Drawing Dead (16 page)

I am a nerd, said the first guy. Thank you. Are we using the closing rate?

Before I was treated to the answer to this momentous question, Brendan showed up.

I dispensed with the formalities.

The fuck you been? I asked.

What’s up with you? he said.

You were supposed to check out that address.

So?

So did you?

Of course I did.

You did?

Sure, he said, his voice faltering.

Butch arrived, a grin of triumph on his face. Brendan got up, greeted him with a hug. A hug of relief, it seemed. As though Butch would protect him. Which wasn’t about to happen.

So? I said to Brendan once they’d sat down.

He’d gone to the house, Brendan told us. A guy answered the door. At first Brendan had been taken aback. Not by any prepossessing feature. By the guy’s very ordinariness. He was dressed in tan slacks, hiking shoes, a denim shirt. He had a baseball cap on.

Which team? I asked.

He gave me a sour and puzzled look.

The baseball cap. Which team? Never know what might turn out to be important.

He stared into his drink.

I don’t know, he said glumly.

You don’t know?

Red Sox, I think. Anyway, he was ordinary.

Ordinary in what way? asked Butch.

Brendan gave Butch a similar sour look, this one tinged with abject confusion.

No, said Butch. I mean it. There are different types of ordinary. They can be important.

Brendan stared at Butch.

Sure, he said. I know.

He knew.

So?

He was ordinary, Brendan said, in that really fucking ordinary way.

Ah, said Butch. That kind of ordinary.

Yes. That kind.

Brendan was fiddling with a ring on his left middle finger. A wide brass ring. It had some inscription on it that I couldn’t read.

Okay, said Butch.

The rest of Brendan’s story was equally rich in detail. He talked to the guy. The guy didn’t know anything. The house was ordinary. The neighborhood was ordinary.

I gave Brendan a Look. The Look said, I know you’re full of shit, and you know that I know that you’re full of shit.

Uh, Brendan, I said. Could you give Butch and me a moment?

Sure, he said. I got a satellite coming up.

No, I said. Just wait for us at the bar.

Okay, he said without enthusiasm. Trudged to the bar.

He never went to the house, I said to Butch.

I know. Did you see how he was playing with that ring?

I
went to the house.

Yeah?

Yeah. He hadn’t been there. And it wasn’t anything like he said.

There’s a surprise.

I called Brendan back.

Brendan, I said, it’s bad enough you didn’t even do your job.

But—he began to protest.

But nothing. I went to the house. You didn’t. You didn’t even get the address right. Let alone any of the details.

Brendan hung his head.

Brendan, Brendan, I said. It’s bad enough you didn’t do it. But you lie to us about it? Give us misinformation? We can’t operate like that, man.

Yeah, he said. I know. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

I rolled my eyes. Butch shrugged.

I brought in the job from the Russians, said Brendan.

Yeah, I said. That’s great. Thank you. But let me tell you two things. Three. One, we haven’t seen a dime from those guys yet. Two, we don’t even know what the fucking job is. If we can even take it. Three, you can be Mr. Rainmaker all you want, but if you have a job to do, you do the job. Or you’re out. You got it?

I got it, he mumbled.

And four, I know I said three but it’s four, what’s with the fucking ring?

What ring?

The fucking ring on your fucking finger, Brendan. You never owned a piece of jewelry in your life. Now you got two. That I know of.

It’s just a ring. I liked it.

They’re like the pod people, Brendan. They’re taking over your body, your mind. They’re starting with the clothes, though.

Brendan laughed.

I hadn’t really meant it as a joke.

So what the fuck really happened? Butch asked.

I ran into Tolya and Andrei. We had some drinks.

Yeah, I said. I saw. That was my whole fucking point.

Ease up, Rick, said Butch.

I tried to ease up.

They took me to a club, said Brendan. I just sort of forgot about it.

What kind of club? Butch asked.

The kind you told us about? I said. That we might not be interested in?

Yeah, said Brendan. What’s wrong with that?

That’s what I figured, I said. Listen, there’s nothing wrong with that, in itself. Nothing wrong with it. But I mean, I know we’re a bunch of dysfunctional poker geeks and all, but business is business, okay? When you got a job, you do the job. Can you handle that?

Sure, sure, said Brendan, doing his staring-at-the-floor thing. I’ll go there first thing tomorrow.

Brendan, I raised my voice. I told you. I did it already.

Brendan, Butch said. Next time, just do what you’re supposed to do. That’s all.

Brendan looked like he was going to throw up.

I felt bad.

Aw, forget it, I said.

No, said Butch, leaning in and putting his face right up to Brendan’s. Don’t forget it. Get it right. Get it right next time, and every time after that. You fuck up again, we got no more use for you.

Brendan looked like he was going to cry.

Jesus, I thought. Better change the subject before Butch hauls off on him.

Butch, I said, tell us about your satellite.

Ah, he said, the big smile returning. It was a beautiful thing.

He settled back into his chair. He started going through it hand by hand. Then I bluffed, and he folded, then I made a monster lay-down. On and on. Then I looked down at Five, Six off suit …

I’d had enough.

Let’s not talk poker, I said.

All right, Rick, said Butch. I know my success causes you pain.

Damn right it does, I said.

I told a story about two girls I’d seen the year before, sitting at the slots at four in the morning. I’d been dragging myself by, they asked me for a light, my name. The usual routine. They were cute as hell. The only problem, apart from the fact that I don’t do sex for money, was that there was no way either of them was over sixteen.

Man, said Butch, you expect that in El Salvador, but here …

Something you’d like to tell us about your last trip to El Salvador? I said.

I’ll tell you that story, he said, but …

He was looking over my shoulder.

… this might not be the time.

I turned around.

A woman in black. Sheath skirt. Tight silk blouse. Jacket cinched at the waist. An air of delicate but assured self-possession.

Shit, I said, it’s the client.

She’d seen us. She walked over. She smiled.

I hadn’t seen her smile before. Not that way.

She had a fragile kind of beauty. Small-boned. The kind that would ripen and fall away with the years.

For now, it would do just fine.

Hi, I said, standing up and extending a hand.

Hi, she said, taking it.

Her hand was soft. But it held mine with authority. I could smell her. Something with vanilla. Something good.

I had a frisson. This is not appropriate, I told myself. Then I chuckled to myself. Damn, Redman, I said, stop being such a fucking lawyer.

You’ve been following me? I asked with a smile.

Las Vegas is a small town, she said with a laugh. I told you not to be surprised if I showed up.

You did, I said. I admit it. Please, have a seat.

She looked at Brendan. For a second too long. Or just remembering who he was. She looked warily at Butch. A hint of apprehension in her face. The woman had instincts.

You remember Brendan, I said.

Yes, she said. I do believe I do.

She extended a hand.

And this is my other partner, I said. Butch. Poker player. Friend. Better at the latter. He’s all right. Just looks scary. I told you about him. Used to be an NYPD detective. Maybe still is. I don’t remember.

I gave her a big grin. To let her know I was kidding.

I didn’t know, of course, what I was kidding about.

I don’t think you did tell me about him, she said. But I’m pleased to meet you, anyway … Butch.

She hesitated at the name. I’d sort of forgotten. What a silly name it was. It’s like you’re married for years. Your wife isn’t really beautiful, or raven-haired, or whatever other thing you were looking for, before you settled for her. She’s just who she is. You love her. And her name is Mabel. You don’t notice anymore. That’s just her name. Butch was just Butch. Of course, he was also six foot five, two-sixty, and black as the bottom of a well. Took some getting used to, for some folks.

Pleased to meet you, he said in his richest, friendliest rumble.

She sat. She smiled at Brendan and Butch.

I’ve filled Brendan and Butch in, I said. They’re my partners, actually. I’m not sure I mentioned that. They come with the package.

Of course, she said. Yes. You said that. Perhaps they can help.

Butch is a cop in New York, I said. Detective, I mean. A very good one.

I think you mentioned that, too, she said.

Yes. And Brendan’s my ex-brother-in-law. Sort of.

Brendan laughed. It was okay. We’d had enough to drink.

Louise gave me a questioning look.

My wife, I said. Brendan’s her brother. Was her brother. She died. Last year.

She flinched a tiny flinch.

I’m sorry, she said.

Yes, well. I’m sorry, too. It’s okay. We’ve gotten over it.

Brendan looked hurt. Louise Chandler looked calm.

I mean, I said, the passage of time. You know.

I understand, she said. I’m sorry.

Thank you, I said, remembering the protocol.

Well, I said, desperate to change the subject, and having no idea why I’d broached it in the first place, I’ve shared the details of your case with my colleagues, of course.

Of course, she said.

She looked around for a waiter.

Can I get you something? I asked.

Don’t worry about it, she said. I’ll just get myself a drink at the bar.

She got up before I had time to protest.

Okay, guys, I said. Try to stay cool.

Butch laughed at me.

Brendan looked confused.

I ignored them both.

Ms. Chandler returned from the bar with a cosmopolitan. She gave me a Look. I’m not sure, the Look said, I can’t trust you yet. I don’t really know you.

I put on my most innocent face.

It took a while, but I guess I finally passed the visual inspection. She sat down. Sipped her cosmo. Looked good doing it.

We chatted a while. Vegas stories. What to wear in the heat. Butch told a couple of NYPD war stories. I mentioned the Case of the Red Car Door. Yes, she said, she’d remembered it from the papers, when she’d spoken to Kennedy, the first time.

Ah, I thought. My dubious reputation precedes me.

I have a suite at the Wynn, she said out of nowhere. We could have privacy there.

Certainly, I said.

To talk, she said. I’d like to discuss the case in private.

Of course, I said.

I have my car here, she said. We can drive over.

Even better, I said. Save cab fare.

She grimaced slightly.

I wasn’t sure what that meant. Perhaps the idea of cabs was strange to her.

She got up. I got up. Butch got up. Brendan got up.

There was a whole lot of getting up going on.

Too much, apparently, for Ms. Louise Chandler.

Mr. Redman, she said.

Yes?

I don’t mean to be … awkward. But I would prefer this meeting to be just between you and me.

I looked at Butch and Brendan. Butch shrugged, sat back down with a subtle roll of the eyes. Brendan, on the other hand, looked stricken.

But then, when didn’t he?

I’ll brief you later, I said to Brendan in my most professional one-investigator-to-another voice.

That seemed to mollify him.

My car’s a two-seater anyway, Ms. Chandler said.

I noticed that she’d barely touched her drink. I see, I said. But you do understand, I will be sharing everything with my colleagues?

Of course, of course, she said. It’s just that … I’ll be more comfortable.

Inappropriate thoughts flooded my brain.

I felt bad. I have to admit it. I might even have felt badly, had I been in any condition to attend to the grammatical niceties. But I was more in the mood to attend to Ms. Chandler’s niceties. And her niceties were very nice indeed. She was a trim little thing. With a tiny waist. There’s something about a tiny waist. Your hands around it. What is that thing? I guess it’s just the way it makes everything else fit. Or how it’s like a handle. You figure, maybe, that with a handle like that …

I reined in my thoughts. Unprofessional, I told myself. Highly unprofessional.

M
S
. C
HANDLER AND
I
TREKKED THE TWO MILES
through endless clanking chiming chunking slots to the front door of the Rio. Outside, she nodded to the valet parking guy.

Yes, ma’am, he said immediately.

I guess she’d made an impression.

We waited no more than two minutes. But it was a long two minutes. She was silent. I felt awkward. I’ve never been much of a small-talk guy.

When the valet guy tooled up in a Corvette in British Racing Green—my favorite, as it happened—Louise woke from her reverie. Handed him a couple of bills. Smiled a melting smile.

I squoze into the passenger side.

Wow, I said, finding my voice. You can rent one of these?

What makes you think that it’s rented?

Kennedy, I said, I mean Jack, I mean John, said you were here on business. Or you did, I guess. I assumed …

You don’t have to rent it. If you own one.

Damn, I thought. She does like to be in control. And I still didn’t have an answer to my question.

She took a right. The top was down. It was hot as hell. But, of course, it was a dry heat.

The desert heat is different. It really is. It’s like being slow-baked, instead of deep-fried. It calms you up. Loosens you down. Until you die.