Self-Defense (42 page)

“Twenty bucks.”

He sniffed and chuckled and shook his
head.

“Finding him’s no big deal,” I said. “How
do I know he’ll talk to me?”

He chuckled some more. “If you pay him, he
will, my man. He likes his money.” Eyeing my Seville. “What’s it, a
seventy-eight?”

“Seventy-nine,” I said.

“Paper don’t pay you enough to get some new
wheels?”

“Like I said, I just started.” I turned to
leave.

He said, “Forty bucks to find the man.”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty-five.” He stretched out a palm.
With a pained expression, I took out the money and gave it to him.

Curling his fingers over it, he smiled.

“Okay,” I said, “where’s Sylvester?”

He gave a deep laugh and pointed across
the table. “Say hello, Mr. Sylvester.”

The skinny man closed his eyes and
laughed, rocking in his chair.

“Hello, hello, hello.” He held out his
hand. “Hello from the star of the show.”

“Prove you’re Sylvester,” I said.

“A hundred
bucks
’ll prove it.”

“Fifty.”

“Ninety.”

“Sixty.”

“Eighty-eight.”

“Sixty-five, tops.”

He stopped smiling. His skin was as dry as
his partner’s was moist. His eyes were two bits of charcoal. “Thirty-five for
him just for
fingering
me, and I only get thirty more? That’s
stupid,
man.”

I said, “Seventy, if you’re really
Sylvester. And that’s it, because it cleans me out.”

I took all the bills out of my wallet and
fanned them.

Frowning, he reached behind and pulled out
a mock-alligator billfold. Flipping it open, he showed me a soiled Social
Security card made out to Edgely Nat Sylvester.

“Anything with a picture?”

“No need,” he said, but he flipped again
to a driver’s license. It had expired three years ago, but the picture was of
him and the name and address were right.

“Okay,” I said, giving him a twenty and
putting the rest of the money back.

“Hey,” he said, rising out of his chair.

“When we’re finished.”

The heavy man said, “We got ourselves a
dude here, Eddy. Street dude, knows what it is.”

Sylvester looked at the twenty as if it
were tainted. “How do I know you’re righteous, man?”

“Because if you complain to the
Times
and my boss finds out I paid you, my ass is grass. I don’t want any hassles,
okay? Just a story.”

“Fair is fair, Eddy,” said the heavy man,
with glee. “He gotcha.”

“Fuck your mama,” said Sylvester.

The heavy man laughed and wheezed. “Why
should I do that, Eddy, when I already fucked
your
mama and she squeezed
all
the juice outa me?”

Sylvester gave him a long dark stare, and
for a second I thought there’d be violence. Then the heavy man flinched and
winked and Sylvester laughed, too. Picking up a domino, he slapped it on the
table.

“To be continued, Fatboy,” he said,
standing.

“Where you goin, Eddy?”

“To talk to the man, stupid.”

“Talk here. I wanna hear what kind of
seventy-dollar story you got.”

“Ha,” said Sylvester. “Ask my mama about
it.” To me: “Let’s go someplace where the atmosphere ain’t stupid.”

We walked down the block, past other big
subdivided houses. An occasional palm tree skyscraped from the breezeway. Most
of the street was open and hot, even as evening approached. The air smelled
like exhaust fumes.

When we got near the corner, Sylvester
stopped and leaned against a lamppost. A brown-skinned woman in a
brown-flowered dress walked past. Several small children trailed her, like
goslings, laughing and speaking Spanish.

“They come here,” said Sylvester, “taking
jobs for crap pay, don’t even wanna learn English. Whynchu write about that?”

He patted his empty shirt pocket and
studied me. “Smoke?”

I shook my head.

“Figures. Now, what murder is it you wanna
hear about?”

“Was there more than one at the Adventure
Inn?”

“Could be.”

“Could be?”

“That place was no good—you know what it
really was, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Whorehouse. Nasty one—tough girls. I only
worked there ’cause I had to. My day job was cleaning gutters on houses and
that’s irregular—know what I mean? When it rains, you get your clogged gutters
and your leaks coming right through the window seams into the house, people
start screaming, Help me, help me! No rain, people forget their gutters; real
stupid.”

“The motel was your night job.”

“Yeah.”

“Tough place.”

“Real bad place. The people who owned it
ran it stupid—didn’t give a damn.”

“The Advent Group.”

He gave me a blank look.

“Guys from Nevada,” I said. “That’s what
it said in the original article.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Reno, Nevada; my
check used to come from there. Pain in the
took-ass
because it didn’t
clear for five days. Stupid.”

“The murder I’m talking about is a guy
named Felix Barnard. Ex–private eye. The article said you found him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Old guy,
bare-assed, his pecker in his hand.” Shaking his head. “Yeah, that was bad,
finding that. He got shot up in the face.”

He stuck out his tongue.

“What else do you remember about it?” I
said.

“That’s about it. Finding him was
disgusting, I wanted to quit the stupid job after that. I was working too hard
anyway. Used to get off at five in the morning, get home, try to sleep for a
couple of hours before going off to clean gutters. I had four kids, I was a
good daddy to all of them. Bought ’em stuff. The best shoes. My sons wore
Florsheim in high school, none of that sneaker stupidity.”

“You inspected the rooms at 5A.M.?”

“I finished by then. Started at a quarter
to,
so I could finish and get the hell out of there by five. If a room was
empty, I’d tell the Mexican girl to clean it. If someone was still in it, I’d
put a mark in the ledger for the day clerk. Day clerk’s job was easy, no one
used the damn place during the day.”

“You looked in Barnard’s room. Does that
mean it was supposed to be empty?”

“Supposed to be. He only paid for a short
time—couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out.”

“You didn’t check the room before?”

“Man,” he said, “I didn’t do more than I
had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn’t want to use the room, what
did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned
it didn’t give a damn.”

“A two-hour rental,” I said. “So Barnard
wasn’t there to sleep.”

He laughed. “Right. You must be a college
boy.”

“What’d you do when you found him?”

“Called the police, what else? You think
I’m stupid?”

“What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel
Mullins.”

He frowned. “Yeah, Darnel.”

“You call him, too?”

“Nah, Darnel wasn’t there. He was never
around except to kick me out of the office.”

“Why’d he do that??”

“Thought he was some kind of writer.
Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out
so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I’d go get something to eat—no
drinking, don’t put in that I drank, ’cause I didn’t. Only ale, once in a
while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job.”

“Sure,” I said. “So Darnel considered
himself a writer?”

“Yeah, like you—only he was writing a
book.” He laughed at the absurdity of that. “Stupid.”

“He wasn’t a good writer?” I said.

“How would I know? He never showed me
nothing.”

“Did he ever get anything published?”

“Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told
me; he liked to toot his own trombone.”

“Well,” I said. “I could ask him if I
could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven’t been able to. Any idea
where he is?”

“Nope. And don’t waste your time. Even if
you find him, he won’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“He was an uptight dude.”

“Uptight how?”

“Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad
about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down
his nose. And telling stories. Like he’d went to college, too good for this
damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here.”

He looked at me.

“Like he had somewhere to go and the rest
of us didn’t.”

“Do you remember where he said he went to
college?”

“Some place in New York. I never paid
attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His
daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars
at parties.” He laughed. “Writing a book. Like I’m stupid. Why would a brother
who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that
he admitted he was a brother.”

“He didn’t like being black?”

“He didn’t
admit
it. Talking all
white. And tell the truth, he was
light
as a white man.” Laughing again,
he pinched the skin of his forearm. “Too much pale in it. And his hair was
yellow—nappy, but real yellow. Like he’d been dipped in eggs—Mr. French Toast.”

“Did he have a mustache?”

“Don’t remember, why?”

“Just trying to get a picture.”

His eyes brightened. “You gonna put my
picture in the paper?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Gonna pay me for it?”

“Can’t do that.”

“Then forget it—aw, okay, if you want—lot
better than Darnel’s picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong—said he
played football in college, too. Wouldn’t admit he was black, but his nose was
flatter than Fatboy’s back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes—like
yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache.
Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid.”

I paid him the rest of the money, and he
began walking away from me.

“One more thing,” I said. “In the article,
you said you didn’t hear the shots ’cause of traffic. Was traffic that strong
at 4A.M.?”

He kept walking.

I caught up. “Mr. Sylvester?”

The same dry, angry look he’d shown his
friend.

I repeated the question.

“I hear you, I’m not stupid.”

“Is there a problem with answering it?” I
said.

“No problem. I didn’t hear any shots,
okay?”

“Okay. Did Barnard check in alone?”

“If that’s what it says in your paper.”

“It doesn’t say. Just that his name was
the only one on the register. Was he with anyone?”

“How the hell would I know?” He stopped.
“Our business is finished, man. You used up your money a long time ago.”

“Were you really there, or was it one of
the nights Darnel Mullins asked you to leave?”

He stepped back and touched a trousers
pocket. Implying a weapon, but nothing sagged the pocket.

“You calling me a liar?”

“No, just trying to get details.”

“You got ’em, now get.” Flicking a hand.
“And don’t send no white boy around a camera to take my picture. White boys
with cameras don’t do well around here.”

My stomach grumbled. I had lunch at a deli
near Robertson. Rabbis, cops, and stockbrokers were eating pastrami and
discussing their respective philosophies. I asked for matzo-ball soup, and
while I waited I tried Milo’s home, ready to leave another message. Rick
answered with his on-call voice. “Dr. Silverman.”

“Hi, it’s Alex.”

“Alex, how’s the new house coming along?”

“Slowly.”

“Big hassle, huh?”

“Better since Robin took over.”

“Good for her. Looking for El Sleutho? He
left early this morning, some kind of surveillance.”

“Must be the Bogettes,” I said.

“Who?”

“Those girls who worship Jobe Shwandt.”

“Probably. He’s not pleased having to deal
with that again. Not that he’s talked about it much. We have a new arrangement:
I don’t discuss the finer points of cutting and suturing, and he doesn’t remind
me how rotten the world is.”

Back home, I tried Columbia University
again. Darnel Mullins had, indeed, graduated from the university and done one
year of graduate school before dropping out— shortly after reviewing
Command:
Shed the Light.
The alumni office had a home address in Teaneck, New
Jersey, and a phone number to go with it, but when I called I got a dress shop
called Millie’s Couture.