Split Images

  "It's called . . . it's usually they call it a hooyek.""A hooyek." Mrs. Daniels spoke the word lovingly. She let go, got up and crossed to the stairway, weaving just a little. A hand on the balustrade, she looked back at him. "A hooyek? "

  "That's correct," Walter said. "H-u-j-e-k, hoo- yek."

  "Thank you," Mrs. Daniels said. She went upstairs.

  Walter fell asleep. He opened his eyes and thought the woman was back and got a shock when he saw it was Mr. Daniels sitting next to him now, in his raincoat. Daniels said, "What time's the next bus?"

  It wasn't like a hotel, it was like a fucking state hospital--Ionia or the Forensic Center. It was in Walter's mind to go upstairs and pack, right now, get the hell out.

  Daniels said, "You awake?"

  His voice sounded all right. Walter was sure he'd been drinking though; he could smell it.

  "Yeah, I'm awake."

  "You don't have to wait up for me, Walter."

  "I got to ask you something. In the study."

  "There's nobody around."

  "Your wife was here." Walter looked at his watch. "Jesus, almost an hour ago."

  "Come on," Daniels said, getting up.

  He poured himself a cognac from the portablebar next to the television set, rolled amber reflections in the snifter glass, raised it to his face, then seemed to remember Walter, fidgeting, moving about by the desk.

  "You want one?"

  "I want to know something," Walter said. "I want to know if it was you did Curtis Moore."

  Daniels said, "The guy who was gonna testify against you and was shot and killed in the parking garage of the Detroit Plaza with a High Standard Field King twenty-two? No. It must've been someone else."

  Walter sat down. "I knew it. They pick me up, bring me down to 1300, I'm wondering what the fuck's going on--it was you. I knew it, but I don't believe it."

  "Good," Robbie said. "No one else will either."

  He sipped the cognac and rolled it around in his mouth now before swallowing. "Goddamn raw fish and seaweed. I should've taken them to the Chop House."

  Walter said, "Mr. Daniels, I was a police officer twenty, almost twenty-one years. There is no way you can commit a homicide at a place like that, all those people around, and get away with it. There's no way in the world."

  Robbie said, "Are you relieved, I mean that he's dead?"

  "What I feel--yes, I am," Walter said. "But whatI happen to feel has nothing to do with it. I appreciate your, well, your doing it for my sake. But, Mr.

  Daniels, I'm afraid you're gonna be in the worst trouble in your life. I can't believe it." He looked at Daniels with a vacant expression that said there was no hope, it was all over.

  "Yes or no," Robbie said, "did Curtis deserve what he got?"

  Walter nodded. "There's no question about that.

  Yes."

  "You're enormously pleased he's out of the way?"

  "Sure I am, but--"

  "You were questioned by the police?"

  "Bryan Hurd. The guy at the hearing."

  "Did my name come up?"

  "No, it didn't."

  "Then I'm not a suspect, am I?"

  Walter looked up. It did not occur to him until this moment that Daniels could possibly get away with it.

  "Where did you tell them you were?" Daniels asked.

  "At the time? Here. Or picking up the buyers."

  "He believe you?"

  "Yeah. I think he knows I didn't do it."

  "Then what're you worried about?"

  "What'm I worried about? You. What's your story?""What do I need a story for if I'm not a suspect?"

  "Because it can get around to you," Walter said.

  "One thing leads to another. Pick up something here, pick up a piece of information there. Somebody saw a car. Next fucking thing they're knocking on the door."

  "Well, I was with somebody too, if it ever comes to that," Robbie said. "I picked up some of 'em didn't I? The Japs."

  "What time?"

  "Walter, I just put the little guys on the red eye to San Francisco."

  "They can be contacted by telephone, can't they?"

  "I'm not gonna concern myself," Robbie said, "with something that's not likely to happen. We've got the big one coming up. Soon as I get those fucking machines out of there we head for Palm Beach and get on it."

  "When?"

  "Next week. And once we start--I forgot to tell you, you get an extra grand a week combat pay."

  "Yeah? You never mentioned that."

  "I think it's only fair. Pros get top dollar, don't they?"

  "Hey, if you say so. I'll tell you, I like the idea of getting out of town. It can't happen too soon."

  "How about a cognac?"

  "Yeah, I'll have one." Walter was feeling a lotbetter. He said, "You know, they get somebody like Curtis as a homicide victim, they got to go through the motions. But they're just as happy as we are the fucker's out of the way. It's not like they got a hardon to get a conviction, you know, where they're hot to get somebody. You understand what I mean?"

  "Yeah, I can see that." Robbie came over with a snifter and handed it to Walter. "Seventy-five years old. You've never had a cognac like that in your life."

  Walter took the glass, put his head back and drained it. "Yeah, that's all right. Very good."

  Robbie stared at him.

  "But tell me the truth," Walter said. "Did you really do it for me, on account of the lawsuit?"

  "Well, not entirely."

  "I didn't think so. I figured there had to be some other reason, take a risk like that," Walter said.

  "You mind telling me why you did it?"

  "Practice," Robbie said.

  SUNDAY, BRYAN SPENT part of the day at the Detroit Plaza talking to the doormen, the parking supervisors and several of the guests that had checked in Saturday morning. All it did was tire him out. He wondered if he was coming down with something, a virus. Very seldom did he feel this tired. He went home and watched a tennis match televised from Boca Raton. The weather looked good down there; though maybe boring, the sameness of it. He watched McEnroe put on one of his temper tantrums. The crowd booed and Bryan found himself siding with McEnroe, resenting the spectators in their sunglasses and resort outfits; outsiders looking in, not knowing shit what it was like. It surprised him, because he usually thought McEnroe was an asshole.

  The phone rang and he thought of Angela.

  He said, "Oh, hi, Peggy."

  She said, "Well, what's the matter with you?""I was sleeping."

  It was his former wife, who had got the house in Indian Village and was getting twelve hundred a month alimony, because at the worst possible time he had felt sorry for her: seeing her enter the lawyer's office, decoupage purse held in both hands, tiny pigeon-toed Capezios bringing her to the conference-table meeting that was as solemn as a Good Friday vigil; he would not have been surprised to see her genuflect and make the sign of the cross. His offense, his petition for divorce, was treated as a matter of faith and morals--even though there'd been no other women, no fooling around--while the settlement, like an atonement, was strictly in bucks.

  Peggy said, "Well, I guess you've been hearing a few things, considering how people love to talk."

  He told himself to sound concerned. "No, I haven't heard a thing. What about?"

  "Well, I've been seeing someone," Peggy said.

  "You mean a guy?"

  "A man, yes. What did you think I meant?"

  "Well, that's fine . . . Isn't it?" He wasn't sure yet what attitude to have. "He's not married, is he?"

  "No, he's not married," Peggy said. "But people love to talk and they always will. I suppose it's human nature."

  People. As in "People Will Say We're in Love."

  She had been cute Peggy Doran in her Junior Missoutfits, a little Doris Day doll who had turned Adult almost immediately following the ceremony.

  Serious. Responsible. Proper.

  He said, "Well, Peggy, how you doi
ng otherwise?"

  She said, "I'm doing very well, if you'd like to know. Much better than I'm sure you ever expected."

  Bryan said, "That's great."

  "As a matter of fact, I'm getting married in August."

  Bryan waited, cautious. Did she actually say it?

  "I'm sorry. You're gonna do what?"

  "I said I'm getting married."

  It was true. He heard the words clearly and they could mean nothing else.

  "Are you still there? What's the matter with you?"

  She always said, What's the matter with you?

  She had said he'd ruined her life, thrown away everything they had. (A world of Early Americana.)

  She had said she'd never marry again. Ever. Now she mentioned a name.

  "In August, huh?"

  But she was saying now, "You don't know him.

  He's in the insurance business. A very kind, considerate person."

  "Peggy," Bryan said, "I think it's great and I want to wish you all the best." It was true! Christ,it was true! "And a lot of happiness." He couldn't think of what else to say. "I don't know him, huh?"

  "No, and he's never heard of you. His name's Paul Scallen. He lives in Dearborn."

  "That's great, Peggy. In August, huh? That's a good month, one of the best." Christ, only four more payments. May, June, July--maybe three.

  She said, "I'm sure you're relieved. You won't have to pay alimony anymore."

  Bryan said, "Hey, that's right . . ."

  Later on he kept expecting Angela to call because he saw his luck changing right before his eyes. When she didn't, he pictured her mom and dad, nice people, asking questions about all the interesting places she'd visited. Maybe brothers and sisters around too. She had to have time with her family. She hadn't given him a phone number. He didn't even know their name, or if she was using their name or her married name or how many Nolans there were in Tucson. Well, he didn't feel tired now. Not at all.

  Sunday turned out okay.

  Monday was something else.

  In the morning Bryan stopped by his inspector's office and brought him up to date with Case Assigned Reports, looked out the window at the county jail while Eljay Ayres skimmed through the yellow pages.

  Ayres said, "Looks like you can close the little girl and the guy in the bar. They'll never bring him up."

  Bryan said, "Let's keep the little girl open. We might learn something."

  "Well, it's your time we talking about," Ayres said. "I thought you were on furlough."

  "I'm supposed to be, yeah."

  Eljay Ayres looked at him and then at the yellow pages again. "Curtis Moore . . . no big surprise to anybody."

  There was an easy edge of authority in his tone.

  Eljay Ayres had been Bryan's counterpart, lieutenant of Squad Six until his recent appointment to inspector of the entire Homicide Section. He wore three-piece suits and a Smith and Wesson automatic tight in the waistband of his trousers, a street-hip black man who seemed wary of Bryan and addressed him at arm's length. Bryan wanted to tell Eljay he didn't resent his appointment, that he had no desire to move up into administration; in fact, if he had to stay at 1300 all day he'd probably find something else to do. A talk over drinks would come in time and both would feel better and relax.

  Right now it was business.

  "How do you feel about Walter Kouza?""He didn't do it," Bryan said.

  "The Polish Gunslinger. I don't know," Ayres said, "he could've been stewing over it, drinking booze. You check him out good?"

  "Soon as I leave here," Bryan said. "Get the names of people he was with."

  "Who else you got?"

  "Nobody. You know Curtis, the people he ran with. One of his friends could've got tired of him.

  We inquire who he's been hanging out with; they ropa-dope you, tell you yeah, he's tight with Bicky, Micky, Kicky--nobody's got a real name."

  "You don't close pretty quick," Ayres said, "who's gonna take the case?"

  "Annie Maguire. She's got a few more people to talk to. There weren't any bikes around, nobody in club jackets. All we've got are a few hotel guests we haven't talked to yet. Ones that checked in about that time."

  "Then I think," Ayres said, "you ought to forget Curtis, take advantage of the time you got coming."

  Bryan said, offhand, a mild tone, "You trying to get rid of me?"

  Ayres remained solemn. "I don't want you to overwork yourself, Bryan. There be plenty more when you get back."

  The auction was underway at Daniels Fasteners: buyers and aides in business suits standing around with riggers in hard hats while the dressed-up auctioneer and his podium were moved along on a hand truck by assistants in red blazers. The procession passed beneath tired fluorescent lights to a machine that seemed to have no beginning or end and the auctioneer said, "Lot Number 35. We've got here, in excellent condition, a National threequarter-inch double-stroke, solid-die and open-die, long-stroke Universal cold header. Who's gonna give me twenty thousand to open?"

  Bryan said, "What I've always wanted." He stood in the dead factory with Annie Maguire, watching.

  Robbie Daniels, followed by Walter, came up from somewhere behind them, Robbie saying, "And if you don't like that one I've got a Peltzer and Ehlers hot-nut former you'll flip over . . . Hi, I'm Robbie Daniels," offering his hand to Annie as he glanced at Bryan. "Lieutenant, good to see you again. But don't tell me this young lady's a policeman, please."

  Both Annie and Bryan smiled. He said, "Well, I can't lie to you, Mr. Daniels," and immediately felt foolish. What was he doing? He caught Walter's eye, his serious expression staring back at him.

  Tense? It was hard to tell. In his tight suits Walteralways looked a little tense. Daniels was saying to Annie, "It's a pleasure. Do you know I've never met a policewoman before?" As though it was almost impossible to believe. "Come on, let's go up to my office. There's no place to sit around here."

  Bryan said, "We just want to ask Walter something. Get some names."

  "Hey, that's right," Robbie said, "you're investigating a murder, aren't you? Walter told me about it last night. Fascinating." He looked at Walter then. "My attache case?"

  Walter said, "What?"

  "Remember? I left it in the car?"

  Walter walked off. Bryan watched Robbie shake his head and thought he would comment but didn't.

  He took them up a wooden stairway to the administrative offices that were divided by woodframed glass partitions, the offices dark, empty except for bare desks and file cabinets, a few oldmodel typewriters under plastic covers. An oak desk and chairs remained in the spacious corner office that looked down on Franklin and Riopelle, on railroad tracks and warehouses and old brick factories extending to the riverfront, a setting left from the Industrial Revolution.

  "Anyone who asks me why I'm selling," Robbie said, "I tell them, would you rather come down here every day and look at this mess"--with a sweepinggesture, sport coat open, rep tie askew--"the backside of a dying city, or get down to the sunbelt where it's happening and invest in the future?"

  Bryan thought, I got to get out of here. He said, "I don't want to take up any of your time. If we could just have the names of the people Walter picked up . . ."

  "That's right," Robbie said, "you want some names." He turned to a thick file on the desk, opened it and began looking through company letterheads. "No--I thought so. These are today's.

  Saturday's are in my case." He walked to the windows now and looked down on Riopelle. "Come on, Walter, you're holding up the Police Department." Then said, "I can vouch for Walter. But from your point of view I can see why he's a suspect."

  Bryan looked at Annie. He said, "Well, he isn't, really. We have to fill in some holes in the report."

  Annie said, "He must've told you about Curtis's brother, the shooting."

  "And a few others," Robbie said. "Walter doesn't know it, but he's a very entertaining guy."

  Bryan looked at Annie.

  "Here he comes," R
obbie said, turning from the window now. "The ones he picked up Saturday had made firm offers. So I invited them in before the auction. Got rid of half the equipment. Guy from Mexico--he couldn't speak a word of English- even bought office fixtures. Right, Walter?"He came in carrying an alligator attache case.

  "What's that, Mr. Daniels?"

  Robbie took the case and laid it on the desk. "I was telling them about the guy from Mexico who couldn't speak English."

  "Only talked Spic," Walter said. "Used his hands all the time."

  Robbie snapped open the case. He took out a High Standard twenty-two target pistol with a fiveand-a-half-inch barrel and laid it on the desk without comment.

  Bryan looked at Annie. Then at Walter, who was staring at the gun.

  Robbie was taking out company letterhead sheets now, glancing at them, handing them to Walter. "These are the buyers you picked up, right?"

  Walter looked at the first two or three. "I don't know, Mr. Daniels. I can't tell from just the names."

  "Look at the cities, where they're from."

  "I don't know," Walter said.

  "Well, they're quite likely to remember you, Walter." Robbie glanced at Bryan. "Call 'em, if you want. But I'll take an oath Walter left the house at nine-thirty and picked up these particular buyers."

  "Quarter to ten," Walter said.

  "All right, a quarter of ten."

  "I didn't pick up any Jap. I know that."

  Robbie said, "Sure you did. Namura. Little fellawith horn-rim glasses and buck teeth." He looked at Bryan and grinned. "No, I'm kidding. He wasn't especially oriental looking."

  Walter said, "I know I didn't pick up any Jap."

  "Well," Robbie said, "I could be wrong. We were coming and going all day."

  "I saw those two Japs here," Walter said, "but I know goddamn well I never picked 'em up."

  "All right! " Robbie said.

  Bryan looked at Annie.

  "I think you've made your point," Robbie said.

  "Fine. You remember the ones you didn't pick up but not the ones you did. Anyway . . . take the letters and have 'em Xeroxed somewhere. I'd appreciate it."

  Bryan said, "We can copy the names and addresses. Save some time."

  It was all right with Robbie. "Fine, since you brought your secretary . . ."