Drawing Dead (23 page)

She wasn't even thinking about coming home; she just wanted her car. He'd told her he would call her back. “Where exactly are you?”

“I won't be here,” she had said. “I'll call back in ten minutes.”

“Make it an hour.”

She didn't want to come home, that was her business, but he wasn't going to go running downstairs half asleep to look for some guy who broke arms for a living. His life was falling apart already; the last thing he needed was a broken limb. He looked down the river, then across at the old courthouse, trying to read the red hands of the clock against the purple brick of the tower. Seven-thirty. The buzz and rumble of rush hour traffic drifted across the river and climbed the brick walls of The Summit. His head felt as if someone was sharpening a pencil in his ear. Wicky closed his eyes and waited for the brandy to kick in.

Even forgetting about his marriage, if you could call it that, he was looking forward to some serious complications when the Galactic Guardians thing hit the fan. All the guys he'd sold units to would be looking for someone to blame, and even though he was both scammer and scammee, nobody was going to care that he'd believed in it himself. Old Man Litten would throw him to the wolves. The SEC, the IRS, the BCA—all those three-letter guys with the one-color business cards and a hard-on for anybody who'd made a few bucks—man, no way would Catfish stick around for any of that shit! She'd be long gone in her little red Porsche before they closed the cuffs around his other wrist. And then there was Joe Crow. Their last conversation had been distinctly uncomfortable.

No question about it, old Rich Wicky had some nasty incoming to deal with.

Thank God for brandy in the morning. That reminded him to check his pockets. He found his suit coat lying over the edge of the bathtub; found the remnants of last night's coke folded into a piece of paper and tucked into the watch pocket. Hands shaking, Wicky unfolded the square of paper. Looked like about an eighth of a gram. He lowered his nose to the powder and snorted it right off the paper.

Yow.

He licked a finger and wiped the few remaining grains from the paper, rubbed them onto his gums.

Yow. That was more like it. Once again, proof positive that attitude is chemical. Matters pertaining to Freddy Wisnesky, the Galactic Guardians Fund, his philandering wife, Joe Crow, and other imminent disasters were quickly reduced to manageable proportions. A light bulb, about three hundred watts, flashed to life in Wicky's buzzing frontal lobe.

All he had to do was make a deal. What had he been worried about? There was no situation so bleak that a sharp guy couldn't cut his way out of it with the right deal. He ran down the elements of the deal according to Rich Wicky:

Talk to the right people in the right order.

Find out what they all want.

Find out what they think it's worth.

Show them a way they can get it.

And charge admission.

It was simple. He yawned, a dry-eyed cocaine yawn with no trace of weariness in it. He wasn't sure how he was going to get out of this one, but he was convinced that, as always, the solution would present itself. He just had to recognize it when it came knocking.

A
guy had to eat, sleep, and shit, Freddy decided. Especially shit. There was just no way around it. The strident echoes of Mister C.'s voice were fading, and things were moving down there in his intestines, approaching critical mass. Just a quick run up the street to the SuperAmerica, use their john, and pick up some doughnuts or something. He let the idea settle in. What the hell, he'd had to leave the ramp to make the call to Mister C. anyway; what was another ten minutes? He started up the sidewalk, his bowels humming.

When Freddy got back, bowels empty and a sack of doughnuts clutched in his hand, he found a smiling blond-haired man sitting in the back seat of the Caddy, drinking a Moosehead beer. The man grinned and saluted Freddy with the green bottle, pointed at the six- pack on the seat beside him.

“You care for a beer, my friend?”

Freddy tossed the doughnuts on the front seat and considered how best to remove this person from the car.

“Now take it easy,” the little man said. “I just noticed you sitting out here earlier, and I thought you could maybe use a brewsky.”

“You gotta get outta the car,” Freddy said.

“You work for a fellow down in Chicago, right? A Mr. Cadillac?”

Freddy shrugged. “I don't know him. You gotta get out now.”

“Well, I guess I must be wrong, then. You sure you don't want a beer?”

Freddy reached into the car, grabbed the little man under the armpits, and lifted him out. To Freddy, nearly all men were little men. He set the man down on the concrete floor of the ramp. “How come you think I know Mister C.?”

“Call me Rich. You're Fred, right? I like the way you handle yourself, Fred.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Freddy would have ended the conversation some time ago—possibly by opening one of Rich's beers on

his head—but he'd sat all alone in this parking ramp going on two days now, and even Freddy's primitive mind craved stimulation.

“You do?” he asked.

Rich took a swig from his Moosehead and grinned. “You got class,” he said. “I can always tell when a guy's got class.”

Even Freddy could understand that. He screwed up his face and thought of a question for the little man. “How come you know me?”

“You kidding? Your reputation precedes you. Everybody up here knows Fred Wisnesky. You and Mr. Cadillac are like movie stars. We even hear about you way up here in Minneapolis. A guy like you, a guy who can just go in there and get it done, he gets a lot of respect. You sure you don't want a beer?”

Freddy liked the little man.

“Sure,” he said. A Moosehead disappeared into his fist.

“Attaboy!” said Rich. He pointed a finger at Freddy's T-shirt. “Say, how about those Twins, huh? You a Twins fan?”

“Sure,” said Freddy.

“We oughta go see a game sometime, you and me.”

Three acre island on beautiful Whiting Lake, cozy 3 rm cabin with bthse, sauna, grtfshng. $130,000/bo. Call Bobick Realty.

Wicky made it
into the office by eleven-thirty that morning, which wasn't bad. Freddy Wisnesky, so far as he knew, was still haunting the parking ramp, waiting for Catfish, drinking the rest of the Mooseheads. A nice guy, Wicky had learned. Just needed a little direction. When Catfish called back, he had told her that Freddy just needed to ask her a few questions, that was all. He was just trying to locate somebody.

“You ever had Freddy Wisnesky ask you a question?” Catfish had asked.

“Sure. He asked me lots of questions.”

“And you're still talking? I'm surprised.”

Their conversation had ended ambiguously. Was she coming home soon? She couldn't say. Every time they talked, it seemed, they pulled a few more pegs out of their marriage. Soon only paperwork and inertia would bind them.

Wicky picked up his stack of pink message slips from Janet and was trying to decide which ones he could throw away, when he noticed that she had an odd expression on her face. She was looking right at him, and she seemed to be enjoying herself, a combination that Wicky had never before observed on her usually chilly features. Wicky smiled back, uncertainly.

“You have a customer waiting for you in your office, Mr. Wicky,” said Janet, sweetly.

Wicky frowned. “What the hell? Who?”

“A walk-in,” Janet said.

“A
walk-in
?” They had about one a month, every one a waste of time. “What the hell's he doing in my office? How come you didn't just give him to Frank or one of the new guys?”

“You were up on the rotation, Mr. Wicky.”

“F'chrissake. Listen, I've got work to do.” He waved the handful of message slips at her. “What the hell did you let him in my office for?”

Janet said, “Sorry, Mr. Wicky. He was out here for a while, but I just couldn't get anything done, with him asking me all these questions. You were up, so I asked him to wait in your office.”

“You coulda stuck him in the waiting room, f'chrissake.”

“Gee, I didn't think of that.” She examined a fingernail, frowning.

Wicky pressed his lips together and let the air whistle in and out of his nose a few times. What the hell, might as well get it over with. He pushed through the door into the big room, followed its perimeter around to his glassed-in office.

The man sitting in his chair was wearing bib overalls over a long- sleeved T-shirt, and at least a week's growth of grizzled, uneven beard. His feet, encased in a pair of greasy-looking running shoes, were propped on Wicky's desk. He was smoking a cigarette, in violation of the Minnesota Clean Indoor Air Act. Wicky took a deep breath, opened the door, and brought up a smile.

“How do you do. I'm Rich Wicky,” he said. He couldn't quite bring himself to offer his hand. The man sitting in his chair raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Hope it's okay I smoke in here.” He brought his feet down and stood up, pushed out a big hand. “Sam O'Gara.”

Wicky hung on to his smile and clasped Sam O'Gara's hand, allowed the man to squeeze and pump it vigorously. O'Gara laughed around his cigarette. Wicky wondered where he had been ashing it. As if in answer, O'Gara let a long ash fall onto his palm, slapped the ash against his thigh, and rubbed it into the denim fabric.

Wicky pointed to the visitor's chair. “Would you like to sit down, Sam?”

“Oh, sure. I was sittin' in the boss's chair.” He came around the desk, cackling. “Sorry 'bout that. Look, I ain't gonna take up a lot of your time here, Rich. Richard Wicky? I bet they call you Dickie. Your folks musta had a sense of humor, eh?”

“I don't know what they had,” Wicky said. He wanted Sam O'Gara out of his office. “What can I do for you, Sam?”

“Welp, I just happened to see one a your ads, y'know, on one a them MTC buses?”

Wicky sighed. The dreaded bus ads strike again. One of old man Litten's less-than-great notions had been to advertise financial services to people who couldn't afford to drive a car.

“And I happened to be downtown, picking up my license tags. Don't get down here all that often, y'know. Traffic going every which way. Anyways, I seen your ad and I figured, what the hell, I'd drop on by!”

Wicky lowered himself into his chair, still warm from O'Gara's body. He could feel the morning's hangover, which had almost subsided, climbing through the maze of his digestive system, headed for a return engagement with the base of his skull.

“So what's the story, Rich? You want to tell me about these 'income opportunities'?”

Wicky cleared his throat. “Well, first we should talk about whether or not you qualify, Sam. You see, to make money with Litten, you must have some relatively liquid assets. How much were you thinking of investing?”

“Well, hell, you tell me! How much you think you can handle?”

“We have clients who have invested several million dollars with us.” Wicky smiled. Best to get it over with quickly, add a zero to his usual routine, get rid of the guy. “I'd say you should have at least a hundred thousand dollars to open an account with us.” He watched Sam O'Gara's eyes. Something about them, deep in their wrinkly nests, seemed familiar. They glittered, seeming, for a moment, amused. “Do you think we have a basis for further discussion, Sam?” Wicky finished.

Sam pinched the tip of his nose and pushed his lips into a shriveled pout.

“Way-ell,” he said slowly, “you had me scared there with that 'several million' stuff, but I think I might come up with a couple hundred thousand. I give you that to work with, how long you think it'd take you to double 'er up?”

“You'd be willing to invest two hundred thousand?” Wicky asked.

“Two or three. Ain't counted it lately. It ain't making any money sitting in my safe-deposit. Always meant to do something with it, just never got around to it till now.”

Wicky said, “It's in cash? No, that's no problem.” He was thinking about the $140,000 worth of GGF he still had to unload. “No problem at all. In fact, your timing couldn't be better. I've got an investment vehicle here that should help you achieve your financial goals and then some.”

“I don't want no junk bonds, now.”

Wicky nodded soberly. “I can see you've thought this out. You want a safe, secure investment that will protect your capital and, at the same time, provide maximum opportunity for growth. That's very intelligent, Sam. I have many clients, doctors and lawyers, who aren't nearly so sophisticated in their investment strategies.”

“Never met a doctor or lawyer I thought was worth more'n a good bird dog when it came to common sense,” Sam said.

As it happened, Wicky agreed with that. “As I was saying, Sam, your timing couldn't be better. I've got a limited-partnership opportunity right now that should fit you like a glove. You know, the usual investment vehicles—stocks, bonds, CDs—they simply aren't producing the returns they once did. The smart money is moving into collectibles.”

“You mean like plates? I had a girlfriend collected them fuckers.”

“Plates, coins, artwork—they've all had their day. The hot item these days is comic books.”

“You mean like Superman?”

“Exactly. I have some units of a limited partnership that is in the process of buying up a major collection. They're pretty much unavailable now, but I happened to put away a few units in case one of my good customers wanted to increase their position.”

Sam O'Gara laughed. “Shit, Rich, I got too damn many a them things already. Don't you got something like de-benchers or something where a guy can make a lot of loot? What about these, whataya- callem, annuities?”

Wicky was confused. “You got too many of what?”