Drawing Dead (12 page)

Crow backed toward the door. Catfish had picked up the paper bag and pulled out a box of condoms. She tossed it at Tommy.

“You better get busy, big guy. This store's about to close.”

Crow backed up to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the evening sun. The musky sweet smell of Catfish Wicky choked his nostrils. His mouth was slick with the taste of Porky's french fries. He spat onto the asphalt parking lot, then walked down the block toward his car, the texture of the sidewalk stabbing at him through the soles of his shoes.

You wanna know what this business is all about? It's about attitude. You got the right amount of attitude, you control the action. It's that simple.

—Joey Cadillac

Joey Cadillac had given
Freddy Wisnesky a set of clear, if contradictory, instructions—find the comic book guys, do to them what he had done to Billy Yeddis, then bring the Fleetwood back to Chicago.

The contradiction was that Billy Yeddis had ended up with two broken arms and a shattered face inside his car under thirty feet of Lake Michigan. The first part, the arm breaking and such, was no problem. But did Mister C. really want him to push the car into a lake? And if so, how was he to get it back to Chicago? Freddy thought carefully. He was pretty sure that Mister C. wanted the yellow Caddy back. And so it followed that he would not want it to be immersed in a lake. He concentrated, keeping in mind that Mister C. did not always say exactly what he meant.

He decided that the method was unimportant. Mister C. wanted the comic book guys dead, and it didn't matter how he did it. Freddy was pleased with his analysis. He would perform his duties one at a time and, if he got stuck, he would call Mister C. and ask him what to do next.

Freddy had been sitting in Porky's lot watching the door to room 22 for half an hour. The short one, Paine, was in the room. The woman had left, then the guy with the Jaguar had come, then the woman had come back. They were all in there now.

Freddy was getting tired of sitting. His legs were cramping, and he had to take a dump. When the Jaguar guy left the motel room and walked up the street, Freddy decided to get up and do something. He decided to ask Tommy Paine about his partner. He drove across the street and parked next to the yellow Fleetwood.

Catfish
released her grip on Tommy's ears and rapped her knuckles on the top of his skull.

“Hey! We got company, Captain Muff.”

Tommy raised his head and squinted up at her. “Tell me your buddy the private detective ain't back already. He's only been gone two minutes.”

The knocking on the door repeated, this time louder. Catfish closed her legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. The knocking continued.

“I can't concentrate with that banging. Answer the door.” She tugged her black dress down over her hips.

Tommy growled and crawled across the carpet to the door. He stood up and opened the door a few inches, peered through the opening, and slammed the door shut with a gasp. He took two steps backward, and the door exploded inward. Tommy stumbled back, tripped, and fell to the floor, as Freddy Wisnesky stepped into the room.

Catfish was sitting with her back against the headboard, lighting a cigarette. She inhaled, then, letting the thick blue smoke trail from her nostrils, looked up at Freddy's massive structure.

“Nice tie, big guy,” she said.

Freddy looked down at his tie, then at Catfish. Tommy was skidding himself back on the carpet, heading for the bathroom. Freddy grabbed him by the feet. Tommy said, “Freddy, waitaminute, just hold on a second, okay? Joey's got a problem, we'll make it right. Listen to me a minute, would you . . . ?” He was hanging upside down, his face bright red. “You don't got to do this. I just talked to Joey on the phone. Five minutes ago I was talking to him, I'm not kidding you.”

Freddy gave him a shake, snapping his head back and forth.

Catfish said, “How tall are you, anyways? Are you seven feet tall? I never met a guy as big as you.” She made her eyes go round.

Freddy paused. “I'm six six,” he said.

“I ain't kidding you,” Tommy whined. “You don't believe me, you can call him. We made a deal. In fact, he said I should tell you to call him. Freddy? You hear me, guy? You got to call Joey.”

“Shut up a minute.” Freddy delivered a light kick to the head; Tommy groaned and went slack.

“I got a cousin six foot eight,” Freddy said to Catfish. “Use ta play center for the Bulls. Tallest white guy on the team.”

“Really? He give y'all that tie?” She hugged her legs.

Freddy held Tommy's bare feet out away from his chest and looked again at his tie, tiger lilies, bright-orange flowers on blue silk. “I picked it out myself. You like it?”

“I like it a lot,” Catfish said. “Who's Joey?”

“I never heard of him,” Freddy said. Joey Cadillac was always telling him to say that.

“Oh. That's too bad, because he just called for y'all. y'all're supposed to call him back, like Tommy said.”

Tommy moaned. Freddy lowered him so that his shoulders rested on the floor. “That right?” he asked.

Tommy coughed and said, “I told you, man. Your boss, Joey, you're supposed to call him. We made a new deal with him.”

Freddy let Tommy's hips and legs thump to the floor. “Stay put,” he said. “Okay?” He circled the bed and reached for the telephone.

Tommy said, “Sure, Freddy, no problem. You just call Joey and ask him.” Slowly, he rolled onto his belly and rose to his hands and knees. “We're all friends now. Isn't that what he said, Cat? We're all supposed to be friends, right?”

“That's right,” said Catfish. “We're all friends now.”

Freddy had the phone in his hand. “Where did he say to call?” he asked her.

Catfish lapped up smoke from her cigarette and shrugged. She gestured at Tommy, who said, “Area code three one two…”

Freddy squinted at the telephone dial pad and picked out the numbers with his thick fingers. When he looked to Tommy for the rest of the number, all he saw was the ass end of a pair of purple Batman briefs disappearing out the door.

Joe
Crow was still sitting in his parked car, trying to find Whiting Lake on a road atlas. That morning he had retrieved Jimbo Bobick's letter and photos from his wastebasket and attached them to his refrigerator door with a magnet shaped like a walleye, Bobick's address and phone number printed on its side. The island was on Whiting Lake, but he couldn't find the lake on the map. That probably meant it was a small lake. A little cabin on a little island on a little lake. Perfect.

According to Jimbo, all he needed was a thirty-thousand-dollar down payment. The seller would contract for the other hundred, which would probably cost him about eight hundred a month. Crow had no idea where he might get thirty grand, but if it came his way, he'd first have to pay off the IRS, get caught up with the people at American Express, take care of the rent, get the Jag tuned….

Crow sighed. He imagined himself sitting in his dream cabin, too worried about how he was going to make his monthly payment to enjoy the scenery. He closed the atlas. His first priority was to finish up this Wicky business—get the money, pay off Catfish's love stud, take his fee, and leave it all behind. Find a nice, clean card game and go back to living right.

He started the Jag and pulled out onto University Avenue. As he passed the Twin Town, he saw Tommy Aquinas dash across the street in front of him, barefoot, wearing nothing but his purple underwear. Crow slowed down and watched him run through Porky's parking lot, weaving among the cars, then crash through the bushes at the back of the lot.

That's different, Crow thought.

He looked toward the motel. A large, ugly man with a bright orange- and-blue tie was charging straight at him. Crow goosed the accelerator and shot forward to get out of the way. The big man, who looked awfully familiar, passed behind the Jag and crossed the street at high speed. Crow pulled over and watched him run through Porky's lot into the bushes, leaving a large, ragged gap where he had penetrated the foliage. Crow looked back toward the motel, half expecting a third, perhaps even larger, runner.

Catfish was standing in the door to room 22, leaning against the jamb, laughing smoke. She waved at him.

Crow put the Jag in gear and continued down University. He wasn't even going to think about it.

The
accessories man was pushing rubies.

“You got your diamonds, Mister C., and I got to say for investment they are your top of the line. But if you really want to get a lady's attention, you got to be talking rubies. You give some chick an emerald, and she wants you to take her out on the town, spend some more money, show it off to her girlfriends, y'know? You hang a diamond on her, and what's she thinking? Right. She thinks you're gonna

marry her. All she can think about is the big white dress. But your rubies, you give a chick a ruby and she's got one thing in mind, and that's how it's gonna look without nothing else on her body, you know what I mean? You give a chick a ruby, and she says, 'do me.' “

Joey Cadillac was working on his cuticles, shoving them back just so with the tip of a letter opener. He was in a good mood, a mood to buy something nice. The accessories man had his black velvet spread on Joey's desk. He was laying out a row of rings set with bright-red jewels, talking them up.

“A lot of people don't know this, but a perfect ruby is actually rarer and costlier than your perfect diamond. Take a look at this.” He pointed at a ring carrying one of the larger stones.

Joey leaned forward and looked. A red rock, like glass, set into a slim gold ring. He picked it up and held it to the light. “How much you get for this one?”

“That item was selling for eighteen at Cartier. I could let you have it for ten.”

Joey dropped the ring. “I got cars I sell for less than that. What else you got?”

The accessories man was thrown, but only for about a tenth of a second.

“Whatever you want, Mister C. I got some nice Sulka ties in. I got in some Davidoff Havanas. You know, Davidoff doesn't make Cuban cigars anymore. They're into selling that Dominican crap now. Once these are gone, crop of '90, that's it, my friend.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred a box of twenty-five.”

“Jesus. Okay, get me a couple boxes. You got any sunglasses? I lost my goddamn shades.”

“I got whatever you want, Mister C. I got every major manufacturer. I got your Ray-Bans. I got your Vuarnets. I got your Porsche Design.” He rolled up the velvet and put it away in his jewelry case. “What kind of sunglasses did you want?”

“Something with attitude,” Joey said. “But not too much attitude.”

The accessories man closed his eyes, accessing his inventory data base.

“I got just what you need.” He smiled.

“Something in blue,” Joey said. “Blue frames. Maybe like a teal color. And those lenses that change color, you know?”

“Perfect,” said the accessories man. “That's just what I had in mind.”

The intercom buzzed. Joey said, “Yeah?”

“I have Mr. Wisnesky on the line.”

“Okay.” Joey motioned the accessories man toward the door. “Pick me out a nice pair, have them sent over with the smokes.” He waited for the accessories salesman to close the door, then pressed the speakerphone button.

“Frederick,” he said, smiling in anticipation. As he listened, the flesh on either side of his mouth moved slowly toward the floor, making his face look a lot like a Richard Nixon Halloween mask.

The odds are, the guy who makes the first play is the guy who's going to win. My problem is, I only remember that when I'm playing cards.

—Joe Crow

“I don't want to know
his name. I don't want to know anything about him.” Dickie Wicky made out the ten-thousand-dollar check, left the payee name blank, slid it across his desk.

Crow said, “I told the guy it would be cash.”

“This is better than cash,” Wicky said. “It's got my name on it.”

Crow looked at the check doubtfully. It was nine o'clock in the morning, too early to argue. “What about my fee?”

“You got your retainer. Bill me for the balance when you get the job done,” said Wicky, straining to give the impression of a busy man who had been bothered enough already. He looked out through the glass wall of his office. Dickie Wicky at nine o'clock in the morning was not a pretty sight. His eyes were crusty, his face bloodless, and he needed a new knot in his tie. He looked like a man with a swollen brain and a liver to match. Crow felt a wave of vicarious nausea.

“Did she get home last night?”

Wicky blinked and turned his face toward Crow. “Cat? I don't remember. She was there when I got up.”

Crow folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket. “Maybe this will take care of it,” he said, not believing it.

Wicky shrugged. “For a while.”

Crow stood up.

Wicky said, “What kind of guy is he? Is he big?”

“He's a runt, Dickie. Just like you and me.”

On his way out of the Litten Securities offices, Crow told Janet the receptionist that she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer the actress.

“I've heard that before,” she said, her glacial demeanor thawing slightly.

Crow grinned. “I bet you have. And you know who I think Dickie looks like?”

“He
thinks
he looks like Nick Nolte,” she said, with a sour twist to her polished lips. “He told me that.”

“Nick Nolte?” Crow tried to see it but failed. “I was going to say he looks like a blond Buddy Hackett.”

“I could see that. Buddy Hackett bleached.” She gave a sharp nod. “I like that. So who do you look like?”

“Me? I was thinking Cary Grant.”