Blossom (9 page)

33

I
PULLED OUT BEFORE the full morning light. Switched the Chevy for the Lincoln. Left the stack of magazines in the Chevy's trunk. Rebecca's cousins would know what to do with whatever they found back there.

Back in the motel, I took a shower. Slept until noon.

34

W
HEN I GOT UP, I called Glenda. Nobody asking for me. I put on my prospector's outfit and went into the streets to look around.

Found a pay phone. Dumped in a handful of quarters, dialed the Mole's junkyard. Heard the phone picked up at the other end. The Mole never answered—he just waited.

"It's me. The Prof call in?"

"Every day." It was Terry's voice. Like father, like son.

"Tell him I'm okay. Keep checking, okay?"

"Sure."

I drifted in loops, looking for enough vacant land to build a racetrack on.

After a couple of hours, I realized I'd never get a feel for these streets without some help. I wasn't tuned in—couldn't feel the heat. If there was any.

35

I
T WAS ALMOST five when I pulled into the parking lot of the diner. I found my way to the booth in the back, lit a smoke, waited.

Blossom came to the table, a menu tucked under one arm, order pad open in her hand.

"What'll it be?"

I looked up just in time to see Cyndi smoothly bump her hip into Blossom, pushing the blonde woman aside. "This is my table, honey," she said, flashing a smile.

"It's
been
your table the past half hour, girl."

"I was on my break. Now shove off, okay?"

Blossom gave her a "watch your step" look and moved away, not looking back.

"Thought I'd see you last night. After I got off," Cyndi said, a tentative smile on her lips, not showing any teeth.

"Business. Never know when I'm going to get a call."

"Like they leave messages for you and stuff?"

"Or call me in the car."

"Oh! You've got one of those car phones?"

"Yeah."

"They're pretty expensive, huh?"

"Business expense."

"That's what I'd like to be," she said, puffing out her chest. "A business expense."

"No you wouldn't. Kleenex is Kleenex, no matter how much it costs."

"What d'you mean?"

"When you're done with it, you throw it out."

"I know. But…nothing lasts forever, right?"

"Wrong."

"Oh." She tapped one shoe. Waiting for the bus. Not sure where it was going, but sure it was coming.

I lit a cigarette, not in a hurry.

"You want tuna again?"

"Ah…I'm not sure. Look, I have to work again tonight. Late."

"That's okay. I mean…maybe you could come by after…"

"No. It'll be real late. Way too late. But if you're getting off at six, maybe we could have dinner together. Before I go to work."

"Dinner?"

"Yeah."

"And then…"

"I'll take you home."

She smoothed the sides of her skirt with the palms of her hands. Bit her lip. "I'd…like that."

"Okay. Then just bring me a chocolate milkshake and some dry toast. I'll wait here until you get off."

"Coming up."

I ground out my smoke. Found the pay phone in the back. Called my pal John the real estate broker. He didn't have topographical maps of the area right there in his office but he sure as shooting could get me some. Have them for me by tomorrow afternoon.

I sipped the milkshake. Nibbled at the toast. Watched the traffic outside the window. The joint was near–empty. Not a hangout—it flowered at mealtimes, lay dormant in between.

It wasn't quite six when Cyndi bounced up to my table.

36

I
HELD THE passenger door for her while she climbed inside, her chubby thighs flashing in the late afternoon sun. Wearing a black silk blouse over a red miniskirt, black spikes on her feet.

"I hope this is okay?"

"What?"

"This…outfit. I mean…for going out to dinner and all."

"It's fine. You look lovely."

"Thank you." Ran her hand over the seat cushion. "Leather. It even smells good. Where're we going?"

"You tell me, Cyndi—I don't know this town. Someplace nice. And quiet. Where we don't need a reservation, okay?"

"You mean
nice
nice? Like fancy?"

"Sure."

"Can we go to Ricardo's? I've never been there, but I heard it's
real
nice."

"Sure."

I followed her directions. Ricardo's was in Hammond. A small joint backed up against the lake. The lot had only a half dozen cars sitting there.

Instead of a maitre d', there was a plastic sign on a stand. Please Wait to Be Seated.

A dark–haired hostess in a cocktail dress came over. Looked Cyndi up and down, glanced at me long enough to calculate the cost of everything I had on. Asked, "Two for dinner?" and led us to a table ten feet from the kitchen.

"Will this be all right?"

"How about one of those tables?" I asked, nodded my head in the direction of a long, low window.

"They're all reserved, sir."

"All?"

"I believe so.

"I'll call next time," I said, starting over in that direction, tapping Cyndi at her waist to come along. The hostess trailed after us, stopping at the first table at the end of the row.

"Perhaps this one?" she asked, her face set.

"Fine."

"Your waiter will be with you shortly."

I held Cyndi's chair for her. Picked a tiny box of wooden matches from the white tablecloth, cracked a flame, lit a smoke.

The waiter looked like he'd done time back when it was a credential. He must have caught the action with the hostess. Bowed to Cyndi. "Good evening, madam. Sir. My name is Charles. I'll be serving you this evening. Can I get you something to drink before dinner…perhaps some champagne?"

"Could I…?"

I nodded, cutting her off. "Some champagne for the lady. Whatever you recommend. I'll have ginger ale over ice."

"Very good, sir."

Cyndi looked around like a kid at the circus. A kid who'd never been before. "Oh, wow! This is beautiful. And they treat you so nice. I didn't want to order champagne. I mean, I
love
it and all, but they always water it down, you know."

"Not here."

"I guess not. I mean…not with men serving the booze, right?"

37

S
HE CHATTERED on through her London broil. I told her why I was there. How I studied the local newspapers for a few weeks before I ever came into a town to work. She nodded, paying attention, mouth full.

The waiter cleared the plates away, doing it right, easy on the "sir," not oiling it. He knew the difference between Atlantic City respect and the kind you earn with something other than cash.

Cyndi ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. I had the lemon water ice they called sorbet.

I lit a smoke. "Seems like the hot story around here's been that sniper…the one shooting those kids who go parking in lovers' lane."

"Oh, they caught him. It was some kid, believe it or not. One of those crazy teenagers. God, I'm glad he wasn't running around when I was a girl, as much time as I spent in parked cars."

"They sure they got the right one?"

"Well, I think so. I mean…you never know, right? But ever since they busted him, there's been no more."

"Shootings?"

"Yeah."

"Why d'you think he'd do it?"

"Well…oh God, I just realized…I feel so stupid…I don't even know your
name.
"

"Mitchell. Mitchell Sloane."

"Mitch?"

"Sure."

"Mitch, I'll tell you…when I used to dance, some of those men who'd come in, they just flat out
hated
women. You know what I mean? The way they'd watch you sometimes, not smiling or anything. Why would they come to a topless joint if they hated us? It doesn't make sense, I know, but it's true. Mean men. You could always tell."

"You figure someone like that?"

"Maybe. I mean…why would a kid hate so much he'd want to kill people just for screwing outdoors? Maybe it was one of those religious nuts. We'd get
them
in the bar sometimes too. Always trying to save us."

38

I
T WAS AFTER eight when we left the restaurant. I put the tab on American Express, tossed a trio of ten–spots on the table for Charles. "Always a pleasure to see you, madam," he said by way of goodbye to Cyndi. A man who knew how to act. He should get together with the hostess some night, teach her the facts of life.

I punched Glenda's line on the car phone, let Cyndi listen to the taped message play back through the speaker–phone. Hit the Retrieve key. The machine's computer–chip voice said, "Hello. You have no messages. You may hang up and I will reset the unit. Or enter remote code now to change your message."

"Where shall I take you?" I asked her.

"You really have to go to work tonight?"

"If I want to pay my bills."

"Well, I left my car at work. I mean, I didn't know you'd…"

The Lincoln whispered past the darkened dunes near the water.

"That's where it happened. One time."

"What?"

"The killings. That's where the kids go to park. Where they
used
to go."

"They'll find another place."

"They sure will."

I pulled into the diner. "Where's your car?"

"Around the back."

It was a red Chevy Beretta, looked new. One of those Garfields plastered against the back side window. Cute.

I turned off the ignition, flicked the switch for the power windows, lit a smoke.

"I'm not sure when I'll be by again. This work I'm doing, it takes you different places, different hours."

"Well, you don't have to come
here
to see me, honey. I mean, you
can
if you want, or call me here or anything." She fumbled in her purse. "You have a pen?"

I gave her one. She wrote down her phone number and her address in a careful, round schoolgirl's hand. "Here!"

"Thanks, Cyndi."

"You know, it's funny. Blossom, she tried to talk me out of going out with you. She said you were some kind of trouble. I mean, can you imagine…her telling
me
something about men. Like she'd know a preacher from a pimp."

"Maybe she does."

"Not old Blossom. That girl's so straight. I told her she could go ahead and wait for Mr. Right. I was gonna have some fun while I'm still young. She said that was okay. Said you looked like Mr. Wrong to her."

"I'm just a man. Passing through."

She slid across the seat to me, one hip hard against mine, twisting her breasts against my chest, her lips so close I couldn't see her eyes.

"Well, Mr. Just Passing Through, you make sure you come and see me before you make up your mind, huh?" Kissing me hard, the backs of her fingers trailing across my fly. I pressed my hand against the back of her blouse as I kissed her. No straps. The hostess had seen it before I had.

"I won't," I told her.

She kissed me again, promising.

I watched her climb into her red car and drive off.

39

I
SWITCHED THE Lincoln for the Chevy and made my way to the hideout, thinking it through. Cyndi wasn't going to work. She was connected, but to the wrong side of the night. I needed somebody wired in at the other end. The sniper wouldn't be wearing a double–knit leisure suit with a white belt and gold chains. Even the topless bars would be too bright for his eyes.

When I got downstairs it looked the same. Except for a canvas sack suspended from a beam in the ceiling by a short length of towing chain. I tapped the bag—it was stuffed with something. I looked a question at Virgil.

"Heavy bag," he said. "Best I could do. Lloyd, he's one angry young pup. I figured, let him pound on it awhile, work some of that stuff out. Like we used to do inside."

"Good idea. He know how to do it?"

"He don't have a clue. Figured maybe you'd show him a few things, give him something to work on while he's down here."

The kid was sitting on his cot, watching me in the faint light. "Would you?" he asked.

"Sure. But first, we got to talk." His face fell. "All of us talk," I said. The kid brightened up at that.

I sat down, lit a smoke. "First of all, we got to get us some breathing room. The cops still want you guys—we got to make that right."

"Roll on in?" Virgil asked. Ready for it, if that's what it had to be.

"I think so. The detective, the one who came to your house . the one who scammed you into waiting till his partner came up with a search warrant…?"

"Sherwood, he said his name was. Don't know if it was first or last. Sherwood."

"How'd he strike you?"

Virgil gave it some thought, rolling it around in his mind. Knowing this wasn't casual conversation to kill time. Doing time teaches you the difference.

"Smart."

"Straight?"

"Yeah, I think so. There's all kindsa dope money in Gary. I heard something about him. He was up there, got in some beef with the bosses about shaking down crack houses. But the way I heard it, he was just too rough on the dealers, not grafting."

"You got a lawyer? For Lloyd?"

"Yeah. Bart Bostick. I got his name from one of the guys I play with in Chicago."

"You talk to him since you went to ground?"

"No."

I dragged on my cigarette, thinking. "I can contact him easy enough. Give him some references. We need someone to go in the middle for us. Make a come–in deal with a walk–away in front, okay? You and Lloyd surrender, they got to cut you loose even if they hold Lloyd."

"Let 'em hold me."

"It won't fly, Virgil. You're on a minor league thing and they know it. Besides, I need you out on the street. I don't know my way around out here."

"You already did your part, brother. You did what I needed you for. Lloyd, he didn't do this thing. That's enough for me. His family, we'll take it from here."

"What good is that? You know Lloyd didn't do it. Me too. So what? So he goes to jail and you all wait for him. Keep enough money on the books for him to stay in smokes? There's going to be a trial. They don't have much, but maybe they got enough. Lloyd's got no alibi and he looks good enough. Maybe not good, but good enough, you understand? They want a sniper, big time. He wouldn't be the first man to go down for something he didn't do."

"What's left?"

"Lloyd didn't do it, somebody did. There's a sniper–rapist out there."

"You could find him?"

"Remember what you called me for. I don't know who he is, Virgil, but I know what he is."

"It's not yours." The kid spoke up. "Like Uncle Virgil said, it's family. I'm family. I didn't do it. But I've been talking to Uncle Virgil. I know what it takes. I won't disgrace my people—I done enough of that already."

"Who asked you?"

"Mr. Burke." The kid's voice was steady now. Not deeper, but stronger. Growing into his lines. "I don't mean no disrespect. I know what you did for me. Like Uncle Virgil promised me—you'd find the truth…make it come out. My part's now…I'll go to trial. Stand up. Like I'm supposed to."

"Yeah. You
want
to go to jail, Lloyd? Make it right? Your uncle Virgil ever tell you how he came to do time?"

"Burke!"

"Hey, let me tell him, Virgil. You been pushing the truth like it's cocaine. You got the boy high on it."

"Whatever I did, it's long dead. It's the past—this is now."

"What you did, you didn't have choices at the time, right? The way you saw it? We got some choices now. More cards to play." I turned to face the kid. "Your uncle, he stabbed a man. A man who needed killing. The reason's not important now—what I told you is the truth. But Virgil, he did the same thing today, he'd maybe have enough sense to know he didn't
have
to go to prison. See, your uncle, he didn't want the whole truth to come out…"

Virgil got to his feet. Lit a smoke, watching me closely. Not trying to stop it now.

"Listen close, Lloyd. Your aunt Rebecca, she knew a man back home. A bad man, with ugliness inside him. Rebecca met Virgil. And she started her life over. The way people got a right to, okay? She came to Chicago. She and Virgil, they got together. Got married. Virgil was working, this man came around to see Rebecca. She told him to get lost. But he kept coming back. He put some pressure on her. Virgil, you know him, he's a proud man. And Rebecca, she knew how proud a man he was. She wasn't thinking of herself, just of him. So when this other guy came back with some pictures…pictures she thought would hurt Virgil…he gave her a choice…get back together with him or he'd go to Virgil. You understand?"

The kid nodded, laser–focused on my voice, nothing else in the room for him.

"Rebecca stabbed him. A whole bunch of times. Virgil came home in the middle of it. Nobody knows whether he finished the job or if the man was dead when he walked in the door. Rebecca told the police she did it. Virgil told them it was his work. They kept it in their family—never told the Man the real truth. Never even tried to bring it in front of a jury. And Virgil went to prison."

I tapped a cigarette filter on my thumbnail. Virgil stood against the wall.

"What could they've done?"

"Who knows? I wasn't there. Put the body in a Hefty bag, throw it in the trunk of the car, take it to the city dump. Chop it into little pieces and feed it down the drain in the bathtub. Carry him up to the roof and leave him there. Pack their clothes, dump gasoline all over the body, and leave the Arson Squad to figure it out. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You try something, it don't work, you're no worse off, see? But Virgil, all he thought about was protecting Rebecca…and Rebecca, all she wanted to do was take the weight on herself. They never even got their stories straight, they was so busy confessing on themselves."

"Virgil was a…"

"A what? A hero? A chump? Who knows…all we know is he was a convict."

"I…"

"Yeah, he's so family–crazy, this was some regular killing he thought you did, he'd probably walk down to the police, tell them he did it. Like he did before."

"I wouldn't let him."

"Take a look, kid. Look at your uncle. You think you could stop him?"

The kid looked. Saw the steel Virgil used for bone marrow. "What d'we do?"

"What we do is, we make some plans. Work the angles. It doesn't play, you can always go to jail. They're always open for business."

"Uncle Virgil…?"

"Lloyd, from now on, you just call me Virgil. A man don't call another man
uncle
anything, okay?"

A smile flashed across the kid's face. Then it was gone. His face hardened, jaw tightened. Shoulders straightened. Getting ready for it. "Okay," is all he said.