He felt like everything was going to work out.
He felt like talking.
He felt he knew the guy coming in now. And when he found out he was right he didn't know what to feel.
It was Bryan Hurd. Bryan took the stool next to him and placed a flattened pack of Camels on the bar. He said, "You left these, Walter, in Florida."
"How'd you find me?"
"I'm a policeman," Bryan said. "You used to be a policeman. You remember that?"
Walter had too many words in his mind at once and it was hard to pick the right ones. He tried, "I read about it, I want to tell you I was shocked, I couldn't fucking believe it." He tried, "Jesus, you never know, do you? You get mixed up with--you get like involved with these people you're writing an article about, I guess it can happen, being at the wrong place, you know, at the wrong time. It's a shame, an innocent person. But you got a job, what can you do? You can't sit home. Right?"
Walter stopped. The way Bryan was looking at him all he could see were Bryan's eyes, the eyes not saying anything, except every time he looked away and looked back there were the fucking eyes, the eyes fixed on him. He wanted to get it over with. If Bryan was going to say something he should say it.
Walter thought of something else. "You want a drink? Art, fix us up here. Kessler and whatever the lieutenant wants." He said to Bryan, "Fucking Kessler's still four bits. You believe it?" It gave him an opening. "The only thing in this town hasn't changed. I used to live over by Geimer, when I was growing up? The house's gone. Hamtramck HighSchool, where I went? Gone. Not a trace of it.
Dodge Main? Fucking gone. There's a couple brick walls standing there I think was the boiler room, it's got so much steel in it they can't fucking knock it down. Kowalski's still there. St. Florian's still there. St. Florian's, you'd have to shoot the priests and blow it up. But Immaculate Conception? It's not in Hamtramck but it's close enough, right there. GM's tearing it down. Sure, taking all that land there and where Dodge Main was for a new assembly plant. Cadillacs in Hamtramck, for Christ sake. Everything's changed. I mean everything. Go over look at the juke box. They got on there The Mutants, the Walkie-Talkies, Adam and the fucking Ants. What else? The Fishsticks. The Plastics. The In fec tions, for Christ sake. What's going on? Look--picture of the broad over there on the wall?" He pointed to a poster shot of David Bowie. "You know who she is? They got Iggy Pop, all this shit, they got one Frank Sinatra on there, on the juke box."
Walter thought as fast as he could to come up with something else, to fill the silence beginning to settle.
Bryan said, "Walter, I want the gun Robbie used.
I don't want a stroll down memory lane. I want the High Standard twenty-two and I want the suppressor that goes with it."
Walter looked away and back again, knowing hehad time and knowing what he wanted to say, the one word, the key word, gun, giving it to him.
He said, "Bryan, I don't know if you're a Catholic, but how about the pope, uh? You believe it, somebody would shoot the fucking pope? John Paul the Second, best pope we ever had. Yeah, hey, his cousin use to live right over here on Mt. Elliott.
You know that? You knew he was Polish, right?
Educated--shit, he can speak seven languages, goes all over the world, seen by millions of the faithful and where is he? He's home, he's in St. Peter's Square, this Turk pulls out a Browning starts popping away. Fucking Turk." Walter stopped, a dramatic pause.
"Bryan, it was a Browning nine-millimeter, the exact same fucking gun I've been packing the last, what, three, four years. And you know what I'm gonna do with the gun, Bryan? I mean my gun. I'm gonna drive over on the Belle Isle Bridge, I'm gonna get out of the car and I'm gonna throw the fucking gun in the fucking Detroit River. I'm gonna tell you something I haven't told nobody at all. You think I'm in the fucking bag and I'm drunk, but I promise you that's what I'm gonna do. Throw the gun away and never pack again as long I fucking live and that's a promise."
Bryan said, "I want that High Standard, Walter, and whatever barrels go with it. I want you tell me where it is."It didn't sound right to Walter. He said, "The twenty-two? He didn't use the twenty-two."
He saw Bryan's eyes fixed on him again and tried to remember--shit--what he had just said. He said, "Wait a minute . . ."
But it was too late. Bryan said, "You want to talk about Florida, Walter? You want to get into that?"
Bryan unbuttoned his sport coat and held it open with both hands. "You notice anything different, out of the ordinary?"
Walter shook his head. "What?"
"I don't have a gun on me," Bryan said. "You know why? I was afraid I saw you the first thing I'd do, I'd stick it against your head, Walter, and pull the trigger. I thought about it a long time and then I put it out of my mind and stopped thinking about it. You understand? I'm not talking about Florida, I'm talking about Detroit. Curtis Moore. I'm not gonna give him to anybody in Florida. I want him here . . . You listening to me?"
"Yeah," Walter said, "Curtis Moore. Was shot with a High Standard twenty-two. Got a big fucking suppressor on it."
"That's the one," Bryan said. "Listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"Robbie's due back sometime tonight."
"How do you know?"
"Just listen. Sober up. Go in there and find the gun before he gets back. Don't touch it, leave it. Then call me and tell me where it is. When I go in I'll have a warrant, but I want to know where to look."
"You getting me into this?"
"If you're in it, you're in it."
"I didn't know he was gonna do Curtis. Honest to God, he never said a fucking word. He just pulls this cool shit and does it."
"He told you about it after?"
"Like that night."
"But you didn't tell anybody."
"Somebody was gonna do Curtis sooner or later,"
Walter said. "What's the difference? Go down the morgue, see all the fucking Curtises they got there."
"Walter? Call me at 1300 soon as you know where the gun is. I'll talk to you later about a statement."
"What statement?"
"Whatever he told you. Write it down and sign it."
"Not without immunity."
"I'll see what the prosecutor says."
"What about the other deal?"
"Walter," Bryan said, "if you're talking about Florida I'm gonna give you one more chance to keep your mouth shut. Don't mention it again, okay? Don't say one fucking word."
Walter got as far as saying, "I think you're imagining things that happened--"
Bryan hit him, spinning him off the stool. Bryanstood over Walter and said, "I saw it. I don't have to imagine anything, I saw it."
Art had to come around to help Walter, straining to get him on his knees and his arms over the side of the pool table--like a sack of cement--so he could pull himself up. Then had to help him away from there so he wouldn't be sick on the table. Walter looked awful, staring out bleary-eyed.
"Where'd he go?"
"Your friend?" Art said. "He left. What'd he hit you for?"
"It's okay," Walter said. "He's pissed off about something."
Malik and Doug Parrish were waiting in front of the General Motors Building, watching the pickets who were trying to convince everyone that GM had no heart and that GM was taking their homes. New signs today read:
DON'T TAKE OUR CHURCH!
SAVE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION--
PLEASE!
Parrish said, "Wait a minute. If the archdiocese thinks it's a good idea, they sell the land the church's on to the city and the city sells it to GM, what're they bitching at GM for?"Malik said, "You asking me? Ask the cardinal.
These people're parading around trying to save their church hardly any of 'em go to, he's out at Gucci's, some shoe store, blessing the grand opening. They open up a new Thom McAn he sends an altar boy."
Parrish said, "You got that from the Free Press, the guy on the back page. I read it."
Malik said, "So? He got it
from somebody else.
What's the difference?" He nodded toward the blue Plymouth pulling in behind the blue Plymouth already in the no standing zone. Then watched Bryan closely, the way he moved as he came past the pickets to join them.
"What's the matter with your hand?"
"I'm trying to keep from killing people," Bryan said, "and I'm having a hard time."
Malik and Parrish looked at each other. As they walked into the building Parrish said, "How do you want to handle this?"
"I want a statement," Bryan said, "I hope without hanging the guy out the window. Stare at him and crack your knuckles, I don't know . . ."
It was past five and they were moving against a rush of people coming out. On the second floor, down the glass hallways, nearly all the offices were empty, desk tops cleared. Bill Fay's secretary had gone. He looked out from his desk with a weary grin, extending his hand as he got up, shaking his head, and Bryan knew he was rehearsed, ready. Not that it mattered. There would be no handshaking or introductions.
Malik and Parrish came up to the desk one either side of him as he said, "I'm gonna have to have a statement from you, Mr. Fay."
Bill Fay smiled and frowned, made several faces as he thought it over and finally said, "I'm prepared to say, from now on, I don't know what in the hell you're talking about."
Bryan picked up the phone and began dialing a number, paused after three digits, looked up and said, "Eight-five-one, seven-one-three-one?"
Fay said nothing, holding on.
Bryan finished dialing. He held the phone out so Fay could hear the rings.
"All right, put it down."
"You'll give me a statement? Everything you saw?"
The phone continued to ring. A woman's voice came on, a pleasant tone. "Hello?"
"Yes!" A half-whispered hiss. "Put it down!"
Bryan said into the phone. "I may call you back in a minute," and hung up. He watched Fay sink into his chair and begin to swivel slowly from side to side.
"You seem to be experienced in ruining marriages," Fay said. "What's the least destructive way to do this?"
"I want a signed statement," Bryan said, "a pos-itive identification of Robinson Daniels, what you saw him doing, the fact you saw him go down to the garage."
"I didn't actually see him go down."
"Tell what you did see."
"This is under duress, you realize."
"If you think I'm forcing you, don't do it."
"What else do you call it? You think I'd freely sign a statement?"
"It's called good-citizen cooperation," Malik said.
"Can I tell my wife that?"
"Tell her you just wanted a strange piece of ass,"
Malik said. "It might work."
Fay wrote his statement with coaching, editing help from Bryan. When he had finished and signed it, Bryan gave him some hope. He said, "Don't tell her anything yet. You never know what might happen between here and the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice."
It was dark, early evening, when Robbie got home.
He left the front door open and walked into the hall yelling, "Hey! Where is everybody? Come out, I won't hurt you--I'm a friend!" He'd had four firstclass Delta martinis on his first commercial flight in years. A maid appeared, hesitant. Robbie couldn't remember her name.
"Where's Walter?"
He wasn't here. He was here a little earlier, but he wasn't here now. Greg talked to him.
Robbie went through the dining room and kitchen to the back stairway and called up, "Greg, where are you? I need you, Greg!"
The cook came down the stairs slicking his dark hair back with his hands, wearing his white shirt and his black pants. "Yes sir." They went into the kitchen and Robbie got a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator while Greg quickly washed his hands at the sink. When Robbie couldn't find a glass Greg got one out of the cupboard, an everyday glass, and Robbie told him to bring one for himself.
"You see Walter?"
"As little as I can," Greg said. Greg was about thirty-five and looked to Robbie like a day laborer, but he could cook.
"I got to find him."
"He was here," Greg said. "He went in your study and I told him hey, you don't work here no more, what are you doing in there? The other day he brings the car back he says he quit."
"He was in my study?"
"About, well a few hours ago he was here."
"Where'd he go, do you know?""No sir. I could care less."
"Care," Robbie said, "just for a minute. I thought you two were from the same neighborhood. Hamtramck, right?"
"That doesn't give us anything in common. You know what he does all the time? He bitches . . ."
"It's a trait," Robbie said.
"He comes in here for a beautiful meal cost him twenty dollars outside, he starts bitching. Beef Wellington, he says take the fucking bread off. I fix veal Oscar you like? He want golabki, pirogies, he wants placki for breakfast. All the time telling me I don't know how to cook."
"He's a rustic at heart," Robbie said, not having any idea what Greg was talking about. "But where can I find him? You know any places he goes, where he hangs out?"
"I don't know if he goes, I know what he talks about, over there."
"Over where?"
"He talks like Hamtramck was Grosse Pointe, like Under the Eagle was the London Chop House.
He don't know anything."
"Under the Eagle?"
"Yeah, I used to eat there sometime, till I learned how to cook. You go in there and get fat."
"Call the place up, see if anybody's seen him.
You know any other spots?"
"Couple of bars maybe.""Call 'em. See if he's been in lately, the past couple of days." Robbie started out of the kitchen with his wine glass, paused and looked back at Greg.
"There's a footlocker out on the front steps the goddamn cab driver wouldn't bring in the house.
But make the calls first, okay?"
Goddamn Walter. Robbie walked through the marble front hall to his den, flicked the light switch on and the switch next to it off as he went in.
The room seemed in order, everything in its proper place. No--some books were pulled half out of the shelves and the cabinet doors were open behind the desk. The dumb shit. Looking for the gun.
That had to be Walter's purpose. Walter the cop turned driver-aide turning snitch. Scared to death.
Or blackmailer, that was a definite possibility.
Robbie sat down in his chair with his glass of wine, picked up the TV remote control gadget and pressed the on button.
"It's showtime . . ."
He watched Walter appear on the television screen, Walter coming into the lighted room, looking around, weaving a little as he moved to the desk, placed his hands on it flat and leaned heavily, resting. He was drunk! Unbelievable. The guy comes in to burglarize the place smashed. Walter was groping around now, edging his way to the cabinets behind the desk while those sneaky cameras that resembled light fixtures followed every move. He'd even explained to Walter how the surveillance cameras worked, these particular ones programmed to look on a subject and follow until the subject left the camera's scan and walked into the field of another, the cameras activated when a light switch was turned on. But Walter was drunk, or wouldn't have remembered anyway. Walter's attention span was about from A to B. He desperately needed someone to wind him up and point him in the right direction. Walter stumbled around, going over to the bar now . . . standing there trying to decide what to drink. That's what he needed. Probably not recognizing one single label. Christ--no, Walter, not the seventy-five-year-old stuff!
Greg appeared in the doorway.
"He was in there today, Mr. Daniels. Under the Eagle? Waitress says he acted drunk. Told her he'd been to Lili's Bar, where he used to hang out. She says she stopped in there for a pop after she was through working and he was in there again. Art told her, the bartender, Walter would go out, come back in, go out, come back. Like he didn't know what
he was doing."
Robbie looked over, clicking the picture off.
"You know where Lili's is?"
"It's right off Campau on Jacob."
"Give me some directions."
Greg said, "Yes sir, but I don't know you want to go there at night."
On the first sheet in the pile of notes and typewritten pages was a list of working titles written in Angela's straight-up-and-down hand.
"Hi, I'm Robbie Daniels"
"What's It Like To Be Rich?"
"I Was Just Saying To My Very Good Friend George Hamilton The Other Day . . ."
"Who Would I Rather Be Than Anyone? . . .
Me!"
"Split Images: How Rich-Kid Robbie Daniels Defies Your Viewfinder"
A note below the list of titles said, "Maybe a short dialog exchange would work." And below that, "What would Tom Wolfe call it?"
Bryan got up from his desk. Crossed the squad room toward the wall of mug shots, stopped and turned around, without purpose. He had nowhere to go. He didn't want coffee. He didn't want to turn on the radio. He wanted the telephone to ring and hear Walter's voice, sober. At this moment it was all he wanted because he would not let him-self think of anything else. He was standing when Eljay Ayres came in, the inspector of Homicide dressed in a tailored tan three-piece suit, raincoat over his arm, tired eyes looking at Bryan, wondering things.
"Tell me if you're doing something I should know about."
Bryan shrugged, raised his shoulders a little and let them drop.
"You can think it long as you don't do it. You know what I'm saying to you? Ain't worth it."
"How do you know?" Bryan said.
"I don't know much," Ayres said. "Nobody sits down and tells me stories anymore. I have to ask questions, get bits and pieces." He studied Bryan with his tired gaze and began to shake his head.
"You don't even have the gun for the job. Little thirty-eight with the bands 'round it so you don't lose it in your pants. What kind of a gunslinger are you, Bryan?"
Bryan said, "You know how many guns he's got?"
Ayres said, "Has only one I'd be interested in.
From what little bit I hear . . . I'm gonna tell you something I would never tell anybody else. Gonna come right out and say you, Mr. Hurd, are the best homicide dick I know or know of. That includes me, giving you maybe a half a step, no more than that. The point being, the best homicide dick Iknow doesn't fuck up, does he? Doesn't carry the blade to put in the man's hand after, does he? He wins most, he loses a few. But he doesn't ever fuck up. Does he?"