Unknown Man #89

  Ryan waited for him to finish. "You mentioned something about more of an incentive."

  "Yeah ... I was thinking maybe a percentage rather than an hourly rate or a per diem," Mr. Perez said. "That is, if you locate him and I'm able to make a deal. Say, oh ... ten percent?"

  "Ten percent of what, the stock?"

  "Yeah, the whole thing."

  "The stock's only worth a buck a share, isn't it?"

  "In 1941 it was," Mr. Perez said. "Its cash value now, I'd say, would be around a hundred and fifty thousand. We'd have to look into the accumulated dividends, so it could be several thousand more."

  Ryan saw the figure in his mind, fifteen grand, a clean round figure. But he wanted to be sure. "I get ten percent of a hundred and fifty thousand?"

  "If you find him and if I make a deal, get him to agree."

  "Ten percent of the hundred and fifty," Ryan said, still wanting to be sure. "Not ten percent of what you get."

  "Say fifteen thousand minimum," Mr. Perez said. "I'll draw up an agreement, give it to you in writing."

  "What do you think the chances are? I mean of you getting him to go along with it?"

  "Four to one. I sign eighty percent of the people I locate," Mr. Perez said. "Ah, but locating them, that's the bugger. It comes down to a question of how much time to allow in relation to the potential gain. I can afford to put a little more time in on this one. I can afford to hire you and sit here and discuss a proposition. Otherwise, Mr. Ryan, I doubt we'd have sufficient reason to be talking to each other about anything."

  Mr. Perez spoke and revealed little glimpses of himself, what the real Mr. Perez thought and felt. That was fine with Ryan. It was a business deal. They weren't going to the ball game together.

  "So now I'll ask you," Mr. Perez said, "what you think your chances are of locating him."

  Ryan thought a moment. He almost told the truth and said he didn't know, that maybe he wouldn't even come close. But he didn't.

  He said, "I usually hit about ninety percent. As you say, time's a factor. If I wasn't concerned with that, I'd probably do better." Ryan picked up his raincoat from his lap and draped it over one arm. He seemed about to get up, then sank back into the chair again.

  "I almost forgot. You said something about a written agreement, didn't you?"

  Mr. Perez picked up the phone to call room service for his noon dinner, then changed his mind and placed a person-to-person call to Mr. Raymond Gidre in New Iberia, Louisiana. He took the phone over to the deep chair and sank down comfortably.

  After a moment he said, "Raymond, how you doing, boy? I bet you got a big plate of crawfish in front of you and a glass of cold beer. . . . What?" Mr. Perez laughed. "That's just as good. You can't get nothing like that up here. . . . Uh-huh. Listen, Raymond? How'd you like to come to Detroit for a few days? . . . No, this one's a little different. Man turns out, he likes to shoot people. . . . I'm telling you the truth." Mr. Perez listened, then began to grin. "Now you're talking. We got one here, Raymond, I believe we can go all the way. . . . You bet. You get ready and I'll call you back, tell you when exactly I need you. . . . Fine, Raymond. Be good now, I'll see you."

  Mr. Perez picked up the phone again and asked for room service.

  "How you doing?" Mr. Perez said. "You got any crawfish? . . . No, I don't want crayfish, I want crawfish. . . . I didn't think so. How about boiled shrimp? . . . With the shells on. You peel 'em, dip 'em in hot sauce. . . . What? All right, I'll call you back."

  Mr. Perez went over to the desk and shuffled through the papers and file folders. He opened the drawer then. There it was. Mr. Perez took the room-service menu back to his chair, looking at it.

  Bunch of shit.

  About all he could do was get this deal done and hope it didn't take too long.

  Chapter 5

  "The thing that bothers me. about him," Ryan said, "here's this businessman, investment consultant-he's staying in this suite at the Pontch has got to cost him a hundred bucks a day-I tell him about Robert Leary, about the people he's killed, and he grins and says, 'Sounds like a mean bugger, doesn't he?' "

  "Maybe he was being cool," Dick Speed said. "Trying to impress you."

  Dick Speed was driving an unmarked Ford sedan, turning off Saint Antoine now and heading out Gratiot Avenue, creeping along about twenty-five.

  "I don't think so," Ryan said. "It was real, the way he sounded. See, it bothered me that it didn't bother him, the idea of doing business with a homicidal maniac. Christ, a guy like that out on the street."

  "Maybe he is, we don't know."

  "You don't care, is what you mean," Ryan said. "You only care about him if he kills somebody else."

  "Like you maybe, messing around with him."

  "Shit, I don't even want to see the guy."

  "Well, I promise you this, buddy," Dick Speed said. "Make you feel better. If he kills you, I promise I'll get the son of a bitch if it's the last thing I do."

  "Thanks," Ryan said. "What I'd really like is if you could find out something about Mr. Francis X. Perez. How would you do that? Teletype Baton Rouge? New Orleans maybe?"

  "I'd pick up the phone. You know, they think I'm working, all this shit I'm doing for you."

  "I appreciate it. Don't think I don't."

  "When do I get this big dinner?"

  "You name it. Whenever you're free."

  "I can see it," Dick Speed said. "You call up say come on over, I got this tomato surprise shit." He crept along the inside lane, his gaze on the storefronts and the people on the sidewalk. Most of them were black. "Tomato and fucking cornflakes or something."

  "I never tried that. Where's the place?"

  "Few blocks. He could be walking. I've never seen him drive."

  "How do you know he'll be there?"

  "I called. They said he'd probably be in. He's due for his fix."

  Ryan said, "Listen, I don't want to be taking up all your time."

  "Then what're you doing it for?"

  "I said I'd talk to the guy. You don't have to come."

  "You talk to him, but he won't talk to you," Dick Speed said. "Not alone. Be looking over his shoulder all the time. Ask him what it's like, being a police snitch. You'll see him trying to act cool, but he's scared shitless. There it is, next to the drugstore."

  Dick Speed coasted past the storefronts, the drugstore and the one with the show windows painted white and the posters Ryan couldn't read from the car, and pulled into a parking place on the street, a few stores down in the block of fifty-year-old two-story buildings that were scarred and worn out before their time, some of them with collapsible iron grating over the display windows.

  "I expected a sign," Ryan said. "Methadone center."

  Dick Speed was watching the sidewalk, turning to look through the rear window at the painted storefront.

  "They know where it is. The ones that need it."

  "This guy was a junkie?"

  "He was everything, if you believe him. You got to weed out the bullshit."

  "What's the guy's name?"

  "Tunafish."

  "That's all, just Tunafish?"

  "You got a name like that, what else you need?"

  Ryan kept looking at his watch. When they'd been there thirty minutes he said, "Doesn't look like he's going to show, does it? Maybe we ought to come back." He was antsy; he could never stand sitting around very long.

  "You want to talk to the guy or not?" Dick Speed said. "I could be at the Athens instead of out in the fucking rain so I can get invited to the big dinner."

  Ryan told him not to think he didn't appreciate it, and looked at his watch again.

  An hour and ten minutes passed.

  "There he is," Dick Speed said. "See, you're patient, God rewards you. The skinny jig with the afro."

  Ryan ducked his head to look through the rear window. There were two black guys in front of the place, moving away from each other but still talking.

  "They both got afros."

&nbs
p; "No, the finger waves, that's a superfly," Dick Speed said. "Don't you know your hairstyles? That's our boy in the leather coat. Turning his collar up. Ahhh, coming this way now, finished their chitchat. The other one's name is Lonnie. He talks to the narcs, tells them interesting stories, and they let him deal a little grass. How do you like the fucking shoes? He's about five-foot nothing in his socks."

  "He's coming," Ryan said. "Tunafish."

  "Don't worry. I got him."

  Tunafish was almost even with the unmarked car, his head turned against the misty rain. Dick Speed opened the door and stood up outside. He said over the top of the car, "Get in the back."

  The skinny black guy didn't say anything. He looked back over his shoulder as he got in. Dick Speed pulled out, turned the corner at the first side street, and parked in front of a vacant lot. There were old frame houses farther down. Dick Speed switched off the ignition. The sound of the engine and the windshield wipers stopped. It was quiet in the car. Tunafish sat on the right side of the back seat, his hands folded in his lap. His hair glistened with drops of moisture.

  "My associate here," Dick Speed said, "wants to get hold of Robert Leary . . . Bobby Lear. Where does he go to find him?"

  "Bobby Lear," Tunafish said, as if trying to picture him.

  "Let's cut the shit, okay?" Dick Speed said. "Bobby Lear."

  Ryan had the twenty in his raincoat pocket. His hand came out with the bill, folded twice, and reached over the backrest with it.

  Tunafish took it and looked at it, then looked at Ryan as he put the twenty in his shirt pocket, under the leather coat. His expression didn't say if he was happy with it or not; his expression didn't say anything. His eyes moved from Ryan and he seemed to be staring straight ahead, at the rain filming the windshield.

  "Nobody know where he is," Tunafish said. "Nobody seen him."

  "He's out," Dick Speed said. "Why should he hide?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he heard something."

  "People talking about him?"

  "They say some friends of his. They get together and decide somebody should put a gun next to Bobby Lear's head."

  "Kill him?" Ryan said.

  "For the sake of humanity and everybody's ass," Tunafish said. "Nobody feel safe with him anymore."

  "Who're the friends?" Dick Speed asked him.

  "Man, that's a hard one."

  Dick Speed looked at Ryan.

  Ryan reached into his pocket and came out with another twenty. Tunafish took it.

  "You're doing all right," Dick Speed said, "for a relatively shitty afternoon. Who'd you say these friends are?"

  "See, most of them talking big, bullshitting each other, saying how they gonna burn that motherfucker, put him out of his misery. But only one might do it, get out of bed in the morning pure, not on any high, and do it. You know who I mean?"

  "Tell us," Dick Speed said.

  "Bobby Lear, only armed robbery bust he ever had. You remember it? About four years ago."

  "Wyandotte Savings and Loan," Dick Speed said.

  Tunafish nodded. "That's the one. Bobby Lear and two others. Bobby Lear got off, no positive I.D. Wendell Haines is dead. That leaves one more. Look on your job sheet."

  "Virgil Royal," Dick Speed said. "He went to Jackson."

  "He went and he come back."

  "So what's the talk?"

  "That Virgil have a private reason to see him. Besides helping humanity, help Virgil Royal, too. You dig?"

  Ryan had a question. He waited, listening to them talking about Virgil Royal. He didn't understand most of it. When Tunafish paused, Ryan said, "How about his wife? You know where I can find her?"

  Tunafish was thoughtful again, shaking his head.

  Dick Speed said, "Come on, you been paid."

  "No, man," Tunafish said, "I didn't know that, the man had a wife. There was a lady I used to see him with-I can't think of her name."

  "Thelma Simpson," Dick Speed said.

  "No, Thelma-he got her in the closet, she couldn't move, and beat on her till she was dead. No, I mean another lady, before he went to the hospital. Had real long hair, blond color, you know? I'd see them once in a while, the lady have on these beads, fake African shit, was always drinking wine."

  "What's her name?" Ryan asked him.

  "Let's see-I believe it was Lee." Tunafish thought about it. "Yeah, he call her Lee."

  "Where'd you see them?"

  "Different places." Tunafish paused and his face almost came alive for the first time. "Hey, I seen her a week, two weeks ago. Was in the afternoon, she was alone. She had the blond hair and the beads, drinking wine. I said to myself, Who is that? Then I remember, yeah. But she look different."

  "Where was it?" Ryan said. "A bar?"

  "Yeah, on Cass," Tunafish said. "Shit, I don't know the name. Down near Masonic Temple."

  "You think she lives around there?"

  "I don't know, she might." Tunafish nodded then, still picturing her. "Yeah. I don't see any reason she be in the place unless she live around there. Trashy, man. Six, seven in the morning the bars open."

  "What was different about her?" Ryan asked him. "You said she looked different."

  Tunafish frowned, picturing her. "Yeah, well, not different. It was like she look sick. You know?"

  Ryan didn't say much on the way back to where his car was parked on Beaubien. He thought about the girl named Lee, forming a picture of her in his mind, the blond hair and the beads and the glass of wine. In the picture she came across as a hooker, a flashy broad in a miniskirt and boots, somebody that would go around with a guy like Bobby Lear. Finding Lee would probably be next.

  And if he couldn't find her, then the guy that was mentioned, Virgil something. He said to Dick Speed, "What's the guy's name, was in on the robbery with Leary, Virgil?"

  "Virgil Royal."

  "I didn't get that part of it."

  "They held up the Wyandotte Savings and Loan. Virgil did time, Leary got off."

  "Yeah, I understand that."

  "What don't you get?"

  "Why Virgil's looking for him. Because he got sent away and Leary didn't?"

  "I think there's more to it than that," Speed said. "I think Leary made a deal and laid the job on Virgil, but I'm not sure. I wasn't in on that one, I'll have to look it up."

  "And Mr. Perez," Ryan said. "Don't forget Mr. Perez."

  Dick Speed phoned him that evening. "How'd you make out?"

  Ryan was sitting on his fake-leather black couch, his shoes off and his feet on a pillow on the footlocker coffee table.

  "I didn't plan it right," Ryan said. "I parked near Wayne University and walked south looking in the bars, every bar on Cass down to Temple, then another four or five blocks to be sure."

  "Yeah?"

  "I saw a lot of hookers getting their afternoon eye-opener and going to the grocery store, but I didn't run into anybody named Lee."

  "Who said she was a hooker?"

  "No, that's the way I see her. You know. Then I had to walk all the way back to get my car. How'd you do?" Ryan said. He was thinking of Mr. Perez.

  "Well, there's a little more to it than I thought," Dick Speed said. "See, everybody thinks Leary laid the job on Virgil and that's why Virgil's pissed off. But that's not it. Virgil thinks Bobby Lear kept the money from the job and spent it while he was in the can. About eighteen grand."

  "You mean you arrested them, but you didn't recover the money?"

  "Well, actually, Bobby got about seventeen hundred from the cashiers that was never recovered. He must've spent it by now. But see, we had Virgil in the Wayne County Jail at that time waiting trial. So when the prosecutor's office is talking to him they pretend to let it slip that Bobby got about seventeen grand, not seventeen hundred, and stashed it someplace. See, Virgil wants to believe it, he's dying to-even if he read in the paper no money was taken-because he not only doesn't trust him, just associating with Bobby you never know, the guy's fucking wacko. Sometime he's liable to stick a g
un in your mouth, you just don't know with a guy like that. The people here say that's, basically, what's on Virgil's mind, if he's thinking about anything."

  "Jesus," Ryan said. "You actually do things like that?"

  "Yeah, well, if we can't get to Bobby through channels, you know, and put him away, then we motivate Virgil and maybe he can do it. You think anybody's going to piss and moan over Bobby Lear?"

  "I will," Ryan said. "Christ, I need him alive ... at least for a while. How about Mr. Perez? You find out anything?"

  "Not yet. I didn't have time this afternoon. Tomorrow, if that's soon enough."

  "Listen, there's no hurry. It was just a thought," Ryan said. "The guy's probably a virgin and says the rosary every night before he goes to bed. But I wouldn't mind being sure."

  Chapter 6

  The girl with the stringy blond hair over her shoulders and the trading beads and the black turtleneck and Levi's and the half-filled water glass of domestic wine in front of her on the bar said, "Do you like sex?"

  Ryan hesitated. He said, "Sure."

  The girl said, "You like to travel?"

  Ryan said, "Yeah, I guess so."

  The girl said, "Then why don't you fuck off?"

  She was drunk-two o'clock in the afternoon-but didn't show it, sitting on the bar stool with her denim legs crossed. Maybe when she got up, if she ever did. She looked washed out and needed some sun, or makeup. Her blond hair was dirty, dull, flat to her head and showed dark roots. She was still a good-looking girl, in her late twenties or maybe thirty. She drank her Sauterne and smoked cigarettes and stayed somewhere inside herself.

  "You do know him though, huh?"

  "Who?"