City Primeval

5

RAYMOND SAID TO WENDELL ROBINSON, “You want to be the good guy?”

“No, you be the good guy,” Wendell said. “I’m tired and grouchy enough to be a natural heavy, we need to get into that shit.”

Raymond said, “What’re you tired from?” But didn’t get an answer. The door opened and a girl in a Cedar Point T-shirt and satin shorts was looking at them with innocent eyes. Raymond held up his I.D.

“How you doing? I’m Lieutenant Raymond Cruz, Detroit Police. This is Sergeant Robinson. We understand-the man downstairs says your name’s Sandy Stanton?” Very friendly, almost smiling.

The girl gave them a nod, guarded.

“He said Mr. Weems is out of town.” Raymond watched the girl’s wide-eyed expression come to life.

“Oh, you’re looking for Del.”

Raymond said, “Is that right, Sandy, he’s out of town?”

“Yeah, on business. I think he went out to California or someplace.”

“You mind if we come inside?”

“I know it sounds corny,” Sandy said, as though she hated to have to bring it up, “but have you got a warrant?”

Raymond said, “A warrant-for what? We’re not looking for anything. We just want to ask you about Mr. Weems.”

Sandy sighed, stepping out of the way. She watched the two cops, the white one in the dark suit and the black one in the light-gray suit, glance down the short hallway at the closed doors as they went into the living room: the white cop looking around, the black cop going straight to the windows-which is what almost everyone did-to look out at the river and the city. The view was sharply defined this afternoon, the sun backlighting the Renaissance Center, giving the glass towers the look of black marble.

Raymond didn’t care too much for the colors in the room: green, gray and black with a lot of chrome. It reminded him of a lawyer’s office. He said, “I understand you drove Mr. Weems to the airport.”

“The day before yesterday,” Sandy said. “What is it you want him for?”

“You drive him out in his car?”

“Yeah… why?”

“Buick Riviera, license PYX-546?”

“I don’t know the license number.”

“What do you do for a living, Sandy?”

“You mean when I work? I tend bar, wait tables if I have to.”

“You use the car last night?”

“What car?”

“The Buick.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t,” Sandy said. “I went to the race track with somebody.”

“What one, over in Windsor?”

“No, out to Hazel Park.”

She saw the black cop turn from the window. He looked like a suit salesman or a professional athlete. A colored guy who spent money on clothes.

The other one was smiling somewhat. “You win?”

Sandy gave him a bored look. “You kidding?”

“I know what you mean,” Raymond said. “Who’d you go with?”

“Fella I know. Skender Lulgjaraj.”

Amazing. The white cop didn’t blink or make a face or say, Lul-what?

“What time’d you get home?”

“It was pretty late.”

“Skender drive?”

There, again, like he was familiar with the name. “Yeah, he picked me up.”

Raymond frowned, like he was a little confused. “Then who used Mr. Weems’ car last night?”

He had a little-boy look about him, even with the droopy mustache. The dark hair down on his forehead…

“Nobody did,” Sandy said.

She watched them give her the old silent treatment, waiting for her to say too much if she tried to fake it or tried to act innocent or amazed-when all she had to do was hang tough and not act at all. It was hard, though; too hard and finally she said, “What’s wrong?”

Raymond said, “Did you loan the car to somebody?”

“Uh-unh.”

“Did Mr. Weems, before he left?”

“Not that I know of. Hey, maybe it was stolen.”

“It’s downstairs,” Raymond said. “You have the keys, don’t you?”

“Yeah, someplace.”

“Why don’t you check, just to make sure.”

Oh shit, Sandy thought, feeling exposed now in her shorts and T-shirt and barefeet, wanting to walk over to the desk and pick up the keys, but having no idea in the world what Clement did with them-trying to picture him coming in then. No, she had come in and he was sitting on the couch reading the paper-the paper still lying there pulled apart. She said, “Gee, I never know what I do with keys,” and got away from them, starting to move about the room.

Raymond said, “Maybe we can help you,” and began looking around.

“That’s okay,” Sandy said, “I think I know where they are. You all sit down and take it easy.” She made herself walk down the short hallway, dark with the doors closed, went into the master bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Clement was stretched out on the king-size bed. He put his hands behind his curly head as Sandy entered and wiggled his toes, showing her how cool he was.

“They gone?”

“No, they’re not gone. They want the keys.”

“What keys?”

“The fucking car keys, what do you think what keys?” Her whisper came out hoarse, as though from a bigger, huskier woman.

“Shit,” Clement said. He thought a moment, watching her feel the top of the dresser. “They got a search warrant?” She didn’t answer him. “Hey, you don’t have to give ’em no keys.”

“You go out and tell ’em that,” Sandy said. She had the ring of keys in her hand now, moving toward the door.

“Well, it’s up to you,” Clement said. “You want to give ’em the keys, go ahead.”

Sandy stopped at the door. “What else’m I supposed to do?” Her whisper a hiss now.

“Give ’em the keys,” Clement said. “It don’t matter.”

“What if they find your prints in the car?”

“Ain’t no prints to find.” Clement’s arms were reddish-tan, his body pure white, his bluebirds and ribs resting against the green and gray swirls of Del Weems’ designer bedspread. Sandy started to open the door and he said, “Hon? I had sort of an accident parking the car when I come back.”

“I love the time you pick to tell me.” Sandy took time herself to raise her eyes to the ceiling, giving her words a dramatic effect. “What’d you hit?”

“You know those cement pillars?” Clement said. “I scraped one of ’em parking, took a little paint off the fender-if they was to ask you how it happened.” He paused, letting her stare at him. “Why don’t we keep it simple, say you did it. How’s that sound to you?”

Raymond Cruz looked at the desk, wanting to open the drawers. He looked at the metallic stick figures on the glass coffeetable. He looked at the newspaper lying open on the couch and then over to the dark hallway. What if he walked in there and started opening doors?…

Sandy Stanton. He could see the name in a typewritten report, a statement. He tried the name in his mind. Sandy Stanton. He tried it with Norb Bryl saying the name, Sandy Stanton, and then with Jerry Hunter’s voice, Sandy Stanton. The name, just the name, was registered in his mind from a time in the past. He walked to the window and looked out. Then turned again, abruptly, and was facing the room as Wendell came out through the dining-L from the kitchen, Wendell shaking his head.

Raymond motioned to the window. “You can see 1300 from here.”

“I noticed,” Wendell said. “You can see the window of the squad room.”

Past the Blue Cross building and beyond the dome of old St. Mary’s to the granite nine-story municipal building, police headquarters-1300 Beaubien-to a window on the fifth floor, above the police garage.

“You notice,” Raymond said, “that’s 1300 and this is 1300?”

“No shit,” Wendell said. “I notice something else, too, while I’m busy noticing. You got hold of something in your head you’re playing with.”

Raymond frowned at him, amazed. What was going on? Everybody, all of a sudden, reading him.

“You’re laying back, savoring it,” Wendell said. “You gonna share it with me or keep it a secret?”

Amazing. It was spooky. Raymond thought of the girl from the News and said, “You tell your wife what you do?”

Now Wendell was frowning. “What I do? You mean tell her everything? Do I look like I want to get shot with my own gun?”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Raymond said.

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

“But you said-like I was onto something.”

“Some kind of scheme,” Wendell said. “When you lay back and don’t move around you understand?- but look like you want to be doing something? It means you ready to spring. Am I right?”

“Sandy Stanton,” Raymond said.

“Cute little lady.”

“Where’ve you heard the name?”

“I don’t have the recall you do,” Wendell said, “but it’s familiar, like a movie star or a name you see in the paper.”

“Or in a case file.”

“Now we moving,” Wendell said.

“Albert RaCosta,” Raymond said.

Wendell nodded. “Keep going.”

“Louis Nix… Victor Reddick. And one more.”

“Yeah, the Wrecking Crew.” Wendell was still nodding. “I know the names but they were a little before my time.”

“Three years ago,” Raymond said. “I’d just come over to Seven.”

“Yeah, and I came like six months after you,” Wendell said. “I read the file, all the newspaper stuff, but I don’t recall any Sandy Stanton.”

Coming into the living room Sandy said, “What’re you doing, talking about me?” She held up the ring of keys. “I found ’em. But if you want to take the car-I don’t think I can let you. I mean you haven’t even told me why you want it.”

Raymond said, “You’re sure, Sandy, those’re the keys to the Buick?”

“Yeah.” She held them up again. “GM keys. He’s only got one car.”

“When’s the last time you drove it?”

“I told you-when I took him to the airport.”

“The car was in good shape?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“No dings in it or anything?”

“Oh,” Sandy said and made a face, an expression of pain. “Yeah, I guess I scraped the fender, you know, on the cement down where you park. Del’s gonna kill me.”

“Getting into a tight place, huh?”

“Yeah, I misjudged a little.”

“Which fender was it you scraped, Sandy?”

She held her hands up in front of her and looked at them, trying to remember if shitbird, lying on the bed in his bikinis, had told her. “It was… this one, the left one.” She looked from the white cop to the black cop and back to the white cop, wanting to say, Am I right?

“You’re sure?” Raymond asked her.

Shit, Sandy thought. “Well, I’m pretty sure. But I get mixed up with left and right.”

“You live here, Sandy?”

God, it was hard to keep up with him. “No, I’m just staying here while Del’s gone, like apartment-sitting.”

“Anybody staying with you?”

She hesitated-which she knew she shouldn’t do. “No, just me.”

“Is anybody else here right now?”

Christ. She hesitated again. “You mean besides us?”

“Uh-huh, besides us,” Raymond said.

“No, there isn’t anybody here.”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody-you went out to the bedroom.”

Sandy said, “I don’t think you’re being fair at all. If you aren’t gonna tell me what you want, then I’m gonna ask you to please leave. Okay?”

“You were at the Hazel Park track last night?”

“I already told you I was.”

“You see, Sandy, a car that sounds like Mr. Weems’ Buick-maybe the same license number-was involved in an accident out there. About one o’clock.”

Sandy said, “You’re traffic cops? Jesus, I thought this was something more important than that.”

“Like what?” Raymond asked.

“I don’t know. I just thought… two of you come up here, it has to be, you know, something important.” Sandy began to feel herself relax. The white cop was saying, well, they have to check out the car first, see if it might be the one, before they get into anything else. Probably-Sandy was thinking at the same time-it was a car that looked like Del’s and had almost the same license numbers. That could be what happened, a coincidence, and shitbird in the bedroom had nothing to do with it. There were all kinds of black Buicks, it was a very popular color this year… she told the white cop that, too, and the white cop agreed, nodding, and then he was saying, “Oh, by the way…

“You seen Clement Mansell lately?”

Like a total stranger coming up to you and saying your name-she couldn’t believe it because she could look right at the white cop and was positive she had never seen him before in her life; he couldn’t know anything about her. She felt exposed and vulnerable again standing there barefoot with no place to hide, no way to play it over again and be ready for the question. Still, she said, “Who?”

“Clement Mansell,” Raymond said. “Isn’t he an old friend of yours?”

Sandy said, “Oh… you know him? Yeah, I recall the name, sure.”

Raymond took a business card out of his suitcoat pocket. Handing it to her he said, “You see him, have him give me a call, okay?” The white cop and the black cop both thanked her as they left.

In the elevator Wendell said, “Clement Mansell. You name the Wrecking Crew and save the best one. I don’t know how I forgot him.”

Raymond was watching the floor numbers light up in descending order. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“What, ask her about him? We all stunt a little bit.”

“If it’s Mansell I want him to know. I don’t want him to run, but I want him to think about it. You understand what I mean?”

“Man could be back in Oklahoma, nowhere around here.”

“Yeah, he could be in Oklahoma,” Raymond said. His gaze came down from the numbers to the elevator door as it opened. They walked out of the alcove, across the lobby to the desk where the doorman sat with a wall of television monitors behind him. Raymond waited for him to look up at them.

“You didn’t tell us somebody was with her, Miss Stanton, twenty-five oh-four.”

“I don’t believe you ask me,” the doorman said.

Wendell said, “How long he been staying with her, uncle?”

The middle-aged black man in the porter’s coat looked at the younger, well-built black man in the three-piece light-gray suit. “How long is who been staying with her?”

“Shit,” Wendell said. “Here we go.”