and shrugged. “Darryl Hart. He swore he didn’t touch you.”
“I don’t like the smell of burning rubber next to my face.” “That’s why I want to make amends.”
I let my voice grow harsh. “Darryl drove the truck, and now Darryl’s dead.”
He stared at me. “What’s that supposed to mean? Darryl was an ass. He fell into a freezing quarry. I told him plenty of times to keep his nose clean.”
“How do you know he fell?”
He smiled. “A little bird told me.” “You didn’t check yourself?”
“I don’t have to check myself.” He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and pity. “Let me tell you something. The police believe it was an accident, and I believe it was an accident. Therefore, it was an accident. How much attention is a minor-league grifter worth? You forget The End is a leper colony.”
“Nobody cares about a leper, is that it?”
He was growing annoyed. “What do you have besides a big mouth?” A bigger mouth. “Maybe your organization needed a change.”
“My organization?” He squinted into his drink. “Thanks for the promotion. Darryl did something really stupid, that’s all.” Prezoil made it sound like Darryl owed him an apology.
“Darryl was perfect for me,” he said. “He was an inch away from living with a community hero. Why would I want to ruin that fix?”
“Good old J.B.”
Prezoil stared at me. “That’s right. What are you trying to say?”
I scrambled but couldn’t find much ledge. “Maybe he was tired of doing what you told him? Maybe he wanted to work for himself?”
Prezoil rubbed his face with his hand. “You can zip your ‘maybes.’ Darryl had a monopoly. No other white boys sold sugar in The End. We saw to that.” His lips pulled down at the corners. “Darryl wasn’t ordinarily stupid. In my book that makes dope stupid.”
I wasn’t sure whether the exasperation was directed at Darryl’s character flaws, or mine. There were enough, I suppose, to go around. “How did you hear about me?”
“You’re not the strong silent type.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t figure you spend much time in ‘the leper colony.’ Who told you?” “Another little bird.”
I needed a minute to think. I stood, brought our glasses to the cabinet, and tried my hand. It was a heavy hand.
I returned to the corner, handed him his glass, and asked, “What did Emil tell you about me?” “You’re not as stupid as you act, Jacob. He said he heard you were nosing around The End asking a lot of questions.”
“He tell you the questions?” “No.”
He was lying. I sat back in the chair and sipped my drink. “It never dawned on you that Blackhead wanted Darryl’s patch?”
“Jesus, I haven’t heard him called that in twenty years. It still fits.” A disgusted look crossed his face. “Emil just wanted a raise, better rates.”
“You never wondered whether he did Darryl?”
He turned his disgust in my direction. “Emil hasn’t got enough testosterone to think up that kind of idea, let alone do anything about it.” He shook his head. “I told you, Darryl Hart’s death was an accident.”
“It would be easier to buy if you weren’t a liar. Hell, do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know what I was investigating?”
He started to deny it again, but I had a sudden inspiration. “Let me try it another way, Lonny. You had thrown the party on the night Peter Knight died. You knew I was poking around Peter’s death, and you wanted to get rid of me. Isn’t that why you had Darryl take a run at me?”
Prezoil looked mean while he thought about his answer. He eyed me with a grimace of resignation. “Okay, I had two reasons to chase you away. So it’ll cost me more than laundry.”
“Stop counting, I don’t want any of your money.” His eyebrows tried to hide in his curly hair.
“That’s right. No money. I just want to know why.”
He shrugged. “The way you dress I guessed you for new clothes.” He stared at me carefully. “On the other hand, I didn’t guess you’d find me. What do you want this for?”
I thought about my answer. “It’s what brought me back to The End. I don’t like leaving loose threads.”
Prezoil’s eyes were hard as they combed my face. “You understand my offer to make amends is generosity, nothing else? I don’t have to bother with you at all.”
Connected is connected. “I knew that before I walked through the door.” “We understand each other?”
I understood I wasn’t going to use anything against him. Ever. I nodded.
“I don’t like my name associated with drugs. Not now, not twenty years ago. There were drugs at that party.”
“What kind?”
He seemed surprised by the question then smiled as if remembering a pleasurable experience. “Acid. There was the other usual shit there—alcohol, grass—but it was an acid night.” He sipped from his glass. “I hadn’t thought about those days for a long time.”
“How did you get the drag to walk? You weren’t a big-shot back then.”
“It didn’t take influence, just money. What’s the matter with you? No cop ever lost sleep over a drowned punk from The End. Never did, never will. You trip over the police asking about Darryl? At best it scores a two-sentence paragraph in the newspaper. One mention. Then sayonara.”
“What happened that night?”
“I don’t see why you want any of this, but as long as we understand each other?” he repeated. “We do.”
“The same thing that usually happened. Half a dozen kids stoned, listening to head music. Sometime during the night Emil and Peter and Peter’s kid sister left. I think everyone else just stayed. It was a pleasure to watch all those hardheads turn to jello.”
I was suspicious of his memory. “You’re pretty good with details after twenty years.”
A moment of anger broke through his calm. “I don’t like the sound of ‘no.’ It’s something I don’t forget.” He saw my frown of incomprehension, and a flash of regret crossed his face. He hesitated, then said, “The Knight girl. I tried to make it with her but it didn’t fly. The only guy she ever hung with was her brother.” His voice reverberated with contempt.
I wondered why he was so vehement about something that far in the past. But before I could push, he asked, “You know why I’m telling you this?” He curled his fist and didn’t wait for an answer.
“I don’t want you asking around about business that has to do with me. Even old business. I can tell you myself, and trust you’ll be a good boy and forget what you know, or I can take you out of the picture.
“I owe you one. You showed me something I might not have noticed: I was getting sloppy. I’m not saying you weren’t good. Hell, I cased the parking lot. But you laying rubber on my driveway was a slap in the face.”
He looked at me with friendly eyes. “Let me give you some advice. Take your information and leave The End for another twenty. Don’t go back there to work. I owed you, and now you’re paid.”
He finished his drink and rose. “Time to leave, PI.”
I started toward the door, then thought of one last fish to fry. “If Emil is such a jerk, why do you use him?”
He gave me a dirty look. “We were through talking, remember?” “I’m on my way, aren’t I?”
He buried his fingers in his stiff gray curls. “Emil has contact with people who pay high prices for small amounts. I let him make a living selling funny cigarettes. You think he’d be better off on welfare?”
His voice regained its threatening freeze. “I go back a long way with The End and I got sentimental. Once you do serious time there you never really leave. You make war buddies.” His look made it clear I wasn’t one of the troop.
I had my hand on the door knob. “Tom Belchar another war buddy?” “Enough, Jacob. It’s time to quit while you’re ahead.”
I sat in my car in front of the bank, fuming, sorting things through. Prezoil wasn’t worried about someone poaching on Darryl’s territory—and Darryl’s territory was Prezoil’s. If I believed him, my idea that Blackhead might have killed Darryl was moot. And I did believe him.
I lit a cigarette and pushed aside old stubs in the ashtray to give it room. Prezoil’s memory of Peter’s death was a little too polished, though I couldn’t put my finger on the embellishments. Or any reason why he’d script them. Malls and all, it was time to head for the wire.
I finished my smoke, started the car, and pulled into the street. At the sound of an angry horn I jumped, glanced into my mirror, and saw a silver Legend all but run into my rear. I waved my appreciation and saw the driver’s graphic response. I thought about throwing my car into reverse to smack the front of his Japanese luxury, but the idea was just my frustration swimming to open air.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 50
