'Okay,' I said. 'Okay, Frank. Let's hear it.'
'A thousand dollars,' he said. 'I want to talk to Jimmy Antonelli.'
I laughed. 'Every cop in this county is probably looking for Jimmy by now. What makes you think I could find him first?'
Grice spread his hands, made a little self-deprecating smile. 'You're a friend of his.'
'Why do you want him?'
'Not your business, Smith. A grand for finding him and walking away. I'm not going to hurt him. In fact, I can help him.'
'Why does he need help?'
'Murder's a harder rap to beat than disposing of stolen cars.'
'There's always the chance Jimmy didn't kill Gould, just like you.'
'Yeah,' he grinned. 'I guess there's that chance. But whether he did or not, he'll be better off if I find him than if Brinkman does.'
'He'd be better off with Godzilla than with Brinkman. But I told you, I don't work for assholes.'
Grice shrugged. 'Think about it. The cops'll find him sooner or later. I'd like to find him first.'
'Why?'
'Let's say I feel like I owe him one.'
I leaned against the doorway, slipped a cigarette in my mouth. 'You do owe him,' I said. 'But you don't know what that means or what to do about it. I'll tell you something. I was the guy he called, when Brinkman finally let him near a phone. My advice was to take the deal, sell you to Brinkman for as much as he could get. He wouldn't do it, Frank. Not because he likes you. He doesn't like you. But he wouldn't rat. Even on you.'
Grice took a cigarette out of a gold case. He closed the case and tapped the cigarette slowly on it as Arnold hurried to dig a lighter out and hold it for him. Jesus.
He blew a thin trail of smoke and said, 'I guess I'm a pretty lucky guy, then.'
'Tell me something, Frank.' I blew smoke of my own. 'You're not much better than Otis or Ted. And Brinkman seems to want you a lot. So how come he hasn't been able to make anything stick to you yet?'
'Like I said: I'm lucky.'
'Luck runs out, Frank. Keep away from Jimmy, and from Tony.'
There was no sound of movement behind me as I opened the door and went out.
I stepped down the planks and walked to my car over the spongy earth. The night air felt sharp and clean. As I reached my car Grice stepped onto the porch. 'I'll find him,' Grice said. 'You can make a grand on it or not, but I'll find him.'
I turned to face him, saw him silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway. The silence was complete and heavy; there was no moon, no light but the glow from inside the house. Arnold appeared next to Grice. He was grinning.
I could have shot them both, two quick, surprising shots from Otis s big automatic; then to the basement, two more shots, and I could have driven away. No one would miss them, no one would wake suddenly in the night and know all over again and feel that helpless sick feeling start to grow.
Or maybe someone would. Maybe somewhere someone loved even men like this.
I started the car and pulled out hard. I drove away from that place fast, down the rutted, deserted road under a sky where faint streaks of gray light still showed in the west.
Chapter 7
By the time I got to Antonelli's the clouds had thickened. The stars had given up, and the moon was a nonstarter. Patches of fog stood sentinel-like in the trees on the other side of 30, up by Tony's house.
The parking lot was as empty as the sky. The outside lights were off and the red neon Bud sign was dark, but the inside lights were on. I tried the door. Locked. I rapped a quarter on the window. The curtain moved, showed me Tony's face, jaw tight. The curtain fell back into place as I went over to the door. Tony pulled it open, locked it behind me.
The tables from the back of the room had been piled on the ones in the front and the chairs pushed between them or dropped on top. A mop stood in a steaming bucket in the middle of the empty stretch of floor. The reek of ammonia was so strong it made my eyes water.
'What the hell are you doing?' I went around the room opening windows.
'Started downstairs. Couldn't stop.' Tony's words came a little thick, a little slow. 'Fuckin' cops left the place a mess, just walked out when they was through.'
I came back to where he was standing. 'I thought you'd be open.'
'Woulda been,' he nodded. 'Started to. But . . .' He paused, looked at me. 'This happen to you before, your line of work?'
'Bodies, you mean? Once or twice.'
He went over behind the bar, took the bourbon off the shelf. The gin was already standing open on the bar. Tony brought the bottles and glasses over; I pulled two chairs from the pile. We sat, bottles on the floor beside us.
'Vultures,' Tony said. He gulped a large shot, poured himself another. 'Phone's been ringin' since I got back here. Couldn't take it.'
I looked over at the phone. The receiver was dangling from its spiraled silver cord.
'Reporters. Every goddamn paper west of Albany must have nothin' to write about.' More gin. 'Coupla people
