Mr. Paradise A Novel (16 page)

“But you had to let him go,” Kelly said.

“The focus is still on him, you know that. He told you what she’s getting, didn’t he? He must have if you’re playing a part in it. He tells you his plan inspired by desperation and you look at it thinking, Hmmmm, could it work? Who’s out anything? Not Chloe or the old man. But if you go along with him you’d be dumber than he is, because you know he’d have to kill you. Just like the two guys had to do Chloe, because she was there.”

Kelly leaned forward to pick up her glass and have a good sip from it, Sade’s voice murmuring in the quiet, and sat back again before she said, “Chloe thought it might be an insurance policy, in her name.”

“There’s nothing like that,” Delsa said, “in the old man’s files.”

“I think it might be stock,” Kelly said. Hung that out to see what he’d say and took another sip, her confidence in pretty good shape.

“But if it’s in her name,” Delsa said, “she’d know what it is, she’d get a statement every month.”

“I know about statements,” Kelly said, “I was wiped out holding dot-com stocks three years ago. Chloe never got statements. But if it’s a stock cer
tif
icate, something the old man bought a long time ago and signed over to her, she wouldn’t get statements.”

“And he didn’t give her the certificate.”

“If that’s what it is. I guess what I’m saying, I don’t know what else it could be.” She let that hang for a moment before she said, “But I might know where it is.”

She placed her glass on the bamboo table, picked up her pack of Virginia Slims and lit one.

Delsa said, “You gonna tell me about it?”

“In a bank deposit box.”

“Where?”

“Chloe didn’t say.”

“It’s in her name?”

Kelly shook her head. “Montez Taylor.”

Delsa took a 120 from the pack. Kelly extended her lighter and flicked it.

“Montez gets the certificate out of the bank box,” Delsa said, “and brings it to you.”

She sipped her drink and poured a little more, giving herself
time to come up with a reason. She said, “I think the old man wanted this to be a surprise for Chloe and told Montez to give her whatever’s in the box.”

Delsa said, “You just thought of that?”

Kelly said, “Somebody has to get it out of the box. I know Chloe didn’t have a key. The old man’s dead . . .”

“So is Chloe,” Delsa said. “So now Montez gets the stock certificate—”

“Or whatever it is.”

“And brings it to you. You cash it in or sell it, do whatever you do, acting as Chloe, signing her name, and you give him the money. Unless you think you can get away with not giving him the money. In that case he shoots you or has the two white motherfuckers do it.” He paused, said, “I bet you could pick them out of a lineup,” paused again and said, “and I bet these guys are deer hunters.”

Kelly, listening, going along, said, “Why?”

“The way you described them. I see the two guys in the woods with rifles, red jackets and the baseball caps. The kind of guys who walk off the job during deer season. You said they looked like workingmen.”

Kelly nodded.

So did Delsa saying, “That’s how I see them. Tigers fans, or they just like the caps. They wear them straight, don’t they, not turned around.”

Kelly nodded again. This was good.

“They might not follow the Tigers, the way they’ve been playing, but they’re definitely hockey fans and follow the Wings, ’cause the Wings know how to win. Till last year. I
could go to Joe Louis tonight, Toronto’s in town, and look for two guys in Tigers road caps with the orange
D
and pick ’em up.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yeah, but when I do nail those guys, the first thing I’ll ask is if they were at the hockey game tonight. I’ll let you know what they say.”

“If you find them,” Kelly said.

“The past year we’ve had a few homicides where a witness saw two white males, ordinary-looking, working-class guys. They’re pros, but not very professional. Firearms is checking the Paradiso bullets, see if they can get a match on another homicide. A couple of
white
hit men? What bothers me, why you’ve been holding back, not telling me everything.”

“Why do you think? I’m scared to death.”

“Well, a little scared,” Delsa said, “that’s part of the bounce you’re getting. I see you playing with Montez the same way you’re playing with me. Take it slow and see what happens.”

Kelly said, “Really, I’ve told you all I know.”

“But you don’t know Montez,” Delsa said. “What do you think he’s been doing the past ten years? He was making six figures as a kid, now he’s running errands for an old man? Why would he put up with being a monkey in a suit all those years? He saw a payoff, a big one. He tells himself he’s comfortable in the suit, ride it out. Is he in the will? No, I checked. The old man was gonna give him the house and changed his mind. Lloyd, the houseman, said Montez had a fit. But he’s a hustler, and he’s given the opportunity to handle Chloe’s pay
off, so he’ll go for that one. He doesn’t know he’ll fuck it up. But even if he knew the odds were against him, he’d have to do it. It’s his nature to hustle.”

Kelly said, “But you’re not sure.”

“Yeah, I am, I’m sure. But the only thing you can be sure of, as long as Montez needs you, you’re fairly safe.”

“You mean,” Kelly said, “Montez or the two motherfuckers won’t try to shoot me?”

Delsa shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

SEVENTEEN

THE PHONE RANG AT ELEVEN AND KELLY
jumped, alone now in that cushy sofa. It was Montez downstairs in his car. He said, “You don’t buzz me in, babe, I’m gonna bust all the windows in your car.” His voice softened to say, “Girl, there things I need to discuss with you.”

Montez walked into the loft, stopped, raised his face to the hip-hop coming out of the system and said, “Missy Elliott.”

“ ‘Get Ur Freak On,’ “ Kelly said.

“Shit. What else you got?”

“Da Brat, ‘What Chu Like.’ Lil’ Kim being ultra nasty.” Kelly moving now, shoulders back, hands in fists.

“Shit,” Montez said.

“Gangsta Boo and some Dirty South.”

“Yeah, shit, I thought you was only into collegiate riffs, doing the cheers there.”

“Rah Digga,” Kelly said.

“Rah Digga . . . ?”

“Used to be with Bustah Rhymes.”

“Yeah, I know her. I love those ladies, ‘specially that dirty mouth Lil’ Kim.” He saw the two glasses on the coffee table, a little something still in the pitcher, and said, “You had company, huh?”

“Frank Delsa.”

She watched Montez pretend to glance around the room.

“Not still here, is he?”

“Left hours ago.”

“But he had a drink.”

“You want one?”

“What’d he come for, hang a wire on you? Down in those nice cargo pants?”

She wore the cargoes with a black cashmere sweater. She said, “I thought you only wore suits.”

“I’ve been set free,” Montez said. He had on cargo pants, a T-shirt underneath a sweatshirt with a hood under his cashmere topcoat that he took off now and laid over a chair. He said, “We both in style, huh?” and pulled the legs of his pants out to each side. “Diesel, one-twenty-nine.”

Kelly pulled the legs of her pants to each side and said, “Catherine Malandrino, six-seventy-five. But yours aren’t bad.”

Montez grinned and said shit and sank into the sofa that Kelly saw now as designer quicksand. She’d had two drinks and wouldn’t mind another.

“What’d that man want to know this time?”

“Same old same old, why did I tell them I was Chloe.” She poured the last of the alexanders into a glass and offered it to Montez. “It’s my glass, not the cop’s.”

“I don’t drink anything looks like medicine,” Montez said. “He wanted to know why you told them you was Chloe. What’d you say?”

“I told him you threatened me.”

“Wait now.”

“Go along or I’d be shot in the head.”

“You’re playing with me.”

“What do you think I told them? You made me. Why else would I do it? They’re not stupid. But it’s your word against mine so we’re both off the hook.”

Montez, sitting back staring at her, said, “What else you tell him?”

“He’s already figured it out. Whatever Chloe was getting, you want me to get it for you.”

Montez looked like he was thinking now as he stared.

Kelly said, “I don’t know what it is, do I? I’ll tell you what I think it is, a stock certificate. Am I close?”

“You tell him where it is?”

“In a bank deposit box, but I don’t know which bank.”

“You told him that?”

“It’s your box, isn’t it? What’s the problem?”

She got up with her pitcher and her glass and walked toward the kitchen.

“You want a beer?”

“A Henessey, a great big one.”

Kelly placed the pitcher on the counter and finished the last alexander. She’d make one more. She got out the cognac, a snifter glass. She looked at Montez across the room in the sofa.

“Why don’t you get whatever it is and we’ll take a look at it.”

She watched Montez pull himself out of the sofa and come toward the counter. She said, “Look, he knows you’ve got something in a deposit box. So what? Go pick it up. Maybe he can trace your name to the bank and he’s there when you open the box. So what? You’ve got something made out to Chloe. You didn’t put it there, but you were instructed to pick it up after the old man’s death. Okay, you’re picking it up. If no one’s watching, walk out. If Frank Delsa’s standing there, hand him whatever it is. You don’t get your payoff, but you don’t go to prison, either. It’s up to you how you work it,” Kelly said, pouring Montez his great big one. “But it’s always been up to you, Chops. Hasn’t it?”

Montez, at the counter now, stared at her.

A
VERN
C
OHN, AT HOME
in his study, was watching Jay Leno “Jaywalking,” interviewing nitwits on the streets of L.A., asking one of them if he knew who was buried in Grant’s Tomb. The nitwit said, “Cary Grant?” and laughed. Jay Leno said, “Yeah, Cary Grant,” and the nitwit said, “Hey, I took a guess and I was right.”

Was he putting Leno on? Avern decided no, the guy was a true nitwit.

His cell phone beeped, on the lamp table next to his burgundy leather chair.

Montez.

“I’m in my car coming out to see you. On 75 right now passing Hamtramck.”

“Which phone are you using?”

“My own.”

Avern said, “Call me back on the disposable,” and laid the cell on the table again.

He wouldn’t say Montez qualified as a nitwit. He was a high school graduate—not bad for a former street thug. If you asked Montez who was buried in Grant’s Tomb he’d say, “Yeah, Grant’s Tomb,” giving himself time to decide if it was a trick question. Montez’ weakness, he was too cool to be concerned with the little things that could trip him up. Lloyd said, “He knows everything so you can’t tell him nothing.”

Ten years ago, Avern ready to defend him on the assault with intent charge, ready to go after the cops for beating him up, Montez chose Tony Paradiso to represent him, Tony and his son, the prick, chasing any case that could become a civil action against the police. Avern had managed to put Montez out of his mind. But then recently, talking to Lloyd about dumb criminals they had known, Lloyd began filling him in on Montez’ activities working for Tony Paradiso, Lloyd saying he was now trying hard to pass as a house nigger to get in the man’s will. Avern said maybe he could help the boy and began hanging out at Randy’s on Larned, Montez’ favorite spot according to Lloyd, on account of the stylish working girls who stopped in there.

The idea: advise Montez on how to act with a gentleman racist and pay back Tony Paradiso, the guinea fuck, for stealing his client.

It wasn’t long before they were meeting for drinks, Avern
showing no resentment and Montez sorry he had given up on him as his lawyer to become Tony Paradiso’s monkey. Well, he wasn’t making it into the man’s will, but was getting the house instead. Avern said, “I can get you a million and a half for it. When do you want to take possession?” In other words, when did he want the old man to die. Montez said how would that work? And Avern said, “Don’t ask unless you want it to happen.”

Next, Montez wasn’t getting the house after all, goddamn it, and was mad enough to whack the old man himself. Ten years he put in for nothing, and the old man’s ho was getting something worth as much as the house. Montez explained his part in it, the old man using him so his son the prick wouldn’t know about it. A stock certificate, Montez said, worth a million six at least, according to the old man.

Avern said, “He can still be sent to his reward any time you want. You give the ho her stock and she signs it over to you. What’s wrong with that?” Avern checked it out with Lloyd and Lloyd said yeah, that’s how he understood it was set up. Lloyd being in the will was okay with Tony Jr. And if the man was to go ahead of his time, that was okay with Lloyd. Once the will was read he was moving to Puerto Rico.

But now with Chloe dead . . .

Jay Leno was asking another nitwit who America fought in the American Revolution to gain our independence. The nitwit this time said, “Other Americans?” and laughed. He said, “Was it the South? The South Americans?” and laughed. The nitwits knew they were wrong and thought it was funny.

Montez thought he was a genius making Kelly pose as
Chloe. He got the cops on him as a suspect and Fontana and Krupa pissed off enough to want to shoot him. Which could happen.

His phone rang with an annoying sound.

Montez said, “Whereabouts in Bloomfield Hills do you live?”

“You’d never find it,” Avern said. “What’s up?”

“I went to see this Kelly at her place? She says get the stock certificate and bring it to her and she’ll take a look at it.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know can I trust her. She was real friendly though, sounding like she wanted to help me out.”