Swag

by Elmore Leonard

  “It certainly is a small world,” the little prosecutor said, “You don’t suppose she’s working with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Cal said, “but I’m sure anxious to find out.”

  24

  I GO DOWN TO GET the car last night,” Frank said, “it’s not there. I thought maybe I forgot where I parked it. I looked all over. Christ, I thought, I parked it right in front, it’s gone. I thought somebody stole it and I got to call the police.”

  “You call them?”

  “No, I go back out this morning, it’s there. This afternoon it’s gone again. Then just now—I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  “I had the other set of keys,” Stick said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m thinking. Am I going crazy or what?”

  “I got to get permission?”

  “Save me some trouble, that’s all. Where’d you spend the night?”

  “With a friend.”

  “I didn’t know you had any.” Stick didn’t smile and Frank said, “I’m kidding. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I didn’t think it was funny.”

  “How about this one? We were so poor when I was a kid if you didn’t wake up Christmas morning with a hard-on you didn’t have anything to play with.”

  “You been talking to Barry.”

  “I just saw him outside. He was asking about you.”

  “How about Sportree, he been asking, too?”

  He slipped it in and caught the startled look on Frank’s face.

  “Well, sure, he asked about you. He called me, in fact. He said, Why don’t you make the bond on your friend? You want him sitting in jail?”

  “Wanted me out, uh? In case I start getting too friendly with anybody? I can hear him: ‘We don’t know your friend, man. We don’t know where his head’s at on this thing.’ He wants to talk to me?”

  “Naturally he’s concerned,” Frank said. “Right, because he doesn’t know you. But listen, I was the one suggested the two of you have a talk. He wasn’t anxious or anything, he said maybe that was a good idea.”

  “I’m supposed to go down there? He must think I’m out of my fucking mind.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Frank said, “put your mind at ease, he’s not too hot on you coming to his place. And he’s not going to come here, for obvious reasons, or anywhere the police or somebody might see you together.”

  “How about down by the fucking river late at night?” Stick said. “Jesus, he must think you’re as dumb as I am. Or you think the same way he does, I don’t know.”

  “I’m standing in the middle,” Frank said. “I know both you guys, but I can’t convince either of you to trust me, take my word. He doesn’t care where you meet. He said you name the place you want to. He doesn’t care at all, long as it’s, you know, private, away from where you could be seen.”

  “You going to be there?”

  “If you want me to, sure.”

  “I mean does Sportree want you to come along or am I supposed to show up alone?”

  “I suggested it. I said I’d bring you. Why? What difference does it make?”

  “I’m trying to find out what side you’re on,” Stick said.

  “What side I’m on? For Christ sake, what’re you talking about sides, there aren’t any sides.”

  “Frank,” Stick said quietly, “the guy wants to kill me.”

  “Come on—”

  “Listen to me!” Stick waited, getting himself in control again. “I say two words, Sportree . . . Leon, they’re in the can for murder, maybe life. He can’t take a chance.”

  “What about me? I can say the two words. He want to kill me, too? He could’ve done it. I was with him.”

  “Maybe you are with him,” Stick said. “Or he knows you stand to lose as much as he does, or he doesn’t give a shit. I don’t know, but I’m the one going to trial. I’m the one stands to lose if they can build something against me, and I’m the one stands to gain if I was to mention names.”

  Frank waited, staring at him. “They make you an offer?”

  “Not yet, but I can see it coming. I wasn’t in on the hit, they know that. So maybe they reduce it to some kind of accessory or shoplifting or throw it out altogether. They want somebody for murder, Frank. And they know I know who did it.”

  “Are you saying—let me get this straight.” Frank walked over to the bar and poured himself a Scotch. “Are you saying you’re willing to make a deal with them? Cop down to shoplifting or some fucking thing?”

  “No, I didn’t say that,” Stick said. “I’m going to ride it and keep my mouth shut and not get anywhere near that witness stand and I think I have a pretty good chance of making it, if they stay with the larceny thing. If they don’t, well, tough shit, I’ve thought it over, I went in with my eyes open, nobody forced me, I still won’t say a word. But Sportree, Leon, they’re not going to hold their smoke in waiting to see what I do. Leon shot Billy Ruiz, you were standing there.”

  “He tried to take it all, sure, Leon didn’t have any choice.”

  “Frank, don’t shit me. A very reliable source, that hotdog cop, one of the first things he told me, Billy Ruiz was shot in the back. They didn’t need him anymore and it’s that simple. You make up a story he tried to take the goods, why? Frank, you’re either with them or your head’s all fucked up and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Stick watched him drink his Scotch and pour another one.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “I have some doubts, yeah. It’s, well, it didn’t work out. It looked easy, but things happened, things you couldn’t plan on. You said we should’ve left it alone, stay with what we’re doing. Okay, I have to agree with you, it got all fucked up and complicated. But it could’ve worked and we could’ve had an awful lot of money.”

  Stick said, “It never had a chance, Frank. You know why? Because you thought you knew this guy, but you don’t.”

  “Take my word,” Frank said, “okay? You don’t trust him, then trust me.”

  “No,” Stick said, “you take my word. Tell Sportree and Leon I’ve already shot two colored guys, so I know how to do it. They’re always saying. Be cool. Well, tell them to be cool.”

  Arlene did a dumb thing. She was expecting some glossies taken at the Gateway Nationals and she wanted them, just to have, the last shots of her taken in the silver outfit. So she rented a box in the Royal Oak post office and told the lady manager of the Villa Monterey to forward her mail there. She thought it was safe because she’d just be a number, with no name.

  That’s how Cal Brown found Arlene, in three steps, from the manager to the post office to the name and apartment address in Clawson.

  Arlene opened the door, thinking it was Stick. She could feel her expression change. God.

  Cal smiled and said, “How you doing, Miss Downey?” He had his notebook open in his hand and looked down at it.

  “There’s something here I wanted to ask you. About this holdup you were a witness to?”

  25

  THE YOUNG GUY, THE COP, was straddling the leg-rest part of the lounge chair with his boots on the cement deck. Hunched forward in skinny faded Levi’s and a corduroy sport coat and tie. Stick couldn’t tell where he was carrying his gun.

  He was relaxed, his hands folded in front of him, facing Frank, and seemed to be interested in whatever Frank was saying. Frank was lying back in his chair scratching his belly, being cool, his sunglasses raised to the hot four o’clock sky.

  Stick watched them from the balcony. He went into the living room and walked to the Formica table and back to the balcony a few times, pausing to look down over the railing. They were the only ones at the pool. On the fifth pass, Stick said, “Shit,” and went into his bedroom. He could either hide under the bed or put on his new bright-blue swimming trunks. He put on the trunks.

  “I believe you two know each other,” Frank said. He’d had enough to drink to be relaxed or able to fake it; or else the guy, for
some reason, wasn’t scaring him. “He was just mentioning a friend of ours,” Frank said to Stick walking up to them, “Arlene Downey.”

  “I thought she moved,” Stick said. He pulled a chair around and sat down facing Cal Brown, showing him he didn’t have anything to hide.

  “That’s what I told him,” Frank said. “I haven’t seen her around.”

  “Yeah, she moved,” Cal said. “She’s got an apartment in Clawson. But see, that’s not the point. I’m not looking for her, I already talked to her. About twenty minutes ago.”

  Stick had his knees up in front of him, a barrier between him and the policeman.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’ll be okay, I think. The thing that’s bothering her is that holdup she saw in a bar not too long ago. It’s stuck in her mind.”

  “I don’t believe I heard about that one,” Frank said. Stick kept staring at the guy. It was coming now.

  “She said it was two guys. They take the bills off this first guy that went in with a shotgun. Weird, uh? A shotgun.”

  “What’re you trying to say?” Stick said.

  “Okay.” Cal straightened up a little, looking over at Stick. “Everything I say is off the record. Everything you say, same thing. No recorders, no bullshit. You know who I am, I know who you are. Let’s talk things over.”

  “So talk,” Frank said.

  “All right, first thing,” Cal said. “We could bust you on a couple dozen robbery armed. Listen, shit, just the cars you used could get you a hundred years apiece.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Frank said.

  “The two spades in the Northland parking lot, you can have them,” Cal said. “It reminds me of an old saying, Don’t ever shit a shitter. Don’t ever try and hustle a couple of ace hustlers either, especially right after a job. But what I don’t understand, on the Hudson’s thing—”

  “What Hudson’s thing?” Frank said.

  “The J. L. Hudson Company Hudson’s thing,” Cal said. “Is why you want to take just checks. What’re you going to do with them? You got some guy named Hudson you’re going to lay ’em off on?”

  Frank didn’t move. His face remained raised to the sky. But his eyes were open now behind the sunglasses.

  “That’s all they got in that one, just checks?”

  “That’s all your buddy was picking up,” Cal said. “Two Brink’s sacks in the doll box.”

  He waited, letting the silence lengthen.

  “This was the second day after, right? What I been wondering, a theory of mine, is what if somebody went in there the next day, right after, and switched some other sacks to another box? Boy, that would sure fuck over the guys left with just the checks, wouldn’t it?”

  “I didn’t read in the paper,” Frank said, “about it being just checks in the box. I think—I believe it said whatever was stolen was recovered.”

  “Well, they don’t like to publicize anything that’d make them look bad, or look dumb, you might say.”

  “You mean there’s some money that was stolen, hasn’t been found, recovered?” Frank said.

  “Well, actually, I’m not at liberty to say. Normally there’d be seventy-five, a hundred thou in the cash sacks. And considerably more than that in checks.” Cal grinned. “But the checks aren’t worth shit in comparison, are they? And if you don’t even have the checks, you ain’t got nothing at all.”

  Stick said, “You want to come right out and say what you’re trying to say?”

  “I can spell it for you,” Cal said. “It’s a-s-s-h-o-l-e-s. That’s what your associates, your black buddies, are making you look like.”

  “This is wild,” Frank said. “Shit.” He was sitting up now, pulling himself up and taking off his sunglasses to look at the guy. “You give us all this like we’re supposed to know what you’re talking about. Our black buddies—what black buddies? Who? Give us some names. Shit, you start to make accusations, give us some proof. What? You’re talking about the Hudson’s thing?”

  “Frank—”

  Stick waited. He looked from Frank to the policeman and said, “What’s the deal?”

  Cal Brown took his time. He put on a pleasant, innocent, sort of a surprised expression as he looked at Stick. He said, “Deal? Who’s talking about a deal? I’m just telling you how I see it. The question is, do you want to go to Jackson for a while or do you want to take a chance on getting shot in the head by your buddies? It’s entirely up to you, man.”

  There was a silence. Cal waited. He said then, “Well—” and got up to go, starting to move off, timing it, stopping and looking at Stick.

  “I almost forgot. Your pretrial exam’s been moved up.”

  It caught Stick by surprise. “How come nobody tells me?”

  “I’m telling you,” Cal said. “Day after tomorrow, nine o’clock. Frank Murphy Hall of Justice.”

  Frank was still in his trunks, pacing now, following the route from the balcony to the Formica table and back again. Stick had on a shirt, unbuttoned. He sat at the table with a cup of coffee, looking at it, looking at the wall, looking at Frank when Frank got in the way. Frank had a Scotch on the bar and would stop off there every few minutes. He had two cigarettes going, one on the bar, one in an ashtray on the balcony he’d forgotten about.

  “You didn’t look in it at all?” Frank said.

  “I didn’t have time,” Stick said. “I told you I thought it felt light.”

  “Five sacks went in the box, I saw them. Marlys came out—” Frank stopped. “Jesus, I’m standing there—Marlys told him. She pointed to three sacks, he put the other two in first. I watched him do it. The whole thing was set up, Billy Ruiz, everything. Leon, Marlys, somebody goes in the next day, takes out the three sacks, leaves the ones with the checks—Jesus.”

  “The cop spelled it right,” Stick said, “didn’t he?”

  “We show up the next day,” Frank said, “we got checks, that’s all we got, checks. Sportree says, ‘What’s this shit?’ Turns it fucking around on us. We say—we don’t know what to say. We can’t believe it.”

  “Your old buddy,” Stick said. “He gives it to you, he puts it in all the way, doesn’t he?”

  “The son of a bitch,” Frank said. “Like we’re a couple of little kids. I’d like to have that Python right now—or get my hands on one.”

  “Don’t do anything dumb,” Stick said. “They’re not going to let you walk in there with a gun. Take it easy. As your old buddy would say, be cool.”

  “I’m going to cool him,” Frank said, “the son of a bitch, sitting back, all that time blowing smoke at us.”

  “Sitting back ready. I’m not trying to talk you out of anything,” Stick said. “I’m saying you got to be careful and do it right. Put yourself in his place. If he’s smart enough to pull this deal, he’s not going to let you walk in and take it away from him. One advantage, he doesn’t know what we know and he must think we’re pretty dumb to begin with. I’m saying put yourself in his place and look at it as he sees it before you run out and do anything dumb. See, that’s what’s bothering you right now. You don’t like the idea of him laughing at you, thinking you’re dumb. Like when I swiped the car from you out there. You don’t want to prove he’s right, so let’s think on it awhile.”

  “We walked into places thirty times,” Frank said, “no problem. How about once more? What’s the difference?”

  “The difference, they were guys in aprons and A&P coats. This guy’s a pro. He’s into, Christ, probably everything you can think of. He has people killed.”

  “And he thinks we’re a couple of hicks,” Frank said. “That’s what I keep thinking about.”

  “I know you do, and maybe there’s a way to use it, if you know what I mean. But it’s something we’d have to give some thought to. Remember, I’m going to court the day after tomorrow and I might not be around for awhile. We’ll have to wait and see.” Stick got up from the table and took his cup into the kitchen. When he came back in he said,
“I’m going to see Arlene. Hang onto that Scotch bottle till I get back.”

  He spent the night at Arlene’s, patting her, saying, “Come on, it’s okay,” telling her as calmly as he could not to worry, the cop didn’t know anything—that’s the way they were, they showed their badge and were very official and serious and tried to scare you into admitting things, but it was all fake. Arlene said she hadn’t told the cop anything. Good. Thank God, good, she hadn’t slipped him anything, not knowing she was doing it. He got Arlene calmed down and lay there in the dark most of the night staring at the ceiling, hoping Frank was in bed and not out looking for a gun. He had a pretrial exam to face that could be the first step to putting him away and he had to worry about Frank and Arlene and the jazzy colored guy that had really fucked them over and they hadn’t even felt it. It was a terrible mess, but it was also kind of interesting, exciting. He was getting to the point, feeling it, that he didn’t have much to lose and maybe a lot to gain. What he had to do, lying there in the dark, was consider his options. Like:

  Run.

  No, don’t run. Maybe don’t move at all. Don’t even look around. Forget about the money, somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred grand, the cop had said, implied. He believed the cop. So write it off.

  To what?

  The principle: Don’t ever do business with a colored guy, especially one who’s smarter than you are.

  The funny thing was he still kind of liked the guy, Sportree—Maurice Jackson, his real name—Sportree in Detroit’s black ghetto “Valley” and out on West Eight Mile. He admired him, the way he pulled it, and really didn’t blame him. Why not? Sportree didn’t give a shit about them one way or the other. Shit, if you’re going to knock down a department store, get involved in murder, what was surprising about fucking over a couple of poor dumb white boys? Sportree didn’t owe them anything.