City Primeval

  Norb Bryl was on the phone. He was saying it wasn't the tires, it was the wheel alignment; he said you pay thirty-four hundred dollars for an automobile you expect it to go in a straight line, was that right or wrong?

  Wendell Robinson was on the phone, sounding pleasant but in mild pain, saying he had been taking cold showers to keep himself civil; but if someone's old man didn't go back on nights pretty soon, then maybe it wasn't meant to be.

  Maureen Downey was on the phone, saying okay, fine, swivelling around from her desk as she hung up to watch Raymond pour a cup of coffee.

  There was a shooting, three o'clock this afternoon. On Van Dyke Place.

  Raymond stopped pouring.

  MCMU told us about it, so I called the precinct, just now, Maureen said, and the sergeant read me the PCR. Three unidentified males, all in dark clothes, dark hair, shooting at an unidentified male driving a light blue older-model car that might be a big Ford or a Lincoln.

  Or a Mercury Montego, Raymond said. Did he shoot back?

  They think so, but no reported injuries or fatalities. MCMU's checking the hospitals.

  How was it reported?

  The call came from the woman next door to two-oh-one, where the shooting took place in the driveway and out on the street and we know who lives at two-oh-one, don't we?

  They talk to Carolyn Wilder?

  They said they talked to the maid. She said Ms. Wilder wasn't home. But then

  Hunter, off the phone, said, We got him by the ass! and Raymond looked over. It's the gun, man. Absolutely no question. I'm gonna go pick it up.

  Maureen waited for Raymond to turn back to her. He said, I'm sorry. What?

  Carolyn Wilder phoned almost an hour ago. She wants you to call.

  Okay. He picked up his coffee mug and started to move away.

  At home, Maureen said.

  Raymond stopped and looked at Maureen again, appreciating her timing. You ask her if she heard the shots?

  No, but I'll bet you she did.

  Raymond went to the unofficial lieutenant's desk beneath the window and dialed Carolyn's number.

  I hear you had some excitement.

  I'd like to see you, Carolyn said.

  Fine. I'll be leaving here pretty soon. You sound different.

  I'll bet I do.

  Now he was puzzled. Her voice was low, yet colder than he had ever heard it. Marcie see what happened?

  No, but I did.

  Raymond didn't say anything.

  Who are they? Carolyn said.

  And now he wasn't sure how much to tell her. Clement picked on the wrong one this time and it snapped back at him. Why, you want to file his complaint?

  I would like to laugh, Carolyn said, but my mouth hurts. Before this sounds even more like farce, why don't we save it until you get here.

  Raymond hung up, still puzzled. He said to Norb Bryl, who was standing now, clipping several pens into his shirt pocket, What exactly is farce?

  It's a used car that's supposed to drive in a straight line, Bryl said, but pulls to the left. If you don't need me I've got something to do.

  The door closed behind Bryl, then opened again as Hunter came in with a brown paper bag that was grease-stained and could be a bag of doughnuts. He placed it on the lieutenant's desk, pleased. No prints, but this is the little mother that did it. Absolutely no question.

  Raymond looked across the squadroom. He said, Maureen, if you want to go, you can, it's pretty late; but if you want to stay, lock the door. Okay?

  Wendell said, How 'bout me?

  Same thing. You want to leave, go ahead.

  Hunter said, Shit, you got his interest now. Afraid he might miss something.

  Maureen came over, hesitantly, and sat at Bryl's desk.

  Hunter said, How come you don't ask me if I want to leave?

  You're already in it, Raymond said. He looked at Maureen and then Wendell. We took the gun off this guy Sweety without a search warrant. I'm not worrying it's gonna kick back at us, that's not what I'm getting to. I wanted to find out, you know, without typing up all the papers and pleading with some judge, if this is really the gun or not. All right, we find out it is. No question about it our friend up in the lab checks it out without entering any names and numbers in the book we have a murder weapon. Now . . . if we take it to the prosecutor at this point he says, fine, but how do we prove it's Mansell's gun? We say, well, if we're very persuasive we can get this guy by the name of Sweety to cop. The prosecutor says, who's Sweety? We tell him he's a guy that used to run with Mansell, he's done time and now he's dealing drugs. The prosecutor says, Jesus Christ, that's my witness? We say, well, we can't help the kind of people we have to associate with in this business; he's all we got.

  Sandy, Maureen said.

  Right, we've also got Sandy, Raymond said, but you can pull all her fingernails out, which she hasn't got much of anyway, and she'll still never say a word. Not out of loyalty, but because Clement scares the shit out of her.

  How about if I talked to her? Maureen said.

  Sure, why not? I'm open to suggestions. But let me review what we've got. An arm that could be Clement's sticking out of a car at Hazel Park. Possibly the same car at the scene, which Sandy has the keys to and we say she gave to Clement. Clement's lawyer, Miss Wilder, looks at us and says, 'yYeah? Prove it.' We can put Clement at another scene, three years ago, where slugs were dug out of a wall from a Walther P.38 Raymond picked up the paper bag right here, our murder weapon. But how do we show it belongs to Clement?

  There was a silence.

  Maureen said, Wow. I think I know what you're gonna do.

  Again a silence. Raymond was aware of the four of them sitting in an old-fashioned police office under fluorescent lights, plotting.

  Hunter said, I don't see no other way.

  Wendell said, You want me to talk to the brother, Mr. Sweety?

  No, it's my responsibility if anybody gets blamed. I'm gonna do it, Raymond said. At least try to arrange it. Wendell, you know Toma pretty well, the Albanians. Have a talk with him, like we're thinking about busting him for the attempt, we're watching him, you know, so he better not do anything dumb for the next couple days . . . Maureen, you want to take a shot at Sandy, go ahead. I think she wants somebody to talk to and, who knows . . .

  The phone rang.

  Jerry, let's see about putting MCMU on Sweety around the clock now.

  The phone rang. Raymond laid his hand on it.

  Put a couple guys in the bar if they can hang around without getting smashed.

  The phone rang.

  Raymond picked it up. He said, Squad Seven, Lieutenant Cruz.

  Clement's voice said, Hey, partner. I got a complaint I want to make. Some crazy fuckers're trying to kill me.

  He parked behind Piper's Alley on St. Antoine, a few blocks south of 1300, came through the kitchen with the paper bag and Charlie Meyer, the owner, said, Raymond, almost sadly, you don't bring your lunch here. This is a restaurant.

  Raymond smiled, gave him a wave and continued out into the main room, looking past plastic fern and Tiffany lamps at the booths of after-work drinkers, a swarm of them at the bar, guys and girls unwinding or winding up for the evening, either way unaware of the policeman with the paper bag who was wondering what it would be like to drop the bag on Clement's table sitting there, next to one of the front windows in his denim jacket say to Clement, Here, I got something for you, and as Clement's hand goes inside the bag say, loud enough to stop the room, DROP IT! and pull the Colt out of his sportcoat and blow him away.

  Clement said, There he is. Grinning. You look like a man with pussy on his mind. See something here you like?

  Raymond sat down and placed the paper bag on the table, to one side. Clement had a drink in front of him in his denims, someone off a freighter or a trail drive sizing up the house.

  All these boogers come in here looking for quiff, you know it? Their badges and convention tags on, they end up looking at each other, I
swear. What's in the bag, your lunch?

  Yes, it's my lunch, Raymond said. You owe me seventy-eight dollars for a new window.

  Clement grinned. Somebody shooting at you? Listen, partner, I got people shooting at me too. I see these fellas coming across the street, I'm thinking, what're they, undertakers? Wearing these black suits. What I don't understand is how come I never heard of Albanians.

  Well, they never heard of you either, Raymond said. But now, it's a question of who gets you first. You want to turn yourself in, I think you'd live longer at Jackson than out on the street.

  Clement was squinting at him. You let those fellas loose like that, shoot at people?

  You want to file a complaint, stop in the precinct. See, we don't get attempted or assault. Like what you did to Skender.

  Man, you keep on top.

  He'd have to file a charge, but they'd rather handle it themselves.

  And you let 'em?

  If the man doesn't report you broke his leg, then we don't know about it, do we?

  Jesus Clement shook his head. You want a drink?

  No, there's something I have to do yet.

  He watched Clement drain his glass and look around for the waitress not quite the leisurely, laid-back Clement this evening half-turning and putting his arm on the table, his hand, Raymond judged, about eight inches away from the paper bag. Clement raised his other hand, motioned with it and looked at Raymond again.

  Reason I called you, I want you to understand something. I'm leaving town. I'm not leaving on account of the Albanians and I'm not leaving on account of you either. But I got no reason to sit around here with my thumb up my ass, so I'm moving on.

  When, Raymond asked, tonight?

  I was send you a postcard from Cincinnati till I got jacked around this afternoon and by the time I got to the bank it was closed. All three banks I went to. I just want you to know, partner, I'm not running, as you know the meaning of the word. But I'm not gonna wait while you dick around and I'm not gonna exchange unpleasantries with some people I don't even know who they are 'ycept they wear black suits . . . Can you tell me why they dress like that?

  One of them died, Raymond said.

  Well, some more of 'em are gonna if I hang around, so tell 'em it's just as well I'm leaving. I just don't want them thinking they run me off, cause they haven't. But shit, I get mixed up with those people I got no incentive. You understand? He looked up as the waitress took his glass. Same way, hon. As she turned to Raymond, Clement said, No, he don't want nothing. That's Jack Armstrong, the all-American Boy. Clement smiled at her and looked at Raymond again. She don't know shit who I'm talking about, does she?

  Sandy going with you?

  I don't know, I suppose. She's cute, isn't she? 'yCept when she gets stoned. I tell her quit smoking that queer shit and drink liquor like a normal person.

  Some people, Raymond said, you can't tell 'em anything.

  That's the truth.

  But long as they don't tell on you . . . Raymond shrugged and let the words hang.

  Clement stared at him.

  Raymond was aware of the noise level in Piper's Alley. It surprised him that when he purposely listened to the sound of the place it was so loud. Everybody working at having fun. He said, Well, I got to get going.

  Clement stared at him. You want me to think you know something I don't.

  You're nervous this evening, Raymond said. But long as you trust your friends, what're you worried about?

  Clement stared at him. His head turned a little and he stared at the paper sack. He said, That ain't your lunch, is it?

  No, it isn't my lunch. Isn't a bag of fry cakes, either, Raymond said. You want it?

  Oh, my, Clement said, beginning to grin just a little. We getting tricky, are we? Want to hand me somebody else's murder gun? His eyes raised, his expression changing abruptly as Raymond got up from the table. Where you going? I ain't done yet.

  Raymond said, Yes, you are, and walked out with the sack. He used the telephone in the kitchen, noise all around him, to call Hunter, told him not to move, he'd be right there.

  A few minutes later Raymond walked into the squadroom.

  Maureen leave yet?

  Right after you did. I put MCMU on Sweety's place, told 'em to get somebody in the bar and the rest out of sight.

  Good. Raymond opened his address book to S and began dialing a number. Clement made an announcement. He's leaving town tomorrow.

  Hunter said, We better have the party tonight then.

  Raymond nodded. I think we should try. He said into the phone then, Sandy? This is Lieutenant Cruz. How you doing? . . . Yeah, I know, some are better than others. You having a nice talk with Maureen? . . . Yeah, well, let me speak to her a minute. He put his hand over the phone as he looked at Hunter. She says it isn't her day. Taking his hand away, Raymond said, Maureen? . . . listen, tell her Clement'll probably call or be over in a little while. In fact, any time now, so you better get out of there. Explain to her she can say we questioned her about the gun, even leaned on her a little, tried to scare her, if she wants. But tell her to keep it simple. She took the gun over to Sweety's, period. That's all she knows. Was she crying? . . . Uh-huh, well, tell her if she feels like she's going to save it for Clement, just in case . . . Hey, Maureen? Tell her you wish you were twenty-three again.

  You're all heart, Hunter said.

  I can sympathize with Sandy a little, Raymond said, I can. But I'm not too worried about her. I mean, if she can hang around with Clement three, four years and she's still in one piece . . .

  She knows how to cover her ass, Hunter said.

  If anything's bothering me at the moment, that I feel a certain responsibility . . . Raymond paused, thoughtful, and looked over at Hunter. You got Sweety's number?

  Hunter dialed it and stayed on the phone. Raymond picked up his phone and sat back, crossing his loafers on the corner of the gray metal desk. He said, Mr. Sweety, how you doing? This is Lieutenant Cruz . . . What I was wondering, has Clement called you yet?

  Has Clement called me!

  Both Raymond and Hunter moved the receivers away from their ears, looking at each other with expressions of pain.

  Where are you? Raymond asked. You at home or at work?

  I'm home. What you mean has Clement called me?

  Anita working?

  Yeah, she's over there.

  Why don't you go help her, Raymond said.

  Why?

  I think you're gonna be busy tonight.

  There was a silence before Mr. Sweety said, Why is Clement gonna call me?

  When he does, Raymond said, tell him you're glad he called, you've been wanting to get in touch with him. In fact, you want to see him.

  I want to see him? For what?

  To give him back his gun.

  You took the gun! . . . I gave it to you!

  Hunter had his eyes and mouth open wide, miming Mr. Sweety's emotional state.

  No, you told us it's in the basement, Raymond said, solemn, straight-faced. We assume it's still there.

  There was a silence again. Mr. Sweety said, I don't want no parts of that man. I'm getting dumped on whole big load of shit coming down on me.

  No, you're all right. You have my word, Raymond said. He comes for the gun, tell him where it is. In fact, how about this? Tell him he'll have to go get it himself, you're busy.

  Silence. I'd have to let him in the house.

  Not if you put the key under the mat, Raymond said and had to smile now, looking at Hunter. A couple of kids getting away with something.

  There were tales of heroics and tales of tricky nonprocedural moves, old-pro stunts, told in the Athens Bar on Monroe in Greektown, two short blocks from 1300 Beaubien. Raymond wondered if, not so much the heroes, the tricky movers ever looked ahead and saw replays, recountings: a twenty-year pro, an insider, telling appreciative someday pros that it wasn't to go beyond this table: So he cons the guy into handing over the gun, has ballistics fire it to
make sure it's the murder weapon, then here's the part he puts it back in the guy's basement, inside the furnace where it was, and has the guy tell the shooter to come get his gun, he doesn't want any part of it. You follow? He's got to make the shooter with the gun or he doesn't make him. He's got to set him up . . . And the someday pros at the table wait with expectant grins, gleams in their eyes. Yeah? . . .

  Then what? Raymond was thinking, riding in the blue Plymouth police car with Hunter.

  Go on . . .

  Well, the way it should happen: With Mr. Sweety's place under surveillance Mansell walks in, comes out with the gun in his pocket and they shine lights on him and that's it. If he stays inside they ask him to come out and eventually he does, after trying to hide the gun again or pound it apart with a hammer; but they would still have him with the gun, be able to make a case.

  But maybe another way it could happen and be told about later in the Athens Bar: For some reason the surveillance is called off . . . There could be a reason.

  Clement comes out with the gun, the gun loaded, the way it was found. He comes out on the porch and stops dead as he hears, That's far enough He sees Cruz on the sidewalk beneath the streetlight. Cruz with his sportcoat open, hands at his sides . . .

  You're weird, Raymond said to himself.

  But he continued to picture the scene as they drove over East Jefferson, hearing, That's far enough and trying to think of what Clement might say then. Yeah, Clement would say something and then he would say something else, something short and to the point and then . . .

  Hunter said, We both going in?

  Raymond, holding the paper bag on his lap, said, No, I'm gonna do it. He was silent for about a block and then said, He's got another gun. If he was shooting at the Albanians he got another gun somewhere.

  Chapter 26

  MAUREEN LET SANDY PACE the living room in her Bert Parks T-shirt and satin shorts, Sandy shredding a Kleenex tissue, dropping tiny pieces of it but leaving no pattern of a trail. Maybe she had to wear herself out before she'd sit down.

  You jog? Maureen asked her.

  Sandy paused to look at the lady homicide sergeant on the couch in her little schoolteacher navy blazer and gray skirt like a nun in street clothes except for the gun, Sandy suspected, in the worn brown handbag.