Out of Sight

  “Low class of people there, Snoop. I got out with a little help from my friends.” He saw Glenn about to speak.

  But the big guy cut him off saying, “You call him that again I’ll put your head through the wall.”

  Buddy said, “What? You mean Snoop?”

  Foley watched the Snoop raise his hand to the guy as if to hold him off.

  “Nobody calls me Snoop no more or Snoopy, is what White Boy’s trying to say. He’s a little crude, you understand. No, I left that Snoopy shit behind me.”

  Buddy said, “What do they call you now?”

  “My name, Maurice. Nothing fancy.”

  Buddy said, “And you call this bozo White Boy?”

  “White Boy Bob,” Glenn said, putting his two cents in, and it sounded innocent enough, though not to Foley. Glenn telling them now, “White Boy used to be a fighter.” Giving Buddy the bait.

  Buddy said, “What’s he do now outside of shoot his mouth off ?”

  Foley said to Maurice, “Like being back in the yard, huh?”

  Maurice grinned at him. “Just like it. Nobody backing down. You back down you pussy. Tell me what you and Buddy doing up here in the cold.”

  “They think they’re getting in on our gig,” Glenn said, “but no one told me they were coming. I told you I had two guys and then told you I didn’t? These are the two.”

  Maurice said, “Let’s go outside to talk.”

  “What’s the matter with right here?” Foley said. “It’s nice and warm.”

  “Warm? Man, it’s ninety-five degrees in here, sometime a hundred—the way Emanuel always kep’ it so his boys’d sweat, get lean and mean like Tommy Hearns. No, I ain’t talking any business in here. To me this is like holy ground, man. You understand? I got to be someplace anyway. Y’all want to talk, come to the fights Wednesday night, we’ll sit down and look at it good.”

  Foley turned to Buddy. Buddy shrugged and Foley said, “Where?”

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, WALKING TO THE CAR, FOLEY SAID, “YOU NOTICE, it’s supposed to be Glenn’s deal, but now it looks like he’s working for the Snoop.”

  “Call him that again,” Buddy said, “you heard that musclebound asshole, what he’ll do to you.”

  “He was telling us who he is, that’s all, making himself known.”

  “Yeah? Who is he?”

  “A musclebound asshole. You know the thing that bothers me?”

  “If the Snoop’s been reading about you,” Buddy said, “he knows you’re worth ten gees.”

  “You recall did it say dead or alive?”

  “I think it’s for information leading to your being apprehended. They might pay off on your being dead, but I don’t see how the Snoop’d work it. You know what I mean? It wouldn’t be the same kind of deal as that bum giving up the Cuban.”

  “Lulu,” Foley said. “I wonder if they got Chino.”

  “They might have. We been out of touch.”

  Crossing the street now, approaching the car, Foley said, “I kind of like that do-rag the Snoop had on. You know it? It looked cool on him.”

  “I ever catch you wearing one,” Buddy said, “I’ll turn you in for the ten gees.”

  • • •

  GLENN WAS TRYING TO GET SOME ANSWERS WHILE MAURICE watched the two guys sparring, poking at each other, and it was like talking to the wall.

  “You said you could get a couple of guys for a hundred bucks each. Right?”

  Maurice would yell at the one with ricardo owen on the tank top he wore over his yellow T-shirt, telling him to jab, jab, telling him it was what he had the gloves on for. Keep ’em up and jab.

  “If you can get the two guys, what do we need Foley and Buddy for?”

  “My guys ain’t here no more.”

  “Where are they? Did you find out?”

  Maurice said, “Ricky, stick and move, man. Stick and move.” And to Glenn, “They ain’t allowed in here no more.”

  “What do you mean, they aren’t allowed in here?”

  “Stay tight on him, Ricky. Don’t give him room. They fucked up their privilege, trainer caught ’em selling weed outside the front door. Ricky, you got to crowd him he does that.”

  The bell rang and the fighters moved away from each other to walk around on the canvas, their arms hanging.

  Maurice said, “Come on,” and brought Glenn away from the ring, away from the trainers looking over, to sit down on the bench nearest the door. White Boy went over and began hitting the heavy bag.

  “You tell me you bringing these people,” Maurice said, “then you ain’t bringing the people, but the people show up anyway.”

  “I told you I didn’t know they were coming.”

  “But they here, they know about the deal and want to discuss it. Fine. Meantime the two I thought of getting I don’t want now, they dirty. You understand? So what’s wrong with using the bank robbers? We know they cool—go in as many banks as those two have?”

  “You know,” Glenn said, “you’ll have to offer them a split, not any hundred bucks.”

  “Was that your deal with them?”

  “We never got that far.”

  “Well, what we offer and what they get,” Maurice said, “could be two entirely different things.”

  SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  KAREN’S PHONE RANG AT HALF-PAST EIGHT. AS SOON AS SHE heard “Karen, it’s Marcie Nolan” she knew how her picture got in the paper, on the back page of the food section under “Names & Faces.”

  In the two-column photo Karen, in a tailored black suit, straight skirt, black bag hanging from her left shoulder, is holding a Remington pump-action shotgun, the butt of the stock resting on her cocked hip, the barrel extending above her on an angle, her right hand gripping the gun just above the trigger guard. Karen wears dark glasses and is looking past the camera, her lips slightly parted.

  The cutline reads:

  LA FEMME KAREN

  U.S. Marshal Karen Sisco guards the entrance to the federal courthouse in Miami during recent drug trials of Colombian nationals. Other assignments involve transporting offenders to prison and defendants to court for trial. Investigative work means tracking criminal offenders. Assigned to the Miami office of the Marshals Service, Karen was in town yesterday to meet with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment.

  “It was a mistake,” Marcie said. “I mean they jumped the gun, they were supposed to wait till I interviewed you, see if there was a story.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I saw you going into 1300 yesterday. I didn’t know who you were seeing, but I thought I’d catch up with you sooner or later, so to save time . . .”

  “That picture,” Karen said, “was in the Herald.”

  “Yeah, I asked my editor to get it. Both papers are Knight-Ridder—tell them what you need and a few minutes later it’s on your computer. I mentioned to my editor, if there isn’t a story it might work in ‘Names & Faces’ and he put a note on it to that effect. But then when I couldn’t find you, I got on another story and didn’t get back to my editor. What happened then, the ‘Names & Faces’ guy saw the note, revised the caption in kind of a generic way and ran with it. Karen, I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t able to talk to you first.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I was afraid you might be furious.”

  “I get pissed off sometimes,” Karen said, “but I’m rarely furious. The FBI office and the marshal’s might wonder what I’m doing here.”

  Marcie said, “They don’t know?”

  “I mean they might think I’m a publicity nut, that I called you. But I can’t see them making an issue out of it.”

  “You didn’t want them to know you’re here,” Marcie said, “and I blew your cover. I’m sorry, Karen, really.” She paused. “Can you tell me what you’re on?”

  “’Meeting with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment.’ What’s wrong with that?”

 
“It doesn’t say anything, though, really.”

  “I think more than enough,” Karen said, wanting to get off the phone, but had to ask, “How did you know I’m at the Westin?”

  “Inspector Cruz. I asked around till I found out he’s the one you saw. Can’t you tell me anything? Even off the record?”

  “Let’s see what happens,” Karen said. “How do you like Detroit?”

  “Compared to what, the North Pole?”

  “It’s not as cold as I thought it would be.”

  “Just wait. I’d kill to get back to Miami.”

  “Well, if you do, I’ll take you,” Karen said. “And if I have any free time I’ll call you. Okay?”

  She phoned Raymond Cruz and had to wait almost two hours for him to get back to her, to learn that he was awfully sorry but would be tied up most of the day. She said, “Raymond, are you trying to avoid me?” And he got a little flustered because he was a nice guy, telling her no, never, he really wanted to see her, but . . . It made her feel a little better, even though now she had nothing to do all day. She could call Marcie Nolan back, make a lunch date or meet her for a drink after five. Or, she could forget about waiting for Raymond. She could quit wasting any more time and check out Maurice Snoopy Miller’s last known address.

  • • •

  FOLEY READ THE SPORTS AND ENTERTAINMENT PAGES, glanced through the food section and came to the back page . . . After he read the caption and stared at the photo for a while he called Buddy’s room.

  “You have the paper?”

  “I saw it. What do you think?”

  “It’s a terrific shot of her.”

  “Outside of that.”

  “I don’t know,” Foley said, staring at the photo. “But I don’t think her being here has anything to do with us.”

  “She came up here on her vacation,” Buddy said, “’cause she likes shitty weather.”

  “I think she’s after Glenn.”

  “How’d she find out he’s here?”

  “You know Glenn, he probably told her he was coming. Can you think of a way she’d know we’re here?”

  There was a silence before Buddy said, “No, but if they’re on his ass and we’re seen with him . . . She wouldn’t be up here by herself, working alone.”

  “The girl still with you?”

  “They don’t stay the night, Jack, ‘less you pay for it.”

  “Let me give it some thought,” Foley said, still looking at Karen Sisco holding the shotgun. “I’ll call you back.”

  Even if Karen suspected they were here and checked the hotels . . . They had registered as George R. Kelly and Charles A. Floyd—making the names up on the spot—and paid cash for a week in advance, telling the reception clerk they’d just as soon not have a hotel showing on credit card bills that came to the house. “If you get my drift,” Foley said to the clerk and almost winked, but the guy’s bored expression stopped him.

  He called Buddy’s room and Buddy said right away, “If they got a tail on Glenn we’re fucked. Tomorrow night at the fights we all get picked up.”

  “I understand that,” Foley said. “I’m thinking maybe we can finesse around it, find out if they’re on him or not before we go in.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I don’t know yet. Let’s drive by where they have the fights and look it over, the State Theater.”

  “That’s what it is, a theater, a movie house.”

  “Yeah, but what’s around it? We’d check it out anyway. How about later on we go for a ride. You can show me where you used to work.”

  “Did you see in the paper,” Buddy said, and paused. “Here it is. ‘Fight over tuna casserole may have spurred slaying.’ This woman’s live-in boyfriend, seventy years old, complained about her tuna noodle casserole and she shot him in the face with a twelve-gauge.”

  “I never cared for it either,” Foley said. “Or macaroni and cheese. Jesus.”

  “It says police found noodles in the woman’s hair and believe the guy dumped the casserole dish on her. They’d been together ten years.”

  “Love is funny,” Foley said.

  He hung up, looked at the photo as he thought about what he was going to do now and rang the hotel operator. “Ms. Sisco’s room, please.” He waited. The operator came back on to tell him there was no one by that name registered. Foley got out the Yellow Pages and opened the book to Hotels. He tried the Atheneum, a couple of Best Westerns, the Pontchartrain, skipped to a couple of Hiltons, looked at a list of five Holiday Inns, said “Shit,” looked out the window at those giant glass tubes across the street and had to think for a minute.

  The Westin, that was it.

  He found the number and called it.

  “Ms. Karen Sisco, please.”

  After a moment the operator said, “I’m ringing.”

  Foley waited. He had no idea what he would say, but he stayed on the line.

  The operator’s voice came on again. She said, “I’m sorry, but Ms. Sisco’s room doesn’t answer. Would you care to leave a message?”

  • • •

  KAREN RANG THE DOORBELL AND WAITED, HANDS SHOVED into the pockets of her dark-navy coat, a long one, double-breasted with a belt in back.

  The house on Parkside was in the first block off McNichols, a street the Westin doorman said everybody called Six Mile Road ’cause it was six miles from the river and the next roads after were named Seven Mile, Eight Mile and so on. Take the Lodge, get off at Livernois, go on up past the U of D and Parkside was a few blocks over to the right. Big homes in there, old but they’re nice.

  One right after another, most of them red brick and showing their age in the bleak cold, the street lined with bare trees. Karen had asked the doorman if it ever snowed and he said, “Mmmm, it should be starting pretty soon.”

  The door opened.

  Karen said, “Moselle Miller?”

  The woman, about thirty, light-skinned, sleepy-eyed, said, “What you want?” She wore a green silk robe and was holding her arms close against the cold.

  “I’m looking for Maurice.”

  “You find him, tell him the dog got run over and I’m out of grocery money.”

  A male voice from inside said, “Moselle. Who you talking to?”

  “Lady looking for Maurice.”

  “What’s she want?”

  “Hasn’t said.”

  Karen said, “That’s not Maurice?”

  “That’s Kenneth, my brother. He’s talking on the phone.”

  The voice said, “Ask what she want with him.”

  “You ask her. Maurice’s business,” Moselle said, “is none of my business,” sounding tired or bored. She turned from the door and walked into the living room.

  Karen stepped inside, pushed the door closed and moved into the foyer. She heard Kenneth’s voice and saw him now—in the study, a small room with empty bookcases—black male about six-one, medium build, twenty-five to thirty, wearing a yellow T-shirt and red baseball cap backward, talking on a cordless phone. She saw him standing in profile and heard him say, “How do I know?” Now he was listening, nodding. “Yeah, I can make it. The State, huh. Who’s fighting?” He listened, nodding again, said, “What’s this other deal?” turning to the foyer, and Karen walked into the living room.

  Moselle was on the sofa lighting a cigarette. She said to Karen, “You like to sit down?”

  Karen said thanks and took a chair and looked around the room: dismal, gray daylight in the windows, dark wood and white stucco, the fireplace full of trash, plastic cups, wrappers, a pizza box.

  Moselle said, “What you want Maurice for?”

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine I think Maurice knows.”

  “You not with probation, one of those?”

  Karen shook her head. “No.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  Karen smiled. “No, I’m not.” She said, “Maybe you know him. Glenn Michaels?”

  Moselle drew on her cigarette and blew out a str
eam of smoke. “Glenn? No, I don’t know any Glenn.”

  “He wasn’t here last November?”

  “He might’ve been, I don’t know.”

  “He said he stayed here.”

  “Here? In this house?”

  “He said he stayed with Maurice.”

  “Well, he ain’t even here that much.” Moselle drew on her cigarette, let the smoke drift from her mouth and waved at it in a lazy gesture. “I like to know where he goes, but at the same time I don’t want to know. You understand? I was with a man before Maurice, I knew his business, I knew everything he did, a beautiful young man, and it was like looking in the future, seeing how it would come to an end and, sure enough, it did. He got blown up.”

  Karen waited.

  “He sat down in a chair this time . . . I spoke to him on the phone. He sat down in the chair and when he went to get up, he got blown to pieces.”

  Karen said, “You knew it was going to happen?”

  “I knew too much,” Moselle said. “I knew waaay too much. It’s why I don’t know nothing now. I don’t know any Glenn, I don’t know nothing what’s going on. Understand?”

  Karen watched her, Moselle’s arms hugging the green robe closed.

  “Your dog was killed?”

  “Got run over by a car.”

  “What did you call it?”

  “Was a she, name Tuffy.”

  “Where do you think I might find Maurice?”

  “I don’t know—the gym, the fights. He thinks he still in that business. I know he don’t miss the fights. Having some tomorrow night at the State. He use to take me.”

  Kenneth stood in the arched entrance from the foyer. He said to Karen, “What you want with Maurice?”

  Moselle said, “She looking for a man name of Glenn.”

  Kenneth said, “Did I ask you? Go on out of here. Do something with yourself.” He waited until Moselle got up, not saying a word, and walked away from them through the dining room. Karen watched him coming toward her now in kind of an easy strut, the backward baseball cap low on his forehead, letting her know he was cool, he was fly, by the way he moved.

  She saw the scar tissue over his eyes and said, “You’re a fighter?”