Unknown Man #89

Light-skinned gentleman-”

“Where is that, in the front? Three-twelve?”

The night clerk had to stop and think. “It’s on the left, toward the back.”

Bet to it-on the side with the fire escape, by the parking lot. Virgil was counting on it for his cute idea to work-room with a fire escape out the window. It wouldn’t be all luck. Virgil would bet the shotgun under his raincoat Bobby’s room had two ways to get out.

He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, walked down the hall and knocked on 412.

A woman’s voice, irritated, said, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Virgil said.

He took the stairs up to the fifth floor and knocked on 512. No answer. He knocked a couple more times before taking out his ring of keys and finding one that fit. Entering the room, he felt his patience paying off again- thinking, doing it the easy way-seeing the window in the darkness, the square of outside light and the rungs of the fire escape. Virgil took off his shoes. He went down the fire escape two floors with the shotgun in his hand, edged up to the window of 312, then past the drawn shade to the railing, reached out, and laid the sawed-off Hi-Standard twelve-gauge on the sill of the frosted-glass bathroom window.

It seemed like it was taking a lot of time, but that’s the way it was, being patient. He could’ve poked the shotgun through the glass and blown Bobby out of bed. He’d decided, though, he’d rather talk to the man first, ask him a question. Not while he was holding a shotgun on him. No, the way to do it, while Bobby had a gun and felt he was the boss.

Virgil remembered almost changing his mind, standing there at 312. Then he was knocking and it was too late to back out. Close to the door, he said, “Hey, Bobby? It’s me, Virgil,” keeping his voice low.

It didn’t take too long after that.

Once Bobby Lear was sure it was only Virgil, nobody backing him up, he had to play his Bobby Lear part: take the chain off and let him in, holding a nickel-plated .38 he could trim his mustache in, not pointed right at Virgil, holding it loose once Virgil’s raincoat was off and he’d given him a quick feel for metal objects.

Bobby asked him how he was doing. Virgil told him fine, there was nothing like going to bed at ten and eating home-cooked prison chow to make a person fit, was there? Bobby said that was the truth. Virgil asked him whatever happened to Wendell Haines and Bobby said Wendell had died. Virgil said he heard something like that, but who was it shot him? Bobby said it beat the shit out of him. Probably the police. Virgil said how come he was living in the Montcalm Hotel, on account of all the cute ladies? Bobby said that was it. Five floors of pussy. Virgil said, You hiding from somebody? Bobby said, It look like I am? Virgil said, Uh-huh. Bobby said, From who? Virgil said, From me. That got him to the question.

“Something I been waking up at night wondering,” Virgil said. “How much we get from the Wyandotte Savings?”

Bobby seemed loose, leaning with his arm along the top of the dresser and the nickel-plated .38 hanging limp in his hand. He had his pants on, his shirt hanging open, no shoes or socks. Very loose. But Virgil knew his eyes, the way he was staring. The man was here talking, but thinking about something else, making up his mind. Like a little kid’s open expression.

“We didn’t get nothing,” Bobby said.

Virgil nodded, very slowly. “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say. Nothing from the cashier windows?”

“Nothing,” Bobby said. “No time.”

“I heard seventeen big big ones.”

“You heard shit.”

“Told to me by honest gentlemen work for the prosecuting attorney.”

“Told to you by your mama it still shit.”

“Well, no use talking about it, is there?”

“Let me ask you something,” Bobby said. “You put that in the paper to me? Call this number?”

“No, I wondered you might think it was me,” Virgil said. “It somebody else looking for you.”

“How you know about it?”

“I saw it, same as you did. I saw the man that put it in.”

“What’s he want?”

“Man looking for you-I thought maybe you owed him money, too.”

“You telling me I owe you money? On the Wyandotte?”

Got him up, now push him a little.

“You owe me something,” Virgil said. “Or I owe you something. One or the other.”

“Shit,” Bobby said. “I think somebody give me the wrong information. You the one, Virgil, should be staying here. You all fucked up in your head, acting strange.”

“Wait right there,” Virgil said.

Bobby straightened up. “Where you going?”

Virgil was moving toward the bathroom. “Make wee-wee. That all right?”

“Don’t touch the coat.”

“Hey, it’s cool,” Virgil said. “Take it easy.” He went into the bathroom, turned on the light and swung the door almost closed. There was nothing more to talk about. Bobby knew it. Bobby would have a load in the chamber of the nickel plate and he might have already decided on his move. You couldn’t tell about Bobby. He could try it right now or in a week, or wake up a month from now in the mood. That’s why Virgil eased open the frosted-glass window and got the twelve-gauge from the sill.

Nothing cute now, the cute part was over. He’d like to take the time to see Bobby’s face, but not with the man holding his shiny gun.

Virgil used his foot to bring the bathroom door in, out of the way. He stepped into the opening and gave Bobby a load dead-center that pinned him against the dresser and gave Virgil time to pump and bust him again, the sound coming out in a hard heavy wham-wham double-O explosion that Virgil figured, grinning about it later, must have rocked some whores out of bed. Virgil picked up the nickel-plated .38, wiped it clean on Bobby’s pants, and took it with him.

But he should have waited. As good as it felt hitting Bobby, it didn’t pay anything in prize money. He should have waited to see what this other money was about.

Bobby Lear. Money waiting with your name on it.

Then look at it another way. Dead or not, Bobby still owed him something. If he couldn’t collect from Bobby, then how about from his wife?

Virgil sat down and closed his eyes to meditate, think it out.

Something was going on between the wife and the ofay man who’d been looking for Bobby. Name of Ryan. Virgil had the name and the man’s phone number on a piece of paper in his wallet. He’d remember the name, anyway. Standing close to the drunk old man who’d called the number for him-sour-smelling old shitface bum who told him, drinking the two doubles, how he loved colored people, saying they were like little children to him-standing close, smelling the man, he’d heard Ryan say the name and repeat it and then spell it. Virgil knew he’d remember the name because it was the same as the name of a stripper he had seen at the Gaiety when he was a boy, Sunny Ryan, and she was the first white lady he had ever wanted to fuck. It was funny how you remembered things.

Now the wife and the man name of Ryan both knew from the paper Bobby was dead. But something else was still alive that had to do with money. That part was hard to understand. If the man knew Bobby was dead, how come he put the second one in the papers? Money waiting. Or maybe he didn’t know Bobby was dead when he put it in. But wouldn’t the money still be waiting? If the money was for Bobby, would his wife get it now? Maybe. If it was like money left to him.

The only thing to do, Virgil decided in his patience, was go see Bobby’s wife. Buy her some wine and ask her what she knew about it. If she didn’t know anything, then call up the man and sound real nice and arrange to meet him. Ask him the question. What’s this money with Bobby’s name on it? And if it sounded like the man was blowing smoke, pick him up and shake it out of him.

It turned out to be easier than Virgil Royal thought it would. He went out looking for Bobby’s wife and at the first stop ran into the man name of Ryan.