Pagan Babies

by Elmore Leonard

  “The man say keep it gentrified, meaning to him low-key. Meaning to us, you right, bo-ring.”

  The meeting that made it happen—Vito Genoa giving Randy the word—reminded Debbie of a sentencing hearing.

  “Tony wants her to work your room three nights a week.”

  Randy, in his manner, said, “I don’t run a comedy club. This is a four-star restaurant.”

  Vito said, “You pay her five gees a week, guaranteed ten weeks. After that you can do what you want.”

  “Pay her fifty thousand,” Randy said, “on top of what I’ve already given her?”

  “Five gees a week,” Vito said, “you can write off. Also during the ten weeks you don’t have to pay the commission on the ladies. Tony’s giving you a break.”

  Randy said, “I’d love to know what she’s giving him.”

  Debbie spoke up. “What if I don’t want to perform?”

  Vito looked over at her sitting in the chair under Soupy Sales. He said, “You’re smart you’ll keep your mouth shut till you have something funny to say,” and turned to Randy again. “Where’s the Mutt?”

  “I haven’t seen him. He must’ve quit.”

  “They find your car?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I think he did Vincent and took off in your Cadillac. What do you think?”

  “I’ve learned not to speculate about him,” Randy said. “Where the Mutt’s concerned, anything is possible.”

  The Mutt had called Randy from Ohio saying, “You know who this is? It’s me. I don’t want to say too much over the phone. I did the one but not the other, since he never got your money. And I didn’t come by to collect you know what as I decided to keep the car instead.”

  “But it’s worth three times what I owe you,” Randy said.

  “That’s okay, you have insurance, don’t you? What I need is the title, so when I go to sell it I can. Send it to the amusement park at Cedar Point, where I’ll be working for a while. Man, they got some rides here. They got the Raptor, the Mantis, the Mean Streak. They got the Iron Dragon, the Demon Drop . . .”

  When Debbie called Tony, and told him, sniffling, what happened, she said, “I had it in my hand, the chance of a lifetime, and he ripped me off—a priest.”

  “I think what you mean to say,” Tony said, “you tried to fuck him over; only the mick priest knows you better than you know him and he taught you a lesson. You weren’t paying attention.”

  “Aren’t you gonna do anything?”

  “Like what, send one of my guys to Africa? It’s your money, kid, not mine.”

  “Tony, he’s not in Africa. Just because you bought him a ticket . . . That’s the last place he’d go. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got a call from like Paris or the South of France, a familiar voice on the phone—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Tony said, “you talked him into leaving the Church, or he wasn’t a priest to begin with.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t want to hear that, you understand? I don’t want you telling me anything like that.”

  Debbie said in a quiet, contrite voice she kept handy, “I was just, you know, talking. I held out on him, he found the check and I got what I deserved.” She made herself say, “At least he’ll use it for the orphans.”

  “So you were slandering him ’cause you’re mad, you hate to lose. Is that it?”

  “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “You want to chase after him? Go to Africa and come down with some fuckin disease you never heard of?”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe it would help,” Tony said, “you had a ten-week engagement at, say, five grand a week. Get some of it back.”

  “I don’t have the name to demand anywhere near that much.”

  “I do,” Tony said.

  She stopped sniffling. “You could make that happen?”

  “Would I say it if I couldn’t?”

  She didn’t ask if there was a catch.

  The piano player from the trio said into his mike, “And now, to tickle your funnybone and your fancy”—giving it a little more punch—“here’s that rising star of cool comedy, Detroit’s own Debbie Dewey!”

  She came out from the back hall and stepped up on the bandstand in her oversized prison dress and shitkickers. She looked out at white tablecloths and patrons who could afford Randy’s prices, a polite audience, patient.

  Okay, go.

  “I’d like a show of hands, please. How many of you have ever done time? I don’t mean a night in jail on a DUI, I’m talking about serious prison time.” Debbie put her hand flat above her eyes as she looked over the room. “No one here has been caught out at Metro with dope? Fly home from some groovy spot, you see that little dog, Snoopy, checking out your bags and you hope to God the fink dog doesn’t rat you out?”

  They liked it, wanting her to know they were hip.

  “I guess I’m the only one in the room who’s been down. I did most of three years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.”

  Debbie looked over at Randy standing at the bar and offered the next line to him.

  “I was visiting my mom in Florida and happened to run into my former boyfriend . . . with a Ford Escort. Not what you think of as a deadly weapon, but it did the job, put him in traction for a few months.”

  She turned to the audience again, the white tablecloths and the faces, some smiling.

  “When I tell you what a snake this guy was, you’ll understand why I wished I was driving an eighteen-wheeler loaded with scrap metal. Listen, ladies? If a guy who has a pet bat, and sometimes poses as a priest, ever asks you for a date? Tell him you’re busy. The first thing he said to me, at a fancy wedding reception I found out later he wasn’t invited to . . .”

  Chantelle watched through the screen door: Laurent the RPA officer, beret under his arm, and Terry, his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, in the yard talking, moving from one foot to the other, looking at the empty church and talking, looking in the distance to the tea plantation, the green slope dark at this hour of the day, time for Mr. Walker but still talking, Terry not calling to the house to bring it out, please, for our guest. They would be speaking as gentlemen as each wondered what the other was doing here. It was like watching a film without sound, but having an idea what they were saying, each telling the other it was good to see him again. No, nothing new has happened. Yes, the ones from the church have been buried . . . She waited until Laurent shook Terry’s hand again, put on his beret, walked to his Land Cruiser, waved and drove away. Now she pushed the screen door open with her foot and came outside with the tray of glasses and the bowl of ice, the bottle of Johnnie Walker pressed beneath the stump of her arm. She believed it was good for the muscle to be used this way, squeezing the bottle, and believed she would be using it again and again and again, the woman knowing things the man didn’t seem to know.

  “Why didn’t you bring it out while he was here?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me to?”

  She placed the tray and then the bottle on the warped table and put ice in the glasses.

  “I thought we were celebrating, having the black.”

  “One day I dropped it on the floor and it broke.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Did you have any of the bourbon?”

  “Yes, I like the taste of it.”

  “Has Laurent been around much?”

  She handed him his Scotch full of ice. “You know how long you been gone? Eleven and a half days. Tell me what you mean by ‘much.’ ”

  “Has he?”

  “He likes me. He comes to see am I all right, being alone here. He has his wife from Kampala living with him now.”

  “You go from a priest to a married man—”

  She said, “Let me think. Do I go to them, or they come to me? Don’t concern yourself with Laurent.” She turned with her drink and sat down next to him in this quiet time before the insects began making their noise, looking to attract inse
cts like them to have sex with and make millions of more insects. “You say you came back to take care of children. But you not a priest anymore.”

  “I told you, I never was.”

  “What are you now, a Seven Day Adventist? They take care of children. Are you going to hear Confession? It was something you like to do.”

  “I’ll talk to people, try to help them. Even do it like Confession if they want.”

  “Yes, and you give penance?”

  “Can’t do that anymore.”

  “Did you tell Laurent?”

  “I will the next time, when he realizes I’m here and not visiting or happened to be passing by—the reason he told me he stopped. But if you happen to be passing by, where are you going? The road ends here. He asked if I knew I was coming back.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said, ‘Not until I got here.’ ”

  “With practice,” Chantelle said, “you could become a visionary, tell people what the Blessed Mother says to you, good things that will happen in the future. People would like that very much and reward you, bring you chickens, tomatoes, a bushel of corn—”

  “Banana beer?”

  “You said you don’t like it.”

  “I said I’ve never tried it. Do you know who you sound like?”

  “Let me think,” Chantelle said. “It must be the woman you robbed and you believe is the reason you left her.”

  Terry looked at Chantelle and smiled and shook his head in a good way, appreciating her. He rose and, leaning over her chair, kissed her on the mouth, a long kiss but tender.

  He said, “You’re the visionary. Tell me my future.”

  She said, “You mean, what you’ll be when you grow up, or when your money runs out?”

  He said, “I can always get more.”

  The Extras

  I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS

  II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY

  III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT

  V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”

  This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.

  Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).

  All by Elmore

  The Crime Novels

  The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot(1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap(1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (2002).

  The Westerns

  The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five Shadows* (1956); Last Stand at Saber River* (1959); Hombre* (1961); The Moonshine War* (1969); Valdez Is Coming* (1970); Forty Lashes Less One* (1972); Gunsights* (1979) Cuba Libre (1998); The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories* (1998).

  As of November 2002: Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of: The Moonshine War (1969); Swag (1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of When the Women Come Out to Dance (2002).

  The Crime Novels

  The Big Bounce(1969)

  Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a really big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.

  Houston Chronicle: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”

  From the novel:

  She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.

  “You going to shoot something?”

  “We could. Windows are good.”

  “So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”

  “And boats. Boats are fun.”

  “I imagine they would be. How about cars?”

  “I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?

  “Yeah that is funny.”

  “There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”

  “And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”

  Mr. Majestyk(1974)

  Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.

  Bergen Record: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”

  From the novel:

  Majestyk was running across the open scrub, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.

  Seventy, eighty yards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.

  52 Pickup (1974)

  Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.

  Chicago Tribune: “A splendid thriller.”

  From the novel:

  The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.

/>   “That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.’ Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”

  As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.

  “Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”

  At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver’s ear.

  “Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.

  Swag (1976)

  Three guys with illegal expertise, a plan to snag a tax-free hundred grand, and a taste of summertime Detroit’s sweet life. But it means committing armed robbery. And being smart enough to get away with it.

  Publishers Weekly: “An electrifying novel . . . with a murderous, well-timed suspenseful finale.”

  The New York Times: “Leonard is nobody’s follower, and he has a style of his own. “Swag” is one of the best of the year.”

  From the novel:

  There was a photograph of Frank in an ad that ran in the Detroit Free Press and showed all the friendly salesmen at Red Bowers Chevrolet. Under his photo it said Frank J. Ryan. He had on a nice smile, a styled moustache, and a summer-weight suit made out of that material that’s shiny and looks like it has snags in it.

  There was a photograph of Stick on file at 1300 Beaubein, Detroit Police Headquarters. Under the photo it said Ernest Stickley, Jr. 89037. He had on a sport shirt that had sailboats and palm trees on it. He’d bought it in Pompano Beach, Florida.