Unknown Man #89

“How come you haven’t asked about your friend Virgil?” Dick Speed said. “You got him into this, don’t you want to know how he is?”

He’d forgot about Virgil. “You saw him-is he okay?”

“He’s dead.”

“Virgil? Come on-”

“You want to know about Tunafish? He’s dead too. Raymond Gidre, from New Iberia, Louisiana. Three guys dead by gunshot over a suitcase, you want to know how come I’m acting like a prick.”

They didn’t talk after that. Ryan thought about Virgil, about the times he’d been with him and the time he’d met Tunafish. He couldn’t picture them dead and was glad he hadn’t gone in to see them. Most of the way downtown, though, Ryan thought about the suitcase, wondering what would happen to it.

24

WHAT HAPPENED THAT time in New Orleans, they’d had a Jew lawyer they were dealing with and Mr. Perez had lost his patience and wound up an accessory to murder. He had been new in the business and had not yet learned to avoid risks by shifting the brunt of them to someone else.

The situation wasn’t unlike the present one: a woman who’d inherited stock and didn’t know it and her adviser, the Jew lawyer, telling her to hold out and get it all. He had promised the Jew lawyer a commission and had paid him in advance by check on two occasions. That was the first mistake. He’d met the Jew lawyer several times in the Jung Hotel and had been seen with him, in the company of Raymond. Another mistake. The Jew lawyer-in his unpressed seersucker suit, talking and chewing with his mouth open, waving his fork around with red-bean gravy stuck to it-had said, “No, it seems to me it’s a question of my client paying you a commission, what we deem is equitable based on the value of the stock.” Raymond had given him what was equitable in the Jew lawyer’s car parked on Lee Circle, five rounds in the chest as the Jew lawyer was shaking his head no for the last time. The final mistake, pissant thinking, having Raymond staying in the same hotel room with him to save money in those early days-and being there when the police busted in and three of them knelt on Raymond, holding his arm twisted behind him, while the fourth cop poked around and found Raymond’s Army Colt .45 in the toilet tank.

Mr. Perez made lists of eventualities now. One column, if everything worked perfectly. The other column, if everything didn’t.

If everything worked perfectly, Raymond would take the suitcase from the two niggers and that was that. How he did it was up to Raymond. Mr. Perez let Raymond do the heavy work any way he wanted because it was Raymond’s business. He knew how to scare the shit out of people and get things done.

If everything didn’t work perfectly, there was a chance Raymond could get (a) killed; (b) injured, hospitalized, or in need of medical attention; (c) arrested; (d) arrested and injured. The risks were pretty much all Raymond’s.

There was also a chance, if everything didn’t work perfectly, if Raymond messed up and was arrested, the police might try to involve Mr. Perez. Or it might be the niggers’ lucky day and somehow they’d stomp or shoot Raymond. But by anticipating these risks, Mr. Perez was able to minimize them. He was reasonably confident Raymond would walk in with the suitcase. If the niggers came instead, he’d offer them a drink, sit down, and work out a deal. If the police came, he’d offer them a drink and ask if they’d recovered his stolen property yet. “Raymond? You don’t tell me. He did that? Well, officer, it was a lucky thing he had a gun, wasn’t it? Dealing with people like that. No, I simply asked Mr. Gidre if he would speak to them for me. Very frankly, I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid to myself.” Mr. Perez made up lines and rehearsed them.

He had been convicted and served time once, because he had been impatient and not properly prepared. It wasn’t going to happen twice.

The other thing he did during a high-risk period-just in case he was being watched-was maintain an appearance of business as usual.

This time, what Mr. Perez did, he rented an Avis car, drove out to the A&P supermarket in Rochester, and asked Denise Leary if she’d like to have lunch with him. Denise hesitated, then said okay. “But I’m surprised. I thought you’d be busy today.”

Mr. Perez smiled. “Too busy to see my most important client?”

They met at one-thirty and drove to the Burger Chef on the south end of Main. The script Mr. Perez had worked out: he’d play with her today, get her to feel he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Then, while she was relaxed, see if he could plant some doubts in her mind about Ryan and work him loose.

But Denise didn’t give him a chance. They both ordered Ranchers, and as soon as they were seated, while Mr. Perez was still undoing his paper napkin, she said, “Something you should understand. I don’t care that much about the stock or what it’s worth. If I don’t get it, I’m not out anything, am I? I mean, I haven’t lost anything. But I’ll go along with Ryan, whatever he wants to do.”

“Even if he wants to maneuver you out of the whole thing?” Mr. Perez said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know him. While he was working for me he went along with anything I suggested.”

“That was before.”

“Before what? I’m talking about a week ago. See, he acts intelligent enough, he’s polite, gives you a nice smile. But it turns out he’s a street hustler inside, man trying to live by his wits on a fifth grade education.”

Denise shook her head, eating fries and then dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Look, and I know what you’re trying to do, too. You’re wasting your time. You don’t know anything about Ryan and me. But even if it was true, if he’s trying to maneuver me as you say, I still wouldn’t be out anything, because I don’t have my heart set on the money. I don’t need it.”

“Everybody needs money,” Mr. Perez said. “Perhaps not a hundred and fifty thousand, but some of it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“The whole thing is,” Denise said, “you look at money differently than I do. You’d push somebody out a window to get it. And if you said you were going to push me out, I’d give it to you. Because I honest and truly, whether you believe me or not, don’t care about the money.”

“Then why don’t you sign the agreement with me?” Mr. Perez said.

“Because it’s up to Ryan,” Denise said, “and for some reason he thinks you’re a tinhorn asshole. But let’s keep in touch, okay?”

It shouldn’t be this difficult, Mr. Perez thought then and at times later on. Why is it? How did it get out of hand?

The process server. Ryan.

It was the first time in Mr. Perez’s career he had misjudged anyone to the degree that it might cost him money. (Even on the New Orleans deal, the woman with the Jew lawyer, he had kept in touch with her while he was in Angola and got her to sign an agreement.) When the feeling gnawed at his insides, he took Gelusil tablets and blamed it on northern cooking. He would not admit his misjudgment as long as Mrs. Leary ate her fries with ketchup in the corner of her mouth and didn’t care about the money. He had to fool with her some more, stroke her, treat her kindly. If that failed, all right, then open the window. He was playing with children, was the trouble. They were unpredictable and threw him off his game.

He said, “If you insist on Mr. Ryan advising you, that’s fine. But why don’t the three of us sit down, forget anything was said before that might’ve made somebody mad, and get this thing worked out. What do you say?”

“If it’s all right with Ryan.”

“Can you call him?”

“He’s supposed to call me later.”

“Where is he, out serving paper?”

“No, he’s doing something with the police.” Denise cut into her hamburger patty. “Mine’s a little well done. How’s yours?”

“The local police, here?”