Peeper (15 page)

“I ain't no bum,” said the bum.

“What are you, Miss October?”

“When them Christmas decorations go up in Hudson's, I'm one of the homeless.”

“Can you drive a car, Homeless?”

“Is Carlos king of Spain?”

“That mean you can drive a car?”

“Hey, I wasn't always like this. I was Jimmy Hoffa's bodyguard.”

“Homeless, how'd you like to make ten bucks easy?”

“Did Gabriel García Márquez win the Nobel Prize?”

“Let me guess. You sleep in the library.”

“Man, you can find me between Hispanic Studies and Istanbul any Tuesday. That's the tall-books shelf; I toss around some,” he added, smiling with three teeth that had never been introduced.

Ralph held up a ten-dollar bill. “First, we change jackets.”

Homeless frowned speculatively, put down the empty bottle, and felt one of Ralph's lapels between thumb and forefinger. “I'm partial to wool,” he said. “But okay.”

They made the exchange. Ralph handed him the bill and his keys. “There's a red Riviera parked in front of the building. Get to it and scratch rubber. You'll be chased.”

“Cops or Mafia?”

“Cops.”

“Okay. I don't mess around with no Cosa Nostra. Where you want me to leave it?”

“Ditch it anywhere. It ain't mine and the owner's got other problems.” Ralph heard running footsteps in the alley. “Get going.”

“They be shooting?”

“That shouldn't bother Jimmy Hoffa's bodyguard.”

“Back then I wasn't standing in front of no bullets for less'n twelve yards a week.”

“What can I say? The market's thin.”

Homeless shrugged, squared his hatbrim, flicked an orange peel off the sleeve of Ralph's suitcoat, and vaulted over the top of the dumpster. Ralph heard the officer shout “Freeze!” again and then there were galloping footsteps. A shot made the sides of the dumpster ring. Under the echo he heard more running, probably the officer's.

He stayed where he was even after he heard the Riviera coming to life with the terrible grinding noise of a tortured starter and then the shrilling of rubber on asphalt, indicating that Homeless had made his escape; he wasn't sure whether the officer had called for a backup to watch the alley. He spent the time among the wet coffee grounds and used Kleenexes deep in a philosophical study. This wasn't the cushy spot he had been anticipating.

After about ten minutes he grasped the edge of the dumpster and peered over. One of the slat-sided cats he had frightened away earlier was licking an empty plastic meat tray on the pavement. Otherwise Ralph appeared to be alone. He climbed out. The loud jacket had begun to itch ominously.

Just to be sure he wasn't seen, he scaled the alley fence into the parking lot next door, stepped out into a side street, and walked for several blocks along the sides of buildings not intended for public viewing. The air had become chill and he took his warmth from the legality of his condition and the exhaust fans blowing kitchen odors from Thai restaurants, bar grills, and diners run by men named Mac and Buster with their service records tattooed on their forearms. At length he came out on Michigan Avenue, where six cabs passed him by before a nearsighted, born-again Christian hack driving an old Checker took pity on the man in derelict's clothing and stopped.

“Let's see your cash, brother.”

Ralph got his wallet out of his hip pocket and showed him. The driver peered at the picture of the costar of
The Dukes of Hazzard
.

“Okay, hop in, Mr. Wopat.”

In the cab, Ralph felt something in the right side pocket of his jacket, found a half-eaten Ding Dong that had either been thrown into the dumpster or belonged to Homeless or both, sniffed at it—he hadn't eaten since the Cadillac Club—and reluctantly tossed it out the window when it proved to be moldy. He caught the driver glaring at him in the rearview mirror.

“Where to, Tom?”

Ralph hesitated. He had five hours to kill in a city that was hunting him for murder. “Ann Arbor,” he said. “I'll tell you where to go when we get there.”

“Folks generally do, brother.”

The trip was memorable. The driver provided Ralph with a detailed account of how he had come to find Jesus and, somehow avoiding blasphemies, managed to curse at every driver who changed lanes within his vision, which extended roughly eleven inches beyond the Checker's hood. It was like being driven by a Mrs. Gelatto with religion. In Ann Arbor, they shot across an intersection a full ten seconds after the light had turned red, with a city police car just two cars behind them. Through the back window Ralph saw its flashers come on, but then the cab roared over a steep hill and swung around a corner at the bottom, bumping over the curb and scattering a group of young men dressed in fraternity sweaters waiting to cross the street.

“I think you lost him,” Ralph said.

“Lost who, brother?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, brother, yes.”

Three major traffic infractions later and two blocks from April Dane's apartment, Ralph told the driver to pull over and got out.

The driver took his fare. “Good luck to you, Mr. Wopat. I know you'll see the light.”

“It's a wonder
you
did.”

April opened her door wearing a Bruce Springsteen sweatshirt and cutoffs. Her feet were bare and her hair was tied behind her neck. When she recognized Ralph, her face brightened. “Hi!”

“Yeah. Lemme in. There's a campus cop downstairs.”

She stood aside and he swept past her. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” She closed and locked the door.

“Same old kind. You got anything to drink?”

“Just Diet Coke.”

“You're kidding.”

“I don't drink. I could go get something.”

“Better not. Might make someone suspicious.” Standing to one side of the window, he peered out between the curtains.

“Ralph, what's wrong?”

“To begin with, wieners come in packages of ten and you can only get eight buns to the bag.”

“So?”

“So no matter what you do you wind up with either two extra wienies or six extra buns. There ain't no way around it and the rest of life's just like it.”

“I can fix you something if you're hungry.”

“Naw, the Ding Dong spoiled my appetite.”

“Could you repeat that? I just got back from class and my head's still full of Abnormal Psychology.”

“Mine too. What time is it? I got coffee grounds in my watch.”

“A little after six.”

He turned on her portable TV set. The news was full of election campaigns and other natural disasters. “This just in,” said the announcer.

“Ralph?”

“Sh.”

“The owner of an adult bookstore downtown was discovered dead in his apartment an hour ago, the victim of an apparent strangling. Vincenzo Capablanca, age fifty-one …”

April stared at the live footage of Ralph's building. “Isn't that—?”

“Shut up.”

“… a tenant, who summoned the police. Police pursued a suspect from the building, who escaped in a late-model red Buick Riviera.…”

“Ralph!”

“… suspect's name has not yet been released. We will return after this with an update on that scandal involving Democratic State Senator Graver Greene and the Clawson girls' curling team.” The announcer's face dissolved to a close-up of Ed McMahon holding a package of Little Soldier condoms. Ralph turned off the set.

“You didn't do it, did you?” April asked.

“I ain't been to Clawson in months.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Some geek named Carpenter did him in my apartment. The old lady from upstairs seen me moving the body.”

“Today?”

“Couple of days back. It just never come up in conversation.”

“Does this have anything to do with my sister?”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. Every time I'm there she's under sedation. It
does
have something to do with her.”

Ralph scratched under his left arm. “Listen, you wouldn't happen to have a can of Black Flag in the house.”

“No. Answer me.”

“Lysol might do it.”

“Ralph!”

He shrugged. “Yeah. This monsignor bought the farm in your sister's bed. I got rid of the body for her and now this Carpenter guy that works for the bishop wants to do me. Your sister and my landlord just got in his way.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since I found out that what happened to your sister wasn't no accident. Burn this, okay?” He took off the jacket and held it out.

She didn't take it. “You knew all along and you didn't say anything.”

“It was too complicated. Listen, I'd burn it myself, only I can't go out.”

“What are you doing, blackmailing the bishop?”

“Me? Hell no.” She was quicker than he'd expected.

She unlocked the door and flung it open. “Get out of here.”

“I can't.”

“I'll yell rape.”

“I was going to yell that last night, only I didn't have enough wind.”

“Rape!”

“If I go out, they'll nab me for Vinnie's murder.”

“Rape!”

“When O'Leary and Lieutenant Bustard find out, they'll hang Lyla on me too.”

She took a deep breath.

“Okay, okay!” he said quickly. “I was knocking a little off, who wouldn't? Now the bishop's dead too. I'm pretty sure I know who sicced Carpenter on him and Vinnie and Lyla, but I don't know why. I can't find out till tonight, which is why I got to hide out here.”

The campus officer Ralph had seen downstairs came to the door with his revolver in his hand. He had gray hair and a beer belly and a face like a doubled fist. “Who hollered rape?”

“Me,” Ralph said.

The officer covered him. “This guy try something, miss?”

“April—”

“Be quiet, you! What about it, miss? We'll put this guy in County with Big Cecil Norden. He ain't had a woman in two years.”

“You ought to introduce him to this guy Warren in the Wayne lockup.”

“Shut up, you! Miss?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Nobody yelled rape here.”

“You sure? He looks like a prevort to me.”

“You ain't no Broderick Crawford yourself, Jack.”

“I'm sure. Thanks for checking it out, Officer.”

“No problem.” He put away the weapon. “Sorry about that, bub. We get some maggots here sometimes.”

“You'll know what to do with this, then.” Ralph held out the jacket.

The officer left without taking it. To April, Ralph said, “That mean I get to stay till tonight?”

“I want to find out who hurt my sister.”

“I'll keep you posted.”

“You've got the post for it.” She smiled.

Uh-oh, thought Ralph.

She took the jacket from him, opened the window, and hurled it out. Then she plucked off his hat and threw it after the jacket.

“Hey!”

“Rape,” she whispered.

On the sidewalk in front of the house, a scraggly-bearded man in patched trousers and a pair of dark glasses held together with a Band-Aid set down his scuffed cello case, picked up the jacket, looked it over, and put it on. Then he retrieved the cello case and strolled away, scratching himself and leaving the hat where it had landed. It was still there when Ralph came staggering out three hours later.

Chapter 20

The driver Ralph drew on his way back to Detroit wasn't a born-again Christian or any other kind, judging by the fact that the name on his license was Muhammed Daktari. The radio station he listened to played nothing but reggae, which had Ralph's head beating in counterpoint by the time they reached Romulus. An updated news report identified Ralph by name as the suspect wanted for questioning in the murder of Vincenzo Capablanca and provided a description that depressed him deeply. Fortunately, he had had the presence of mind to keep his face in shadow from the moment he got into the cab.

He got out three blocks away from Lovechild Confidential Inquiries, tipped more than his customary quarter so that the driver wouldn't have reason to remember him, and walked the rest of the way. It was a bitterly cold night, one of those glaciers-approaching evenings that Michigan gets halfway between the sopping heat of August and the sterile polar blasts of January, and it caught Ralph in his shirtsleeves. Even worse, he lengthened his journey by crossing the street whenever another pedestrian appeared on his side. Once a police cruiser turned into his block and he clucked behind a hedge on the front lawn of a funeral home, not ten minutes after somebody's dog had made a stop on the same spot. When he resumed walking, his nose was running and he stank to heaven, and it wasn't even Saturday night.

“Ralph!”

The name rang off the walls of the shallow portal to the Lovechild offices. Ralph was halfway down the block, running hard, when he realized it was Neal English who had called to him. He reversed directions and climbed the steps to the door a second time. Neal was huddled in the shadows of the entryway, hands in the pockets of a light topcoat with a fur collar. He looked like a statue of Lincoln.

“Man, you got guts. They got the bloodhounds out looking for you.”

“I think I just missed one.” Ralph scraped his heel on the edge of the top step.

“So did you do it?”

“Hell no. It was somebody's mutt.”

“I mean your landlord. Couldn't you make the rent this month?”

“That was Carpenter.”

“This the same Carpenter did the bishop and tried to do the hooker?”

“Ain't one of him enough?”

“What's he got, a bad case of piles?”

“He whacked Vinnie on account of Vinnie and Carpenter both showed up in my apartment at the same time looking for the film. I think he whacked Steelcase because Steelcase was fixing to buy me off. I figure he's running his own game, or else he's in with Willard Newton.”