'In a business that's on the move. You're a bright guy, Chris, and you're not afraid to take risks. Think of how many years you could've lost your hands, or even your life. We don't have to go into that, do we? The point I want to make: What did you stand to gain in return? Nothing. No bonus, no profit participation. . . . Chris, my friend Bob that I mentioned? He started out on the road selling days. He worked his way up to sales manager, director of marketing, and when his dad retired he was made president and executive chairman of the board.'
'Phyllis?'
'Yes, Chris.'
'I was wondering, if a guy transfers money from a trust account to a business account and writes you a check, is it good right away, or you have to wait for something to happen?'
There was a silence this time.
Chris waited. He thought of something else and said, 'Is this Bob by any chance married?'
Skip strolled through Hart Plaza from Jefferson Avenue down to the embankment close to the river. He took a moment to look at Canada, then strolled back across the sweep of pavement, past a tubular arch of sheet metal, the Noguchi fountain, a mist of water shining on it. A block from here there was a metal sculpture of Joe Louis's fist and forearm, artwork for a workingman's town. Skip's gaze wandered, ready to settle on any guy in his late thirties who could be a cop: a guy with a certain amount of heft standing in one place, waiting, eyes moving. He spotted a few black guys who could go either way, pushers or narcs, but no one who met his idea of what Mankowski would look like. So he went across Jefferson to Galligan's, walked in at ten to six, and there was the guy, Mankowski, sitting at the bar.
Skip was pretty sure. The guy didn't have the heft Skip thought he would, but he was the right age and had enough of a cop look: like an ex-ballplayer who'd spent most of his years in the minors. There was one other guy down the bar and couples wearing convention badges in two of the booths and that was it. Skip took a stool on Mankowski's left, leaving a stool between them, and asked the bartender for a scotch and water. After taking a good sip, he leaned on the bar, turned his head and looked past his shoulder at Mankowski.
Chris had asked the bartender how the Tigers did today and Tommy told him they were playing tonight, Cleveland was in town. Saying there were only about five day games on Saturday this year. Saying all the beer drinkers'd be in about ten thirty. Chris had watched the guy in the black satin jacket come in and caught a glimpse of the movie name on the back, in red, as the guy looked around. After Tommy stepped over and poured the guy a scotch, Chris heard him say:
'You ever been to Perry's in San Francisco? It's on Union Street. I swear this place looks just like it.'
'It looks like some place to everybody,' Chris said. 'Maybe that's the idea.'
'Well, it's handy. You stay at any of the hotels, it's right here.'
Chris said, 'Yeah, it's right here.' He took a quarter turn on the stool to face the guy and said, 'But where's Robin? Didn't she come with you?'
The guy stayed low, looking past his shoulder. He turned his head to take a drink and then looked this way again. 'We ever met, you and I?'
'No, this's the first time.'
'Well, I'm gonna have to ask, how'd you make me?'
Chris said, 'I know you're not in the dry-cleaning business, Skip. Maybe it's the ponytail, or the way you talk to your shoulder, like you're in the chow hall at Milan, I don't know. Or it's just you look dirty. You know what I mean?'
Chris watched the guy straighten and do a little number, a head shake as though he'd been hit. Skip said, 'Hey, I don't want any part of you, man. Take it easy, okay?'
Chris touched the stool between them. 'Sit here. I want to tell you something I won't have to raise my voice.'
Skip shrugged and then slid over, bringing his drink with him, saying, 'I know who you are, man. You're still playing the dick with me. Once a dick--am I right? I bet when you guys had some poor asshole in the chair, asking him questions, I bet you played the hardass, didn't you? Show 'em no fucking mercy.'
Chris said, 'No, I was always the nice guy. I'd stick up for the assholes and pretty soon they're dying to tell me anything I want to know. Like I say to you, Can I buy you a drink? Or I say, I understand you shoot dynamite like a pro. Rub your ego, see. Then I ask you where Robin is and you tell me. That's how it works.'
'She'll meet you after,' Skip said. 'Shit, you got me to talk.'
'Why didn't she come with you?'
'Says she doesn't know you well enough. See, we got conflicting opinions as to what the fuck you're up to. If you're not a cop anymore, what are you? Things like that.'
'I'm on you now,' Chris said.
'Jesus, I know that, but what else? All I have, you understand, is hearsay. I'm suppose to find out what your game is, before you talk to Robin. If I don't like what I hear then you don't talk to her. It's like that.'
'All you have to know,' Chris said, 'I don't want to see anything happen to Woody.'
'You don't work for him. Or do you?'
'I don't want to see him get hurt. I don't want to even see him nervous or upset. If I do, I'll pull the chain on you and you're gone.'
Skip leaned closer, sliding his elbow along the bar. 'You're telling me what you personally don't want to see happen. Am I right?'
'That's what I said.'
'What I mean is, you're not playing the dick with me now. This's you talking. And what you don't want is anything could mess up the shakedown you got working.' He said, 'Am I right?' Grinning at Chris now. 'You get all ready to make your move and somebody steps in front of you. Have to line up, huh, to get a piece of the guy. So you're saying if anything happens to blow your deal, you'll turn hardass dick and we'll be sorry. Well, I can't fault you for thinking like that. Shit, I would too.'
'Where's Robin?'
Skip hesitated, easing back, picking up his drink. 'You want to tell her yourself, huh?'
Chris said, 'I want to make sure she understands.'
'I can tell her, if that's all you're worried about.'
'Where is she?'
Skip hesitated again. 'It's up to you. She's over in a parking lot behind St. Andrews Hall. Couple blocks from here.'
'I know where it is.'
'Sitting in a red VW.'
'I want to see her alone,' Chris said. 'You wait here.'
Skip pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. He looked at Chris then with a mild expression and said it again. 'It's up to you.'
Last November there were rock fans in the alley behind St. Andrews Hall, new-wavers in studded leather, spiked hair in Easter colors; normal-looking fans went unnoticed. Inside this auditorium without seats they pressed in a mass against the stage and rocked to Iggy Pop and his Brits turned loose: Iggy nonstop trying to twist himself in the air to levitate over his reaching fans while Chris, in the low balcony, watched and wondered what it was like to have that energy, to feel that response rising from outstretched hands and lighters flaming and all those eyes never letting go.
Today there were young black guys in the alley by the back door to the hall, waiting there, watching Chris coming toward them. Three guys with wide shoulders and skinny pants, wearing Pony sneakers. Their attitude was familiar to Chris but not their faces. A fourth guy, with bigger shoulders stretching his silky green jacket and holding a baseball bat, came out of the row of cars facing the alley. This one was very familiar. He didn't have to stick out his tongue to be identified.
Chris took a quick look toward the parking lot full of cars. He didn't notice a red VW.
Juicy Mouth was saying, 'This the man let Booker blow hisself up.' Announcing it to the three young guys, who were too cool to do more than appear half asleep.
It gave Chris time to look for a connection and think of Wendell saying there wasn't one, not between Booker's bomb and Woody's. But look at this, there was some kind of connection. Robin and Juicy? That didn't sound right. Donnell and Juicy?
