City Primeval

23

A HAMTRAMCK POLICE DETECTIVE by the name of Frank Kochanski picked up his phone and said to Toma, “Where you been?”

“I’m still at the hospital.”

“This character you’re looking for’s at the Eagle. We saw his car by there and I give Harry a call. Harry says yeah, he’s in there having a few pops, making phone calls.”

“The Eagle?” Toma said, surprised that the man was still in the vicinity of Skender’s apartment, little more than a mile from it.

“The Eagle, on Campau,” Kochanski said. “How many Eagles you know?”

Toma called the bar. Harry said, “Yeah… no, wait a minute, he’s picking up his change…”

Toma walked down the hall to the third-floor visitor’s lounge where the male members of the Lulgjaraj family were waiting. They watched him unfold a city map, study it for a few moments, then place it on the coffeetable and draw a circle with his finger to take in, roughly, Hamtramck and the near east side of Detroit. He said, “He’s somewhere in here. But he stays most of the time downtown; I think he’ll go there. If he knows how, he’ll take the Chrysler. If he doesn’t, he may take McDougall.” Toma paused. His finger began tracing the line that indicated East Grand Boulevard. “But he could go this way, too, from Joseph Campau. We don’t know him, so we have to look for him all these places.”

About forty minutes later Skender opened his eyes to the beeping sound. It stopped and Toma was standing close to him, touching his face.

“Go back to sleep.”

At the public phone Toma called his service, was given a number and dialed it.

“Where is he?”

“In a house on Van Dyke Place. We’re at the corner of Van Dyke and Jefferson,” the voice said in Albanian.

“Wait for me,” Toma said.

“But if he comes out…” the voice began.

“Kill him,” Toma said.

“I think what happens to niggers is they come up here and find out they can talk back to you,” Clement said, “so all they do then’s argue. I tole your nigger woman I know she’s upstairs. I called her office enough times they finally told me she’s home. So what’re you arguing with me for?”

“I’m never home to clients,” Carolyn said. “I’ll see you in my office or, more likely, the Wayne County Jail, but not here. So, Clement, you’re going to have to leave.”

“All you’re doing’s reading. You sick? I see a person in their bathrobe the middle of the day I figure they work nights or they’re sick.”

Carolyn took off her glasses, brought her bare feet down from the hassock and placed the glasses inside the book as she closed it on her lap. “I’m going to argue with you, too, if you don’t leave,” Carolyn said, “and I promise you’ll lose.”

Clement didn’t seem to hear her. He was looking around the room, at the abstract paintings, at the bar, his gaze moving past Carolyn sitting in the bamboo chair in a beige and white striped caftan, to the beige couch that was covered with pillows in shades of blue. He walked over and let himself fall back into it, his boots levering up and then down, hitting hard on the Sarouk carpet. He pulled a pillow out from behind him, getting comfortable.

“Shit, I’m tired. You know it?”

Carolyn watched him, curiosity soothing impatience, calming her as she studied the man half-reclined on her couch, his head bent against the backrest cushion, fingers shoved into tight pockets now. The Oklahoma Wildman. Born somewhere between fifty and one hundred years too late.

Or a little boy she could hear saying, “I don’t have nothing to do.” Kicking at the Sarouk, at the ripple, with the heel of his boot, trying to flatten it.

“That carpet you seem determined to destroy,” Carolyn said, “cost fifteen thousand dollars.”

“No shit?” He looked down at the blue oriental pattern.

“No shit,” Carolyn said. “It’s worth much more than that now.”

“Why don’t you sell it, get the money?”

“I enjoy it. I didn’t buy it as an investment.”

“How much you make a year?”

“Enough to live the way I want.”

“Come on, how much you make?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You don’t keep any money in the house, do you?” Clement grinned at her. “I know, it’s all in visa cards. That shit’s ruining me, you know it?”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No, but you could write me a check.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You know why.”

“Clement, you’re a terrible extortionist.”

“I know. But there was that chicken-fat judge dead and nothing to come of it. Seemed a shame. Then I see your phone number in his book and I commenced to scheme.” Clement squinted. “How come he had your number?”

“He called a few times, wanted me to go out with him.”

“Jesus, you didn’t, did you?”

“No, Clement, I didn’t.”

“You ain’t a young girl, but I know you can do better’n that.”

Carolyn said, “This chat’s costing you money, Clement. If we’re getting into your situation there’s a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer to think about. If we go to trial, I’ll need another seventy-five, in advance.”

Clement blinked and squinted. Carolyn watched his act indifferently-Clement shaking his head now.

“First thing you must learn in school, I mean lawyers, is how to turn things around. I come up here to get a check and you tell me you want ten thousand dollars.”

“If I’m going to represent you.”

“For what? Shit, they’re dickin’ around, they’re never gonna have a case. I’m pulling out, going down to Tampa, Florida, for the winter. But I don’t have the stake I thought I was gonna. That’s why I need you to write me a check.”

Carolyn sat low in the chair studying Clement, her elbow on the arm, her cheek resting against her hand.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“I don’t?”

“Always seem so calm. Never upset. How do you manage that?”

“Thinking good thoughts,” Clement said. “Go get your checkbook.”

“What do you need, a couple hundred?”

Clement squinted at her again. “Couple hunnert?” He had come seeking no particular amount. She had mentioned a ten-thousand-dollar fee and that didn’t sound too bad. Nice round number. But now-shit, looking at him like he was the janitor, waiting for him to leave so she could open her book again-he doubled the amount and said, “Twenty thousand oughta do it.”

Carolyn didn’t say anything. She didn’t move until he said, “You’re pretty calm yourself.” Then watched as she came out of the chair, laying the book on the hassock, and went to the desk in the bay of front windows.

With her profile to him, leaning over the desk, she said, “I’m doing this against my better judgment,” opening a business-size checkbook and writing now.

Clement was surprised. He’d expected her to give him an argument. He could see the curve of her fanny against the robe. She tore a check from the book and walked across the room, right past him, not looking at him until she was standing in the doorway that opened on the upstairs hall. Clement could see the railing behind her and now she was offering him the check.

“Here. Take it.”

Something wasn’t right. Clement stared and watched her move out into the hallway now and hold the check over the railing.

“All right, then pick it up on your way out,” Carolyn said. “But if you take it, please don’t expect me to ever help you again, in or out of court. Understood?”

Clement got up and crossed toward Carolyn. Her extended arm looked pale and naked sticking out of the robe. As he reached her she handed him the check. Clement looked at it.

“This says two hunnert.”

Carolyn called over the railing, downstairs, “Marcie?”

“I said twenty thousand. You left out some oughts.”

Carolyn turned to look at him. “Even if I could write a check in that amount, do you really think I would?”

“Yes, I do,” Clement said. “ ‘Stead of me rolling up your rug or taking your jewelry-sure, I do.”

“But a check-you know I could stop payment as soon as you leave.”

“Then I’d come back, wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t believe this,” Carolyn said. “All I have to do is call the police.”

“Man, it’s hard to get through to some people,” Clement said. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Carolyn hesitated, then gestured with her hand, a vague motion. “Right there. The first door.” She turned with her back to the railing for Clement to go past, then tried to pull away as he took her by the arm.

“Let’s me and you go toidy.”

“Now wait a minute-” Clement’s fingers dug into her upper arm and she called out, “Marcie!”

“She’s locked in the pantry.” Clement was moving Carolyn along now. “I told you she was arguing with me. People argue-you’re a lawyer-you got to make your point or shut ’em up, huh?” He pushed Carolyn into the bathroom and swung the door closed behind them, looking around. “Man, this is some biffy; you could have a party in here… big stall shower… I like a tub-bath myself, but this’ll do fine. Take your robe off.”

“Clement?” Carolyn began.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re doing…” She tried a sincere expression with a slight smile. “Can I offer you a little advice?”

“How much’s the retainer?”

“No, this is free. Whatever you have in mind”-slowly, with a soft lilt to her voice-“I think you should consider very carefully the position you’re in.” Clement hooked a finger in the ring of the caftan’s zipper. “Clement, be nice, okay?”

“You’d stop payment, huh?” The caftan opened as he pulled down. She tried to hold it closed. He took her two hands and brought them away, standing close, looking into her face.

“I don’t have anywhere near that much,” Carolyn said, still sincere, “so what difference does it make?”

“How much you got?”

“Let’s go look in the checkbook.”

“Take off the robe first.” He let go of her hands.

“Clement, really, if you’ll stop and think for a minute…” His hands slipped inside the rough-cotton garment, moved up her body and felt her elbows come in tightly, her eyes staring into his.

“What you think I’m gonna do to you?… Huh? Tell me.” He moved his thumbs across her breasts. “Hey, your nobs’re sticking out… That feel pretty good? Juuuust brush ’em a little, huh?… They get hard as little rocks.” His right hand moved lightly down her side to her hip, their eyes still holding. “Now what am I gonna do?… That your belly button right there?… My, we don’t have no panties on, do we?” His voice drowsy. “Tell what you think I’m gonna do to you… Huh? Come on…”

Clement drew his right hand out of the caftan, bringing it down past his own hip, curled the hand into a fist and grunted, going up on his toes, as he drove the fist into Carolyn’s stomach.

Once he got her into the shower, the caftan off her shoulders, pinning her arms, Clement gave Carolyn a working over with a few kidney punches and body hooks, a couple of stinging jabs to the face before a right cross drew blood from her nose and mouth and he turned the shower on her. The job was trying to keep her on her feet, glassy-eyed and moaning, Clement doubting she had much air left in her. He gave Carolyn a towel and guided her back to the desk in the window bay, bright with afternoon sunlight. Opening the checkbook, Clement said, “Let’s see now how much you want to give me.”

He looked at himself in the mirrored walls of the first floor, grinned a little at the hotshot grinning back at him and walked out of there with a check for six thousand five hundred dollars in the pocket of his denim jacket, thinking: I believe you stumbled onto something, boy.

It was sure nice out.

There was a guy standing across the street. A young guy in a dark suit.

It was sure easier than going in with a gun. Pick out the right party, impress on the party why they should not call the police, then go to a downtown bank at once and cash the check. See, then if the bank calls the party to verify the check, the party is still seeing life through pain and fear and would say, you bet it’s good-fast.

There were three guys over there now, standing, talking.

Carolyn was probably upstairs looking out the window. Man, but it was a big place. Weird. High picket fence, like spears, all around and a blacktop parking area in the side yard-no grass-like the place had once been a residence, then a commercial establishment of some kind, with its big kitchen and bathroom, then a residence again. His car sat over there all by itself, up against the iron fence.

The three guys across the street, he realized now-looking through the fence at them as he approached his car-were wearing black suits. Dark-haired guys with mustaches and black suits…

Jesus Christ, he had never even seen an Albanian before yesterday. He said to himself, Oh shit-wanting to run for the Montego, but making himself walk, not wanting to get anybody excited just yet, least not until he was behind the car on the driver’s side and could open the door and reach under the seat.

The three guys were coming across the street. They looked like undertakers. They were opening their black suitcoats and reaching inside…

Clement was still five long strides from the car when they drew pistols and began firing at him. He couldn’t believe it. Right out on the street, three guys he’d never seen before in his life shooting at him through the fence, not asking him to wait-up there, find out if he was the party they wanted-Christ, just blazing away at him! Clement got his door open and saw the windows drilled and patterns form at the same time, the windows shattered but held together. He got the Browning from under the seat, edged to the rear curve of the Montego, extended the Browning over the edge of the trunk and, as he saw them through the widely spaced pickets, the three of them coming toward the drive, he began squeezing the trigger, feeling the gun jump, hearing that hard report in his ears, and saw them scatter, running along the fence on the other side of the drive. Clement got in the Montego, backed up, headed toward the rear of the house and almost braked when he saw the chain across the exit drive-thought, What, you don’t want to scratch up your new car?-kept going and tore through those links without even feeling a tug-sailed out hanging a right into the alley and faced another split moment of decision as he saw the end of the alley coming up fast. Turn left, away from the boys in black? Or hang another right and have to drive past the front of the house, where they were presently swarming? To hell with them. He cranked a right… saw the black suits back in the street again, looking this way, then all three of them aiming with both arms extended, like they knew what they were doing. The sound of the shots came as pops, far away, but the windshield blossomed at once in fragmenting circles. Clement floored it right at them. Saw them run for the sidewalk and veered over to jump the curb and sweep along close to the fence. Two of them ducked into the drive, out of the way, while the third set a fence-climbing record, just pulling his legs up as Clement scraped the Montego against the metal pickets, swerved back onto the street and took a couple of more shots in the rear end before he got to Jefferson and turned without stopping into the westbound traffic.

He couldn’t believe he had never heard of Albanians.