City Primeval

14

CLEMENT BOUGHT A TEN-SHOT .22 Ruger automatic rifle, a regular $87.50 value for $69.95, and a box of .22 longs at K-mart in the Tel-Twelve Mall. He went over to the typewriter counter and asked the girl if he could try one. She said sure and gave him a sheet of notepaper. Clement pecked away for a minute, using his index fingers, pulled the notepaper out of the Smith-Corona and took it with him. He saw a black cowboy hat he liked, put it on and walked out with it… down a block to Red Bowers Chevrolet where Sandy Stanton was wandering around the used car lot in her high-heel boots and tight jeans.

She saw him coming with the black hat on, carrying the long cardboard box sticking out of the K-mart sack and said, “Oh, my Lord, what have you got now?”

He told her it was a surprise and Sandy brightened. “For me?” Clement said no, for somebody else. He looked around at the rows of “Fall Clean-up Specials” and asked her if she’d picked one out.

Sandy led him to a Pontiac Firebird with a big air scoop and the hood flamed in red and gold, sunlight flashing on the windshield.

“Isn’t it a honey? Looks like it eats other cars right up.”

Clement said, “Sugar, I told you I want a regular car. I ain’t gonna street race, I ain’t gonna hang out at the Big Boy; I just need me some wheels in your id till things get a little better. Now here’s seven one-hundred-dollar bills, all the grocery money till we get some more. You buy a nice car and pick me up over there-if I can make it across Telegraph without getting killed-where you see that sign? Ramada Inn? I’ll be in there having a cocktail.”

Sandy got him a ’76 Mercury Montego, sky blue over rust, with only forty thousand miles on it for six-fifty plus tax and Clement said, “Now you’re talking.”

A boy who was born on an oil lease and traveled in the beds of pickup trucks till he was twelve years old would be likely to have dreams of Mark VIs and Eldorados. Not Clement. He had driven, had in his possession for varying periods of time in his life, an estimated 268 automobiles, all makes and models, counting the used ‘56 Chevy four-barrel he’d bought when he was seventeen and the used TR-3 he’d bought one time when he was feeling sporty; all the rest he stole. Clement said cars were to get you from here to there or a way of picking up spending money. If you wanted to impress somebody, open their eyes, shit, stick a nickel-plate .45 in their mouth and ear back the hammer.

Clement drove back downtown and over to Lafayette East, but didn’t go to the apartment. Sandy said she wanted to get some Vernor’s. So while she was in the supermarket down the street from the apartment building, Clement found a telephone booth with a directory and looked up Cruz…

Cruz, Cruz, Cruz… no Raymond Cruz, which he didn’t expect to find anyway, but there was an M. Cruz-the kind of initial-only listing women thought would prevent dirty phone calls-and Clement bet twenty cents, dialing the number, that M. Cruz was Raymond Cruz’s former wife.

MCMU called Raymond Cruz. Sandy Stanton was back, crossing the street toward 1300 Lafayette with a bag of groceries. Alone. A 1st Precinct squad car got him over there, up the circular drive to the entrance, in less than four minutes. Sandy was in the lobby, pulling Del Weems’ credit-card bills out of the mailbox, when Raymond walked in.

“Well, hi there.” Sandy gave him a nice smile.

Raymond smiled too, appreciating her, close to believing she was glad to see him.

“What brings you around, may I ask? Del isn’t back yet, if you’re looking for him.”

Raymond said, “No, I’m looking for you, Sandy.” And she said, oh, losing some of her sparkle. They went up to 2504. Raymond walked over to the skyline view while Sandy ran to the bathroom. She was in there a long time. It was quiet. Raymond listened, wondering if she was flushing something down the toilet. She came out wearing her satin running shorts, a white T-shirt with a portrait on it, barefoot, saying she had to get out of those tight designer jeans. Saying she wished uncomfortable outfits weren’t so fashionable, but what were you supposed to do? You had to keep up. Like with cowboy boots now. Back home she’d worked at a riding stable at Spring Mills State Park and wore cowboy boots all the time, never dreaming they’d be the fashion one day and you’d even wear ’em to shopping centers… Sandy talking fast to keep Raymond from talking and maybe he’d forget why he came. It did give him time to identify the portrait on her T-shirt and read the words SAVE BERT PARKS.

She hesitated too long and he said, “Where’s Clement?”

“Well, so much for the world of fashion,” Sandy said. “I don’t know where he is.”

“You drop him off someplace?”

“You think I’m dumb or something? I’m not gonna tell you a thing. If I didn’t have a kind heart, I wouldn’t even be talking to you… You want a drink?”

Raymond was ready to say no, but paused and said sure and went with her into the kitchen that was like a narrow passageway between the front hall and the dining-L. She asked him if Scotch was all right. He said fine and watched her get out the ice and pour the Chivas. Sandy opened a can of Vernor’s 1-Cal ginger ale for herself. She said, “Ouuuuuu, it sure tickles your nose, but I like it. You can’t buy it most other places but here.”

Raymond said, “You have any grass?”

“Boy-” Sandy said. “You never know anymore who’s into what.”

“You have trouble getting it?”

“What do you want, my source?”

“No, a guy in the prosecutor’s office I know has a pretty good source. I was thinking maybe I could help you out, I mean if Mr. Sweety isn’t coming through.”

“Man oh man,” Sandy said. “I think I better go sit down. You’re scary, you know it?”

“Looks like Mr. Sweety’s in some trouble.”

“Jesus, who isn’t?”

“Have to be careful who you associate with.”

“That is the truth,” Sandy said. “I think I might be running around with the wrong crowd. Let’s go in the other room; I feel cornered in here.”

“I just wanted to ask you something,” Raymond said. “See, we’re gonna be talking to Mr. Sweety. He was supposed to be working the night the judge was killed. Maybe he was. But we do know you have something going with him-”

Sandy said, “Have something going?”

“You went to his house yesterday-”

“To get some dope. You already said-you know he’s a source I use. You just said so.”

“Yeah, but why would Clement send you over there?”

“He didn’t. He didn’t even know I went.” Sandy paused. “Wait a sec, you’re confusing me. I did go over there yesterday to score some grass. Period. It’s got nothing to do with anything else.”

“Clement let you use the car?”

“It isn’t his car, it’s Del Weems’.”

“I know, but I wondered why he’d let you go there.”

“He didn’t know I went. I already told you that.”

Twice, Raymond thought. He believed her because he wanted to, because it was reasonable. He didn’t like to come onto facts that appeared unreasonable and have to change his course.

He liked it that she was upset and he kept going now. “I mean considering everything,” Raymond said. “Here we’ve got a car that was identified at a murder scene, Del’s Buick…”

Sandy rolled her eyes-little girl standing there in her satin running shorts, nipples poking out at Bert Parks on her T-shirt. Skinny little thing-he felt sorry for her too.

“What’s the matter?” Raymond asked.

“Oh, nothing… Jesus.”

“We don’t have Clement in the car yet, but we know Clement did both the judge and the girl, Adele Simpson.”

“Now it’s starting to snow,” Sandy said, “and we’re hardly into October.”

“Ask him,” Raymond said. “But here’s the thing. Would Clement like to know you were over there in the car, the Buick, seeing a man who used to work with him and could be a suspect in Guy’s murder? You understand what I’m saying?”

“Do I understand? Are you kidding?”

“So it isn’t so much Clement doesn’t know you went over there,” Raymond said. “You don’t want him to know.”

“If you say so.”

“Why don’t you want him to know, Sandy?”

“He don’t like it when I smoke too much grass.”

“Like when you get nervous or upset?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“Well, the way things’re going, Sandy,” Raymond said, “I think you better hit on a couple pounds of good Colombian.”