Be Cool

by Elmore Leonard

  Joe Loop was hunched over now looking at the menu lying open on the table. He muttered something, sounding to Raji like he was calling them punks.

  Raji asked him how he got in the house and Joe Loop said he used a pick on the back door. Cheap lock, he could've used a hairpin.

  They were quiet for a minute looking at the menu.

  "You never been here," Joe Loop said, "you notice it's basically Jew food, but it's good."

  Raji said, "They let anybody eat here, even Eye-talians? You don't have to be a hymie?"

  "Even spades," Joe Loop said.

  With a look that told Raji to watch himself.

  A waitress appeared at the booth with her pad. Joe Loop kept studying the menu, so Raji said he'd have a corned beef on rye, a new pickle, a side of cole slaw and a cup of coffee. This being as much as he knew about delis.

  "I'd go for the stuffed cabbage," Joe Loop said, looking up at the waitress, "but I got gas from last night. Eat too late it stays with you."

  The waitress in her orange uniform, not a kid, said, "I'll try to remember that."

  Raji said, "Man, have a nice plate of the creamy cole slaw, be good for your condition."

  Joe Loop said, "Yeah, gimme that and a Diet Peps."

  Waiting for their order they talked about the contract, Joe Loop saying it was going to cost more than the twenty-five hundred they'd agreed on, now he had to find the guy and it could take some time. Two days he called the guy's house, nobody picked up. Drove by different times, the guy's car wasn't ever there. Joe Loop said what the guy was doing they used to call "going to the mattress," hiding out, going to a safe house had enough mattresses for the crew to sleep on. Raji was careful with Joe Loop, never got too close, saw him as some kind of creature you threw peanuts to. But this time he said yeah, he knew all about the mattresses and mob customs, said he'd seen all that Mafia stuff in the movies when he was a kid. A mistake—knew it as soon as he said it.

  Joe Loop hunched over his arms staring at him.

  "You know everything, uh?"

  "I know about the mattresses."

  "I never met a spook yet," Joe Loop said, "the guy didn't think he knew everything."

  "That's what I am," Raji said, "a spook?"

  "You like dinge better? Or I could call you a boogie, I don't give a fuck. All you got to do is tell Nick this is a new contract and it's gonna cost him five. You got that?"

  The waitress came with their order. Raji, putting mustard on his corned beef, watched Joe Loop take a big bite of creamy cole slaw and knew he shouldn't be witnessing this, he could get sick, but he had to look at the man.

  "I can talk the deal with you," Raji said, " 'cause it's my contract; it's why I'm here."

  "You work for Nick, you can't talk shit. You know what they call you?"

  "Who's they?"

  "The guys," Joe Loop said, his mouth full of creamy cole slaw. "They call you Nicky's nigga."

  Raji paused because it took him by surprise. He said, "Man, me and Nick's partners. Everybody knows that. We decide on things together."

  "Then how come Nick says yeah, you're his house-nigga."

  "When'd he say that?"

  "Whenever he feels like it."

  Raji said, "What if I called you a fat guinea fuck?"

  He watched Joe Loop straighten and push his busted glasses up on his busted nose.

  "I said what if I did."

  Joe Loop settled back.

  "You wouldn't say it."

  The man was a low-grade moron.

  "But if I did, what would you do?"

  "I'd swat you in the mouth with a ball bat," Joe Loop said, "one I keep in the car. You call me that, what would you expect?"

  "You call me a nigga."

  "So?"

  "You don't see nothing wrong with it?"

  "You don't do nothing, that tells me it don't matter to you."

  Raji held up his hand for Joe Loop to wait, picked up the sandwich and opened his mouth as wide as he could to take a bite. Chewing the corned beef on rye gave him time to think. He watched Joe Loop take another bite of cole slaw and Raji had to close his eyes. He should never have put the idea of cole slaw in the man's head. Raji swallowed finally and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin.

  He said, "Let's settle the business, okay? You want five big ones." It was hard to keep looking at the man, the creamy stuff in the corners of his mouth. "Half down okay?"

  "I want the five up front," Joe Loop said, "or Nick can do the guy himself."

  "I keep trying to tell you, this is my call. I'm the one needs it done."

  "And I want the five in my hand, Smoke, before I move."

  This man kept hooking him.

  "How about I meet you later on tonight?"

  He had to wait while Joe Loop wiped a piece of bread in his plate and shoved the bread in his mouth.

  "The Hollywood Athletic Club, eleven tonight."

  "Come again?"

  "Take the fuckin wax out of your ears. The Hollywood Athletic Club, on Sunset. I'll be out in front, eleven on the dot."

  "Never heard of it," Raji said.

  Joe Loop picked up his napkin. He said, "You mean there's something you don't know?" blew his nose in the napkin and dropped it in his plate. "You're the first spook I ever heard say that."

  CHILI CALLED Elaine Levin from Linda's. All he wanted was to ask if she'd listened to the tape and make a date to see her in the next couple of days, at the studio. But Elaine had questions, taking forever to ask them, and then he had to answer the ones he could, beginning with the dead Russian in his living room. Why a Russian? Well, the Russian mob was into extortion, and there was reason to believe they were leaning on Tommy Athens and Tommy refused to cut them in. The cops were going on that theory. Chili said he had a friend now with the LAPD, "if you can believe that," Darryl Holmes, and Darryl kept him up on what was going on. They didn't know yet who shot the Russian, another Russian gangster, or, Chili said, one of ours. Then had to explain what he meant. "There people in the record business, Elaine, who think they're tough guys, or they know people who are. I'll tell you about it when I see you."

  "Are you hiding out?"

  "In a way, yeah."

  "You can't stay at home. Where are you?"

  "I'm at Linda's, but her band's coming and they'll be staying here for the time being."

  "Go to a hotel."

  "I might do that."

  "In New York."

  "Elaine, did you listen to the tape?"

  "Yeah, and you're right about her attitude. She's tough and she knows what she wants. You spent the night with her?"

  "At her house. The shylock isn't in this one, Elaine, he doesn't get involved."

  "How do you know?"

  She had a point, but he didn't comment. There was a pause on the line and Elaine said, "Do I hear music?"

  "Bob Dylan, all morning." He said, "How about if I come by tomorrow? I'll tell you what's going on, and I've got a video I want to show you."

  "A movie?"

  "A home movie, Linda and her band. She put it on for me last night."

  They left it at that.

  He hung up the phone and Linda, in a loose white T-shirt, came out of the kitchen with a feather duster and began flitting around the room in time to the music, flicking the duster at lamps, tables, Chili watching her making funky moves to Dylan's "Cold Irons Bound," doing things with her hips in the T-shirt that covered her tail and stopped. She picked up the phone next to Chili, gave the end table a couple of swipes with the feathers and set the phone down again.

  "You don't have to leave," Linda said, "just because the guys are coming."

  "Where do I sleep, here?"

  Meaning the slipcovered sofa where he was sitting. A couple of fat chairs in the room were covered in the same faded floral print. Other chairs were wicker, tropical-looking; on the walls, several movie posters.

  Linda was by the bookshelves now flicking the feather duster at rows and rows of movie vide
os and CDs, a few framed photographs and paperback books. "How about me and you in my bedroom," Linda said, "and the guys in the other one? You don't have to be horny or in love to sleep with somebody, you only have to be tired. On tour, bumming around? You never know who you'll be sleeping with."

  "You never were in love?"

  "You mean with Dale or Speedy? They aren't my type. You saw them."

  On the video she showed him last night, shot a year ago in this house: Linda, Dale and Speedy goofing around, doing imitations of different pop artists like Hanson, the Stones, Linda doing her Alanis Morissette; kind of half-assed MTV but good stuff full of energy.

  She said now, "But they are protective of me."

  "You wore clothes," Chili said, "you wouldn't need protection."

  She raised the duster above her head and looked over her shoulder at him, posing. "I have skirts as short as this, and I'm wearing underpants." She reached around to flip the T-shirt and give Chili a flash of white panties. "See?"

  He said, "Linda, what're you doing?" and felt old; it didn't sound like him.

  "Putting another CD on for your listening pleasure."

  "You know what I mean."

  "You think I'm trying to turn you on?"

  "That's what I'm asking."

  "Why're you so uptight? My word, is it your age? You're only about ten years older'n I am."

  Linda began nodding her head to a heavy, steady drum beat, now a guitar coming in and a girl's clear voice singing, the lyrics something about days like these that make you fall down on your knees.

  "I don't know you," Chili said. "I don't even know your real name."

  The clear voice, hitting notes on the beat, was singing now about the church of the falling rain, the keepers of the flame, as Linda turned the volume low. She said, "It's Lingeman. Can you see that on a marquee? 'Odessa, featuring Linda Lingeman.' Dingaling Lingeman, the songstress."

  Chili could still hear the music faintly, the girl's voice on the chorus, "In the church of the falling rain," kind of a pounding gospel beat, as Linda was telling him:

  "My dad thinks I took the name of his favorite horse, a mare named Moon. Uh-unh, where I got it—we were performing at a club in Miami called Churchill's, kind of a dump and it never got much of a crowd unless somebody like Dick Dale was playing. It's in Little Haiti and people are afraid to go there."

  The faint music in the background was racing now, the girl doing another song, "Have I gone beyond the pale?" A few words that weren't clear and then, "I hear the hammer on the nail." There was a quality to the voice, the tone, he was beginning to recognize.

  "This one night," Linda was saying, "we did our set and a woman came up to me—she was a little older but attractive. She wanted to tell me how much she liked my voice and that we had something in common. Her name was Linda and she used to sing professionally, mostly in casino lounges, one in Atlantic City, another in Puerto Rico. I asked if she used her real name and she said yes, Linda Moon. As soon as she said it I knew it was the name I wanted. I told her I loved the sound of it, Linda Moon, and she said, 'Take it, I'm not using it anymore. I've got four kids at home, all boys, I'm Linda Mora now and my husband Vincent is with the Miami Beach Police.' So I said thank you very much and I've been using the name ever since." Linda paused. "I have two married sisters, they live in Midland. My dad raises horses, my mom works in a bank. . . . What else you want to know?"

  Now in the silence Chili could hear the heavy beat and the girl's clear voice:

  It didn't seem so very long ago

  We listened to Del Shannon on the stereo.

  Chili took a minute, looking up at the ceiling like he was thinking of something to ask her. Finally he said, "That's you and Odessa, isn't it?"

  Linda turned to raise the volume and came back around to face him, moving with the beat now and singing along with herself on the CD:

  She went out there and they used her up

  They threw her aside like a broken cup.

  Poor baby, she's gone gone gone

  Walkin' the streets with her eyeshadow on.

  Linda turned down the volume again saying, "That's 'My Little Runaway.' I played the whole CD last night from 'Church of the Falling Rain' all the way through and you never said a word."

  "I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry. . . ."

  "Had things on your mind. But I couldn't help thinking, Lord, he's our manager and he doesn't even recognize my voice."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Well, shit, if you don't know it's me singing when you hear it . . ."

  "It's stronger on the record. You don't talk, you know, that loud."

  "Well, now that you've heard Odessa . . ."

  "It's great. I love it. You know why? I understand it. I remember one last night, 'The Changing of the Guard'?"

  Linda began singing again, her voice clear, effortless:

  It's the changing of the guard

  It's the marching to the drum

  To the beating of our hearts

  Here we come.

  "That's Odessa," Linda said, "how we look at our music and what we're doing." Then, picking it up again:

  We've come to visit

  Yes, we have come to call

  We have come to see

  Your empire fall.

  "That's heavy stuff," Chili said, "but it's fun, too. You really drive, even though some of it's got that kind of a country sound to it."

  "I told you," Linda said, "it's rock 'n' roll with a twang. Pure, no bullshit."

  "You can't sell that music?"

  "Yeah, we did, but then the label wanted to junk it up. I told you that. We made the deal with that CD."

  "Who produced it?"

  "We did. I borrowed fifteen hundred from my dad. We paid thirty-five bucks an hour to record in a halfassed studio that didn't even have a bathroom, and had a thousand records pressed for twelve hundred, in sleeves, no jewel box or artwork. I still owe my dad."

  "I'll take care of that," Chili said. "We're gonna start clean, then see about making you a star."

  "Raji said he'd make the Chicks superstars."

  "You heard from him again?"

  "Not since he gave me that business about the tough guys he has behind him. Like he can call the mob when he needs help. I told him he'd better be careful, Chili Palmer is not a nice guy. I said you better talk to Nick before you try anything."

  "You told him I wasn't a nice guy?"

  "Did I hurt your feelings? My Lord, you were a gangster, weren't you?"

  "What's that mean, I belonged to a gang? I never did, I was only, you might say, loosely connected."

  "It didn't matter I warned him," Linda said, "they still tried to shoot you. But if it was Raji, he wouldn't have shot the wrong guy, would he?"

  Chili said, "What I want to know is who's in charge, Raji or Nicky?"

  "Nick," Linda said. "He has a fit you call him Nicky. I see him as the front man, the salesman, he talks louder'n Raji, but Raji's shifty. I think he acts cool 'cause he's lazy, but he's always there, if you know what I mean. Raji's more apt to come up behind you."

  "And he made the record deal for the Chicks."

  "With Artistry. The same label that signed Odessa and we walked out."

  It surprised him. "You didn't tell me that," Chili said. "So Artistry knows what you can do when you're not being a Chick. You leave, it blows Raji's deal, but the chances are Artistry'll want to keep you."

  "If I let them," Linda said. "If they swear they won't mess with my songs."

  Chili got up from the sofa, straightened his suit.

  "I'm gonna have to have a talk with Raji and Nicky, get them straightened out. But first I'll drop by Artistry, see what kind of a deal we can make. Who's the guy there?"

  "The one who signed us, Michael Maiman, he's A&R," Linda said. "But you've never made a record deal."

  "It's about how much you get up front," Chili said, "and how much is taken out of your royalties. I talked to Hy Gordon a
bout it."

  The hanging bag he'd brought, clothes for a few days, was sitting by the front door. He looked at it and then at Linda again. "I'll let you know where I'll be."

  "You can have my bedroom and I'll take the couch," Linda said, "if you're touchy about it. I don't care where I sleep."

  "It's not the sleeping arrangements," Chili said. "Somebody wants me out of the way. They come in here to do it, they're not gonna leave witnesses. Or they toss a pipe bomb through the window. It wouldn't matter who's sleeping with who, your friend's house blows up."

  She seemed to think about it.

  "Don't you have a gun?"

  "No, I don't have a gun." Like, why would she even ask.

  "I do," Linda said. "A shotgun my dad gave me."

  THEY WALKED across the yard, Chili with his hanging bag, Linda telling him to look at Los Angeles out there will you, Los Angeles, California, and Chili saying, "Isn't that one of the Chicks?"

  It sure was, Vita coming up the stairs from her car.

  Linda said, "Vita, say hello to my new manager, Chili Palmer," anxious for them to meet, but the next moment feeling left out as she watched Vita take over.

  Vita saying, "Yeah, I been reading about you in the paper," Vita going after him with her eyes as she looked him over. "I bet you could manage both of us, you wanted to." Vita with that easy way she had. Linda felt like telling her to back off.

  But all she said was, "He's leaving."

  Vita said, "She kicking you out?"

  Chili said, "No, I have to go." Grinning.

  Grinning like a fool. "He's busy," Linda said.

  "I bet you are," Vita said to him, "people trying to shoot you. Listen, you can hide out at my place you want. I doubt anybody'd find you in Venice."

  Linda kept watching him. Now he was thanking Vita, shaking her hand. Looking this way now, coming over to give her a kiss on the cheek and say he'd call later. Like he was going off to work. Linda waited until he was down the stairs and in his car.