Drawing Dead (24 page)

“Comic books! Christ almighty, I got a whole damn room full a the things. I come down here to talk serious now, Rich. Tell me about them annuities. A friend a mine told me, he said annuities was the way to go. How about it, Rich?”

“You've got a room full of comics? Where'd you get a room full of comics?”

Sam O'Gara placed a Pall Mall in the center of his lips. “Had 'em for years. My brother Vince used to save the damn things. He died, I put 'em away.” He lit the cigarette with his Zippo and gazed thoughtfully at Wicky through the smoke. “You saying they might be worth something?”

Wicky shook his head. “Not a lot, but maybe something. When did your brother die?”

“Fifty-one.”

Wicky felt his heart jump. “And you have a room full of his comic books?”

“Damn near. Vinnie was a nut for comics.”

“Where are they? You have them at your house?”

Sam hesitated, then said, “Took 'em all up north. Got 'em all put away at my cabin. Take out a box now and then and read 'em. Have a few shots of Jack and read about the Superman. Vince, he wouldn't let me read 'em when he was alive. I think old Vinnie had just about every Superman comic ever made. You think they might be worth a few bucks, eh?”

“Maybe,” Wicky said. “It's worth taking a look at them. I might be able to get you a good price for them. Maybe three or four times the cover price. What do you say?”

“Well, sure, if you want to,” O'Gara said slowly. His eyes shifted back and forth, landed on Wicky's tie. “Only I'm thinking more like a buck a book.” He blew a plume of smoke across the desk.

Wicky was shaking his head sadly. “Sam, that's ten times the cover price. They'd have to be in pretty good condition to warrant that kind of markup.”

O'Gara pushed out a wrinkled lower lip. “I don't mind keepin' 'em.”

Wicky watched the old man filling his office with smoke. This was it, he realized. This was the solution. He could hear it, the knocking on the door. It was too perfect—comic books had nearly destroyed him, and comic books would save him. Superman to the rescue. A
room
full of comics. How many comics did it take to fill a room? And all of them bought before 1951. Had to be worth a lot. A lot.

He opened a desk drawer and set a glass ashtray on his desk. “Sam, if you want a buck a book, then that's what you ought to get. You stick to your guns, buddy. If there's a buyer out there, I'm going to find him for you, okay?”

O'Gara stubbed out his cigarette in the clean ashtray.

“I knowed you was a good man, Rich.”

Crow
was unpacking a box of miscellaneous junk—old cassette tapes, a collection of twelve-step books he had never opened, an empty photo album, two marksmanship plaques from his days with the Big River Police, a coffee can full of pens and pencils, a stoppered test tube containing one cigarette, five years old now, a souvenir from his smoking days. If it had been fresh, he might have lit up at that moment. He was suffering from a shortage of active vices. He kept thinking about Debrowski, waiting for her to wake up, listening for the sound of footsteps, or music, or the penetrating hiss of the espresso maker. The telephone rang. Crow stood up, knees cracking, and answered.

“ Welp, I done 'er, son.”

“Sam? Good. What did you think of Dickie?”

“Son, it were like foul-hooking a carp. I give him so much line he could go in the rope business. Took me out to lunch, one a them fancy places, had myself a New York steak and a couple Leinenkugels. You know that fellow drives a Mercedes-Benz? Now what would make a guy go out and buy a spendy car like that, he could get himself three, four Chevys for the same money? Course, maybe I'm asking the wrong guy.”

“You think he bought it?”

“What are you saying, son? You think he stole it?” Sam sounded as if he'd had more than a couple Leinenkugels.

“I mean the story, Sam. You think he bought the story?”

“Hell, yes! He wants to see them comics awful bad. He wanted to go look at them right then, but I told him they was up north at the cabin. Figure we get that city boy up in the woods, he won't know what's going on. You don't want him to know what's going on, do you?”

“Wait a minute. You told him what? You told him the comics were where?”

“Up north at the cabin. Had to tell him something, son.”

“What cabin?”

“Welp, I figured we could use your place. Besides, I figure it's the only way I'll ever get a chance to see it, since you never invite me up there.”

“Sam, I don't
have
a cabin. I told you I'm
thinking
about buying one. I haven't even looked at one yet, and I'm not going to until I get some money.
Now
what are we supposed to do?”

“You'll think of something, son. You're a smart boy.”

“Yeah, right. I was so smart, I probably wouldn't be doing this shit.”

“You don't sound so good, son. You got something else on your mind?”

“Women troubles, Sam. Nothing you can help me with.”

“Son, there's only one thing you got to know about a woman.”

Crow sighed and braced himself.

“You got troubles, you got to give 'em flowers.”

That wasn't what he had expected. Crow blinked, trying to imagine grizzled, greasy Sam O'Gara offering a dozen roses to a lady friend. “I can't imagine you buying flowers, Sam. Doesn't seem like your style.”

“Course not, son. I don't
have
women troubles.”

After hanging up, Crow sat still and let his mind work. After several minutes, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“Ozzie? How you doing, man? This is Crow. Yeah. Say, I was wondering if my dad and I could borrow your cabin for a couple days, say next week sometime? Yeah? That would be great. I'll send my dad by for the keys, you can give him the directions. Right, wiggle the han-

die after you flush the toilet. You better mention that to him. Say, Oz? You still got that porno collection stashed away up there? No, no, it's no problem—I was just wondering if I should bring along my own reading material.”

At
four o'clock that afternoon, Crow heard some noises from downstairs, then the floor started to vibrate. He decided to give Debrowski another try. He got the lavender paper cone of roses out of the refrigerator and went downstairs to see her. She was awake, but not by much.

“I just woke up, Crow. Can it wait?” The music she had playing, her wake-up music, was a sort of rhythmic drone with some spacey female voice flitting in and out of the beat. She was wearing a Cold- cocks T-shirt and leggings. The cut on her lip was healing. It looked darker now, not as red or as angry.

“No. I have to talk to you.”

Debrowski looked at him for a long time, and at the lavender paper cone from Bachman Florists. She shrugged and turned away, but left the door open. Crow followed her inside. She lit a Camel, sat on her black leather couch, and blew a plume of fresh smoke into stale air. “So are you and Mrs. Fish an item now?”

“No. Here. Welcome back.” He handed her the flowers.

Debrowski made a sour face and tossed them on the table. “You think Dickie'll pay you ten grand to quit screwing his wife?”

Apparently, the flowers were a lousy idea. That would teach him to listen to Sam. Crow took a breath. “I want to know what happened to you.”

“I told you. I ran into a door.”

“Debrowski—”

“If you want to spend your nights in the sewer with Pricky Dickie and his nympho wife, that's your business. I don't give a shit. But leave me the fuck out of it. I don't want to know about it.” She winced and put a hand to her lip, turned her face away.

What was she talking about? Did she think he had come down to give her the details on his Catfish experience? Crow felt an angry retort gathering in his throat. He choked it back. He did not want to argue. He wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily.

“What happened to your face, Debrowski?” His voice was husky, concern layered over anger. He thought he knew what she had done. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. “Did you go chasing after Joey Cadillac?”

Debrowski puffed angrily on her Camel, using the unbruised side of her mouth.

“You did, didn't you?”

“I went to ask him about buying a car,” she said.

Crow sighed. “Jesus, Debrowski, I told you to leave it alone.”

“You're very fucking welcome, Crow. Anytime I can do you another favor, you just ask.”

“I didn't ask you to go see him. I asked you to forget about it.”

She shrugged. “Fuck you.”

“What happened?”

“Joey Cadillac fell in love with me.” She stood up. “You want a cup of coffee?”

Crow's heart was sledgehammering. “He . .. what?” Debrowski was heading toward the kitchen. Crow got up and followed her. His mouth tasted strange, as if he was sucking on a nail. “He…What did he do?”

“He didn't rape me, if that's what you want to know. Not that it's any of your business. You want coffee or not?”

“Uh…” His liver seemed to have disappeared, leaving a cavern in his abdomen.

“You want a cup of coffee or not? Maybe you want me to make some for your girlfriend too.”

“If you mean Catfish, she's gone. I made her leave this morning. Look, she just showed up looking for a place to stay. Told me Freddy Wisnesky was waiting for her back at her apartment.”

Debrowski shrugged and poured water into the espresso machine. “So she goes running to Joe Crow, protector of oversexed and lonely women.”

“I told her she could sleep on the couch. Whatever else happened—it wasn't what I wanted. I made a mistake. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“You accidentally fucked her, now you wish you hadn't. It could happen to anybody. No problem. It's none of my business anyway. I just hate to see you making a jerk of yourself, Crow.” She measured three tablespoons of coffee into the filter cup, her mouth drawn down in a short, distorted arc.

“You going to tell me what happened in Chicago?”

“With Joey? I had a wrestling match.”

“Looks more like you had a boxing match,” Crow said.

“He's got a mean punch. You should see my left tit.” Something must have happened on Crow's face; Debrowski laughed. “Don't worry about it, Crow. I've been hurt worse. Like they say, you should see the other guy. I finally got to use my bicycle chain. He didn't like it.” She flipped the switch on the espresso machine. Black liquid trailed into a brass cup.

“Jesus—is he alive?”

“Unfortunately, I think he's fine.”

“Why did you go see him? What was the point?”

She gave him the same flat, frozen look he had seen on her three days before when he told her he didn't want her help. She had called him the Lone Ranger then.

“I owe you, Crow.”

“You don't owe me.”

“I owe you, and I don't like it. I cost you a chunk of money. You don't want me to pay you, I'll give it to you some other way. You want to know what I learned about Joey Cadillac?”

“You don't owe me, Debrowski.”

She handed him a cup of espresso. “You want to hear about Joey Cadillac or not?”

Crow nodded. At least they were off the subject of Catfish Wicky.

“He wasn't hard to find out about. In some circles down there, he's high-profile. I didn't have any problem at all tracking him down. All the drug dealers know him. All that crack money down there, they can't just go out and spend it, you know. Anytime they pay more than ten thousand cash for something, the seller has to report it to the IRS. Joey manages to avoid all that unnecessary paperwork. And I found out why he's looking for your friends Tom and Ben.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They scammed him, stuck him with some phony comic books.”

“So I'm in good company.”

“ 'Good'? I don't think so, Crow, although you'd probably appreciate his taste in women. He's got a blond bimbo with a pair of hooters that'd make Mrs. Fish's look like limes.” She sipped her coffee and raised her eyebrows, looking up at him. “You know, Crow, I don't know what bothers me more—the fact that you climbed in the sack with her or the fact that it was probably her idea.”

How had they gotten back on the Catfish subject? Crow shifted uneasily, spilled a drop of espresso on his jeans. There was no way out—he was guilty either of seducing Catfish or of being seduced by her.

“Leading you around like a prize bull,” she added.

“Leave it alone, Debrowski.”

“Sure. No problem. I forgot, you told me last week you were fucked. I just didn't know who was doing the fucking. So what do you think about Joey Cadillac?”

Crow jerked his mind from the Catfish problem to the Cadillac problem. Think? He imagined himself walking into Joey Cadillac's office, bouncing the guy's head on his desk blotter. Was that what she wanted? If so, he thought he might even do it. He felt as if he was threading a maze and somebody kept moving the hedges.

“I think I don't like him.”

“Let me tell you more. First, I found out that they used to call him Little Joey. His real name is Joey Battagno.”

“Is he connected?”

“He's one of these on-the-fringes guys. A guy I know down there, Lanny Lepert—owns a dance club now, used to be in the liquor business—asked a couple of his wise-guy suppliers about Joey. The word is, Joey has some relatives that have relatives, and maybe a couple customers that are hooked in, but no solid connections other than he pays a mob-owned security service to have a car drive past his lot once a night. My opinion is, he's out of the loop. Fact is, the organized crime scene down there is about as organized as festival seating at a Guns 'n' Roses concert. All the bright boys have gotten into politics, and what's left is a bunch of no-clout assholes like Joey C. running these quasi-legitimate operations with a few tough guys on the payroll. I mean, Joey's claim to fame is he sells Cadillacs for cash. Big deal. Plus, he puts out a few loans, mostly car loans, a few thousand bucks, which is what he needs Freddy for, mostly. It's not like he's controlling any kind of serious action. No big-time dope deals, no phony paper, no gambling action.” She paused. “Except I did hear he likes to play cards.”