Drawing Dead (11 page)

So he was real. Crow had started to think of Catfish Wicky's mysterious lover as a Dickie Wicky delusion. But Tom Aquinas was real, even if his name was not. What kind of guy would he turn out to be? An intellectual, interested in theology? What did he have that Catfish wanted? The man he had seen crossing the street didn't look like anything special. He wasn't particularly good-looking, unless you went for the greasy look. And he wasn't rich, or they wouldn't be shacking up at the Twin Town. Would Dickie's ten thousand dollars be enough to make him take his urges elsewhere? Crow frowned. His job was to get the guy alone and make the offer; that was it. The guy could take it or leave it; it made no difference. Either way, Crow could simply report back to Wicky and be done with it. He didn't plan to get any deeper into the Wickys' domestic problems than was absolutely necessary.

He let his thoughts drift, staring off into the distance. Of all the things he had done for money, he decided, this was far and away the silliest. The more he thought about it, the closer he came to laughing out loud. Hiding behind potted plants. Maybe he should buy one of those Groucho Marx glasses with the nose and mustache, go up to the guy, and offer him a rubber chicken full of money. He was thinking that one day this would be really funny—something that would make him laugh while he was casting for walleye off the end of his dock—when Catfish Wicky suddenly appeared at his open window, reached in, and wiped a spot of catsup from his cheek with her forefinger. Crow jumped, hitting his head on the Jaguar's low roof.

Catfish laughed. “Small world, huh?” She licked the catsup from her finger and grinned. “y'all got a minute, Joe? I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

You remember Milli Vanilli? I was the guy introduced 'em.

—Tomas Campo, a.k.a. Thomas Jefferson, a.k.a. Tom Aquinas

The old man was right.
It was like the guy had ants in his pants. Catfish introduced him as “Mah love stud, Tommy.” She buried the fingers of her left hand in his thick black hair. Her other hand gripped Crow's wrist.

Crow nodded, thinking,
At least there's no misunderstanding here—it's not like she's claiming he's her spiritual adviser or something
. He wished she would let go of him.

Tommy had a quick white smile that used up most of the bottom half of his face. “I knew a guy named Crow,” he said. “Apache. Real fuckin' nut. You Apache? You don't look Apache, you look like a mick. How do you know Cat? Cat? Where you know this guy from?” He bit into a chicken leg and chewed audibly.

Catfish sat down, still gripping Crow's hand.

“Crow's a friend of Dickie's,” she said, squeezing. Her palm was hot and moist.

“Stockbroker, huh? That's a tough business. I used to be a stockbroker. You know Michael Milken? We did a deal together once, back before he got famous. I made a fuck of a lot of money in that business.” His knee was going up and down.

“What did you do with it?” Crow asked, speaking for the first time since Catfish had dragged him out of his car.

“Spent it. Got something better now. Doing my own deals. The only way to go, bro. Don't invest in nothing you don't control. You a player?”

Crow did not respond. He had no idea what a “player” was in Tommy's lexicon.

“ 'Cause I got a deal you wouldn't believe. Some of my deals, guys made a fuckin' fortune.” He attacked his fried chicken. Catfish's grip slackened, and Crow was able to twist his hand away. “This is fucking great. I love this place,” Tommy said through a mouthful of chicken. “You don't get food like this at your McDonald's. Anyways, you remember the Pet Rock? That was me. I did the Berlin Wall thing too. Brought forty tons of it over, busted it up, and sold it by the pound. People thought I was crazy, but I made a fucking fortune. Now I got this other deal.”

“Tommy's got a lot of ideas,” Catfish said.

“I can see that,” Crow said.

“My love stud.” Catfish ran a red-nailed hand through Tommy's hair.

“Fucking right,” Tommy said, picking up a handful of sagging french fries. “You want to make some major cash, Crow, you come talk to me sometime.” He pushed the mass of fries into his mouth and chewed, blinking his black eyes.

“I'll do that,” said Crow, backing away. “It was nice meeting you.”

Tommy waved a chicken leg at him. “Good meeting you, Crow. Keep me in mind, you want to make some serious money.”

Catfish's eyes seemed to go off in two different directions, but they were both landing on Crow. He could feel them plucking at his neck as he walked to his car.

Tommy
sucked the grease off his fingers.

“So who the fuck was that?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.

Catfish shrugged. “Some guy I met. He's doing some kind of work for Dickie. I think he's cute.”

Tommy looked back over his shoulder and watched Crow drive his Jaguar out of Porky's lot onto University Avenue. “He don't look like a stockbroker. What's he doing for Dickie?”

Catfish smirked. “I think he's following me.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Dickie's going through one of his jealous streaks. He probably wants to know who I'm fucking.”

“What's he want to know that for? Hope this don't ice our deal.”

“I don't see why it should.” Catfish sipped her Coke, sucking until the straw drew air. “Dickie'll work it out. He always does. He'll have this big temper tantrum, kick the cat, break something. I don't mind. It's kind of exciting.”

“You sure minded when he gave that cat a yours a flying lesson.”

Catfish smiled, but her eyes went dead. “He won't do that again.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure he better not.”

Freddy
Wisnesky had ordered the Double Twin Bacon Deluxe Basket, a jumbo root beer, and two of Porky's Big Brownies. It was his reward to himself for a job well done. One day in Minneapolis, and already he had found one of the guys he was looking for. The little one, Tommy Paine. Sitting right there with the broad, the one Fat- man had told him about. With the weird name. Cat Fish.

He'd found her just like Mister C. had told him to. Like Dodge-a- knees, the guy with the light. Looking for a chance to get her alone. The only thing too bad was, he'd been looking forward to making her talk to him, and now he didn't have to. The guy was right there. And Freddy'd smashed up the Caddy trying to keep up with her. A little green car had got in his way, and then he had run over the tree.

Freddy grunted at the memory and proceeded to demolish the Double Twin Bacon Burger. He chewed methodically, biting through each mouthful three times before swallowing. He kept his eyes on the woman and the comic book guy.

A bunch of college kids with weird haircuts had helped him unhook his front bumper from the tree. They had been worried about the tree. It hadn't broken off completely, but the Cadillac had bent it nearly parallel to the ground and torn off most of the bark on one side. The consensus was that the tree was history. Freddy didn't give a shit. He was worried about the car. The left headlight was smashed in where it had hit the Honda.

The guy in the Honda had been upset when Freddy drove away. Freddy saw him writing something down. Probably the Cadillac's license number. Freddy didn't give a shit about that. He continued up University Avenue. No idea where he was going—it was pure luck when he spotted Tommy Paine and Catfish Wicky crossing the street.

Freddy ate his warm, sweet coleslaw and waited. Maybe the other one, Ben Disraeli, would show up too.

Crow
drove out of Porky's and headed east on University Avenue, drove a few blocks, then doubled back and parked a block down from Porky's and the motel. Ten minutes later, Catfish and her “love stud” crossed the street. Crow waited. After a few minutes, Catfish's

Porsche pulled out onto University and headed east at high speed. Crow got out of his car and walked to the motel.

Aquinas—or whatever his name was—answered the door wearing nothing but a big white smile and a pair of purple briefs with the Batman logo printed across the crotch. He lost his smile when he saw Crow, and craned his neck to see past him into the parking lot. Apparently, he didn't see what he was looking for. He shook his head as if he was trying to shake a fly off his nose.

“Cat just left. You just missed her, man. The chick moves fast, you know?” He was chewing on something, crunching it between his teeth.

“That's okay,” Crow said. “I came over to talk to you. What are you eating?”

Tommy Aquinas popped up his dark eyebrows and grinned. “Aspirin.” He held up a bottle of grape-flavored Children's Tylenol. “I got a bad back. You want some? No? I bet you're thinking about that deal I mentioned. Didn't think you were interested. Listen, I forgot your name. Some Indian thing, right? I'm not so good on names. Forget my own sometimes. You want to come in so I don't have to stand out here in my fucking underwear?”

Crow stepped inside. The room smelled of perfume, Ivory soap, and sweat. Both beds were unmade. The floor was strewn with assorted clothes. Aquinas was talking.

“I got a few deals going now, but only one of them is for sure. Hell of a deal—two thousand a unit gets you ten thou by this time next year. That's five bucks on the dollar. Only thing is, I don't know if we got any more units. I gotta check on that. But don't worry, I got some other deals coming.”

Crow had no idea what he was talking about. “You have so much money, how come you're staying here?”

“What, you don't like this place?” He looked around the room. “They got HBO, a nice bed, hot and cold running water. What more do you want?”

“You staying here by yourself?”

“What, are you some kind of cop? You gonna tell me your name?”

“Joe Crow.”

“Yeah, that's right. I thought I remembered it was something like that. I knew a guy named Crowe. With an e on the end, right? Guy was a limey. What can I do for you, Crowe?”

Crow said, “Did you know that Catfish Wicky is married?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?” He looked bored.

“I'm working for her husband.”

“Dicky. Nice guy. So? What's his problem—he not getting enough goodies? I can't hardly feature that. Cat's got enough Tabasco for ten guys. The fuck's his problem?” He was moving around the room, picking things up and putting them down. He sat on the bed and used the remote control to turn the television on and off repeatedly. “So you supposed to beat me up or what?” He flipped through the cable channels, not pausing long enough to see anything.

“He wants you to stop seeing her.”

“So we'll do it in the dark.”

“And he's willing to extend himself to get you to leave her alone.” Crow was still feeling around, trying to find out where Aquinas stood. He hated the idea of giving this sleazebag money, even Dickie's money. Let him draw his own conclusions about what it meant for Dickie to “extend himself.”

The channel clicking stopped. Crow had his full attention now.

“He extended himself a little more often, he wouldn't have this problem,” Aquinas said.

Crow almost smiled.

Aquinas clicked off the TV and looked up at Crow. “So Dickie wants to pay me off, huh?”

“I didn't say anything about money.” He didn't like being anticipated.

“You didn't have to. I know how guys like that think. He's got the car, the nice watch, the big paycheck. He thinks everything is for sale.”

“And you're not?”

“I didn't say that. I agree with oF Dickie on that one. How high will he go?”

Crow thought, As crazy as these two are, they speak the same language. He decided to start low.

“Three thousand dollars. You break it off with Mrs. Wicky, and you get it in cash, tomorrow.” He knew immediately that the offer wasn't going to fly. No surprise there. Aquinas had his mouth open. He started to laugh. Someone was knocking at the door.

“You want to get that while I consider your offer?” Aquinas said.

Crow opened the door. It was Catfish. She was holding a small brown bag in her hand.

“Joe Crow,” she said. She pushed past him into the room and tossed the paper bag toward Aquinas. “I had to go to three places to get the kind you like, darlin',” she said. “You owe me twenty-five bucks.” She looked at Crow, then at Aquinas, who was reclined on the far bed, grinning. “What's going on?”

“Crow here has made me an offer.” Aquinas bobbed his eyebrows and smirked.

Crow wanted very much to be anywhere else. This was the kind of prideless situation that came of working for Dickie Wicky. Catfish picked up on his embarrassment.

“Tell me about it,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “This has got to be one of Dickie's deals, right?”

Crow hid behind his face, saying nothing.

Aquinas said, “He just offered me three thousand dollars to give you the kiss-off. He works for Dickie.”

Crow felt something turn over in his belly.
He works for Dickie.
What could be worse?

Catfish frowned at Crow. “Three thousand? That doesn't sound like Dickie. I bet he told you ten.”

Aquinas asked Crow, “Will he go ten? For ten I could see it.”

Catfish took a swat at him, but Aquinas rolled away, laughing.

“Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Crow,” she said. “He told you ten, didn't he? Dickie thinks in ten-thousand-dollar units.” She was right in his face; her lips were enormous.

Crow shrugged. “I can ask him.” He wanted to go home.

“What do y'all think, Tommy? We can split it, okay?”

“Okay with me.” He grabbed Catfish around the waist and pulled her onto the bed. She kicked off her red sandals. “But the action don't stop till we get paid.”