“Yeah, well, when he gets the license, he won’t know how to read that, either. Not until it gets explained to him.”
“Our operation, we can afford to send the collectors out with cover,” Beaumont said. “But with Dioguardi’s penny-ante action, he did that, it would cost him more than he’s bringing in. So he’s either got to step up or step back.”
Dett opened his hands in a “Well?” gesture.
“Oh, he was coming anyway,” Beaumont said, calmly. “He probably would have tried another sit-down first, see if there wasn’t some way I’d let him have a slice, peaceable. Like he did before, when he came out for a visit. But even if I went along, it would never have stopped there, and he knows I know it.”
“That’s why, after he gets the license, he gets a phone call,” Dett said, watching understanding slowly fill the other man’s eyes.
* * *
1959 October 01 Thursday 20:21
* * *
“There has to be more than that,” Procter said to the jowly plainclothes cop standing beside him at the base of the water tower.
“If there is, we don’t know it,” the cop said. His hair was snow white, worn in a stiff brush cut, its precision and neatness a stark contrast to his cratered face, which was the color of old mushrooms.
“One of Sally D.’s men takes a baseball bat to the head, and you’re playing it like he was some stewbum who fell off a barstool?”
“If you’re asking, did we get a lay-off order, the answer is no,” the cop said. “Besides, it doesn’t look in-house. If that punk was dipping into the till, he might have caught himself a beating, sure. Maybe even worse. And, yeah, they might have left his head on a stake, make sure the troops get the word. But this . . .”
“How could you tell?”
“Well, for one thing, it was too clean.”
“Clean? The guy’s in a goddamn coma.”
“Very clean,” the cop said, reluctant admiration clear in his voice. “You hit a guy with a bat in the face, it’s instant mess. Splat! You got blood spurting everywhere—including all over the guy holding the bat. But whoever did this, he was like a doctor, operating. One shot to the back of the head. Perfect. Little Nicky never saw him coming, I bet. And he sure as fuck didn’t know what hit him. Still doesn’t, from what I hear.” The jowly man snorted.
“Maybe he doesn’t, but I do,” Procter said.
“Yeah?”
“Perrini got his arm up in time to block at least one of the blows. So it had to be a couple of men, one in front, one behind.”
“You get what you pay for,” the cop said, chuckling snidely.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, one of your stooges down at the station house gave you a look at the report, Jimmy. You saw that his watch was busted, so you figure he threw up his arm, tried to block the bat coming at his head, right?”
“But . . . ?”
“But you weren’t on the scene. I was. Me and the great Sherman Layne. Whoever busted that watch, he did it on purpose. After Nicky was laid out, face-down.”
“Huh! I never heard of that one. What did Layne say he thought it meant?”
“Sherman? He don’t share his observations with the rest of us,” the jowly cop said. “Me, I think it was like saying time’s running out, or something like that.”
“You read too many detective magazines,” Procter said.
* * *
1959 October 01 Thursday 22:16
* * *
“Who the fuck is this?” The voice was hoarse with what the speaker believed to be intimidating menace.
“It’s the boogeyman, genius. Now, I’m going to ask you just one more time, so listen good. I got something I need to mail to your boss. It’s something he wants. Something that could help him with his business. I need an address where I can be sure it’ll get to him.”
“Listen, pal, you think I’m stupid? How’s Mr. D. gonna know you didn’t mail him a fucking bomb or something?”
“Because he’ll get a stooge like you to open it for him,” Dett said.
* * *
1959 October 02 Friday 10:17
* * *
“My plans have changed,” Dett said to Carl.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Dett. Does this mean you won’t be staying with us as long as—?”
“Oh, I’m staying, all right,” Dett said, shaking his head. “In fact, I may be stuck—well, that’s not exactly the right word—I may be staying longer than I thought.”
“Of course,” Carl said, agreeably. “Does that mean you would prefer a smaller—?”
“I’ll be fine where I am,” Dett said, “but I can’t keep getting around on foot. I think it’s time to rent that car.”
“Oh, we . . . I . . . can take care of that for you, sir. Is there any particular sort of car you would like?”
“Something . . . respectable,” Dett said. “Good-quality, but not flashy. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Absolutely,” Carl assured him. “Would dinnertime be soon enough?”
* * *
1959 October 02 Friday 11:44
* * *
“I don’t know what he driving right this second, but I know what he goan be driving tonight, boss.”
“Well?”
“Be a brand-new Chevy Impala. Four-door sedan,” he said, emphasizing the first syllable of the last word. “Nice dark-green one.”
“Plate?”
“Ain’t got that yet, boss. But that ride I jest tole you ’bout, that’s the one the deskman ordered for him from the rental company. It goan be delivered tonight; I get you the plate number then, okay?”
“Don’t call this number tonight. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
“Yessir. I—”
Rufus stopped in mid-sentence when he heard the line go dead.
* * *
1959 October 02 Friday 20:13
* * *
“When you first came in, you looked so different, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I’d recognize you if all you did was just change clothes.”
“You did more than that,” Tussy said, tilting her chin up as she regarded Dett, her big green eyes luminous. “I just can’t tell what it is yet.”
“This is the real me,” he said.
“I—”
“Pick up!” came from the kitchen.
“I’ve got to run. This is our busiest time. That’s why there’s no space at the booths.”
She whirled and moved toward the opening in the kitchen wall. Dett admired the way she snatched a pair of trays, pirouetted smartly, and swivel-hipped her way around various obstacles to a booth where a young couple was sitting. She off-loaded the two trays, chattering to her customers as she worked. Then she strode back toward the delivery slot to exchange the empty trays for three loaded ones, which she stacked onto a little cart and wheeled off in the opposite direction.
It was twenty minutes before she returned to where Dett was sitting.
“What’ll it be?” she said, her pad at the ready.
“The lemon pie.”
“That’s not dinner; that’s dessert.”
“Well, I’m not really hungry.”
“Then you shouldn’t go near my lemon pie,” Tussy said, smiling.
“I don’t always say things as good as I want. I meant to say, even though I’m not hungry, your lemon pie is so good I still want some.”
“You know what,” she said, leaning on the counter and dropping her voice, “all we have left is one piece, and it’s really yesterday’s—I didn’t get a chance to bake today. You don’t want that piece. You come back tomorrow, earlier, if you can, and I’ll cut you the first slice. It’s always the best.”
“I will come back. But that’s not why I came. I wanted to—”
“Tussy, damn it!” bellowed from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry. Can you . . . ?” she said, and trotted off.
Dett sat quietly for a few
minutes, eyes on a menu. When Tussy didn’t return, he got up, went over to the jukebox, and invested a few nickels in Jack Scott.
By the time he returned to the counter, the stool he had been using was occupied, along with the three closest to it. High-school kids, in blue-and-gold varsity jackets with “Locke City Eagles” in block letters across the backs. Dett tapped one on the shoulder, a deep-chested young man with a knife-edged crewcut and a practiced curl to his upper lip.
“You’re in my seat,” Dett said, mildly.
“Your seat? I don’t see your name on it, man,” the youth said. His buddies laughed on cue, a practiced bully-sound, pack-rehearsed since childhood.
Dett’s right hand slipped into his pocket, fingers coiling through a set of brass knuckles. He stepped closer, angling his left shoulder to shield his right arm from the target’s view.
The hinge of his jaw. While his mouth is open . . .
A flash of pink in the corner of his eye. Tussy. Standing by the register. She pantomimed smoking a cigarette, pointed at the big clock high on the wall, then held out her palm, fingers spread.
Dett stepped back. Nodded his head “yes.” He watched as she pointed behind her, nodding again to show he understood.
“Hey, man,” the youth said, mockingly. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to say?”
“No,” Dett told him, looking away.
He turned and walked out of the diner, their laughter behind him like wind in a sail.
* * *
1959 October 02 Friday 20:45
* * *
The back door to the diner opened, and Tussy stepped out into the warm, starless night. She looked to her left and to her right, then put both hands on her hips and said, “Well!”
“I’m over here, Tussy,” Dett said, separating himself from the shadows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to think—”
“Oh!” Tussy jumped slightly, then recovered her composure. “I was just playing,” she assured him. “Having fun. I knew you had to be around someplace.”
“You’re really good at it.”
“At . . . what?”
“At playing. You mean, like playing a role, right? Acting. You’re terrific, the way you do it. When you told me you would be taking a break out here—in five minutes, to have a smoke—it was like you wrote me a note. It was so clear, and you never said a word.”
The waitress regarded Dett appraisingly. “I never heard that one before,” she said, smiling to take the edge off her words.
“Nobody ever noticed how good you— Ah, I get it. You mean, you never heard that line before, huh?”
“I was just teasing,” she said, quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t—” Dett began, then stopped himself as he realized that his feelings had been hurt. The knowledge stunned him, like an amputee who first experiences phantom pain in a missing limb.
“It’s a zoo in there tonight,” she said, taking a pack of Kools from her apron. “Do you have a—?”
Dett already had a wooden match flaming, cupped in his hands. He held it out to her by extending his arms, not stepping any closer.
“Thanks,” she said, leaning forward.
“You’re welcome,” Dett replied, lighting a Lucky for himself with the same flame.
“Did you just move in around here?” she asked.
“Me? No, I didn’t move in at all. I’m just in town on business.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in real estate,” he said, suddenly disgusted with the vagueness of the lie that sprang so naturally to his lips.
“You mean, like houses? Or bigger stuff?”
“Well, it’s pretty much just land. I work for some people who buy up big parcels when they think the land will be worth a lot more someday.”
“Like if the state builds a highway through it?”
“That’s kind of what I mean,” he said. “But not through it, exactly. Next to it, that would be best. If the government wants your property, they can just take it.”
“Without paying you?” she said, horrified.
“Oh, they have to pay. But they only pay what they say it’s worth.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s one of the risks. The bigger risk is when you assemble a parcel and then you try and package it, so you can sell it to a developer. One little zoning change and you could end up with a worthless vacant lot instead of a shopping center.”
“Oh. So you’re on the road all the time?”
“Pretty much. But, sometimes, I get to stay in one spot for a while. It depends on what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on here,” she said, dragging on her cigarette. “Well, actually, there’s plenty that goes on here. I guess you already know about it, being a . . .”
“Being a . . . what?”
“A man. A traveling man. Locke City’s not exactly a tourist attraction, but we get a lot of men just passing through. Usually it’s just for a few hours, though.”
“This is a gamblers’ town?”
“You didn’t know? Where are you staying?”
“At the Claremont.”
“That real-estate business of yours must pay pretty well,” she said. Dett couldn’t tell if she was actually impressed, or making fun of him. Maybe some of both. “I’m surprised you could even check into a place like that without the bellhops touting you on one of the fancy joints we’ve got here.”
“Like casinos?”
“I’ve never been to a real casino, but we’ve got places here that sure look like what I imagine they’d be,” she said, her voice a parody of civic pride. “Roulette wheels, blackjack dealers, slot machines, dice, the whole works. If there’s one thing Locke City’s famous for, it’s gambling. We’ve got all kinds, everywhere you look.”
“The police . . . ?”
“Are you some kind of detective?” she suddenly asked, stepping back.
“Me?” said Dett, honestly shocked.
“Well, you . . . you’re not from around here. One night, you’re dressed like a working guy, but tonight, you’re all fancy. And you were asking all those questions—”
“No, I wasn’t,” Dett protested. “I was just . . . I was just talking with you. I’m not very good at it.”
“Talking? You seem to do just fine with it.”
“Not that kind of talking. Talking to say what I mean.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dett took a deep breath. Let it out. Said, “The question—the only question I wanted to ask you was, would you go out with me? I mean, to a movie or . . . or to a club, if you want. We could—”
“Dinner,” she said, smiling.
“Dinner? I—”
“That’s what I’d really like. Have somebody wait on me for a change, see what it feels like.”
“I would be very . . . I would like that very much. Is there a nice place you know about?”
“Well, there’s actually a lot of nice places in Locke City. You’d be surprised.”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t go out to dinner much. I mean, I always go out, to eat, I mean, but not to—”
“There are some very nice restaurants,” Tussy repeated. “And they don’t really cost much more than—”
“No, no,” Dett said, holding up his hand as if to pardon his interruption. “This is my fault. I’m not saying what I mean. I want to take you to the nicest place in town. Really. I just don’t know if what I was told is right. Have you ever heard of Chez Bertrand?”
Tussy’s green eyes flashed behind the smoke from her cigarette. “Everybody’s heard of Chez Bertrand,” she said. “But a place like that costs the earth. And you’d have to have reservations, and—”
“That’s where I’d like to take you. Please.”
Tussy paused a beat, then nodded her head. “All right, then,” she said, holding out her hand to shake, as if sealing a deal, “it’s a date. My nights off are Monday
and Tuesday. Which would you like?”
“Monday,” Dett said instantly.
Tussy snapped her cigarette into the darkness of the parking lot. “This is my address,” she said, carefully printing something on her order pad. “And my phone number, in case you have to change your plans.”
“I won’t,” Dett said, as she tore the page from her pad and handed it to him. “Would seven o’clock be okay?”
“Perfect. I have to get back to work now, before Booker blows a gasket. Bye!”
Dett stood in the same spot long enough to smoke another cigarette, never taking his eyes off the back door. Then he slipped into the shadows.
* * *
1959 October 02 Friday 22:50
* * *
The ’51 Mercury was a custom job: black with red-and-yellow flames on its de-chromed hood, chopped top, spinner hubcaps on whitewall tires, rear wheels hidden behind bubble skirts.
It was parked in a clearing off a narrow dirt road, surrounded by woods on all sides. A river ran somewhere nearby, close enough to be heard.
From the Mercury’s partially open windows came the doomed voice of Johnny Ace, “Pledging My Love.” In the front seat, brief flashes of color, signs of movement, sounds of sex.
“They never know you’re here, do they, Holden?”
Holden Satterfield didn’t jump at the whispered voice behind him. He didn’t flinch at the hand on his shoulder. He knew his friend Sherman would never hurt him. He sure could hurt me if he wanted to, Holden thought. Sherman’s a big man. And he’s a police officer, too. A detective. But Sherman knows I wouldn’t ever do nothing to people. I just watch them.
Wordlessly, the two men retreated from Holden’s watching place, their soundless movements as choreographed as tango partners’. When they got within sight of Sherman’s unmarked car, the big man said, “You got your logbook with you, Holden?”
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