“There is, huh? Son, you don’t have anything pressing on you like I’m going to.”
“You’d be surprised,” Ryan said. “Why don’t we have dinner together? I’ll call you back.” He hung up before Mr. Perez could say anything else.
That part was done, getting it set up.
Ryan went to a pay phone then to call Virgil Royal, with the odds heavy against Virgil answering or even finding him short of a few hours. Virgil said hello, with his lazy tone, and Ryan couldn’t help but grin. Imagine being glad to hear Virgil Royal’s voice. They talked for a minute and agreed on Sportree’s in about an hour. Ryan said he’d find it.
“I don’t see you doing much,” Ryan said. “You want something, but I don’t see you breaking your ass especially to get it.”
“I’m being patient,” Virgil said, “waiting till everybody make up their mind. You want a real drink this time?”
“No, this is fine.” Ryan still had half a Coke. He watched Virgil nod to the waitress. She was over at the bar where several black guys were sitting with their hats on, glancing at themselves in the bar mirror as they talked and jived around. “What’s this, the hat club?” Ryan said. “There’s some pretty ones, but they can’t touch yours.”
Virgil was looking at him from beneath the slightly, nicely curved brim of his uptown Stetson. “I get my money, what’s owed me, I’ll give it to you,” he said.
“I’ll take it,” Ryan said, “and everybody’ll be happy. If we can get you to do a little work.”
“What kind of work?”
“First, how much we talking about? What you say Bobby owes you?”
“Half.”
“Half of what I heard he got is nothing.”
“No, I’m telling you. Round it off, ten grand,” Virgil said. “Now you tell me, how much we talking about? The whole deal.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“But you got an idea. Explain it to me again, what the man does.”
The hatbrim rose as the waitress put another orange drink in front of him. Virgil gave her a look that was warm but sleepy. She smiled taking his empty, like they had something going.
“All the guy does,” Ryan said, “as I told you, he tries to make the beneficiary sign an agreement for his fee or give him power of attorney to make the stock transaction, you know, get certificates issued by the corporation, and according to what his percent is, stated in the agreement, he gets that much on the sale of the stock.”
“How much is that?”
“Whatever he thinks he can get.” Ryan paused. “Does it make any difference what the guy does? You want ten grand. Okay, I’m not going to argue with you, I respect your position in this.”
“My position.”
“I do. I’d like very much for you to go away and never be heard from again. But you’re here, and since you are, you might as well be doing us some good.”
“Doing what?”
“Break in the guy’s hotel room. Can you handle something like that?”
“Go on.”
“Collect his papers. Every paper you see, you take. Whatever’s in his briefcase, files, folders, a note on the back of an envelope, you take it. Something written on a matchbook cover, everything.”
“All the man’s papers.”
“And it’s got to be tonight. Around eight o’clock, in there. Room 1705.”
“You gonna have the man out for a while?”
“I hope so. I don’t, I’ll call you,” Ryan said.
“That would be nice.”
“Maybe bring a suitcase. Walk across the lobby you look like you’re checking in.”
Virgil gave him his lazy smile. “You gonna tell me how to do it?”
“Not if you know the way,” Ryan said. “It’s your show.”
“And it’s my ass if I get caught,” Virgil said. “Must be very important stuff.”
“Think of it like a paper drive. You go out collecting paper and bring it in and get ten grand,” Ryan said. “I’ll call you later.”
It was five-thirty by the time Ryan got home. He sat down on the couch with his coat still on and called Denise.
“I just walked in,” she said. “God, I’m dead.”
“How’d it go?”
“I’m supposed to be sick and I come back with a tan. If you were the manager-you can imagine.”
“If I was the manager,” Ryan said, “I’d have you on the potato sacks. Listen, I’ll be out later. The injunction thing didn’t work-I’ll tell you about it, it’s kind of funny. I got hold of Virgil, that’s set, and I hope I’m gonna meet Mr. Perez for dinner, get him away from the hotel. He hasn’t called you?”
“I wasn’t here all day.”
“That’s right. I’ve been trying to think, I still wish there was some place you could go for a while.”
“I’m not going to hide,” Denise said, “it’s not worth it.”
It irritated her when he brought it up, that she might need protection. Screw Mr. Perez, Denise said. She was through sitting alone with the shades drawn. It was a good attitude, but it made Ryan nervous.
He said, “All right, but don’t open the door unless it’s me. Or answer the phone unless I tell you before exactly when I’m gonna call. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Listen, when I come later, I could bring my toothbrush and a few things.”
“Why don’t you bring everything?” Denise said.
“Pretty soon. It won’t be long.”
“Hey, Ryan?” Denise said. “The money’s a side issue now, isn’t it? Like a bonus maybe, not something we have to have.”
“Yeah, except it’s right there.”
“What I mean,” Denise said, “they could threaten to break my legs or something, and if they do I’ll sign anything they want. They can
“I won’t,” Ryan said. “I’ll see you later.”
He called Mr. Perez, got him on the line, and gave him the sales pitch: the Paradiso on Woodward just north of Six Mile, softshell crabs, very good fish, steaks, or you can go Italian all the way… and greens. They actually cooked things like collards and escarole… Fine. Seven o’clock.
Ryan turned on an FM station and listened to jazz while he cleaned up and changed from his business suit to a dark turtleneck and sportcoat. He got a handkerchief out of his top drawer and closed it. Then opened the drawer again and felt in under the jockeys. His hand came out with the .38 Smith and Wesson Chief’s Special he’d bought three years before and had fired only a few times on a practice range. It was wrapped in green tissue paper.
He had never carried it during the three years, and even now the idea of the revolver, holding it, made him a little tense. Still, the hard weight of it felt good in his hand. If he was ever going to pack, now seemed like the time.
“How is it?” Ryan said.
He’d taken his time and didn’t get there until almost eight. They were in the bar section of the Paradiso, in the back by a mirrored wall, already eating.
Mr. Perez looked up at him. “This is the spot, huh?”
“Always a crowd,” Ryan said. “White tablecloths and good food.”
Raymond Gidre was eating frog legs and digging into his double order of escarole cooked with bacon. He said, “About on a par with some nigger places we got back home.”
Mr. Perez was still on his snails with a bottle of German white in front of him, wiping his French bread in the juice on the hot metal plate. It made Ryan hungry watching him. As Ryan sat down Mr. Perez said, “You look like you’ve been on a vacation.”
