Drawing Dead (20 page)

“Pretty much the same as you. I just met the two guys behind it. Guess who they turn out to be? The guy with the purple underwear and that deuce dealer from Dickie's party. I should've known. The thing is a scam from square one. Has to be.”

She shrugged. “You've still got Dickie's watch.” She pointed with her cup at the Rolex on his wrist.

Crow smiled wryly. “Yeah, I got the watch. I took it to a pawnshop last night. I was going to hock it for a few thousand, then give the ticket to Dickie. The guy in the pawnshop looks at it and says it's a good one, probably made in Singapore. He says it's 'not like that crap coming out of Hong Kong.' I said, 'What are you talking about? This is a Rolex, made in Switzerland.' The guy laughed. Offered me fifty bucks.”

“Fifty bucks for a counterfeit? Maybe you should've grabbed it.”

He shook his head. “Dickie's such an airhead he probably thinks the watch is real. I might be better off keeping it. I can always go back to Al's Loans for the fifty if I need it.”

“You ever send that guy in Chicago a bill?”

“Joey Cadillac? Nah. I figure he's about as likely to pay it as I am to win the lottery. Fact is, Debrowski, I've been fucked.”

“The way you've been acting, Crow, any jerk with a high card and a pair of feet is gonna know to walk all over you. You're wimpin' out on me, Crow.”

Crow swirled the last inch of black liquid in the brass cup, tossed it back, felt it land in his stomach, solid, bitter, and cold.

“I'm not wimping out, Debrowski,” he said. “I'm thinking.”

“Yeah, you're thinking you're fucked.'“

“That's right—I'm fucked, and I'm thinking. I'm remembering what you told me about getting mixed up with a bunch of losers. Only so far they aren't losing, and I have to figure out how to change that. I keep remembering something about Dickie, the way he buys into his own bluffs. He could be playing a pair of deuces and they'd be aces in his mind. Or they could be aces. That's how he can sell a fantasy like Galactic Guardians. He believes his own pitch.” Crow could feel the espresso beans running relays up and down his spine. “I keep seeing his goddamn face. Him and that Freddy Wisnesky.”

Debrowski climbed to her feet, took Crow's empty cup, spooned another measure of Cameroon Arabica into her espresso machine, and lit a Camel as the device hissed and belched steam.

“The thing is,” Crow continued, “Dickie and Freddy are just messenger boys. Those other guys are the ones pulling the strings.”

“The purple underwear and the deuce dealer,” said Debrowski, handing him another cup of espresso.

“And the car dealer,” said Crow, sipping from the brass cup.

“You want me to check him out, Crow, I'm going down that way tomorrow. I've got a couple bands booked at an outdoor gig in Joliet. I could take an hour and go car shopping.”

“Forget it. If this guy has people like Freddy Wisnesky working for him, you don't want to mess with him.”

Debrowski rolled her eyes. “The Lone Ranger rides again. You ever think about asking a friend for help, Crow?”

“My problems aren't your problems, Debrowski.”

Debrowski stared back at him, her eyes level, flat, and frozen.

J.C. Motors does not sell used Cadillacs. We sell demos. You know what the difference between a used car and a demo is? About five thousand bucks.

—Joey Cadillac,
explaining company policy to a new salesman

“What's he want?
You tell him, you ask him if he's got good news. He don't got the good news, I don't wanna talk to him. No. Wait a second. Put him on. Freddy, you dumb shit, what the fuck are you doing up there? Well, you find 'em. I don't care. You stay with the woman. Find her, make her tell you where they are. You don't eat, shit, or sleep till you find those fuckers!”

Joey slammed the phone down, pushed a thumb knuckle against his front teeth, squeezed his eyes closed, and tried to jack down. Fucking Freddy. He jumped to his feet and circled his desk. The phone rang again. Joey snatched it up. It was Margie, the receptionist downstairs. Joey listened, blinking, then said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay, she's been waiting, big deal. I been busy. What's she want to see me for? Okay, okay, send her in.” Joey flicked a bit of lint from the lapel of his new teal-colored silk jacket, shot his cuffs, looked at himself in the wall mirror, straightened the gold chains around his neck, fluffed up his chest hair, got back into his chair, and pretended to be reading a sales contract. The door opened, and a woman wearing a motorcycle jacket with a bunch of junk hanging off it jangled into his office. Joey examined her briefly, gestured toward a chair, and continued to examine the contract, occasionally making a random tick mark with his thick gold pen. His visitor dropped into the chair and waited, per- fecdy still, watching him. Joey kept running his eyes over the contract, waiting for her to get restless, to stand up and move around the office or something, so Joey could look up and say, “Relax.”

Joey liked to tell women to relax.

But this one was so relaxed already there was no place for her to relax to. Fuck it.

He looked straight at her. “What can I do for you, sweets?” She had so much junk hanging off her jacket—buckles, zippers, buttons, chains, pins—it was hard to focus on her face. She leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Debrowski,” she said, smiling, red lipstick, not showing her teeth.

Joey pinched her hand between his thumb and fingers and held it. A small hand, but not soft. Her eyes were bright and blue. She was looking right at him, right in his eyes. He waited for her to pull her hand back, but she didn't seem to be in any hurry for it. Joey held it for another five seconds, gave it another squeeze, then let go. “What can I do for you, sweets?” he asked again. He didn't feel the need to introduce himself. The name plaque on his desk said it all: MR. CADILLAC.

“I'm interested in a car.” She seemed amused, as if she was playing some game.

“You're interested in a car,” Joey repeated, smiling but not getting the joke, if there was one.

“Yes. I want to buy a Cadillac. Maybe something the color of that jacket.”

Joey looked down at his jacket—iridescent teal, 100 percent silk. He shook his head. “I got three salesmen out there, honey, all on draw. Every one of them would love to sell you a car. Any color you want. So how come you got to talk to me?”

“I always talk to the man in charge. I've got a little excess cash, and I thought maybe I could move a bit of it your way.”

“Who have you been talking to?” Joey was enjoying this. He'd had this conversation dozens of times, but never with a woman, especially not one dressed like this. Usually it was some guy with a bunch of flashy jewelry and no way to legitimize the income from his crack house. Guys with a cash problem.

She shrugged. “A lot of people.”

Joey sat back and crossed his legs. “Name one.”

“Bubby Sharp.”

Joey had managed to not think about Bubby Sharp and the red Allante for almost a whole day. Fucking Bubby. Out on bail now, and not at all interested in helping Joey get his Allante back from the cops. Times like these, Joey missed Freddy.

Freddy would bring Bubby around in no time.

“Bubby ain't what you'd call your sterling reference.”

“You want a letter from the mayor?”

“Look, you want to buy a car, that's fine, sweets. We can go back out in the showroom right now. I'll have Wes show you the new Seville. You want to pay cash, that's fine too. We don't mind filling out a few forms for the federales.”

“I was thinking you could skip that part.”

Joey narrowed his already tiny eyes. Was it possible that this leather-clad young woman had a badge in her wallet? Joey looked at the seven rings and studs decorating the rim of her left ear and decided that this was highly unlikely. Even the most fanatical of the IRS agents would only go for three holes in the ear, if that. He put a hand on his '59 Cadillac paperweight and rolled it back and forth across the desk.

“I hope you're not suggesting I do anything illegal,” he said.

She laughed. “Little Joey Battagno do something illegal? Perish the thought.”

Joey's features darkened. What the fuck was this? Nobody called him Little Joey anymore, not since he was a kid. Hadn't liked it then, didn't like it now, especially from some wise-ass leather bitch.

“You're a real firecracker, ain't ya, sweets?”

“I just want it clear who I'm dealing with here. Are you interested in my trade, or should I go up the street?”

Joey held his breath for a few beats, then blew it out in a snort of laughter.

The woman said, “Fine, you don't want my business. I can always go buy myself a Lincoln.” She stood up and looked down at the name plaque on his desk. “
Mister
Cadillac.” She laughed. “I suppose if you were selling Jeeps you'd call yourself Mister Jeep.”

Joey pushed out his lower lip. That did it. Nobody walked into his office and talked to him that way. The bitch was way out of line. He stood up and walked around the end of his desk and put his hands on her shoulders. He felt her body go tense. Good.

“Relax,” he said. He pushed on her shoulders until she sank back down into the chair.

“That's better,” he said, pressing his right thumb to the base of her skull and massaging gently. She was very tight, her hands were white, gripping the arms of the chair. He thought he could feel her start to shake. “No reason for us to get all upset now, is there? You don't want me to report a little ol'cash transaction, we can work that out. You got a little dirty money, honey?” He touched her cheek with his left hand and continued to massage her neck with his thumb. “Let's see now, why would I want to do that for you? You ever hear the expression 'tit for tat'?”

Debrowski
was regretting her visit to J.C. Motors. After hearing about Joey Cadillac from several of her local sources, she had become curious enough to pay him a call, get the flavor of the man, thinking of it as a little cheap entertainment before lunch. Maybe she would learn something useful, and maybe not. Crow would be impressed that she'd walked right into the man's place of business and asked him a bunch of questions. He wouldn't like it, but he'd be impressed. It was the sort of thing
he
would do. As it was turning out, though, she was getting a close-up look at behavior best observed from a distance.

Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned Bubby Sharp. She had heard the story about Bubby from a recovering crackhead who was working the door at the Big South Club. It was all over town that Joey Cadillac was foaming at the mouth over the loss of his Allante, and it had been fun to drop his name, watch him go all red in the face, but now she was wishing she had been more circumspect. But she had figured that in broad daylight—before lunch, even—acting like a customer, telling him she wanted to buy a car, what could happen?

Stupid damn idea to come here. Stupid to piss him off.

Now he was asking her, did she have a boyfriend?

Yes, she told him. I have this enormous fucking boyfriend.

She reassured herself. What could he do? Just below them, down a short flight of carpeted stairs, Cadillacs were being sold to the public. All the dark streets she had walked, all the low-life acquaintances she had survived, why should she let this balding little fat man worry her? He was a joke, not a serious threat. She should stand up calmly, brush his hands aside, and walk away.

Joey C. chuckled, still behind her, counting her earrings with his fat little fingers.

“But you mess around, don't you?” he said, holding her shoulders now, pressing his crotch against her shoulder. His breath fell on her, a cloud of cinnamon with undertones of morning eggs and last night's ragu. “I could give you a real sweet deal on a new Seville. I bet you want a nice black one, don't you? Gold wheels? Take a drive up the shore, look out over that nice long front end? You like 'em long, don't you?”

“I'll tell you what I'd like. I'd like it if you'd get your fucking hands off me.” She hoped her voice sounded tougher to him than it felt to her. She was looking for an opening, waiting for a slack moment in his attentions. If she stood up now he would grab her. She could feel it in his hands. Any sudden movement and he would be all over her. She needed the knock at the door or the ringing phone. Something.

“Now you don't mean that,” he said. “You could cut yourself a real nice deal right here and now. You wanted to talk to me personal, didn't you? I know what you girls want. You'd be a real pretty one, you got dressed up a little. Grow your hair out. Get rid of those boots. You shave your legs? I like a smooth shank, but I'm not fanatical about it. Isn't this jacket a little warm?” He reached down and yanked one of the lapels to the side, pulling open the top three snaps.

Debrowski jerked her body forward, spun, and faced him, gripping the lip of his desk, fingers pressing up against the oak grain. She knew what her face looked like: hard and white, like marble, red slash of lipstick, chin thrust forward.

“Whoa,” Joey said, his face breaking into a grin. “She's a tough one!”

“I'm leaving now,” Debrowski said, her body shaking, held in check like an overwound spring. Her voice sounded hollow, too much treble, painfully bright.

“Don't be in such a hurry,” Joey said. “We haven't even talked options. Leather seats are very sexy, sweets. What's a matter, you don't like guys or something? Hey now, where you going?” He grabbed her with one hand as she tried an end run around him, clamping down hard on her left wrist. The power of his grip sent a shock wave up her arm.

Debrowski let her body go slack, falling toward him.

Joey had braced himself for the opposite force; he staggered back, momentarily surprised, and saw a black boot coming off the floor, heading toward his face. His street fighter's instinct kicked in; he brought up a forearm, deflecting the kick, then jerked hard on the wrist he was holding and swung her against the paneled wall. A framed Certificate of Appreciation from the Chicago Area Auto Dealers Association fell to the floor, glass shattering.