City Primeval

by Elmore Leonard

  Sandy Stanton lives over there, Wendell said. She's a pretty good friend, isn't she?

  You know everything, what're you asking me for?

  She a friend of yours?

  I know her.

  She loan you the Buick last night?

  It tickles me, Clement said, you people trying to act like you know something. You don't have shit, else I'd be over'n the Wayne County jail waiting on my exam.

  We want to be ugly, we could get you some time over there right now, Wendell said. Driving after your license was revoked on a D. U. I. L., that's a pretty heavy charge.

  What, the drunk-driving thing? Jesus Christ, Clement said, you trying to threaten me with a fucking traffic violation?

  No, the violation's nothing to a man of your experience, Wendell said. I was thinking of how you'd be over there with all them niggers.

  Why is that? Clement said. Are niggers the only ones fuck up in this town? Or they picking on you? I was a nigger I wouldn't put up with it.

  Yeah, what would you do?

  Move. All this town is is one big Niggerville with a few whites sprinkled in, some of 'em going with each other. You'd think you'd see more mongrelization, except I guess they're just fucking each other and not making any kids like they did back in the plantation days . . . You want to know something?

  What's that?

  One of my best friend's a nigger.

  Yeah, what's his name?

  You don't know him.

  I might. You know us niggers sticks together.

  Bullshit. Saturday night you kill each other.

  I'm curious. What's the man's name?

  Alvin Guy. Clement grinned.

  Is that right? You knew him?

  Clement said, Shit, I could tell you anything, couldn't I?

  There was a window in there I'd have thought seriously about throwing him out, Wendell said, and Raymond nodded.

  I know what you mean.

  Man doesn't give you anything to hook onto. You understand what I'm saying? He jive you around with all this bullshit, you don't know who's asking who the question. See, he does the judge, then goes home to his bed. We been up two days and a night.

  Go on home, Raymond said.

  I'll stay on it, you want me to.

  We'll let the old pro take a shot, Raymond said, looking over at Hunter. The old reddish-gray wolf. What do you say? If we can't shake him tonight we'll turn him loose, try some other time.

  Hunter got up from his desk. He said, You want to watch, see how it's done?

  There was no clear reason why Hunter was the squad's star interrogator: why suspects so often confided in him and why the confessions he elicited almost always stood up in court. Maureen said it was because the bad guys got the feeling he was one of them. Hunter said it was because he was patient, understanding, sympathetic, alert, never raised his voice . . . and would cite as an example the time last winter he questioned the suspect, young guy, who admitted sort of strangling two women while overcome with cocaine. The young guy said he thought this belt one of them had was a snake and wanted to see what it would look like around their necks; that's how the whole thing had come about, while they were sitting on the floor tooting and having a few drinks. But he refused to tell what he did with their bodies. Hunter said, well, the bodies would show up by spring, when the snow melted, and added, Unless you're some kind of animal and you stored them away for the winter. Hunter noticed the suspect appeared visibly agitated by this off-hand remark and quickly followed up on it, asking the suspect if he liked animals or if he was afraid of them or if he related to animals in some way. The suspect insisted he hated animals, rats especially, and that when he went out to the abandoned farmhouse a few days after and saw that rats had been nibbling on the two women he immediately took measures to prevent them from being all eaten up. He cut the bodies up with a hacksaw and burned them in the coal furnace. He was no animal . . .

  What you do, Hunter said, you see your opening and you step in. You don't let the guy out until he's told you something.

  Remember this room? Hunter asked Clement.

  Yeah, I remember it. I remember you, too.

  Still put grease on your hair?

  No, I like the dry look now, Clement said.

  Good, Hunter said. You messed up the wall the last time all that guck you slicked your hair down with.

  Clement looked over his shoulder at the wall. Don't you ever clean this place up?

  We hose it out once a week, Hunter said, like at the zoo. Get rid of the stink.

  What're you, Clement said, the heavy? First the nigger and then you. When's the good guy come in?

  I'm the good guy, Hunter said. I'm as good as it's gonna get.

  You haven't read me my rights.

  I figured you know it by heart. You want me to read 'em to you? Sure, I'll read 'em.

  Hunter went out into the squad room. Raymond Cruz sat at his desk with his eyes closed. Hunter poured himself a mug of coffee, picked up a Constitutional Rights form and went back into the file room, sat down and read the first paragraph of the document to Clement.

  You know your rights now? Okay, sign here. Hunter pushed the document over to Clement with a ballpoint pen.

  What if I don't want to sign?

  I don't give a shit if you sign or you don't sign. I'll put down you refused, give us a hard time.

  But why do I need to sign it?

  I just told you, asshole, you don't.

  I'm in here for questioning as . . . what?

  You were arrested.

  For not having a driver's license? What's this got to do with it?

  While in custody the defendant's record was examined with reason to believe he might be involved in a homicide under investigation and was detained for questioning.

  Detained I can hear you, Clement said. And then my lawyer stands up and says, 'yYour Honor, this poor boy was held against his will, without any complaint being filed and was not read his rights as a citizen.' Buddy, I don't even know why I'm here. I mean, nobody's told me nothing yet.

  You're in here, Clement, because you're in some deep shit, that's why.

  Yeah? Friend of mine was in this room one time, he refused to sign and nothing happened to him.

  Hunter said, Look at it from the court's point of view, Clement, all right? . . . Which looks better, we get a warrant and arrest you for first degree murder, which carries mandatory life? Or, we report you came to us voluntarily to make a statement. Under no duress or apprehension you describe the circumstances Clement began to smile. under which a man lost his life, telling it in your own words, putting in whatever mitigating factors there may be, such as your mental or emotional state at the time, whether there was some form of incitement or threat to your well being . . . what're you grinning at?

  You must think I went to about the fifth grade, Clement said, buy that load of shit. I don't have to say a word to you. On the other hand I can say anything I want and you can't use it because I ain't signed your piece of paper. So what're we sitting here for?

  It's a formality, Hunter said. I got to give you the opportunity to make a statement. You don't, then I take you down the garage, stand you against the wall and beat the shit out of you with the front end of a squad car.

  Hunter said to Raymond Cruz, Fuck we don't get him with the piece, we don't get him.

  He sign the sheet?

  No, but what difference does it make? He's not gonna say anything. He knows the routine better'n we do.

  I'll give it a try, Raymond said. Go on home.

  No, I'll stick around.

  Go on. What're we doing, we're just chatting with the guy.

  Clement . . . how you doing?

  You're in trouble, Clement said. Carolyn told you, you guys don't talk to me without her.

  Raymond said, You spend the night here, she might be a little mad when she finds out, stamp her feet maybe. But she knows it's part of the business. We see a shot, we have to take it. Listen . . . let
's go in the other room. You want some coffee?

  Clement said, I wondered who the good guy was gonna be.

  He sat at Hunter's desk swivelling around in the chair, unimpressed, until he spotted the mug-shot display, the 263 color shots mounted on the wall and extending from Norb Bryl's desk where Raymond sat to the coatrack by the door. Raymond sat sideways to the desk facing Mansell, ten feet away, who was turned sideways to Hunter's desk.

  Poor fuckers, Clement said. You put all those people away?

  About ninety-eight percent of 'em, Raymond said. That's this year's graduates, so far.

  About ninety-eight percent niggers, Clement said. The fuck am I doing sitting here?

  You want me to tell you? Raymond said.

  I wish somebody would, Clement said. I can guess what your heart's desire is, but I know you don't have nothing good else I'd be across the street.

  I might've jumped the gun a little.

  I believe you jumped the hell out of her.

  You know how you get anxious.

  Got to stay cool, Clement said. Evidently you got somebody made a car somewhere

  At the scene, for one.

  Yeah? Non-committal.

  And at the Hazel Park track, Raymond said. The car belongs to Del Weems, a friend of Sandy Stanton.

  Yeah?

  She's staying at Del Weems' apartment, using his car sometimes.

  Yeah?

  So are you. I know I can place you over at 1300 Lafayette if I talk to enough people. And there's a good chance I can put you in the car at Hazel Park, the same time the judge was there, same night he was killed. Raymond looked at the wall clock. About twenty-two hours ago . . . What did you think when we got on you this fast?

  You got a tape recorder going some place?

  Raymond raised his hands, helpless. For what?

  Won't do you any good if you have. Clement looked up at the ceiling and raised his voice as he said, You can't use anything I'm saying, so fuck you!

  I can hear you fine, Raymond said pleasantly. I'm not trying to pull anything, legal or otherwise. I just thought you and I might save some time if we know where we stand.

  That sounds like it makes sense, Clement said, except I think it's pure bullshit. There's no way I can be doing myself any good sitting here. This is a miserable fucking place, you know it?

  You never went before Guy, did you?

  No, I was never in his court.

  So it couldn't be anything personal.

  Jesus, you got your mind made up, haven't you?

  The only other reason I can think of, somebody must've paid you. Raymond waited. Clement didn't say anything. Raymond smiled slightly. That person finds out you're in custody I think it would clutch him up some . . . the kind of situation you get into when two or more people are involved in a murder. Like the guy that was shot in front of the Soup Kitchen, the promoter. You remember him? This past summer. Who was convicted? The shooter. Not the guy that arranged it. He copped and we gave him immunity.

  Jesus Christ, Clement said, you're starting to sound like that other chicken-fat dick, giving me this scary story like I got grits or something for brains.

  I guess I ought to come right out with it, Raymond said.

  Clement nodded. I think you'd feel better.

  Okay, Raymond said, what's gonna happen as soon as we put you in the Buick we already have the Buick at the scene you'll want to start talking deal. You'll give us something if we'll ease up a little. Except by then it will probably be too late. We settle for Clement Mansell, he gets the mandatory, that's it. Did somebody pay him? Who knows? Or more to the point, who cares? See, there isn't that much wrath, you might say, or righteous indignation involved. Some people think the guy who did the judge ought to get a medal instead of a prison term. But it's a capital crime, so we have to go through the motions. I want you to understand now we will nail you down, there isn't any doubt about that . . . unless, before we put in all these hours and get pissed off and cranky and unreasonable . . . you say okay, here's what happened, here's the name of the guy that put up the fee . . . then we could probably do something for you. Talk to the prosecutor about second degree, maybe even get it down to manslaughter and put the mandatory on the guy that hired you. You see what I mean?

  Clement leaned his right forearm on the desk and stared across the ten feet at Raymond Cruz.

  You got a nice, polite way about you. But underneath all that shit, you really want my ass, don't you?

  I don't have a choice, Raymond said.

  You feel this as something personal? I mean this particular case?

  Raymond thought a moment; he shrugged.

  Shit no, Clement said. What's bothering you, three years ago you guys blew it. You had me convicted on a triple, air-tight with witnesses, and I walked. That's been bothering the shit out of you. So now you're gonna try and get me on this one to make up for it. See, now it does get personal. Right? You don't care who hit the judge, you just want me. Am I right or wrong?

  Raymond took his time. He said, See, we're finding out where we stand.

  Am I right or wrong?

  Well, I have to admit there's some truth in what you say.

  I knew it, Clement said. You got no higher motive'n I do, you talk about laying things on the table, see where we stand. You don't set out to uphold the law any more'n I set out to break it. What happens, we get in a situation like this and then me and you start playing a game. You try and catch me and I try and keep from getting caught and still make a living. You follow me? We're over here in this life playing and we don't even give a shit if anybody's watching us or not or if anybody gets hurt. We got our own rules and words we use and everything else. You got numbers, all these chicken-fat dicks that'd rather play the game than work; but I got the law to protect me and all I got to do is keep my mouth shut, don't associate with stupid people and there's no way in hell you're gonna lay this one on me . . . or any of the others.

  Raymond nodded, thoughtful but at ease, alert but not showing it. He said, You know what, Clement? I think you're right. There was a silence. What others?

  And again, a silence.

  Clement leaned on his arm that rested along the edge of the desk, as if to draw a little closer to Raymond Cruz.

  You know how many people I've killed?

  Five, Raymond said.

  Nine, Clement said.

  In Detroit?

  Not all in De-troit. One in Oklahoma, one in Kansas.

  Seven in Detroit?

  That's right. But five no, six of 'em was niggers.

  Counting Judge Guy.

  Count who you want. I ain't giving you a scorecard lineup.

  When you were with the Wrecking Crew, huh?

  Most by myself. Well, kind of by myself. Other fella didn't do shit.

  Going into dope houses, huh?

  Clement didn't answer.

  Like the one on St. Marys, the triple?

  Clement didn't say anything.

  I don't mean to pry, Raymond said. You arouse my curiosity. He sat back in Norb Bryl's stiff swivel chair and placed his legs on the corner of the desk. It's interesting what you said, like it's a game. Cops and robbers. A different life that's got nothing to do with anybody else.

  Less we need 'em, Clement said. Then you get into victims and witnesses. Use who you can.

  But what it comes down to, Raymond said, what it's all about, I mean, is just you and me, huh?

  That's it, partner.

  Some other time I mean a long time ago, we might have settled this between us. I mean if we each took the situation personally.

  Or if we thought it'd be fun, Clement said. You married?

  It took Raymond by surprise. I was.

  You got a family? Kids?

  No.

  So you get bored, don't have nothing to do and you put more time in on the job.

  Raymond didn't say anything. He waited, looking at the wall clock. It was 11:15.

  Clement said, You ever s
hoot anybody?

  Well . . . not lately.

  Come on, how many?

  Two, Raymond said.

  Niggers?

  He felt self-conscious. When I was in Robbery.

  Use that little dick gun? . . . I been meaning to ask why you put the rubber bands around the grip.

  Keep it from slipping down.

  Cheap fuck, get a holster. Shit, get a regular size weapon first, 'ystead of that little parlor gun.

  It does the job, Raymond said. It sounded familiar: a table of cops at the Athens Bar drinking beer.

  Clement said, Yeah? and let his gaze move around the squad room before returning to Raymond Cruz, sitting with his feet on the desk. Say you're pretty good with it, huh?

  Raymond shrugged. I qualify every year.

  Yeah? Clement paused, staring at Raymond now. Be something we had us a shooting match, wouldn't it?

  I know a range out in Royal Oak, Raymond said. It's in the basement of a hardware store.

  I'm not talking about any range, Clement said, staring at Raymond. I was thinking out on the street. He paused for effect. Like when you least expect.

  I'll ask my inspector, Raymond said, see if it's okay.

  You won't do nothing of the kind, Clement said, cause you know I'm not kidding.

  They stared at each other in silence and Raymond wondered if this was part of the game: who would look away first. A little kids' game except it was real, it was happening.

  He said, Can I ask you a question?

  Like what?

  Why'd you shoot Guy?

  Jesus Christ, Clement said, we been talking all this time, I think we're getting some place what difference does it make why? Me and you, we're sitting here looking at each other, sizing each other up aren't we? What's it got to do with Guy, or anything else?

  Chapter 12

  SOME MONTHS BEFORE, a story in The Detroit News Magazine, part of the Sunday edition, had featured eight Women At Work in which they described, beneath on-the-job photos in color, exactly what they did for a living. The women were a crane operator, automotive engineer, realty executive, homemaker, attorney, waitress, interior decorator and city assessor.

  The attorney was Carolyn Wilder, photographed in an ultra-suede jacket leaning against her dining-table desk. Framed on the wall behind her and almost out of focus was an enlarged printed quotation that read: Whatever women do, they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.