Unknown Man #89

  "But you didn't go in, huh, and visit?"

  "No." Ryan shook his head. "I was wondering," he said then, "when you see her you don't have to mention my name, do you?"

  "Why?"

  "I mean, if she asks how you found out where she lives. Since she isn't in the book or anything."

  "I ask you why," Mr. Perez said, "but you won't tell me."

  "I just wondered, that's all. In case I ever see her again."

  "I don't see any reason to bring you into it," Mr. Perez said. "Your part's done. 'Less she gets drunk and runs away again."

  "I don't think you have to worry about that," Ryan said. "Once she finds out her husband's dead, I think she's gonna be more relieved than anything else."

  "Feel you know her pretty well, huh?" Mr. Perez gave Ryan a little smile to show he understood. "How many cups of coffee you have with her?"

  "A couple," Ryan said. He was being honest and literal and gave Mr. Perez a nice boyish grin in return.

  "You interested in her?"

  "Well, I got to admit she's a good-looking girl," Ryan said. "Is that what you mean?"

  "Another week or so, when she gets her money," Mr. Perez said, "she's gonna be even better-looking, isn't she?"

  "Well, I don't know about that," Ryan said.

  Raymond was grinning now. "Wants to fuck him a rich lady for a change. Shit, I don't blame him."

  "They're no worse or no better," Mr. Perez said, and looked at Ryan again. "I don't blame you, either. It's none of my business what you got in mind for Miz Leary, once we're done. As long as it's her you intend to fuck and not me."

  "I hope I'm not offending you," said boyish Jack Ryan, "but I think if I had a choice ..."

  Mr. Perez smiled and Raymond Gidre laughed out loud and Ryan said he'd keep in touch and left. In the silence, then, Mr. Perez sipped his drink.

  He said to Raymond, "You feel it?"

  "Feel what?"

  "That boy's gonna try and run with it," Mr. Perez said. "I don't think he knows it yet, but he's gonna try."

  Mr. Perez visited Denise Leary on Tuesday, after she got home from work. He spent forty minutes with her while Raymond Gidre waited outside in the rented car. Raymond watched people coming and going in and out of the apartment complex and studied some of them very closely, but he did not see any niggers.

  At seven-thirty Ryan called Mr. Perez at the hotel.

  Mr. Perez told him it went about the way he'd expected. He'd left the agreement with her and would call in a day or two. There was nothing to do now but wait. Rvan tried to ask questions. How did she react? What'd she say? But Mr. Perez told him to save it, he was going out for his supper.

  Ryan had decided not to bother Denise this evening, so he didn't call her until the next morning at eight. He'd ask her if he could pick her up after work, get something to eat and go to a meeting.

  There was no answer.

  At noon he drove out to the A&P in Rochester and found out Denise wasn't working today. She'd called in sick.

  He called her several more times that afternoon and evening. On what he had decided was his last try, at ten o'clock, Denise answered the phone.

  "Where've you been? I've been trying to get hold of you all day."

  "Why?" She sounded all right. Calm.

  He had to settle down. For all he was supposed to know, she could have been anywhere. "I was worried about you."

  "Were you, really?"

  "I stopped by the grocery store, they said you were home sick. I kept calling and there was no answer."

  "That was nice of you," Denise said. "Can you come over?"

  "Now?"

  "Yeah, if you can. I've got an awful lot to tell you."

  Chapter 17

  The whales were down from the wall, the sketches of the grays and humpbacks off California. In their place, in flowing black sumi, were the words No More . . .

  "Then what?" Ryan said.

  He was in one of the director's chairs. Denise came out of the kitchen with two glasses of red pop and found room for them on the low table with all the paint tubes and ceramic pots.

  "I identified the body," she said. "Driving down, I was pretty nervous, I didn't know what it would be like. But the way they do it-they showed just his face on a television screen-it wasn't bad at all." She picked up the pottery ashtray heaped with cigarette butts and went back to the kitchen with it.

  "The police were there?"

  "A detective, we went to his office. No, first I called a mortuary and took care of that, then I went to the police station."

  "Do you have money? I mean for the burial?"

  "He's going to be cremated," Denise said. She came back in with the ashtray, her eyes moving briefly to the wall. "I'm still working on my new motto."

  "I see that. How were the police?"

  "Polite, official," Denise said, sitting down in the other chair. "They asked questions-when I'd seen him last, that kind of thing. I can't believe it. I mean, the way I found out, a man I don't know. I didn't read a thing about it, I guess I didn't see the papers at all for about a week. Mr. Perez had a picture of me he'd cut out, an old one from when I was at State they must've got from my mother. I don't know where else."

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Fine." She was lighting a cigarette. "You mean nervous? I just can't believe he's dead. It's over and I don't have to do anything about it. I must live right, huh?"

  "What did this Mr. Perez say?"

  "He said something about a property or assets I'm entitled to, if I'll sign an agreement. But Bobby didn't own property, anything of real value."

  "Maybe," Ryan said, "it isn't property the way you think of property, real estate. You said assets. It could be stock, something like that."

  "He didn't own stock. I doubt if he even knew what it was."

  "Somebody could've left it to him." Ryan was edging in. "His dad or somebody?"

  Denise was staring at him, making up her mind about something.

  "We're not talking about a normal, ordinary person," she said. "As far as I know, he didn't have a dad, or a mother. He was a street hustler, he was an addict, an armed robber. He was ... he killed people."

  "You knew that?" Ryan asked.

  "I don't know, I suppose. I didn't want to know and I didn't ask about much. I drank. He was arrested, he was always being arrested, and if he was convicted they'd send him to a state hospital. He had a history of mental illness. He'd come out, I wouldn't see much of him. I guess he lost interest. Usually I'd hear he was living with somebody."

  Ryan shook his head. He didn't know what to say. Denise was still looking at him.

  "Did you read anything about him in the paper, that you remember? Bobby Leary?"

  Ryan hesitated. "I don't know, I may have."

  "The best way to describe him," Denise said, "picture a black heroin addict who killed people. But the reason we didn't hit it off, he was shorter than I am."

  Ryan smiled. "Come a long way from Bad Axe, haven't you?"

  "Almost full circle," Denise said. "But I'm sure as hell not going back."

  "I heard a minister one time at a meeting," Ryan said. "He'd lost his congregation, they found out he was drinking and kicked him out, after about twenty years. He said if it hadn't happened he could have gone another twenty years being a minister, preaching, giving the sermons, and never look at himself and find out who he really is."

  Denise said, "Is that me?"

  "It's where you are," Ryan said. "You're not Mom's little girl anymore, or a drunk, or married to an addict who kills people. You're you, without a label."

  "None of the other shows?"

  "I don't see anything," Ryan said. "You could've been a nun before. What difference does it make?" He took a sip of red pop and let her think about it.

  "Sometime, if you want," Denise said, "I'll tell you about him."

  "Who?"

  "Bobby."

  "Sometime tell me about you," Ryan said. "If you want to. Right now,
aren't you curious about this property, or whatever it is? What else did the guy say?"

  "That's all. I'm entitled to something and he'll tell me what it is if I'll sign the agreement. It's in the kitchen. You want to see it?"

  "That's all right. What does he take, a percentage?"

  "He gets half."

  "Half? For giving you something you own?"

  "Well, he said I wouldn't know about it if it weren't for him and he went to a lot of trouble, but he said there wouldn't be any other charges or expenses taken out."

  "He's generous with your money, isn't he? Did he say what the value of this asset is?"

  "He said a considerable amount."

  "Aren't you curious?"

  "I think it's a come-on. I asked him if he was trying to sell me something."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He said no. What else would he say?" She drew on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke quickly, to say something. "I don't know what to do with Bobby's ashes. I have to decide."

  "Where are they?"

  "At the funeral home. They said I can have them buried in a cemetery plot or take them home-I can see that, Bobby sitting on the mantel in a Grecian urn. Or I can have the ashes scattered. That's another thought--rent a plane and have his ashes scattered over Jackson prison."

  "I'd say you're taking your bereavement pretty well," Ryan said.

  Denise looked at him calmly. "I'm glad he's dead. I could jump up and do a dance, but I can't get it into my head that it's true. I've never been this lucky before."

  "And Mr. Perez comes along-things're looking up, uh? What're you going to do about that?"

  "I told him I'd think it over."

  "Did he seem anxious, try and get you to sign right away?"

  "No, he was polite, courteous," Denise said. "Whatever it is, I guess to him it's still just a job."

  "Besides the food and the lovely view of Canada over there in the rain," Mr. Perez said, "I'll tell you what else I don't like. I don't like sitting around waiting for a drunk woman who works in a grocery store to make up her mind."

  Ryan didn't like sitting here listening to him.

  If she hadn't signed the agreement yet and the deal was still up in the air, what good was he doing here? He could sit on the couch or go look out the window with Mr. Perez or watch Raymond hunched over the room-service table sucking his frog legs. They were always bitching about food, but one or the other always seemed to be eating or about to eat or had just finished.

  "Three times I've called her," Mr. Perez said to the window. "Shit, twelve, fifteen times I've called, three times I've talked to her, and she hasn't decided yet what she's going to do. I asked her, 'Are you talking to your lawyer? That's fine, I'd do the same.' She says no, she's been busy, hasn't had time to think about it. Busy doing what?"

  It wasn't a question. Mr. Perez wasn't looking at either of them. Ryan answered it anyway. He said, "Maybe staying sober."

  Mr. Perez turned from the window now and seemed to study Ryan.

  "If she's having a hard time, concentrating on it," Ryan said. "Maybe that's what she means."

  "Staying sober," Mr. Perez said.

  "It could be more important to her than money," Ryan said.

  Mr. Perez waited. "You tell me you haven't seen or spoken to her?"

  Ryan shook his head. "No, sir." Mr. Perez could believe him or not. Screw Mr. Perez.

  "I recall you said you told her you're a process server. Is that right?"

  "When I got her address, yeah."

  "She wouldn't be surprised, then, if you walked up and served her some papers."

  "For what? You going to bring suit now?"

  "No, I'm thinking I'm going to pull it out from under her," Mr. Perez said. "Three times I tried to talk to her, offering to give her half. All right, three times and she's out."

  "She doesn't know what it's half of," Ryan said.

  "So she won't be disappointed. I think it's time to get this thing done."

  Ryan was paying close attention now. "Are you talking about screwing her out of everything?"

  "She won't feel it," Mr. Perez said, "if we handle it properly. I was thinking, if you were to serve her a paper that looks like a writ or a summons of some kind, and she signs it-"

  "The one getting served doesn't sign anything," Ryan said.

  Mr. Perez was patient. "Does she know that? You come to her, you represent the court. You tell her to sign some papers that have to do with her husband, a certification of his death. Use some legal-sounding bullshit. One of the papers she signs-she sees just the bottom part-gives us her power of attorney to get the stock from the company and sell it." Mr. Perez nodded, thinking about it. "It's crude, I'll admit, but I don't see why we have to finesse it any. Raymond, what do you think?"

  Gidre sucked the bone as he pulled the frog leg out of his mouth. "Sounds good to me."

  Ryan said, "And she gets nothing. You never meant to give her any of it, did you?"

  "No, the agreement I gave her specifies half-"

  "What, she gets nothing because she won't sign right away?"

  "Why don't you shut up for a little bit and let me talk," Mr. Perez said. "I'm not punishing her. I can't hurt her if she doesn't know she's being hurt, can I?"

  Ryan didn't say anything. He was on edge now and didn't want it to show. He watched Mr. Perez come over and stand behind the deep chair, resting his hands on the high back.

  "What occurs to me," Mr. Perez said, "is that we have a unique situation. A great deal of money, much more than usually's at stake, and a beneficiary who either doesn't believe me or doesn't give a shit about the asset she's entitled to. All right, we reach a point, if she doesn't want it-and I offered it to her, didn't I?-then we'll take it. We're not stealing from anybody, we're picking something up that's been discarded. That's if you need a rationale."

  "Pick it up?" Ryan said. "You got to fake her out to get her signature."

  "I'm not finished," Mr. Perez said. "If that's hard for you to chew on, then how about this?" He rested on his arms, leaning over the back of the chair and looking directly at Ryan. "Since we double the profit, we double your fee from ten percent to twenty. That's somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars for playing like you're serving some papers. Does it sound better now?"

  Ryan didn't say anything.

  Mr. Perez waited, giving him a little time. Finally he said, "What is it you're thinking about, whether or not you want to do it? I'll tell you something, I'm not holding my breath. I can call your friend Jay Walt and he'll get the papers signed, won't he? What would he charge, about fifty bucks? You've put a lot of time in this, you've worked hard, and my feeling is you're entitled to a share. But as I watch you sitting there I begin to think, Wait a minute, what am I being so nice for? You work for me, but generally what I get are arguments and that's a bunch of shit when I'm paying you for what I want done. Isn't it? So what I'd like to hear you give me, without a speech or any more questions, is a simple yes or no."

  "All right," Ryan said.

  He took the elevator down to the lobby.

  It was his own game he was playing, so he could make up the rules. All right, according to the game, wasn't yes or no, it was neutral, no more significant than a grunt, and meant nothing. It got him out of there and gave him a little more time. He could say to himself, in game-honesty, I haven't agreed. All I said was all right.

  He could go in the Salamander Bar and think about it. The doorway was across the lobby. It would be a quiet place to relax and think-a clean, dimly lighted place. A hotel cocktail lounge in the afternoon.

  It was almost two. Denise was off at four-thirty.

  Get her to sign the agreement and take it to Mr. Perez. There, she signed it. Let's go ahead the way you originally planned, okay? Get it done. You can keep my ten percent. Really, I'd just as soon not have it or talk about it.

  So he could say to himself, See? I didn't take anything. So I didn't take advantage of her, did I? Good
boy. The game no one else knew about, going on in his head.

  He took the escalator to the ground floor and walked outside and thought about Mr. Perez looking out the window bitching about the cold, wet April weather and traces of dirty snow. He began thinking about Florida. He hadn't had a vacation, a real one, in three years. Play the game on the beach, lying in the sun. Tell himself it had got too complicated. Christ, he didn't have to get involved in something like this. Take off. Never see any of them again.

  It was just too goddamn involved. There was no way to do it without screwing somebody. There was no way to stay in the thing with even a questionable conscience, one you could talk to and bullshit a little.

  He could tell the police Mr. Perez was extorting money. Whatever he was doing, whatever it was called, was illegal. Except he'd still be involved. He was a part of it. He could be facing Perez and Raymond Gidre in court, or, shit, he could be sitting with them.

  Just take off.

  Tell Denise first, everything, then take off.

  No, that would be leaving her with it, getting her all f ucked-up and running out.

  So just leave.

  You have an organized mind, he told himself. But you think too much. Look. Go to Florida and lie in the sun and drink a little beer, that's all, just beer, and find some secretaries on their vacation and smile a lot and get laid every night and forget it.

  Or, go along with Mr. Perez. Take the thirty thousand and don't think about it and go to Florida, shit, go to some place in the Caribbean and do it right.

  Who was it had taught him to look at options? Somebody at a meeting had said pre-think your options. Then when something happens you're ready, you don't panic and fuck up.

  He got his car from the parking lot and drove north on the Lodge Freeway.

  Do it and take the money.

  Don't do it. Forget the whole thing.

  Go to the police. Call Dick.

  Tell Denise everything and leave.

  Or--

  Christ. He saw it coming. He had seen it in his mind before, glimpses of it, but not as clearly as he saw it now.

  tell Denise everything and don't leave. Turn the whole fucking thing around. Ace Mr. Perez.