The Wrong Case

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The Wrong Case Page 13

by James Crumley


  “Neither,” I said.

  “Hell, boy,” he said, rising and walking around the desk to pat me on the shoulder, “if you believe that, you’re both. Sorry I wasn’t much help.”

  “Join the crowd,” I said, handing him back the dead cigar. “Throw that away for me, will you?” I left him staring down at the cigar as if it were the corpse of a favorite son.

  “Goddammit, boy,” he said as I closed the door.

  —

  I stopped at my office to check the calls and think about what Amos had said. The trouble was, though, that I believed Amos. The Duffy kid had either died of an accident or a suicide, died by his own unhappy hand. I didn’t want to tell Helen Duffy just that. I thought perhaps I could shed some light on why, but Reese wouldn’t talk to me and Willy Jones was dead. As I pondered that, Simon wandered in, still draped in the overcoat, stooped as if the burden might collapse his spine, his secondhand wing-tip cordovans ruffling the hem of the coat as it flittered behind him, almost touching the floor. I held up my hand so he would wait quietly while I returned the single call the answering service had given me. It was from Nickie DeGrumo. As I dialed I wondered what he wanted. But only briefly. I really wondered if Helen Duffy would kiss me again when I told her about her little brother.

  When I asked the Riverfront switchboard operator for Nickie, she rang the bar, but Mama D. answered the telephone. Even though she had been out West for years, her accent was still thickly East Coast Italian. If she was a daughter of the family, I assumed that she had had a very protected youth, and I wondered how Nickie had managed to ferret her out of her father’s house. Her papa mustache accent wasn’t endemic, though, since her cousins all sounded like television announcers. Over the telephone, I could hear her heavy breathing, then Nickie’s distant voice saying that he would take the call in his office. Instead of saying “Hello” when he picked up the telephone, he told Mama to hang up, which she did after a long silence.

  “Milo,” I said. “What’s happening, Nickie?”

  “How’s the boy, Milo, how’s the boy?”

  “Fine,” I sighed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, drop around for a drink,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but his voice still had an edge to it. “On me, Milo, on me.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop in sometime.”

  “Now would be better, Milo. Right now if you can make it.”

  “I’m on my way to lunch, Nickie.”

  “Listen, Milo, this is important. I’ll spring for the lunch.”

  “What do you want, Nickie?” He must be desperate to offer a free lunch.

  “Got a job for you.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “Can’t discuss it over the phone, Milo. But hell, boy, I know you can use the business, and this might be worth two or three grand.”

  “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just a joke. What’s the job?”

  “Not over the phone,” he said melodramatically. “Just come on out.”

  “I don’t know, Nickie.”

  “Hell, Milo, I’ll pay for your time even if you don’t take the job. How’s that, huh? Pay you for the day.”

  “That’s expensive.”

  “Ah, how much?”

  “Hundred and a half,” I said, raising my fee for Nickie.

  “Christ, Milo, I didn’t know…What the hell, it’s only money. Come on out. That’s fine if you come out now.”

  I didn’t like to be pushed, but for that sort of money I guessed I could stand having lunch with Nickie, so I said I’d see him shortly.

  “And, Milo…”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you could act like you just dropped in for lunch, I’d appreciate it. Understand?”

  “You don’t want Mama D. to know, right?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that…”

  “I understand,” I interrupted. “See you in ten minutes.”

  “Great,” he said, trying on the happy voice again, but I hung up before he could get started again.

  “I wonder what the hell he wants?” I asked myself, but loudly enough for Simon to hear.

  “Who?” he asked, pausing in midshuffle.

  “Nickie DeGrumo.”

  “Whatever it is, boy, don’t take a check from that cheap asshole.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “You going out there?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Can I go?” he asked, his weathered face cocked. “Just for the ride. This is one of those goddamned boring days, so why don’t you take me along?”

  “I’ll meet you at Mahoney’s when I come back. Tell you all about it. How’s that?”

  “Goddammit, boy, you ain’t got no respect for me, do you? You’re so smart. Think I’m just an old drunk, don’t you? Well, just g-go on out there and make a fool of yourself. See if anybody gives a shit.”

  “Easy, you old fart. You’ll have a stroke. I got something else going too. Maybe you can help.”

  “Don’t patronize me, boy,” he said grandly, then shuffled out the door.

  “Stay sober,” I said, but Simon didn’t look back.

  —

  Nickie met me in the lobby with a barrage of greetings, which I ignored, asking him what he wanted.

  “All business and no pleasure, huh, Milo? Makes for a hard life,” he said, squeezing my arm. If it hadn’t been Nickie, I might have thought he was being condescending.

  “That’s right,” I said. “What’s the job?”

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said.

  I followed him into the nearly empty bar, to the booth in the corner occupied by the sensual foursome the night before. As I waited for Nickie to order the drinks from the day bar manager, I found myself checking between the vinyl cushions for change, a habit left over from following my father through the bars. I expected to find a used condom or a pecker track, but discovered sixty cents in change and a bobby pin.

  “CC ditch, brandy soda no ice,” I heard Nickie tell the guy behind the bar. Somebody had told Nickie once that cold drinks caused stomach cancer. No ice in his drinks was Nickie’s single gesture toward good health. At the other end of the bar, where she perched eternally, Mama D. rang the drinks, and the register obediently coughed up the ticket.

  “Sign it for me, will you, Mama?” Nickie asked.

  Without stirring her obese body, she turned her head toward him, her fat face haughty with aquiline disdain, her eyes like obsidian chips. A slight smile, like a knife mark in fresh dough, cut her face, and I expected cachinnations, but she answered in an oddly pleasant voice, “You sign, Nickie. The books.”

  And he signed. Walked all the way down the bar and signed the ticket. Her pudgy hand caught his, patted it once, then turned him loose. He carried the drinks over to the booth, unable to hide the disgust on his face from me, but Mama D. smiled like a happy mother as she watched him walk away from her.

  “Listen,” he said, handing me my drink. “I need a big favor, Milo, really big.”

  “I thought you said a job.”

  “Oh, yeah, it is. The favor is—to start right away, this afternoon.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Well, listen, this is kind of complicated, Milo,” he said, patting his dyed hair carefully, as if he didn’t want to dirty his smooth hands. “I, ah, got this friend, Milo, you know, and this, ah, friend has a friend, a lady, you understand, kinda like a practice wife.” He smiled at his own joke. “And he had to leave town suddenlike, you know, and he sort of wants to know what his lady friend does. While he’s not around, you understand. And my friend is a very important man, you know, he, ah, can’t afford to have lady friends who—who mess around, you know.”

  “I know, Nickie. That’s how I made my living,” I said.

  “Right, right. That’s why I called you, Milo boy. You’re a professional,” he said, smiling broadly. “Listen, money’s no object, so my friend wants yo
u to handle this, you know. Twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Nickie, I have to sleep sometimes.”

  “Oh, yeah, I understand. But full time, you know, whatever you usually do—in a case like this.”

  “Sure,” I said, already thinking that I could hire Freddy and Dynamite, charge the rented car and mobile phone to Nickie, and still make a nice price without turning a finger. “How long?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks. Till my friend gets back, you know.”

  “That’s going to cost a pretty penny,” I said.

  “Like I said, Milo boy, money’s no object.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “For money not to be an object.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, smiling again. “Yeah, I’ll bet it is.” Then he finished his drink in one gulp. “Another?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, but he had already gone toward the bar. While he was gone, I dumped the change into the ash tray for the waitress next on duty. When he came back, I said, “Thanks. I’ll go out to the rig and get a contract.”

  “Oh, no, Milo,” he said quickly, then lifted his drink, gunned half of it. “Nothing written down, boy-o.” Then he rubbed his chest and muttered, “Goddamned soda.”

  “What?”

  “Goddamned soda give me indigestion.” His smile was gone, his face old and tired again. “But, listen, no contract, huh? You understand? Nothing written down. My friend wouldn’t like that, you know.”

  “I don’t like that, Nickie. If there’s any trouble, my ass is left hanging out.”

  “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

  “You never can tell, Nickie, not with a deal like this. Suppose the lady sees me following her and decides to call the cops—”

  “Don’t worry about that, Milo, she ain’t the type.”

  “Okay, what if I catch her in the sack with some dude, and your friend decides not to pay?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said.

  “It happens.”

  “Listen, I’ll—I’ll guarantee your fee, Milo, you know. You trust me, don’t you?”

  How do you tell a guy you don’t trust him?

  “It’s just not good business, Nickie. You understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So either sign a contract or pay me up front.”

  “How much?” he asked hesitantly, looking very unhappy.

  “Let’s see, two weeks, say twenty-five hundred.”

  “Christ, Milo, I can’t…”

  “Then let’s forget it, Nickie,” I said, standing up to leave.

  “Okay,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Okay. Just wait a minute, let me think a minute, you know.” Thinking involved finishing his drink and rubbing his belly to ease the indigestion. “All right, Milo, all right. Be right back.”

  As he walked away I watched him. Unlike his wife, I didn’t have any fond glances for him. Nickie walked like a scared man, lost in his own house. His friend must be big stuff, I thought, if Nickie was going to front twenty-five hundred bucks. Then I began to worry. What if Nickie only came back with part of the money? What if he wanted to give me a check? But before I could worry too much, he came back to the table and slipped a white envelope out of his inside coat pocket.

  “It’s all there,” he said, handing it to me. “No need to count it.”

  “Sure,” I said, not counting it but peeking. Nickie’s money was as old and worn-out as he was. I thought he must have hit his mad-money stash. “Want a receipt?”

  He wanted one but shook his head. “Nothing written down, right? You don’t even write down reports, you understand. You come tell me, you know, casual-like. Okay? I trust you, Milo boy.” Being that close to money seemed to restore some of Nickie’s lost confidence, so I tried for icing on the cake.

  “Listen, Nickie, for an extra three bills a week, I can put a mike in her telephone that will pick up a fart in the next room.”

  “My God, Milo, no bugs. Jesus, my friend…he wouldn’t like that at all. Jesus,” Nickie blurted, scared again.

  “Okay. I’ll just tail her, watch the house. No more.”

  “Perfect,” he said, touching my arm. “Just right.”

  “Okay. Who’s the lady? Where’s she live?”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s the poop on the lady?”

  “Huh? Oh, the poop. Christ, Milo, I haven’t heard that since the war. God, that’s seems like a long time ago.”

  “It was.”

  “Yeah. Remember what this town was like then? A good town, Milo, a goddamned good town. Not so many tourists, no fucking hippies or dope or any of that crap. Kinda makes me glad I…we never had kids, you know.”

  I nodded politely. For that sort of money, Nickie could tell me his life story, and I’d even act interested.

  “Yeah, but, Christ, I used to really like kids, you know. Remember when I had those goddamned ice cream trucks? I used to follow them around sometimes. At first I was just checking to see how much the drivers were screwing me, but later it was just to watch the kids. Damn, it was great to see them scooting out of their houses when they heard those goddamned bells. And when I lost my ass, I put in that little golf course, you know. Everybody told me it was too easy, but, goddammit, the kids loved it. Everything doesn’t have to be hard, does it? I mean, for Christ’s sake, things don’t have to be so hard.”

  I nodded again, wondering if I should offer him my handkerchief, but he had something better. He went for two more drinks. It was strange to see Nickie boozing harder than me.

  “Who’s the lady? Where’s she live?” I asked again, reminding him of business when he came back with the drinks.

  Nickie stared at me for a moment, swallowed air and belched quietly, then said, “Goddamned soda.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Back to business, huh, Milo?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Her name is Wanda.”

  “Wanda what?”

  “Oh, Wanda—Smith.” He waited for me to object, but I didn’t care if her name was Smith. “My friend has a house on the slope south of town, in that new development, Wildflower Estates, the last house on the circle at the end of Wild Rose Lane.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “Christ, Milo, that’s such a classy development that they have names instead of numbers, you know. Wish to hell I could afford a place like that, but I got every loose penny tied up in this place,” he said sadly.

  Not every penny, I thought, and none of them his.

  “What’s the name, then?”

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, looking very confused. “I…my friend told me the name, but damned if I can remember it. You can’t miss it, it’s the last house on the street.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess I can find it. What’s the lady look like?”

  “Oh, Milo, she’s something else. A real looker. A real lady,” he answered, his eyes glassy with the vision.

  “That’s a little abstract, Nickie.”

  “Huh?”

  “What color’s her hair?”

  “Kinda blond, strawberry blond, I think they call it.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, Milo, just right. Not too young, not too old, you know. Just right.”

  “Okay, Nickie, I’ll handle it from there,” I said. It didn’t matter to me what she looked like. I wasn’t going to tell some Mafia fat cat that his lady was messing around, not even if I caught her giving head to the grocery boy. “Just leave everything to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Great. Great.”

  “And won’t write down a word.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, right. And listen, Milo boy—my friend, he likes the people who work for him,” Nickie said carefully, “he likes them to just work for him, you know. So if you got anything else going, maybe you ought to—to think about dropping it. I think I can get my friend to cover what it costs you.”
/>
  “I don’t have anything going.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said I’m free. Say, Nickie, are you going deaf?”

  “No, of course not. Why?”

  “Because you don’t seem to hear me too well.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got this goddamned ringing in my ears, you know. Been working too hard, I guess, need a vacation, you know. Maybe I can—get away soon…Goddamned soda,” he said, belching again.

  “How’s business?” I asked, tired of Nickie’s friend and his practice wife.

  “Huh?”

  “Business. How is it?”

  “Oh, couldn’t be better,” he said, glowing now. “I’m making so much money that it’s making me feel young again, you know.” He paused for effect, then winked. “Maybe I’ll get me one of those practice wives, huh.”

  What a pathetic creep. Of course business was great. Illegal whiskey, hijacked beef, and dirty money. I had never liked Nickie very much, just pitied him occasionally, but now that I was working for him, I gave up even the pity.

  “This friend, Nickie. Is he family?” I returned his wink.

  “Oh, no, he’s…” Then he realized what the wink meant. “Christ, Milo, don’t do that. Why the hell does everybody think I’m—I’m in the Mafia or something, some kind of goddamned gangster, just—just because I’m—I’m Italian,” he sputtered, his face red and hurt. “I mean, Christ, Milo, don’t kid me about that.”

  “Sorry, Nickie,” I said, no longer angry at him, just sorry again, almost sorry enough to tell him why everybody thought he was family. “People see too many movies, I guess.”

  “Christ, Milo, you don’t know how much—how much I hate those goddamned slick East Coast bastards. I’d like to fix those bastards, you know, those bastards,” he muttered pathetically, a child’s threat. Then he stood up, adding, “Stay on this thing, okay, Milo?”

  “I said I would.”

  “Huh?”

  “I got it, Nickie.”

  “Yeah,” he said, then loosed a short bark of laughter. “Yeah, you got it.”

  “Sure,” I said, holding back the renewed anger. Once again, I had the feeling that Nickie was condescending to me, that there was some sort of antagonism seeping out of him. But I had always known that Nickie was unhappy behind all his smiles and glad-hands. As he stood up, trying to look calm and self-assured, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his coat, his neck bowed under the weight of his dyed hair, and his fingers kneaded belches out of his sunken chest. He couldn’t hide the fatigue of a long life of being nobody, a fatigue I understood more than I wanted to. To be childlike might keep a man young, but to be treated like a child makes him old too soon.

 

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