Drawing Dead (13 page)

She squinted at him critically. “Really?”

“How about Mel Gibson? Clark Gable? Sidney Poitier?”

She laughed. “I don't think you really look like anybody, Mr. Crow.”

“Nobody?”

“Well…maybe a little Wayne Newton.”

“No!”

“Just around the eyes, when you're surprised.”

Crow
drove directly from Litten Securities to the Twin Town Luxury Motor Hotel. The yellow Cadillac was gone, but the blue convertible with the smashed-up front end was parked in its place in front of room 22. He decided to check with the desk clerk before knocking on the door.

The old man watched him enter the lobby. “Back again,” he pointed out.

Crow nodded and leaned over the counter. The clerk was holding the new
Reader's Digest
in his lap, a mug of milky coffee in his right hand.

“I'm looking for my friend Mr. Aquinas,” Crow said. “Is he in his room? I don't see his car out there.”

The old man sat up straight and looked past Crow. “Nope,” he said. “You don't.”

“It looks like somebody else might be in there now.”

The desk clerk shrugged and sipped his coffee. The beige mug was printed with the Twin Town script logo. He looked down at the
Reader's Digest
and thumbed the pages.

Crow reached for his wallet, extracted a twenty-dollar bill, slid it across the counter.

The old man smiled. “Your friend took off,” he said.

“He checked out?”

“Nope. Just took off. Seemed sorta upset. His face was all scratched up.”

“Like from fingernails?”

“More like he'd been running through the woods. Little scratches. Just grabbed his stuff, jumped in his car, and took off like somebody was after him. That little gal took off too.”

“You don't know where they went?”

“Nope.”

“They owe you any money?”

“Nope. This other fellow, he just moved right on in.”

Crow looked out the window at the blue Cadillac convertible. “A big guy? Face like a pot roast?”

“Pot roast? I never thought of that. He's in there now.”

“You've never seen him around here before?”

“Nope. He just moved right on in. Paid me for two nights.”

“What's his name?”

The old man shrugged. “According to my guestbook here, it's Thomas Aquinas, on account of the other fellow never checked out like he was supposed to. And the big guy, he never actually checked in. So it says here his name is Aquinas. But it ain't. Fact, he's looking for the Aquinas fellow too. Thought he was gonna try to rough me up for a minute there.”

“He thought better of it?”

“I got to admiring his tie. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Daisies. Big guy like that, and he's got these little yellow daisies sprinkled all up and down his front. Real proud fellow. Nasty but proud. We got on pretty good after that.”

Crow picked up one of the business cards on the counter, turned it over, and wrote down his name and phone number. “If you see Aquinas, give me a call, okay?”

“Whatever.”

Crow started for the door, then turned back. “Do I have any change coming?”

The old man shook his head slowly and let his lips roll back from his dentures. “No change today.”

Crow walked out into the late-morning sun, stood in the parking lot beside his car, and considered the door to room 22, ten yards away. From the few glimpses he'd had of the big man, he knew he didn't want to know him better. He had a feeling that Aquinas would not be returning to the Twin Town. How was he going to deliver Wicky's check? Through Catfish? He found the concept disturbing. The ten-thousand-dollar paper rectangle in his shirt pocket pressed uncomfortably against his left nipple.

The curtain covering the window to room 22 accordioned to the left. A large face appeared, then disappeared. A moment later, the door opened and the big man, the same man he had seen before, filled the doorway.

“Hey, fella.” The voice was something between a rumble and a croak. “Got a minute there? Can I talk to ya a minute, fella?”

Crow said, not moving, “What can I do for you?” He was standing on the passenger side of his Jaguar, wishing he had the car between them.

The big man looked up and down the parking lot, then stepped out of his room and moved toward Crow, walking slowly the way you would approach a runaway dog. He was wearing a soiled blue oxford shirt, gray pants gone shiny at the knees, and an eye-searing red- and-gold necktie. No daisies today. Crow took his hands from his pockets and let them hang. It was late morning on a busy street, and they were in full view of the motel office, but he did not want to be in the same parking lot with this man, who, with each forward motion of his enormous black wing tips, got bigger. All of Crow's alarms were going off. If he had still been a cop, he would have had his holster unsnapped, a hand on his baton, and been calling for backup.

The big man was still coming, but moving slower now.

Six feet away, he stopped and twisted his face into a strange new configuration. After a breath, Crow realized that it was a smile. He tried to smile back. He suspected that his version didn't look much better.

“I'm lookin' for a guy,” the big man said. “Maybe you seen'm.”

Crow said, “Who are you?”

The big man thought about that. “Freddy,” he said at last.

“Who are you trying to find, Freddy?” In his mind, Crow was reviewing the escape route used by Tom Aquinas. Cross the street, don't bother to look both ways, run as fast as possible through Porky's parking lot, crash through the bushes, don't slow down—not a bad plan, all things considered.

“Couple fellas named Tom and Ben. These comic book guys.”

“Comic book guys? You mean like Batman and Robin? Sorry, can't help you there.” The big man was standing six feet away, and Crow still had to tip his head back at an uncomfortable angle to look at that face. Apparently, the big man had not caught up with Tommy.

“I seen you with the one.”

“The one?”

“The little one.” Freddy shuffled closer, rocking back and forth from one wing tip to the other. Crow let his hand drift back and feel for the handle to the car door. Could he get into the car, close the door, and lock it before Freddy was on him? Probably not. He looked toward the motel office. Was the desk clerk watching? All he could see was the sun blasting back at him from the window. Cars passed down University Avenue, anonymous and oblivious.

“Oh, him,” said Crow. “With the purple underwear, right?”

Freddy stopped. “That's the guy.”

“Tommy, right? I saw you chasing him.”

“That's the guy.”

“I'm going to go see him right now. You want to come along?”

Freddy smiled. “Sure,” he said. His shoulders sank to a relaxed position.

“Hop in.” Crow opened the passenger door. He circled the car, climbed in on the driver's side, pushed the key into the ignition switch. “You coming?”

Freddy was bent forward, his hand gripping the top of the open car door, peering into the tiny pink cockpit. He shook his head. “We got to take my car,” he said.

Crow shook his head and started the engine. “It's too big for me. I don't think I could fit.”

Freddy crumpled his brow. He was holding on to the door with both hands.

“That's a real nice tie you got there,” Crow said, slowly pressing his foot on the accelerator, bringing the engine up to 4,000 rpm.

Freddy looked down at his tie and reached to stroke it with one hand.

Crow dumped the clutch. The car lurched forward a few feet, then stopped. The rear wheels were spraying gravel back toward the motel office.

Freddy had a grip on the doorframe, the composite soles of his Sears wing tips welded to the asphalt. Crow stared at the bratwurst- size fingers wrapped around the top edge of the door, unable to comprehend that the giant was actually capable of holding the car in place. For what seemed like several seconds, the rear wheels smoked blue. Freddy shifted his grip, got one foot into the car, started to swing his great body inside, as the tires finally caught and propelled the Jag forward. But Freddy wasn't letting go. He had one leg in the car, one in the air, and was holding on to the door with both hands. Crow hit the brake. The car stopped, Freddy and the passenger door continued forward. The ear-twisting metal sound of the door being opened wide in the wrong direction felt like a knife in his wallet. He slammed the shifter into reverse, heading directly for the motel office. Freddy had a death grip on what was left of the door, his shoes leaving black skid marks on the asphalt. Crow hit the brake again and the car skewed to the side, knocking Freddy into the air and onto the hood. Crow took off again, going forward, and bounced over the curb onto University Avenue, tires spinning, the rear end fishtailing. Narrowly missing a pizza delivery van, he ran through two gears, trying to see past Freddy, bringing it up to forty miles per hour.

Freddy was glued to the hood, glaring in at Crow, gripping the slick front end of the Jag like a sex-crazed wolfhound. He let go with one hand and brought his fist back. Crow didn't doubt for an instant that he was capable of putting the cantaloupe-size fist through the windshield. He braked and cranked the wheel to the right. The Jag's nose dipped, and the car whipped around in a tight U-turn, riding up on two wheels.

Freddy disappeared.

The Jag was balanced on two wheels; the world turned sideways, all things gone to slow motion, slow enough for Crow to say, out loud, “Please don't roll.” The Jag shuddered and dropped back onto all fours, like a good cat.

Freddy was still rolling down the street. Crow, gripping the wheel of his car, let his lungs empty and watched through the mangled car door as Freddy came to a stop, lay still on his back for a long moment, then sat up, shook his head, climbed to his feet, and started toward the Jaguar.

Crow shivered, turned the car around, and headed in the opposite direction. The front end was shaking, and so was he. The passenger door hung open at an angle, promising never to close again. This was going to be expensive. He kept going, though, until he had left Freddy far behind. The car could be repaired.

A few blocks later, he stopped and tied the door closed. The top edge showed a row of depressions where Freddy's fingers had distorted the sheet metal. He kept thinking about how it would feel to have those thick white fingers wrapped around his throat.

Beep.

“Joe, this is Rich. I gotta talk to you, buddy. It's important. Gimme a buzz.”

Crow sighed, hit the rewind button on his new answering machine, picked up the phone, dialed Litten Securities.

“Rich Wicky, please.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wicky is in a meeting.”

“Tell him Michael Milken is on the line.”

There was a pause. “Is this Mr. Crow?”

“If it is, will he pick up his phone?”

He could hear her tapping her front teeth with a pen. “I'll see what I can do,” she said. “He'll usually pick up for his wife.”

A few seconds later, Wicky's voice came over the wire. “Hey, baby.”

“Hi, Dickie,” said Crow.

There was a long silence.

“I'm gonna get that dumb broad's ass canned,” he said at last. “She told me you were my wife.”

“That's who I told her I was.”

“Well…what did you want?”

“I'm returning your call. You said it was important.”

“Oh. Did you get the job done?”

“Not yet. I'll let you know. Is that why you called?”

“Just checkin' on you, buddy.”

“I'll call you when I have something to tell you, Dickie.”

“Well, when do you think that'll be?”

“I have no idea. Depends on how much time I have to spend on the phone.”

There were several seconds of silence, then Wicky said, “Oh. Listen, I gotta go, Crow. I've got a couple guys waiting for me in my office.”

After hanging up, Crow called Litten Securities again.

“Thanks for putting me through,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

“Dickie says he's gonna get you fired.”

“God,” said Janet. “I wish.”

That
evening Crow sat on his porch with Debrowski and told her about the job he was doing for Dickie Wicky. Crow was reclined on the porch swing; Debrowski was balanced on the railing, drinking an O'Doul's

“I don't understand you, Crow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don't know how you can work for a guy like that. It's not you, Crow.”

Crow contracted his neck and squeezed the corners of his mouth together.

“Now don't go getting all small on me, Crow. You know I'm right.”

“I know I owe a lot of money.”

“So play cards. You're supposed to be such a hotshot poker player. Why abase yourself? You get mixed up with a bunch of losers like Dickie, you're going to wind up a loser too. You just told me, what that guy did to your Jag is going to cost you more than what you'll collect from Dickie. And that's assuming he even pays you.”

“Yeah, well, it's done. All I have to do is find the guy and give him the check.”

“And that's it? I don't think so, Crow. You still have to collect from Dickie. And you've still got Freddy the Terminator out there. Guys like that have a way of turning up. Besides, after what he did to your car, I can't see you letting go of it.”

Crow shrugged, wishing he hadn't told her what he was doing, thinking that if she hadn't tried to bluff that pair of fours he wouldn't be working for Wicky at all.

“I know what you're thinking, Crow. It was all my fault, right?”

Crow raised his eyebrows and tipped his head.

“Well, fuck you. You didn't want to take my money, I don't feel sorry for you.”