Unknown Man #89

or had them taken; that wasn’t hard to figure, though it did surprise him. But now, what would the two niggers do if they read in the paper tomorrow about Jack C. Ryan, Process Server, Found Shot to Death? Better wait and see.

“I’ll let you know,” Mr. Perez said to the assistant manager. “Good night.”

“You’ll give me the list of items?”

“That’s right. Then you can call the police. But not before I tell you.”

“If you prefer to do it that way,” the assistant manager said.

“I prefer everybody out,” Mr. Perez said.

Jesus, he’d no sooner closed the door and walked over to his chair when somebody started knocking and he had to walk all the way back to open the door.

“Now what?”

Raymond Gidre came in.

Driving back to Detroit in the Hertz car, once he’d slipped past the blue flashers that were all over the place and screaming up the Interstate toward Rochester, Raymond kept telling himself, You hit him. You must’ve.

So by the time he was sitting with Mr. Perez and had heard about the niggers breaking in and was holding a cold drink on his lap, Raymond was convinced Ryan was lying dead somewhere in a wet ditch. He told Mr. Perez it was so because he thought it would make him feel better. Mr. Perez was more itchy than he’d ever seen him. His skin was blotchy from drinking and the red veins in his nose were sticking out. Even sitting in the chair he was hunched forward, wouldn’t let himself relax.

“What do you mean you think you got him? You either got him or you didn’t.”

“I know I hit him,” Raymond said, “on account of the blood.”

“What blood?”

“See, I must’ve hit him good when he started running again, but as I told you, it was dark. He cut through some yards and come to a street where there’s this donut place open-counter where you get your coffee and different kinds of donuts you order to go or else take over to a table there.”

“Raymond,” Mr. Perez said, “where was the blood?”

“In this place I’m telling you about. The boy works there’s standing by the pay phone, dialing it, till he sees what I got. Then he like to shit. I said to him, ‘Where’s he? Man come in here.’ He points to a door leads out back. Then I see the blood on the counter where he must’ve put his hands, smeared on it. Out back was a field and then a ravine full of scrub and shit. That’s where I figure he’s laying.”

Mr. Perez waited a moment. “You didn’t go find out?”

“I couldn’t. A squad car come in the alley as I was standing there, starts shining a spot all around. They was others, you could see the blue flashers over the other side of the field and up by the apartments, you could hear them all over. Was time I had to get out of there.”

“So they find him and he’s alive,” Mr. Perez began.

“I don’t see how he could be.”

“He gives them your name and address. You get rid of the gun?”

“Jesus, you know what that Weatherby cost me?”

“You know what it could? Twenty years.”

“I’ll dump it somewhere.”

“There’s a river out there, the Detroit River,” Mr. Perez said. “That’s where you put it. On your way over the bridge to Windsor, Canada, where you’re gonna be staying awhile.”

“I’m pretty sure I got him.”

“Raymond, check into a motel, then call me, give me the number and I’ll be in touch with you.” Mr. Perez seemed calm now, because he knew what he was doing. He was patient with Raymond, because it was the way to handle him.

“Want me to leave right now?”

“In a minute. Bring the phone over here.”

Mr. Perez dialed Ryan’s number. When the answering service came on, he hung up. “Not home.”

“I told you where he’s at,” Raymond said. “In the field.”

“Or at the police station,” Mr. Perez said. “Or the lady’s apartment.”

“Was cops all over there.”

“You remember Miz Leary’s number?”

“I never had it.”

Mr. Perez looked over at the bare, cleaned-out desk. “You certain you didn’t write it down someplace?”

“I never even saw it.”

Mr. Perez sat back in the chair. It wasn’t going to do any good to blame Raymond or curse or break things. If Ryan was alive-or even shot-up some-and got hold of the papers, he’d learn the name of the stock and the show would be over. Not only that, Ryan would likely press charges-assault with a deadly weapon or attempted murder- and here’d come the police looking for two ex-cons who’d done it before in Louisiana. If Ryan was alive, it was time to go. And start compiling another list of names to get himself back in business again, which could take him three or four months, at least. On the other hand, if Ryan was lying dead in the weeds, if Raymond wasn’t bullshitting him…

“Raymond, fix me one, will you please?”

… he’d be free to work on Miz Leary some more and, goddamn it, get her signed up this time. But if Ryan was out of it…

“Make it a good one, Raymond.”

… the flunky niggers wouldn’t know what to do with the papers and most likely throw them away. He’d still have to spend months, time and money, making up a new list.

For the most part, Mr. Perez’s reasoning was sound. Where he missed was assuming what the flunky niggers would do. He didn’t know Virgil Royal.

When Ryan came in, Denise clung to him. He put his arms around her and they held on to each other.

“You’re gonna get all dirty.”

“Where were you?-I heard the shots, I knew it had to be you as soon as I heard the noise.”

“Raymond was waiting.”

“Did they get him?”

“I don’t know. He chased me-the guy’s crazy, running down Main firing a shotgun, people watching him. I couldn’t believe it-blowing out store windows.”

“You’re soaking wet.”

“I came through that field back of here, it was all mud and crap.”

“You’re covered with blood.” She had backed away to look at him. “My God, are you shot?”

“No, it’s from broken glass. Just my hand, it’s not bad. I must’ve got some on my face.”

“You look like you were in a war.”

“I feel like it.”

He got his clothes off and took a shower. Denise came in while he was drying himself, and he stopped and kissed her and held her again, wrapping the towel around both of them. It felt good under there, and he knew it was going to get a lot better once they talked a little and got that out of the way.

He sat in bed with the covers up around his waist watching her undress. She was neat, folding her slacks over the back of a chair as she told him about the police being here, squad cars outside more than an hour while they questioned the tenants.

“What’d they ask you?”

“If I’d seen anything, recognized anyone. Or if I knew of anyone in the building that might be involved. I didn’t know where you were, I wasn’t sure. I kept thinking, I’ll hear from you soon. If I don’t, I’ll do something.”

“What were you going to do?”

“Call the police and tell them.”

He didn’t want to get into that now.

“You look good, still tan.”