The Man Offside

by A. W. Gray

  “You’re scaring me to death, Fred.” I estimated the distance from where I stood to the Texas Bank Plaza’s yawning entryway. Couple of hundred yards, give or take.

  “Where are you calling from?” After the initial shock he was calming down.

  “I might be in Chicago,” I said. “On the other hand, I might be in the office right next to yours.”

  “Hold it, now you just hold it right there. I don’t know what your game is, but you’re not scaring me a bit. You understand that?” The edge crept back into his tone. I was scaring him, all right, and plenty.

  “How about if I tell you in person what my game is?” I said.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, you’re right about that. I hate your guts, Fred, but right now I need you. I’ve got something that belongs to you—you and Breaux and whoever else it is that’s in with you. Maybe if you can get your hands on what I’ve got, you can figure out a way to screw the others out of their share. That’s the way you guys do business, isn’t it?”

  I pictured Cassel sitting up straighter, adjusting his I’m-smart glasses. Briefly I wondered what color his silk breast pocket hanky was today. He said, “What? What belongs to me?”

  “I’ll let you guess. Even give you a clue. It’s white and powdery and goes up your nose. Getting warmer?”

  “What makes you think it’s mine?” Cassel said.

  “Oh, a tape recording that came with it. A little talk between you and Jack Brendy. You sound pretty good over the tape player, Fred. Maybe you should have gone into broadcasting.”

  “That’s bullshit, Bannion. You don’t have any tape of me.”

  No, I didn’t, but Cassel couldn’t possibly be sure of that. I said, “Maybe that’s what the feds will think when I play it for them, that it couldn’t be you talking.”

  There was a rustling noise on the line: a drawer opening, probably Cassel getting out a notepad and a pen. He said, “Well, let’s say you do have such . . . merchandise. When can I see a sample?”

  “You can’t, not before you buy. Look, Fred, I need traveling money. I’ve got to find a way out of the country.”

  “I thought there was a lot of money hidden with the ... whatever it is that you’re talking about. At least that’s what you told me at our last conference.”

  Cassel was speaking in code, probably because someone had just walked in on him. Maybe Beautiful. I briefly wondered how long Beautiful had stayed locked in the closet, in there with the Xerox and good old Fred himself. I said, “There isn’t any money, that part was a bluff. But what I do have is for sale. Fifty thousand. Cash. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “It’s Friday afternoon. I don’t know if I can get that much at once. You know, the banks. Tell you what, Mr. Johnson”—I pictured Cassel’s gaze darting quickly at whoever was in his office as he called me by the made-up name—“can you call me in the morning? I normally don’t come in on Saturday, but I’ll make a special trip if you’ll call. Say around nine? Be sure, now.”

  “I’ll be sure, Fred. And I’ve got to have it this weekend. Get on the stick. I can’t afford to fuck around, and neither can you.”

  I hung up, hopped over the low hedge, and climbed into the front seat of the limo beside Honeybear. “There’ll be a guy coming out that door any minute,” I said, pointing toward the Texas Bank Plaza’s entrance, toward the steps leading down with people hustling along and passing one another coming and going. “When he comes out, we’re going to follow him.”

  Honeybear folded his massive arms and shifted the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You getting to be a pain in the ass, you know?” he said. “Boss say haul you around, I haul you around. Don’t make my ass feel any better, though.”

  Less than five minutes passed before Fred Cassel came out. He was in a big hurry, going down the steps in little jogging hops with one hand lightly on the bannister. His pale blue Mercedes four-door sedan was parked near the foot of the stairs in a numbered head-in slot. He fished for his keys, unlocked the door, and climbed in. The Mercedes backed up, reversed direction, and headed toward the entrance to Stemmons Freeway. Cassel was gripping the wheel in both hands, looking neither right nor left. That was good. The limo with Honeybear driving wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. As Cassel rolled out of the parking lot and turned onto the freeway access road, I touched Honeybear’s forearm. “That guy,” I said. “Blue Mercedes.”

  Honeybear dropped the lever into gear and the Caddy moved smoothly into traffic, cutting in between a Mustang and a Mercury Sable and following along a couple of cars behind the Mercedes. Honeybear said, “Sho, massa, I’se followin’.” Then he sang the opening lines to “Old Man River” in a deep basso, raising his voice when he got to the lines where the colored folk work for the white man boss. I threw him a sidelong glance. He shifted the toothpick in his mouth and sang even louder.

  Cassel went north, exiting the freeway on Inwood Road, going past Harry Hines Boulevard and Lemmon Avenue, ducking down an alley behind the Lemon wood Motel, and finally emerging on Beverly Drive, winding along on Beverly into the heart of Highland Park. Soon we were driving between lawns the size of polo fields that fronted multi-storied homes built in the twenties and thirties for a king’s ransom at any day’s prices. If you had to ask how much, you couldn’t live on Beverly Drive.

  Cassel finally parked at the curb just beyond the point where Beverly Drive crossed the bridge over Turtle Creek. In late August and early September the creek was a bare trickle; in late fall and early spring it would become a raging torrent. Hundred-year-old trees lined both shores of the creek, their branches meeting overhead to form a natural roof above the grassy bed where the water flowed. Cassel had stopped in front of a house—more of a castle, really, with Gothic spires dotting its eaves—whose western wall rose from the creek bank. A man was in the front yard, throwing a Nerf ball back and forth with a little girl. The man was tall and stoop-shouldered. Cassel approached him. I told Honeybear to park a couple of houses down, which he did, then I craned my neck to watch what was going on.

  Cassel stood off to one side with his hands in his pockets while the man played catch with the little girl. The man was wearing a white tennis outfit; the child was in yellow shorts with a pale blue top. Cassel and the man carried on a running conversation for a few moments, and as the man cocked his arm to toss the child a long one, I zeroed in on his face. My upper lip curled.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. My old buddy James. State Senator Louis P. James, home entertaining a child on his lawn. I wondered if he’d been getting high with Crystal lately. Whatever, along with Cassel, Breaux, and others he was responsible for Donna not being around anymore.

  James made a bad throw; the little girl jumped as high as she could, but the ball floated over her fingertips. Giggling, she turned to retrieve it, and I got my first frontal glimpse of Debbie. No doubt about it. My breath caught in my throat.

  The facial features were identical: same blond hair, same upturned nose, same saucy tilt to the chin, same wide eyes. As I realized I was looking at Connie Swarm’s child a lot of things began to fit together. On top of the other little sidelines he was into, Senator James was using his own illegitimate daughter to coax her mother into posing for a few porno pics. Wonderful guy, the senator. I was suddenly sick to my stomach.

  I said to Honeybear, “Let’s go. I’ve seen enough of this crap for one day.”

  Honeybear pressed down on the accelerator, and we moved on down Beverly Drive. “I seen enough before I ever picked you up,” Honeybear said. “So, yeah, we going, but we got one more thing to do. Boss say I supposed to take you someplace where you got some money. Then Boss say if you don’t got no money, then I supposed to kill you.” He favored me with a broad grin. “So, Massa White Man Boss. Which way you want me to turn?”

  It was a peculiar feeling for me, standing on the public side of the counter in Sweaty Mathis’s Bail Bond Company and
pretending that I’d never been there before. There were the same familiar dusty tiles underfoot, the government-surplus gray metal desks that were dented and scarred and cluttered with stacks of forms, the same ancient ceiling fan clicking monotonously overhead while not creating much of a breeze. The collar of the white cotton dress shirt Plates had sold me was too tight. I loosened the collar and pulled my tie down. Close beside me, Honey bear’s breathing was slow and even.

  The skinny black kid working behind Sweaty’s counter was a buddy of sorts. His name was Polymeus Jackson, a short, ebony-skinned youngster with close-cropped, kinky hair, big round eyes, and sunken cheeks like a vampire’s. Polymeus was a burglar who’d never been caught in the act, but who had a record of misdemeanor drunk charges as long as a Tony Franklin field goal. Seemed that he couldn’t stay away from the bottle once he’d made a burglary score. Right now he’d be helping Sweaty out around the office in exchange for one or more of his bail-bond fees.

  After I’d watched Polymeus collect a small pile of money from a Mexican hooker in a thigh-length mini, then put all of the money in the cash drawer except for one ten-dollar bill he slipped into his pocket, I stepped up to the counter and said, “Mr. Mathis, please.” Behind me, a bell tinkled as the hooker went out the front door and onto Jackson Street to tend to business.

  Polymeus put one elbow on the counter and rested his chin on his closed fist, eyeing me with no recognition in his gaze. He was wearing a red-and-yellow flowered Hawaiian shirt. “Mister Sweaty ain’t here,” he said.

  That didn’t make any sense. Sweaty was never out, not while the jail was doing business and there was a buck to be made. Often Sweaty would sleep at his desk. I said, “You mean he went up the street, like for coffee or something?”

  Polymeus glanced from me to Honeybear and back again. “No, man, I told you,” Polymeus said. “Mr. Sweaty’s gone, till Monday. He say he take his old lady fishin’.”

  Fishing. Jesus Christ, once in ten years. Suddenly Honeybear seemed a whole lot bigger and a whole lot meaner, which was saying quite a bit. I said, “Are you sure there’s not a number where I can call him?”

  “They got no numbers in the middle of Lake Tawakoni,” Polymeus said. “You come back Monday.” He closed the cash drawer, locked it, and retreated toward the rear of the office.

  I was panicking. Hell, I couldn’t wait until Monday, I couldn’t even wait for another hour. Muhammed would ... I glanced through the storefront window at Jackson Street; it was getting dark and traffic was sparse. Across the street, two uniformed Dallas County sheriff’s deputies disappeared through swinging doors into the rear of the Dallas County Courthouse. I leaned over and whispered to Honeybear, “Stay loose.” He grunted and folded his arms.

  I said loudly, “Hey!” Polymeus halted in his tracks and turned back to me. I put both hands on the counter and vaulted over, my feet thudding to the floor, nearly falling in the two-inch elevator shoes. I righted myself.

  Polymeus said, “Hey, you crazy or something?”

  I moved quickly over to Sweaty’s desk and opened the top drawer: Sweaty’s 9mm Browning automatic was there. I picked up the gun. It would be loaded, Sweaty kept it that way.

  Polymeus held out both hands, palms toward me, his eyes as round as Stepin Fetchit’s. “Man, I got no stake in this. Take whatcha want. Here, you want the cash drawer key?”

  I ignored him and went over to the vacant desk where I’d stashed the Samsonite carrying case nearly a week before. If the bag wasn’t there I was going to have a real need for Sweaty’s gun, to protect myself from Honey bear. As I opened the bottom drawer my breath caught in my chest, then whooshed out in a relieved sigh as I picked the bag up by the handle. I didn’t have time to open the case, but the money and the cocaine would still be there. Sweaty would never have touched the bag.

  I went back to the counter and out through the swinging gate, poking Sweaty’s Browning into my pants pocket on my way. I gave Honey bear a come-on jerk with my head, then went out onto Jackson Street with him at my heels. As the door closed behind us, Polymeus Jackson said, “Hey, man, don’t you want the fucking money? I split it with you. Mr. Sweaty, he don’t know the difference.”

  “I’m going to need a car tonight,” I said. “Then tomorrow night some backup. About tomorrow night . . . well, I think somebody’s going to get shot. I hope it’s not me and whoever goes with me, but it might be. How much money we talking?” I folded my hands on top of the Samsonite carrying case, which I was holding in my lap.

  Muhammed Double-X was drinking grapefruit juice over ice, seated behind his polished skating rink of a desk. The aerial photo of Dallas hung to his left. Tonight Muhammed wore an iridescent chartreuse suit with matching tie and diamond cuff links. A full six inches of cuff was visible below his coat sleeves. And, of course, he was wearing mirrored shades. I was seated in an easy chair across from him with Honey-bear standing to my right and a little behind me.

  Muhammed said, “Bear, how many times I tell you not to wear those fucking glasses when I’m around? You look like you trying to scare the shit out of somebody.”

  Honeybear reached up and took off his mirrored shades, then folded over the earpieces and stuck them in his pocket, blinking his eyes and looking sort of sheepish.

  To me, Muhammed said, “You one mothafuckah I don’t understand. You ought to be hauling ass out of the country and you wanting to have meetings with people. Who? Bodie Breaux, I guess, and that lawyer asshole Fred Cassel. Those two mothafuckahs done made a jackass out of you, boy.”

  “How’d you know about them?” I said.

  “I keep up with shit. You ask about that Catfish, next thing I know Catfish ain’t walkin’ around. Couple of girls, they sell they pussy down on Hatcher Street, they say Catfish taken them over someplace to make some pictures. They say Bodie Breaux come by while they double-teamin’ this guy, say Bodie Breaux got this lawyer with him. I think that funny, Bodie Breaux goin’ around with you and hangin’ out with Catfish same time. You know there’s another dude, don’t you? Another man doin’ them things with Bodie Breaux and Fred Cassel. Guy nobody knows about.”

  “That senator,” I said. “Louis P. James.”

  “Shit, no, not that funky mothafuckah. Louis P. James ain’t even no big deal, he jus’ a pussy freak. Them guys, Bodie Breaux and them, they just use what they know about that politician fucking around Connie Swarm to make him do things for ‘em. But there’s somebody else.”

  I blinked. “I know that, and I think whoever that somebody else is will be along tomorrow night. I’ve got something they want quite a bit, and those kind of guys, they’re not going to trust each other enough to let one of them meet me without the others coming along. That’s what I’m figuring on.”

  Muhammed rubbed his chin with his knuckles. “They pretty secret about that somebody else. Bodie Breaux, Fred Cassel, that Louis P. James, I can find out about them. But the other guy I got nothing on, and when there’s something I can’t find out about, that means nobody know nothing. You got any idea who that other mothafuckah?”

  “I might have,” I said. “How much my backup going to cost me?”

  “You not talking no hit? Just go along for the ride, shoot a few guys if we have to. Jesus, you don’t even look like no Bannion. You sure you the right mothafuckah?’

  I told Muhammed I was the right mothafuckah, and that no, I wasn’t talking a hit. Like he said, just maybe shooting a few guys. His eyes were hidden behind the shades, but the expression on his lips told me he liked the idea.

  “How many dudes you talking about?” Muhammed said.

  “Two besides myself will do it. I think they’ll have three, and they’ll be expecting me alone.”

  Muhammed swirled his grapefruit juice around and listened to the ice tinkle. Finally he said, “Bear, you wait outside.”

  Honeybear lumbered out into the room containing the wet bar, the room where Honeybear had punched me in the stomach a few nights ago. “Fifty thousand,”
Muhammed said. “I don’t like putting my men where they might get shot; I got their safety to think about. Besides, I got overhead, so don’t give me no quibbling bullshit. Fifty, that what it take. And oh, the price strictly between you and me. Don’t no Honeybear know what you paying. I take care of him and the other nigger.”

  I said, “Sold.”

  He paused with his glass partway to his mouth. “Bannion, you got as much as fifty thousand in that bag?” A ray of artificial light glinted from a diamond on his cuff.

  I turned the case in my lap so that the latches faced me and opened them, then raised the lid about six inches and put my hands inside. With my fingertips I counted five packets of bills. I was operating strictly by feel—no way was I going to let Muhammed see that pile of money. I took the packets out and dropped them on Muhammed’s desk. “Just barely,” I said.

  Muhammed took a drink and smacked his lips. “Well, you just bought yoself an African safari.”

  “And what about the car tonight?” I said. “Not your limo, by the way. It sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  “You can bet your ass you ain’t getting my limo,” Muhammed said. “Not for what you paying. But I got just the wheels. Honeybear’s, it got some miles on it, but Bear keep it up pretty good. It what you honkies use to call a Congo wagon. But it run good. Get you where you going, mothafuckah.”

  For a 1951 Ford, Honeybear’s car was a cream puff. It was tuned up like a Stradivarius and ran without a miss, and under the circumstances I couldn’t have asked for better transportation. There were a few drawbacks, though.

  One problem had to do with the three-speed stick shift, with the lever mounted on the steering column. It had been twenty years since I’d driven a car without an automatic transmission, and it took me a few warm-ups to get the hang of it. At first I was letting out the clutch too quickly; my initial standing starts from intersections were bucking, neck-popping maneuvers that reminded me of the bumper cars on the state fair midway. To make matters worse, the Ford’s rear end was lowered a full eight inches, and the twin chrome exhaust extensions dragged the pavement on takeoff.