Drawing Dead (28 page)

“What did they do with the real comics?” asked Crow.

“You don't like the sardine story? I probably told it wrong. According to Fatman, they shipped the real comics off to collectors on the West Coast, making sure not to offer them back to the original owners. They ran this scam for three or four months without getting any wires crossed, until a couple months ago.”

She paused. Crow waited a few seconds, then asked, “You gonna tell me the rest of it?”

“Just a minute. I'm trying to light a cigarette. . . . God, could I use a cup of coffee.…Okay, you still there? So what happened is they got greedy—big surprise, huh?—and they started making extra copies of the covers, sealing them into Stasis Shields, and selling them to investors that were totally out of the comics loop, selling them like they were precious metals or bearer bonds or something. Selling them to guys that don't know the difference between Green Lantern and the Flash.”

“Guys like Joey Cadillac.”

“Right. They traded a bunch of the things to him for a car. Chrissy the bimbo—You know she was a Miss Minnesota? I asked her what she did for the talent part of the contest, and she said she couldn't remember. Anyways, Chrissy the bimbo says she was actually sitting there when Joey made history by being the first guy to open up a Stasis Shield and find out he'd been suckered. She says he was a little out of control that night.”

“He's got a short fuse, huh?”

“Microscopic.”

“Mr. Hogan, please.”

Crow stroked Milo, letting the smooth feel of the black coat modulate his excitement. He had that tight feel of being in control, just barely, like a race car driver running the perfect lap, forty laps yet to go, expecting a tire to blow or a flag to come down at any moment. Milo purred, his body vibrating.

“Hello?” Ben Hogan's subwoofer of a voice came through the handset like paste forced through a pinhole.

“Ben Fink?” Crow asked.

A full five seconds later, Ben said, “Is this Mr. Crow?”

“This is Joe Stalin.”

Another silence.

“I see,” said Ben. “Would you like to join me for a drink?”

“For what purpose?” Crow dug his fingers in around Milo's ears. The cat responded by extending his claws through Crow's jeans into his thigh. Crow relaxed his grip; the cat retracted its claws.

“I want to hire you,” Ben said.

STOP TIME NOW!
Your comics are slowly deteriorating. Polyethylene, polypropylene, even Mylar sleeves are no match for Father Time. Only total stasis can save your valuable books from the ravages of time, and only one product offers this state-of-the-art technology—the Stasis Shield®.

—Advertisement in
Comic Marketing Quarterly

At eleven o'clock
in the morning, Zink's Club 34 was home to those who knew how to get numb before noon and stay that way for the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon, when the workers from the printing plant up the street dropped in for their Millers and Pabsts, the Club 34 day shift would filter out and wander back to their rented rooms, bridges, or doorways to nurse a forty-ouncer, a half pint of vodka, or a bottle of Thunderbird. During the day, however, Club 34 was their home.

Crow parked the red truck, got out, plugged the meter. He stood on the sidewalk and felt the late-morning sunshine on his face. The cool morning air was quickly warming, promising a scorching afternoon. He took several long, slow breaths, then walked through the smudged tinted-glass door. The cold, sour smell of beer-stained carpeting and alcoholic sweat instantly coated his nostrils. Blinking, breathing shallowly, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by the pink fluorescent tubes running across the top of the long, greasy mirror. Only four of the barstools were occupied. Two men were playing backgammon at a small round table near the door. Cory, Zink's daytime bartender, stood behind the bar with her arms folded, listening to one of her customers, an aging, loose-limbed Swede wearing overalls, a down vest, and a navy watch cap. He was telling her a story, using his long arms to illustrate it. Crow caught Cory's eye and nodded. She winked.

Cory White was a tall, slim, handsome, buttoned-down black woman in her early fifties who would have been cast perfectly as the courageous principal of a troubled inner-city high school. She was one of those people but for whom the word “unflappable” might have disappeared from the language long ago. Cory had been working days for Zink Fitterman for nearly a decade, and she claimed to like it. She said it kept her busy, she didn't have to think, and her customers liked her. They called her “Teach.” Crow liked her too, but the few efforts he had made to get to know her better had failed. Cory had battlements that made Crow's defenses look like wet Kleenex. He bellied up to the bar and waited for her to finish listening to the big Swede's story. He was describing something he had built, a house or some other building, many years ago. Crow imagined him twenty years younger, without the red nose, a leather carpenter's tool belt encircling his waist. Something about an argument he'd had with the architect. An argument he'd won. The story ended when he drained the last of his beer, Adam's apple pulsing, and ordered a whiskey, goddamn it.

Cory delivered a shot of Ancient Age to the carpenter, poured a Coke for Crow.

“You looking for Zink, honey? He'll be back in a few minutes. How you been?”

“Not bad.”

“You got a girlfriend yet?”

“Not yet, Cory. How about you?”

“I just been worrying about you, honey.”

“You should worry more about yourself.”

“I leave that to you, honey.”

Crow laughed; Cory smiled. He had come to understand that Cory had a file of brief, circular conversations in her head, with a special variation for everyone she knew. Every time he saw her she read from the same script. If he were to disappear for ten years, then show up one morning at Club 34, they would have the identical conversation again.

Zink stepped in through the back door, carrying a case of cigarettes. He saw Crow, set the cardboard box on the floor by the cigarette machine, and joined him at the bar.

“Crow! What's going on?”

“Just stopped by for a Coke.”

Zink wrinkled his face. “Come for the ambience, huh? By the way, thanks for busting up the game the other night.”

“No problem.”

“I mean it. That guy Ben was sucking up chips like a Hoover. What was he doing?”

“The first time I met him he was nicking aces and dealing seconds. But with his partner there, who knows. Could've been doing anything. One thing for sure, he would've kept on winning.”

“Anyway, thanks. That's the first time we've had a problem like that.”

“The first time you've known about.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked back at the case of cigarettes he had left on the floor. One of his customers, a yellow-skinned man with a sparse reddish beard and a navy-blue kerchief tied around his scrawny neck, was standing over it, weaving slightly, staring down at the assorted cartons as if he were a prospector who had discovered gold.

“Three bucks a pack, Jack,” Zink snapped.

A full second later, the man jerked as if he had been touched by a whip. He looked toward Zink, who was shaking his head, then drifted back to the bar and held on to his last inch of beer.

“God, do I love this business,” Zink said. “He'll make that beer last another hour, or until I kick him out.” He pointed an index finger at his own temple. “Pow.”

Zink could be morbid at times. Crow sipped his Coke.

“You want to help me load the cig machine?” Zink said.

“Sure. What do I do?”

“Stand guard.”

Crow followed him to the end of the bar and watched him open the machine, tear open the cartons, and load the packs of cigarettes into the machine five at a time. After a few minutes, he reached past Zink's shoulder, grabbed a pack of Marlboros, walked over to the man with the blue kerchief, and set it on the bar. The man did not seem to notice.

Zink frowned and said, “He'll see it after a while. Probably think he bought it himself. You start giving stuff away to these guys, it never ends, Crow. It's like trying to fill a sink with no stopper in it.”

“That's okay. I don't mind.”

“Yeah? Well, you owe me three bucks for the smokes, pal.”

“Take it out of my loan.”

“What's that?”

“I've got a special game lined up, only I don't have the cash.”

“What kind of game?”

“No limit. Probably draw poker. They still play a lot of that down there.”

“Down where?”

“Chicago. A man down there owes me, but he's not the kind of guy that'll send me a check. I'm going to have to go take it.”

“How are you gonna do that?”

“Live right.”

Zink scratched his nose and loaded a column of Kools. “How much do you need?”

“Ten.”

Zink winced.

“I'll have the ten back to you in three days, plus two for your trouble.”

“Suppose you lose?”

“I've got insurance. It won't happen.”

“Suppose it does?”

“Then I owe you ten grand.”

Zink closed the face of the cigarette machine. “You must think I've got a lot of confidence in you, Crow. You know, if this doesn't work out, it's going to be real hard on our friendship, my friend.”

“It'll work.”

“When do you have to have it?”

“Tomorrow.”

Zink carried the empty case to the back door and threw it out into the alley. The man with the blue kerchief had discovered the pack of Marlboros and was trying to open it. The big Swede was telling Cory another story about something he had built a long time ago.

Zink said to Crow, “Come by tomorrow, after two.”

“Thanks. By the way, I'm having a little business meeting here in a few minutes. Hope you don't mind.”

Zink squinted at Crow, then did a slow pan of his establishment, as though he had never been in it before. “You meeting one of your big clients or something?” he said.

Crow laughed. “Actually, I'm meeting with Ben Franklin. You remember him?”

“That card-nicking son-of-a-bitch? What makes you think I'm going to let him in the door?”

“I'll keep an eye on him. Won't let him steal a thing.”

“I hope that's not who you're betting my ten grand on, Crow.”

Crow shook his head. “This is a different deal. I just need to talk to him for a few minutes, then we'll be out of your hair.”

Zink frowned and said, “I sure hope you know what you're doing, Crow.” He ducked under the end of the bar and handed a book of matches to the man with the blue kerchief, who had succeeded in getting a smoke out of the pack and between his thin lips. Crow set- ded into a booth near the back door and watched the sluggish late- morning action slowly accelerate as the lunch hour drew near.

For the past few days, he had avoided thinking about the cabin on the island in Whiting Lake. Jimbo Bobick had left several messages on his machine, but Crow had put the dream on hold, fding it between the childhood memories and the cocaine fantasies in the basement of his mind. Later he would haul it up and take a look. Now he could not afford the distraction.

At exactly noon, Ben Fink stepped through the door, wearing a pale-beige sport coat and wrinkled blue trousers. He wiped his hand on his lapel and scanned the room. Crow watched from the back booth, remembering his own entrance into the bar's dark interior, knowing he was invisible. The lunch business was starting to happen, a few guys from the printing plant across the street catching a few quick brews, some of them even wolfing down a microwaved hot dog or slice of pizza. The jukebox was spinning a country song, something about “…now I drink to remember what I drank to forget.” Both Zink and Cory were busy pouring beers and loading food in and out of the two microwave ovens.

Crow had suggested Club 34 because it was convenient—he had planned to talk to Zink anyway—and because he thought Ben Fink would be thrown off his act by the no-nonsense ambience of the establishment. Fink moved into the room with a fastidious frown. Eventually he spotted Crow and wove his way through the tables, chairs, and customers.

“What a lovely spot for a business meeting,” he said, looking suspiciously at the vinyl seat.

“My favorite place,” said Crow. He noticed Zink glaring at them from behind the bar.

Fink frowned, bent forward, and flicked something off the seat. He slid carefully into the booth. His tie, which had looked like a formal pattern from a distance, was revealed as a pattern of red-and- yellow Superman logos on a royal-blue ground.

“You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.…I don't think the bartender likes me.”

Crow nodded and sipped his Coke. He was curious but sensed he would learn more by letting Fink make his approach than by asking questions.

“Have you seen our friend Mr. Wicky lately?” Fink asked.

Crow smiled. He wasn't going to give away anything.

Fink waited for his answer, and his frown deepened. “I see,” he said. “How much is this conversation going to cost me?”

“Just tell me what you want,” said Crow.

Fink hunched forward and fixed Crow with his pale-brown eyes. “How do you feel about doing work for me, Mr. Crow?”

“It depends on the work and the pay. Especially the pay.”

“Have you any remaining obligation to Mr. Wicky?”

“I'm done with Dickie.”

Fink smiled and sat up straight. “Yes, I can understand that. I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, our businesses are somewhat entangled at this point, and there are some things I need to know. Dickie has a client I wish to identify and locate. Dickie describes this person as an old man who lives somewhere in Saint Paul. Dickie also says this person owns a lake cabin somewhere north of the cities. This person had a brother named Vince, who died in 1951. I don't know much more than that. I want to know who he is, where he lives, and the location of his lake cabin. Do you think you could do that?”