‘Calls hisself Ramone. I ain’t got no last name.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘He’s a spic. Smart dresser. Likes the ladies. Has a gold earring.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘I don’t know. Please. I ain’t got his address.’
Another shake. Another cry.
‘Then where’d you meet him?’
‘A strip joint in Brooklyn. The Arabesque. You know it? Close to the river.’
‘He go there every night?’
‘No. Saturdays. He goes there Saturdays.’
‘Every Saturday?’
‘Yeah. Every fucking Saturday. Now will you bring me up, please?’
Shit, thinks Doyle. This is turning into a wild-fucking-goose chase. How many more of these assholes do I have to lean on before I get to Ruger himself?
What makes it worse is that this Ramone guy is Doyle’s only lead to Ruger, and Saturday night is only hours before the deadline for getting the ring back to Bartok. There’s a big time period between now and then in which Doyle could be just sitting on his hands as far as locating Ruger is concerned.
He decides that this is the most he’s going to get out of Cubo, and hauls him back into the bathroom.
Sitting on the hard floor, dripping and shivering and rubbing his ankles, Cubo looks up at his masked attacker. ‘You didn’t have to go and do that.’
Doyle pulls his gun and aims it at Cubo’s head. ‘This never happened. All right, Cubo? I hear you talked to anyone about this, then I’m coming back. And next time it won’t be your ankles I’ll use to dangle you, if you catch my drift.’ To make his point clear, he lowers his aim. Cubo hastily places his hands over his shriveled genitals.
‘I won’t say nothing. I swear.’
Doyle nods. He believes what he’s just heard. Cubo is too terrified to risk another encounter like this one.
He leaves the bathroom. On his way out of the apartment he sees that Tasha hasn’t moved from her position on the sofa. Still hasn’t bothered to cover herself up.
Seemingly oblivious to the events that have just taken place in her bathroom, she gives Doyle an idle wave and a spaced-out smile. ‘Bye,’ she says. ‘Have a nice day.’
Cubo sits on that bathroom floor for a long time. Sits there shivering until he can’t take the cold anymore.
He drags himself up and closes the window. A last glimpse of the darkness out there makes his head swim. That guy was gonna drop him. From five floors above the ground! Jesus! He would have done it, too. It was in his voice. That dude was serious.
Cubo pulls open the bathroom door. He half expects to see the intruder still there. Maybe balling Tasha or drinking his beers or stealing his stash. And it shames him that, even if the motherfucker is doing any of those things, Cubo will smile and say nothing and wait while the guy has his fun.
But the man is not there. Just Tasha, waving her arms and yelling occasional words she remembers in the song being played, the dumb bitch.
Cubo crosses the living area and goes into the bedroom. He picks up a sweatshirt and jeans from the floor and puts them on. Then he goes back into the living room and paces up and down.
The guy said he would come back if Cubo told anyone about this, and Cubo believes it. Busting down his door, dangling him out of his own window, pointing a nine at his junk — that is one scary-ass motherfucker, man.
But, scary as he is, he is only one man. And, scary as he is, he is not scarier than Ramone, and the men who work for Ramone. When the guy goes after Ramone, and Ramone wastes him, as he surely will, then Ramone will want to know how the stranger found him. He will make inquiries — persistent and forceful inquiries that will undoubtedly lead him back to Cubo. And then hovering five floors above the ground will seem like a carnival ride in comparison to what Ramone will do to him.
And if, perchance, the man in the ski mask defeats Ramone — which he won’t — then he has to go up against Anton Ruger. And then all bets are off. Ruger is the baddest of the bad. Ruger will eat this guy for breakfast. And he too will want to know which rat squealed the information that led to him.
So weigh it up, man. Who frightens you more? A guy who is too chicken-shit even to show his face to you, or an army of killers led by a man who would slice up his own mother just to avoid boredom? Which of those is likely to triumph here, hmm? Which of those would it be sensible to stay on the right side of?
Making his decision, Cubo yells at Tasha to turn the music down, then picks up the phone.
SIXTEEN
Doyle hasn’t had a lot of sleep. Which means he’s irritable on this Friday morning. Which means that LeBlanc is not choosing the best moment to get in his face.
‘You went to see Proust yesterday,’ says LeBlanc.
Doyle thought he would be the first one in this morning, but LeBlanc has beaten him to it. In fact, Doyle gets the impression that LeBlanc has been sitting here for some time, just itching to get something off his chest.
Doyle looks down at LeBlanc behind his desk. The seriousness in the kid’s eyes seems intensified by the stark frames of his spectacles.
‘You put the coffee on?’ Doyle asks. ‘I could really do with a coffee right now.’
‘Was it worth it?’ says LeBlanc, refusing to be distracted from his agenda.
‘It’s gotta be strong, though. Plenty of caffeine. What about you, Tommy? You want some coffee?’
He starts to move away, but LeBlanc leaps from his chair and grabs him by the arm.
‘For fuck’s sake, Cal. I’m trying to talk to you, here.’
Doyle lowers his gaze to his imprisoned arm, then yanks it out of LeBlanc’s grasp. ‘Seems lately you always want to talk to me, Tommy. What the fuck is your problem?’
‘You went to see Proust.’
‘Yes. All right. I went to see Proust. Now will you get over it and move on?’
‘Move on? You act like it’s nothing. Like it’s an everyday occurrence for you. What kind of cop are you, Cal? I thought you were better than this.’
Doyle stares at him. ‘Tommy, why are you getting so bent out of shape about it? Okay, so I didn’t tell you where I was going yesterday. What’s the big deal?’
LeBlanc releases a mirthless laugh. ‘You don’t even know, do you? You don’t know what you did wrong. Have you seen what you did to Proust? Have you actually given him any thought this morning?’
‘Not since I ate my Fruit Loops, no. Tommy, what’s this about?’
LeBlanc pauses. Gathers his thoughts. ‘I went to see Proust too. A few hours after you did.’
Doyle shrugs. ‘So?’
‘Cal, he was really bad. So bad I had to take him to the hospital.’
Doyle stares again. Realizes he’s not on the same page as LeBlanc at all. Not even in the same book.
‘Bad? In what way?’
‘Bad in the way that people get when they’ve had the crap beaten out of them.’
‘What? He. . what?’
‘I’ve seen tune-ups before, Cal, but this goes way beyond that. I don’t know what you were thinking, but-’
‘Wait. Hold up, Tommy. You’re telling me that Proust has been assaulted? And you think I did it?’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘Of course I’m denying it. Does Proust say different?’
‘Not in so many words. He made up some lame story about being mugged by a gang, but it’s bullshit.’
