Blossom (6 page)

20

I
FLEW IN TO MIDWAY on a Thursday night, traveling light. Adjusted my watch to Central Time. A city snake shedding its skin, coming into a new season.

The countergirl confirmed my reservation, asked me if I was interested in an upgrade. She made the word sound so orgasmic I went for the optional car phone.

She didn't blink twice at Mitchell Sloane's American Express gold. It wouldn't bounce. I'd had it for years. Charged something every couple of months, paid the bills by check. Sloane was a solid citizen. Had the passport to prove it.

I would rather have paid cash, not left so much paper behind me. But the drug dealers ruined that: paying cash is a red flag to the DEA, and everyone has a phone. I was lousy with cash. New York cash Enough to live on for years if I went back to my underground ways. After Belle went down, I went crazy. Off the track. I had the bounty money the pimps had paid me to take the Ghost Van off the streets. All the money Belle had been saving for her wedding day. But I went after more. Not for the money—just to be doing something. Cigarettes by the truckload from North Carolina. Cartons of food stamps, sold to bodegas with nothing on their shelves—you can buy TV sets with them in Puerto Rico. Extortion. Rough stuff. Scoring like a madman. Never getting square.

Until a dead man pulled me out of the pit. Wesley.

21

I
KNEW WHERE to go. The Lincoln Town Car had a full tank of gas. Clean inside, but not fresh. Like a motel room where they put a sanitation band across the toilet seat.

The road to Indiana smelled like steel and salt. Near the water it smelled like sewage. Near the mills, like rust.

The motel was outside Merrillville, where Virgil had his house. One story, X–shaped. Mid–range: not classy enough for the desk clerk to tell me about their fine restaurant, not raunchy enough to ask me if I wanted anything sent to my room.

I set the door chain, unpacked, clicked on the TV set. I balanced a couple of quarters on the metal doorknob, positioned a glass ashtray on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.

When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid–innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.

22

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove–gray summer–weight silk–and–worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip–ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attaché case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.

The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.

Pleasant–faced middle–aged woman at the front desk. "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"

"Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager."

"Certainly, sir. Your name, please?"

"Sloane."

She tapped one of the buttons on her console. "John, a Mr. Sloane to see you." A pause. "Well, I don't
know,
do I?" She gave me a flash–smile, shrugged her ample shoulders. "He'll be right out."

The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open–necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his hand. "I'm John Humboldt, Mr. Sloane. You wanted to speak with me."

I shook his hand. "Yes, sir, I did. It's about some investments. I wonder if we could talk in…"

"Right this way."

He led me back to his office, stepped aside to usher me in first. "Have a seat."

The office walls were paneled in knotty pine, covered with laminated certificates and engraved plaques. Apparently, John Humboldt was a whale of a salesman.

I handed him the Mitchell Sloane business card. "I'm in the area to check out some potential sites. I have a number of clients…a consortium of investors with cash…who want to get in on the ground floor."

He scratched his head, doing the country boy act for the city slicker. "Well, that's mighty interesting, Mr. Sloane. But the ground floor of what? I guess you must know heavy industry isn't exactly working overtime lately in these parts."

I lit a cigarette, my face telegraphing the struggle. Should I trust this man?

Hell, yes.

"Mr. Humboldt, we both know the legislature has just given approval for pari–mutuel racing in this state. For the first time."

"That bill hasn't passed. It was just introduced."

"It'll pass this time," I assured him. "And once it does, they'll need racetracks."

"And you think Lake County…?"

"No doubt in my mind."

"I see."

"Sure you do. I'm going to be looking around for appropriate sites. Spend a couple of weeks. When I locate something I believe might be appropriate, would you be in a position to make the approach? We don't want anyone knowing about this…once they think there's outside money available, you and I both know what'll happen to the price."

"You can rely on me," Humboldt said, extending his hand again.

"I'm sure. Now, I'll be staying at different places. Low profile, you know? But my office will always know where to reach me. And I'll write the number of the car phone on the back of this business card for you, okay? I'm looking forward to us doing business."

"Me too." As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Humboldt."

"Call me John," he said.

23

I
SPENT THE REST of the day driving around. Stopping occasionally, making little squibbles in a notebook. Not for me—my eyes photographed what I needed to know. In case somebody decided to take a look inside the real estate speculator's fancy car.

I used a pay phone just off Sixty–first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.

"Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."

"It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"

"Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."

"Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Bye–bye."

24

E
ARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay–splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.

The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly—found a booth near the back.

The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off–the–rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.

"Hi! You need a menu?"

"Please."

"Be right back."

I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium–height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.

She was back in a minute, a one–page plastic–covered menu in her hand. I looked it over quickly. The cook must have figured whatever was good enough for Ted Bundy was good enough for food. I slid past the burgers and the chicken to something that looked safer.

"The tuna salad…you make it up here?"

"You can get an individual can if you want." She leaned over again, flashed me a smile. Dot of red on an eyetooth from the carmine lipstick. "That's what I do," she said, patting one round hip. "I have to watch my weight."

"That seems like a nice job."

"Waiting tables?"

"Watching your weight."

"Oh, you!" Giggling. At home now. With what she first learned in junior high.

"I'll have the tuna. An order of rye toast. And some ginger ale."

"We serve beer here too. Cold. On tap."

"Not while I'm working."

She scribbled something with her pencil, long fingernails wrapped around the corner of her order pad, the same color as her lipstick. "I haven't seen you before. You're new in town?"

"Just passing through for a couple of weeks."

"You said you were working. I mean, nobody comes here for a
vacation
."

"I'm looking over some property."

"Oh. Are you one of those developers?"

"Sort of. I…"

"Hey, Cyndi. Shake it up, will ya? You got two blue plates sitting here!" A voice barked from somewhere behind the counter.

She leaned forward again, shouted, "How's this?" over her shoulder, and wiggled her rump furiously. A line of laughter broke from the counter, working its way around the curve. "That what you been wanting, Leon?" Someone laughed. Cyndi's face was lightly flushed. "The old man's a pain in the butt."

"You're not worried about losing your job?"

"I
wish.
This place isn't my idea of heaven. I used to work over at the Club Flame, you ever go there?"

"I just got here."

"It's a topless joint," she said, watching my eyes. "The tips aren't as good here, but at least you don't have guys trying to grab your ass all the time."

"I guess you have to be comfortable if you're going to do your work."

"Well,
I'm
not about to spend my life here. Not in this town. I…" She turned as another waitress walked past. A slim woman, lemon–blonde hair tied back with a white ribbon. Her uniform was the same material as Cyndi's, but on her it looked like a nurse's outfit. The hemline was below her knees, white stockings, flat shoes, blouse buttoned to her neck. As she turned, her body–profile was an upside–down question mark. Cyndi put a hand on the blonde woman's arm. "Blossom honey, could you grab those two blue plates from Leon while I take this man's order?"

"Sure." The blonde walked away, shoulders squared. Something buzz–bombed my mind—then it was gone.

"Now what was I saying?" Cyndi licked her lips like it would help her concentrate.

"You're not about to spend the rest of your life here."

A smile flashed. "You listen good, don't you, honey? Yeah. Not here. I like Chicago better You ever been there?"

"Lots of times."

"There's where I like to go. Get out of this town…like for a weekend, you know?"

"Sure."

"I'll get your order. Think about it."

I lit a cigarette, looked out the window at the traffic.

Cyndi bounced her way back to my booth, unloaded her tray. "Give me a dollar for the jukebox." She smiled. "This place is too quiet."

I handed her a buck.

"What d'you like?"

"Whatever suits you."

"Hmmm…" she said. Like she was thinking it over.

The blonde walked past again. "Cyndi, they want you over on four."

"Okay, honey." She caught my eye. "Ain't she something! Poor girl doesn't make nothing in tips. I tried to talk to her, let her know how to work it. She's not much in the boobs department but she's got a sweet little butt on her. I told her there's things you can do to these stupid uniforms…like I did. But not Miss Priss. I don't think she likes men, you know what I mean?"

I nodded, sticking a fork into the tuna. I ate slowly, watching the women work. One of those sugar–substitute girl singers came over the jukebox. Some sad song. No juice.

The blonde came past my table, a tray in each hand, nicely balanced. Slender neck, broad, flat nose, thin lips. Ripple of muscle on her forearm. No polish on her nails. Her big eyes flicked at mine, went away. She walked smoothly, the loose skirt not quite hiding what Cyndi worked so hard to advertise. Blossom.

Cyndi came back just as I was lighting a smoke. "Was it okay?"

"Sure."

"You want some dessert?"

"I'll pass this time."

"Then you'll be back, right?"

"This is your regular station, this booth?"

She gave me a little bounce, big smile. "Yeah. Sometimes you get lucky, huh?"

"Sometimes."

"Which one is your car?" she asked, leaning over again, looking out the window.

"The gray one."

"The Lincoln?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, you must be in a
good
business."

"Good enough."

"This one isn't so good. I start at the breakfast shift and work right through to six. That's when I get off."

"I'll remember."

"See that you do, honey." Dropping the check on the table, walking away, giving me a last look at what I'd be missing if I wasn't around at six.

The diner's jukebox was time–warped. Patti LaBelle. "I Sold My Heart to the Junkman."

I left a ten–dollar bill sitting on a four–dollar check.

25

D
ARKNESS DROPPED to meet the steel–mill smog. A blanket you could feel. I showered, changed my clothes. Lay back on the bed, redrawing the map Rebecca had given to me on the ceiling of the motel room.

I looped the Lincoln past the strip bars on the Interstate, watching. Nothing. Pulled over on U.S. 30, got out and checked under the hood. I gave it another half hour, zeroing in so I could feel it if anyone came inside the zone. Still nothing. Anyone following me was better at it than I was.

Time to move. I turned off the highway, found the blue house at the end of the block. The garage was standing closed at the foot of the driveway. I left the Lincoln in the street, slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves, used the key Rebecca had given me, opened the garage. Inside, a late–'70s Chevy sedan, key in the ignition. I started it up, eased it out into the street. Put the Lincoln inside, pulled my airline bag from the front seat, closed the door. Looked back at the house. The lights were on in the front rooms. Rebecca's cousins. I didn't know what she'd told them but I know what they'd tell the cops if anything happened. Nothing.

The Chevy blended into the terrain, at home on the back roads. I followed Rebecca's directions to Cedar Lake. Found Lake Shore Drive. A resort area, mostly summer cottages. I stopped at a bench set into a wooden railing across from a funeral home. Smoked a cigarette and waited. The sign said Scenic Overlook. Told me the lake was 809 acres. Three miles long, a mile and a half wide. Twin flagpoles on either side of the bench. Electricity meter on a pole. I stood at the railing. Somebody had carved Steve & Monica inside a clumsy heart. I traced it with my fingers. Three bikers went by on chopped hogs, no helmets.

Still quiet. Safe.

The house was set on a sloping rise, right next to a railroad overpass. I nosed the Chevy up the dirt road, pulled around to the back. Turned the car around. As soon as I closed the door, the car looked like it'd been there for years, rusting to death.

The house was dark. One back window had been repaired with a cardboard carton and some tape. I peered inside. Bulks of furniture, steady shadows, dirt and dust. Nobody lived there. I took a quarter out of my pocket, holding it between my fingers. Tapped it sharply on the steel door to the cellar. Three fast, three slow. Waited. Did it again. Convict code. We always find a way. A guy who did time on the Coast told me about scooping all the water out of the steel toilets, using the tubing as a communication line to the other blocks. Guys in solitary use a kind of Morse code. Takes a whole day to pass a message along. We played chess through the mail. Used little scraps of mirror to see what's happening down the tier. Hand signals. We'd find a way. And some guys, they'd be in solitary even when they hit the streets.

Three answering taps, spaced the same way. I tapped back, this time six in a row, all quick. The padlock on the storm door was a phony—it rested alongside the rings, not through them. I pulled it open and stepped into the darkness.

Down a flight of concrete steps, feeling my way. When I got down far enough, I reached up, pulled the storm door closed behind me.

I hit the bottom of the steps, put a palm along the wall to guide me. A white burst of light in my face, rooting me where I stood. It snapped off, leaving bright–spangled lights dancing inside my eyelids.

A switch clicked. Soft pool of light in a corner of the basement.

"Thanks for coming, brother."

Virgil.