CHAPTER 22
A sound woke me up. A bird chirping at me, then stopping, then chirping again. No, it was a phone. I picked my head up. I was still in my clothes, lying on the motel bed in Whitehall. I hadn’t even turned down the covers, just walked in at 4:30 in the morning and fell over. My right hand was still swollen, a little reminder just in case I thought it was all a bad dream.
What time was it now? I couldn’t see the clock, but there was daylight in the room, brighter than anything I’d ever seen.
The phone rang again. I pulled myself up. I picked up the phone. Dial tone.
I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. The phone rang again. It wasn’t the motel phone. It was my cell phone. Which was impossible, because it was out in the truck.
The phone rang again. Okay, it wasn’t my cell phone. My phone doesn’t sound like that. My phone isn’t nearly as annoying.
Whitley’s phone. It was still in my coat pocket, and apparently still on. I got up and grabbed my coat, took the phone out of the pocket. It rang one more time before I could answer it.
“Who is this?” I said.
“Is that you, McKnight?” I knew the voice.
“What is it, Harwood? Why are you calling me?”
“You stole Whitley’s phone,” he said. “Not to mention his car. He’s not happy.”
“And yet somehow I’m not overcome with guilt,” I said. “Is that all you wanted to say?”
“Sounds like you had quite a night,” he said. “I mean, unless she was exaggerating.”
“Good-bye,” I said.
“Why did you ask me about Randy Wilkins?”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“He was the pitcher, right? For the Tigers. The guy who got destroyed in his only game. I was at that game. Did you know that?”
“You don’t say.”
“His father was a real estate developer out in California. We were going to do some kinda deal, but it fell through. I guess that’s why I went to the game. His father couldn’t make it, so I said I’d go. Man, did he get shelled, though. What did he give up, like eight runs in the first inning?”
“Harwood, that’s the only contact you ever had with him? Just going to his game?” I didn’t know what to make of this. It was too much of a coincidence.
“I think I saw him a couple days later, at a restaurant somewhere. I stopped by to pay my respects, you know, offer my condolences… And then-wait a minute.”
“What is it?”
“It’s coming back to me,” he said. “It was the Lin-dell AC, in downtown Detroit. You know it?”
“Yes.”
“I had a quick drink with him, figured it was the least I could do. I was still trying to put together some kind of deal with his father. I was trying to maintain a good rapport with the whole family, you know? And here’s this poor kid who made a total fool of himself in front of a whole stadium. Out of the blue, he says I have to go down the street and get my fortune told by this old woman. He didn’t say anything about Maria, just Madame whatsherface, whatever they hell she was calling herself. The deal with Wilkins’s father fell through right after that. I don’t think I’ve even heard the name again until you asked me about it last night.”
“So that’s how you met Maria? Randy told you to go have your fortune told?”
“I guess it was, now that I think about it. Goddamn it, I never really put that together. Wilkins was the guy who told me I should go see the fortune-teller. Goddamn it all. Although I don’t remember even stopping by there until-what, the next year? That game was in ‘71. Yeah, I think it was the next season. I was at another game in ‘72. That was the year they lost to the A’s in the play-offs, right? I was walking back to my car from the stadium, saw her sign there on Leverette Street, remembered I was supposed to go see her. I was curious, you know? I never had my fortune told. I went just for the hell of it. Obviously, the biggest mistake I ever made. Boy, did they rope me in. Your little girlfriend has been running con games her whole life. I hope you know that, Mc-Knight. Her whole family. They got me into a pretty tight spot, set me up and then took some pictures. In a hotel room. They blackmailed me for years. Then she got her hooks into my partner, Arthur Zambelli. He never knew what hit him. They were married for what, ten years? I tried to warn the man. I told him what she had done to me. He didn’t believe me. Although you know what? When I look back on it now, I think maybe he did believe me, but he didn’t care. He must’ve thought she had changed or something. That’s the kind of guy he was.”
“What’s your blood type?” I said.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just tell me.”
“This is about her daughter, isn’t it?” he said.
“Zambelli wasn’t her father.”
“No shit,” he said. “Why do you think she killed him?”
That one stopped me. “What are you talking about?”
“He had some kind of physical problem. Like no sperm count at all. When she got pregnant, she had three choices. Tell him and risk getting dumped for good, and lose out on some serious money. Or get an abortion, which is what most women would have done. Or just kill him. Hell, she even gets a nice insurance payoff with that choice. There wasn’t much to think about.”
“Are you Delilah’s father?”
“Hell if I know.”
“So it’s possible?”
“I suppose so. Does it even matter? If she’s my daughter, she grew up hating me. She probably went to bed every night hearing about how evil I am.”
“So it’s possible,” I said. “The two of you were together, even then. Just out of curiosity, how does that work? This was the same woman who set you up and blackmailed you, right?”
“She still was,” he said. “The whole time. For ten years. I figured I was already paying for it, so why not?”
“And why would Maria have anything to do with you at that point?”
“Don’t you get it, McKnight? I’m the best she ever had. It still drives her crazy.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Spare me. I’m sorry I asked.”
“You want to know what she did after she killed Zambelli?”
“She had her brother throw you down the stairs,” I said. “I know the story.”
“No, after that,” he said. “When she moved down to Florida, she sent my wife a little good-bye present. Those pictures they took of us back in 1972. It wasn’t enough that I was fucking crippled, McKnight. She had to ruin my marriage, too.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“I thought you should know the truth,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this last night?” I said. “Oh yeah, I guess you were too busy trying to shoot me.”
I heard something in the background. It sounded like the hum of traffic, and somebody yelling.
“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Whitley,” Harwood said. “I just drove over some railroad tracks. He’s lying down, trying to get his back to loosen up. You really did a number on him.”
“You’re driving?” I said.
“Yes, I’m driving. I can do anything I want in this thing. Drive with just my hands, even talk on the phone at the same time.”
“Well, good for you,” I said. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“I just hope you’ve got some brains left,” he said. “Get out now, while you still can.”
