Drawing Dead (35 page)

“About what?”

Crow shrugged. “Hiding in the trees, trying to con a bunch of con men, using my poor old dad. It's like you told me—I'm swimming in the sewer with a bunch of losers. I'm too old to be doing this sort of shit.”

“You're thirty-five, Crow. That's not old.”

“Yes it is. I'm supposed to be grown up by now, acting like an adult.”

Ben
Fink was waiting at the bar in Harry's Oasis, wearing his gray Mickey Mouse T-shirt and drinking a Perrier. A partially eaten fish sandwich was cooling in the plastic basket in front of him, along with a few limp french fries. He made a sour face when Crow stepped in through the front door.

“I've been here for an hour,” Ben said. “Why do you choose these places to meet?” He seemed nervous, agitated. “Next time we meet at a Perkins.”

Harry's was not such a bad place, Crow thought. The glasses were clean, even if the carpet was not, and Harry was a nice guy. “Ben, I can't tell you how sorry I am about that. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I have one, thank you. What do you have for me?” His deep voice now carried a strident overtone.

Crow waved at Harry, who brought him a Coke with a straw in it. He wasn't sure what had happened between Tom and Ben, but he liked it. For some reason, Ben was operating on his own, and he was scared. That had to be good.

“Take it easy,” he said. “I've got your information about the old man. His name is O'Gara. He lives at 1406 Albury Street in Saint Paul. Dickie's been over to see him twice this week.”

“What about the lake cabin? Did you find out where it is?”

“On Crook Lake, up near Brainerd.”

“Brainerd? That's where Dickie wants to meet us tomorrow afternoon. The Pop Top Lounge in Brainerd.” Ben stroked his beard. “How do I find this Mr. O'Gara's cabin?”

“I don't know. But I have something else you might be interested in. O'Gara has a box full of 1940s comic books in his truck.”

Ben paused in his beard-stroking. “How did you happen to learn that?”

“O'Gara had a flat tire. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I stopped to help him. He had a box of comic books on his front seat. He gave me one.
World's Finest
.”

“What number?” Ben asked automatically.

“I don't know. I left it at home. I don't suppose the comics have anything to do with why you want to get in touch with him, do they?”

Ben frowned. “I hired you to acquire information for me, Mr. Crow, not to ask me questions.”

Crow shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Where is he now?”

“He left for his cabin this afternoon. Had the flat on the way out of town. Somebody had been messing with his valve stem. Probably some kids. What's the matter?”

Ben shook his head wearily and sipped his Perrier. “You are very clever, Mr. Crow, but you have failed me.”

“I've done exactly as you asked.”

“Too late. Let me explain something to you. The old man, Mr. O'Gara, has a large and valuable comic book collection, which Dickie is now going to acquire for practically nothing, if he hasn't already. I had hoped to offer the gentleman a fair price. This is very unfortunate—I hate to see an old man taken advantage of that way.”

“If you're really worried about it, you could still make your offer before Dickie gets up there.”

“He's probably up there already.”

“I don't think so.” Crow pulled a Marlboro out of the fresh pack in his pocket and lit it. Smoke crawled gratefully down into his lungs. He could almost hear the cigarette whispering,
We missed you, Joe Crow
.

“What do you mean?”

“I had lunch with Dickie today.”

Ben compressed his lips. “You do get around. Was he accompanied by an especially large and unpleasant-looking man named Freddy?”

“He was alone. I had been hoping to collect some money from him. He mentioned that he would be going out of town tomorrow. In fact, he said he had to be up in the Brainerd area by noon. I figure you've got till then to cut your deal.”

“How far away is this place?”

“Crook Lake? It's just north of Brainerd. About three hours.”

“How will I find it?”

“Do you have the thousand you owe me?”

“Of course. Do you have the location of the cabin?”

“I'll have it for you first thing in the morning.” Crow drew hard on his smoke, let a cloud of gray veil his face.

Ben stared distastefully at the burning cigarette. “I didn't know you were a smoker, Crow.”

“I'm not,” Crow said.

Across
the street from Harry's Oasis, half a block down, Tommy was sitting with Catfish in her Porsche.

“I don't get it,” Tommy said. “What's the deal with this guy Crow, anyway?”

“He's an odd one,” Catfish murmured. “The important question is, what's with Benny-poo? I think he's trying to rip us off.”

“Ben wouldn't rip me off. Besides, all he'd have to do is empty out our cash box and fly. We're partners.”

“Then why's he talking to Crow? It has something to do with that comic collection Dickie's found. I just know it.” “I don't know,” Tommy said. “I think we should find out, don't you?”

You send a gorilla out in the jungle, he's gonna come back with bananas.

—Joey Cadillac

Madonna Battagno usually slept well
on the nights her husband, Joey, didn't come home. And when he did decide to spend the night in their Hanover Park home, she had learned to tolerate his surly, barking, cigar-smoking, wind-breaking presence. Like all men, Joey was at his best when he was away from home earning money or, if not that, off exercising his vices on more tolerant companions. His amorous and otherwise undignified attentions had been unwelcomed by Madonna since the birth of their third son, which was the exact number she had promised him at their betrothal. Madonna had children to raise, a household to manage, and shopping to perform. Her husband's occasional stints on the home front did nothing to enrich her life.

On this night she was finding him particularly difficult to tolerate. Two o'clock in the morning, and he was lying in his bed, cursing. Every time she started to drift off to sleep, he would mumble some obscenity.

“Fucking Freddy.”

And, a few minutes later, “Those fuckers.”

Madonna didn't say anything at first. She didn't want to touch him off, and the mood he was in, it wouldn't take much at all to get him throwing the furniture around.

“Goddamn comic books.”

“Useless piece a dog shit.”

“Goddamn motherfucking Crow.”

“Fucking leather bitch.”

That was enough. Madonna couldn't take it anymore. It was like he waited in the dark for her to start falling asleep, then jolted her awake with some new bit of nastiness. She turned on the light by her bed and looked across the three-foot-wide no-man's-land between them.

She asked, “What's your problem, sweet pie? Can't sleep? You want to talk about it?”

“No,” Joey snapped. “Turn out that goddamn light, would ya?”

“Did somebody do something bad to you? Who are you mad at, honey bunch?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure? You know what Daddy always says, don't you?”

That got his attention. Madonna's daddy was Carlos Bevilacqua, a former priest who now owned, directly or indirectly, most of the Chicago-area GM dealerships. Joey's continued operation of J.C. Motors was made possible through the benign neglect of Carlos Bevilacqua.

Madonna continued, “Daddy always says that when you have a problem at work, you take care of it before you go home. Daddy always says that people who take care of their problems right away are people who can be trusted to get the job done.” She smiled sweetly.

Joey
felt the dark clouds gathering inside him. He got out of bed and dressed. He had to get out of there before he broke a lamp over Carlos Bevilacqua's daughter's skull and cost himself a Cadillac dealership. It would be close. The woman had no mercy. She left him no slack. He made a promise to himself: When old Carlos died—the sooner the better—first thing he did, he was going to kick the shit out of her.

He needed to go for a drive, maybe have a couple drinks. He grabbed a bottle of Martell on the way out, had a quick hit in the driveway, then took the Brougham d'Elegance for a spin.

The thing was, he decided, her old man was right. Here he was sitting in Hanover Park brooding about his problems, when all the solutions were up in Minnesota. Could he rely on Freddy to take care of things? No way. Freddy was great when you could tell him exactly what to do and when to do it, but managing him from four hundred miles away was impractical, as he had been repeatedly reminded over the past weeks.

Joey looked at the car clock. Two thirty-five.

He thought some more about the Tom and Ben Show.

He thought about Joe Crow, the poker player. He took a hit off the bottle of Martell.

He thought about the little leather bitch; his back was still sore.

Lately, it seemed, everything was going wrong. He turned onto the tollway, brought the big Brougham up to seventy-five, set the cruise control, had another swallow of cognac, and settled into a controlled rage. He could feel the hot spot in his belly growing and added another ounce of Martell. The faces—Tom, Ben, Crow, the bitch—flickered in his mind. He kept returning to the game, seeing Crow's dead-looking expression as he scooped the big one. He saw Bobby Wexler trying not to laugh when he'd ripped up the comic book. Incredible coincidence. Or was it? The image of Crow's girlfriend, what was her name? He couldn't remember. All that blond hair, blue eyes, like every other Minnesota girl. Why did he keep thinking of her face?

A small car, some Japanese thing, flashed by him, going like hell. Joey growled, brought the Brougham up to eighty-five, and reset the cruise control.

Then it hit him. He damn near drove off the freeway when he saw it, clear as anything, right between the eyes.

Crow's girlfriend. Take away the hair, the dress, the false eyelashes. Take away the pink lipstick and make it dark red. Put her in black leather. Give her a fucking bicycle chain.

Joey moaned. The moan became a growl, the growl a scream.

He started shaking and had to bring the Brougham down to sixty. Everything was connected: the comic book guys, the leather bitch, Crow—maybe even Bubby Sharp. A conspiracy to get Joey Cadillac.

A toll plaza appeared a quarter of a mile in front of him. Joey slowed the car, found some change, threw it in the collection basket, and continued up the road. His breathing was returning to normal. He slipped the cork out of the neck of the Martell bottle and tipped another ounce down his throat..

A conspiracy. He savored the concept as he would a peperoncino, letting it burn, knowing he could swallow it at any time. A conspiracy against Joey Cadillac. He let himself fantasize for a few miles. Kicking the leather bitch to death, making Crow watch. Cutting off Crow's dick and stuffing it in her mouth. Feeding the comic book guys to the Rottweilers. He imagined it a few different ways, some of which gave him a hard-on.

He paid two more tolls before his mind returned to the present. The clock on the dash read 3:09. Where the hell was he? On the Northwest Tollway, heading toward Rockford. Joey did some math in his head.

He could be in Minneapolis by 10:00 a.m.

The
telephone was ringing. Crow awakened without opening his eyes and listened.

Beep.

“Mr. Crow? Are you there? This is Ben Franklin. It is six-thirty in the morning. I'm awaiting your call.”

Crow sat up on the edge of the bed and rested his throbbing forehead in his palms. It was one of those mornings when he woke up with a raging hangover that would disappear once he recalled that he had not had to drink himself down from a coke binge the night before. He focused on his breathing and waited for the phantom pain to subside. It eased by stages, but not completely. He decided it was, in part, the half pack of cigarettes he had consumed the night before. His mouth tasted particularly foul. He decided to quit.

After what seemed like half an hour, he looked at the digital clock beside his bed. Six-forty. The phone rang again. Crow stood and made his way across the room and grabbed the receiver before the answering machine could intercept the call. It was Ben.

“Didn't you just call a minute ago?”

“Do you have the information for me?”

“Hold on a minute.” He reviewed the timing in his head. If Ben left immediately, he would be at the cabin by nine-thirty. Too soon. With all that time to spare, he would want to look in every box. “I'll have to get back to you, Ben. I've got a call in to a realtor I know up there. He promised to get back to me before nine.”

“That's cutting it rather close.”

“Don't worry about it. You can be there in two and a half hours if you push it.”

“I'll be awaiting your call.”

Crow hung up the phone, then went to the bathroom and let a hot shower bring his metabolism up to speed. He watched the water trailing down his body, turning his chest hair into parallel lines. He made himself a pot of coffee, took it out onto the balcony, and drank it. Reasoning that he might as well finish the pack before quitting, he smoked three cigarettes. He ate an overripe banana and a slice of toast slathered with peanut butter.

At eight forty-five, he picked up the phone and called Ben at the Whitehall Suites and told him how to get to Sam O'Gara's cabin.

Crow
took a long, deep breath, held it, and turned the key again. The starter whined, the engine turned over. And over. Thirty seconds later, he released the key. Nothing. He allowed himself a few moments to imagine lifting the car over his head and hurling it against the side of the house. Seven thousand dollars in repairs, and now the damn thing wouldn't start.