Drawing Dead (33 page)

Debrowski was looking around the interior of the car. The front seat was covered with hundred-dollar bills. The two remaining Stasis Shields were on the floor. She picked up one of them. “I feel sort of bad about what he did to that Batman comic,” she said. “Natch is going to have a fit.”

“He'll get paid,” Crow said. “That one was only worth about fifty bucks. It had a couple pages missing.” He looked at her. “What the hell were you doing back there? I told you I had a plan.”

“Your plans are too damn fancy, Crow.”

You know, Sam, it's not too soon to think about how you're going to invest your money, and the energy market is now providing some of the most exciting opportunities we've seen in recent years. Just the other day, I put one of my most sophisticated investors into a little thing called Homestead Mining….

—Rich Wicky,
investment counselor

Ben Fink lay facedown
on his bed with a pillow over his head to block out the squeals, grunts, and thumps. Nine in the morning, and they were at it again. Even the prestigious Whitehall Suites did not have walls thick enough to insulate him from the sounds of Tommy and Catherine fucking their brains out in the next room. It was disgusting. Against the laws of nature. Forcing his mind to other issues, he threw the pillow aside, picked up the phone, and dialed Joe Crow's number. After two rings he heard, “Wait for the beep,” and slammed the phone back down. He had been calling all day and had long since stopped waiting for the beep.

Again, he went over Dickie's proposal in his mind.

It sounded as though the comic books the old man had were worth a couple hundred thousand dollars, minimum, even if the collection was not complete, even if the books weren't in such great shape. The notebook had listed items that were rare in any condition at all.
Detective #27
alone could go for over fifty thousand dollars at auction, if it was in top condition. On the upside, the collection could be worth over a quarter million.

Yes, it was definitely worth looking into.

Dickie wanted them to front the sixty K for the collection, then find him some buyers and unload it fast. They would get their sixty back right away, in addition to a chunk of the sale price. Dickie had mentioned ten percent, but he would almost certainly move on that

figure. They could make a nice little chunk. It seemed reasonable. Almost legitimate. Maybe too reasonable and too legitimate.

A better plan would be to approach the old man directly, buy the collection, and cut Dickie out of the loop. If only Crow would get back to him.

A high-pitched ululation pierced the wall—Ben made a sour face—and then there was Tom. He had a few problems with his partner, not the least of which was Catherine. The most pressing issue between them, however, was the bad luck Ben had experienced out at Canterbury Downs. Rabble Rouser, five to one to place, had not. Nor had Golden Fields. On A Lark, the favorite in the sixth race, had failed to show.

Ben frowned at the memory of a very bad afternoon. A heady series of unfortunate and ever-increasing wagers had provided relief to Minnesota taxpayers in the amount of ninety-seven thousand dollars, the last ten thousand of which had gone to support a horse with the highly descriptive and painfully accurate name of Bad Bet.

Tommy, of course, did not yet know of this. Tommy still believed that most of the two hundred thousand dollars they had made off the GGF scam was in their safe-deposit box at First Bank. Would he understand? Ben Fink did not think so. He was most anxious to locate Wicky's old man. He could make the buy directly, turn the collection into cash, and replenish the safe-deposit box before Tommy found out. Maybe even have a few bucks left over.

Or maybe he wouldn't bother to put the money in their box. Tommy had been his partner for a long time, but people change. He would have to think about it.

Once again, he dialed Joe Crow's number.

“Ben
is getting anxious,” Crow said. “There are six messages from him on my machine.”

Debrowski lay on the sofa, Milo purring on her belly. Beside her, on the floor, was fifty-four thousand dollars, divided into four piles.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“I'm not sure. I'll probably put him off until tomorrow, keep him at that anxious pitch.” He picked up the phone and dialed Sam's number. “Sam!”

“Son! You're back! Just a goddamn minute.”

Crow heard a thud, a crash, and a howl.

“Goddamn dog got my tube steak,” Sam said. “You're back!” he repeated.

“We just got in. Have you set up the meeting?”

“Day after tomorrow he's going up north to see the books. I told him to bring cash and be there at noon. Listen, he's been after me to put some money into this Homestead Mining thing. You think I should?”

“The guy never quits, does he?”

“Nope, he don't. I like that. Says I can make a lot of money. Says they got a line on how to squeeze new gold out of mines that have been abandoned. You know, used to be there was a lot of gold taken out of the arrowhead region, specially up on the Gunflint Trail. Richie says these Homestead fellows buy up mineral rights for nothing, then use this new process to force out the yellow. I guess it's a sure thing.”

“Don't do it, Sam.”

“I figured you'd say that. Say, when d'you think I can get that red fucker back? I want to get that gas pedal fixed before you go run it up the side of a tree.”

“Anytime, Sam. My car should be ready. How about if I swing by tomorrow morning, you can give me a lift to the Jaguar place. About nine? Okay. Bye.”

Milo had hopped down from Debrowski's belly and was sniffing the piles of money.

“Which one's mine?” Crow asked.

Debrowski pointed. “The short one on the end is for Chrissy, and the one next to it is Zink's twelve thousand.”

“I'll drop that off on my way over to Sam's.”

“It went good, didn't it?”

“It went great, so long as neither of us ever runs into Joey Cadillac again.”

“You going to buy your island now?”

“I'm going to get my Jag out of hock, pay off the IRS, and make the folks at American Express happy. I'm still working on the island. What are you going to do?”

“Probably buy an annuity.”

“You're kidding.”

“You're right; I am. I don't know what I'll do. That was one nice

thing about being a cokehead: you always knew what to spend your money on. Never used to have to think about it.”

Rich
was showing Freddy how to make a Mondo Martini.

“It's physics, Fred. What happens is, where the outside of the glass is cold, the moisture in the air condenses and freezes, see? Careful when you drink it, now. It's really cold. There you go.”

Freddy looked at the martini, a frosty tumbler full of olives and gin. He would have preferred another beer, but Rich had insisted on making him a martini. Freddy tried a sip. It tasted like pine needles.

The Twins had won the night before, beat the Yankees five to four on an eighth-inning two-run homer by Hrbek. Freddy had his Homer Hankie hanging from his shirt pocket, a red-white-and-blue Twins cap perched on his head.

“I like that Hrbek,” Freddy said. He punched the air. “Pow, over the fence.”

The telephone rang.

Rich picked it up. “Rich Wicky here.” He listened, then pointed at the mouthpiece and winked at Freddy.

“Just great, Joey. Me and Fred were just talking about that. Everything's all set, you don't have to worry about a thing, we'll get back to you in the next couple days. Yeah, I understand, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little while longer. Like I told you before, I have some business of my own to conduct, then I'll put you in touch with them. Keep in mind, I'm not asking for anything for myself here, Joey. This is strictly on the house, but we have to play it my way, or we don't play. Now is there anything else I can do for you?”

He listened, frowned, and scrunched up his brow. “Do I know him? Sure I know him. I play cards with him; he used to work for me. Joe Crow—yeah, that's his real name. How do you know him? Yeah? Maybe we could work something out here, Joey. What's a piece of information like that worth to you? Fine; you think about it and get back to me. Yeah, he's here. Just a minute.” He held the phone out toward Freddy. “It's for you, Fred.”

Freddy took the receiver and buried it in his ear. “Hi, Mister C.”

“Who the fuck does that son-of-a-bitch think he is?”

Freddy jerked as though the phone had bit his earlobe. “I dunno, Mister C.”

“I ask him a question, I don't need this mealy-mouth bullshit about 'we play it my way….' Who the fuck does he think he's talking to? Listen, Freddy, I want you to ask him a couple questions for me, okay? See if you can't get some straight answers.”

Freddy listened carefully, his face contorting as it absorbed each new bit of information. After a few moments, he set the phone down and looked at his friend Rich.

“What's going on?” Rich asked.

In answer, Freddy took him by the arms, marched him through the living room and onto the balcony, pushed him against the steel railing, reached down and grabbed him by the ankles, lifted him up over the railing, and let him hang there screaming. He felt bad about doing this to Rich, but it seemed better than breaking a Mondo Martini against his forehead, which had been his first idea.

“I got to ask you a couple questions, Rich,” Freddy said.

I love to sell. Every morning I get out of bed and I look in the mirror and I ask myself, “.Is this really what I want to be doing with my life?” And every morning I say to myself, “Yes!”

—James Bobick, realtor

Joe Crow's name
came up in the lavender tickler file. Without hesitating, Jimbo Bobick dialed the number on the card, smiled, stroked his chin, and listened to the phone ring.

“Hello.”

“Joe! How are you doing? This is Jimbo, up in the lake country! How are you doing?”

“I'm fine, Jimbo.”

“Thought I'd give you a buzz, see when you could come on up and take a look-see at this island I got for you.”

“This isn't really a good time for me, Jimbo. I've got some business I have to take care of here….”

“Cool! Cool! I hear you, Joe. Hey, I don't mind. I just thought I'd give you a call, see how you were doing, you know? You been playing over at Zink's lately?”

“A little.”

“Boy, you sure took me to the cleaners last time! So when do you think you might be ready to look at that island on Whiting? It's still available, you know. The guy wants to sell bad. Might be he'd come down a nice chunk.”

“Well…actually, I'm going to be up at Ozzie's place on Wednesday. Maybe I can find time.…Tell you what, Jimbo—you going to be around on Wednesday afternoon?”

“Sure!”

“Maybe I'll swing by your office, if I have time.”

After hanging up the phone, Jimbo made a note on Crow's card, flipped to the next one, picked up the phone, and dialed.

Sam
couldn't get over the floor.

“Would you look at that damn floor,” he said for the third time. “I could eat hot dish offa that fucker.”

They were in the waiting room at Jaguar Motor Cars of Minneapolis, waiting for the computer to total the bill for repairs to Crow's XJS. One wall of the waiting room was glass. They could see directly out into the service area. Crow watched Sam watching the white-coated technicians working on clean, well-cared-for “Jag-you- are” motorcars. It was like visiting the NASA Space Center with a crotchety Orville Wright.

“Lookit there.” Sam pointed at a bespectacled, bearded technician who was examining an old yellow E-type convertible, leaning forward and peering into the engine compartment, his hands clasped behind his back.

“He's been standing like that three, four minutes now, just lookin'. How much you say they charge you here?”

“Sixty-nine dollars an hour.”

“Damn! Look at him, he's still standing there looking. What do you think he's looking at?”

“I don't know. Listen, you could take off now—my car will be ready in a few minutes. Thanks for the lift and for the loan of the truck.” Crow did not want his father to see the bill. The most recent estimate from Charles had been over six thousand dollars, nearly half his take from the poker game. Six thousand dollars to repair a car—Sam would never let him forget it.

“Maybe he's just afraid he's gonna get dirty, you think? You think I should go out there, give him a hand?”

“I wouldn't do that, Sam. Tell you what—why don't you go home now, get ready for the trip. You have to pick up the boxes and tape. You're going up tonight, right?”

“Yep.”

“I'll be up about midmorning tomorrow. You told Dickie noon, right?”

Sam was still watching the bearded technician. “Look at that! He reached in and touched something. Now he's wiping his hand on a rag. What a wuss. I bet it could cost you five hundred bucks to get a fucking tune-up here.”

More like seven hundred, Crow thought.

“Mr. Crow?” Charles was standing in the doorway, smiling happily. “We're ready for you now.”

Melly
brought him a fourth martini, saying, “Are you sure you don't want a little something to eat, Mr. Rich? We got a real nice soup today. Wild rice and chicken?”

“No, thanks, Melly.”

“How about a little toast, then?”

“Toast? No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Rich.” She moved on to the next booth, leaving Wicky with his thoughts.

Wicky was perturbed, but the martinis were helping. He'd used up the last of his coke in the process of getting out of bed and was wishing he had another gram or two to get him through the next twenty- four hours. He was still trying to figure out how it would work. He had thought he had it figured, until Freddy Wisnesky had changed the way he felt about living on the twenty-fifth floor. Wicky squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a violent shake, trying to throw off the memory. He knew, now, how Catfish's cat must have felt.