City Primeval

6

ONE TIME CLEMENT WAS RUN OVER by a train and lived. It was a thirty-three-car Chesapeake & Ohio freight train with two engines and a caboose.

Clement was with a girl. They were waiting at a street crossing in Redford Township about eleven at night, the red lights flashing and the striped barrier across the road, when Clement got out of the car and went out to stand on the tracks, his back to the engine’s spotlight coming toward him at forty miles an hour. Yes, he was a little high, though not too high. He was going to jump out of the way at the last second, turned with his back to the approaching train, looking over at the girl’s face in the car windshield, the girl’s eyes about to come out of her head. Instead of jumping out of the way Clement changed his mind and laid down between the tracks. The train engineer saw Clement and slammed on the emergency brake, but not in time. Twenty-one cars passed over Clement before the train was brought to a stop and he crawled out from beneath the twenty-second one. The train engineer, Harold Howell of Grand Rapids, said, “There was just no excuse for it.” Clement was taken to Garden City Hospital where he was treated for a bruised back and released. When questioned by the Redford Township Police Clement said, “Did I break a law? Show me where it says I can’t lay down in front of a train if I want?”

Clement said it was like conditioning, prepar-ing for the ball-clutching moments of life while building your sphincter muscle. After lying in front of a freight train you can lie in bed in your underwear while two cops are visiting, asking about a certain black Buick-and while a mean-looking Walther P .38 automatic is hidden nearby at that very moment-and not worry about making doo-doo in the bed.

See, just as he knew he could easily have jumped out of the train’s way-as he explained it to Sandy-he knew he had time to skin through this present situation and get rid of the gun-though he hated to do it-before the cops came back with a warrant to search or impound the car. He admired the cops’ restraint these days in not opening bedroom doors or looking inside cars without a warrant. Cops had to go by the rules or have their evidence thrown out of court. It gave Clement, he felt, an edge: he could grin at the ball yankers, antagonize them some, knowing they had to respect his rights as a citizen.

But who in the hell was Lieutenant Raymond Cruz? Clement studied the business card, then looked out the bedroom window and squinted toward the police headquarters building.

“I don’t know any Lieutenant Raymond Cruz.”

“Well, he knows you.”

“What’s he look like? Regular old beer-gut dick?”

“No, he’s skinny almost.”

“Raymond Cruz,” Clement said thoughtfully. “He’s a greaser, huh?”

“Well, he’s sort of dark, but not real. He seems quiet… Except, it’s funny, I get the feeling there’s some meanness in him,” Sandy said. “Otherwise he’s kinda cute.”

Clement turned from the windows to look at her, idly scratching himself. “He’s cute, huh? I got to see a De-troit homicide dick that’s cute; that’ll be one of my goals in life.” He said then, “I guess you better get dressed.”

“Where we going?”

“Want you to drive over to Belle Isle for me.”

“Now wait a sec-”

“I’ll tell you where the gun’s hid down the garage. Up over one of them beams? Put it in your purse-it’s in a paper sack so it won’t get your purse oily or nothing-go on over to Belle Isle and park and come walking back across the bridge part way. When there’s no cars around-‘specially any blue Plymouths-take the sack out of your purse and drop it in the river.”

“Do I have to?” Sandy turned on her pained expression. Clement just looked at her, patiently, and she said, “I ought to least have a joint first. Half a one?”

“I want you clear-headed, hon bun.”

There wasn’t any grass in the apartment anyway. Down to seeds and stems. She’d have to stop at the store on the way and pick up a baggie.

Clement tucked Raymond Cruz’s business card into the elastic of his briefs and took hold of Sandy’s arms, sliding his hands up under the satiny sleeves and tugging her gently against him. He said, “What’re you nervous about, huh? You never been nervous before. You need one of Dr. Mansell’s treatments? That it, hon bun, get you relaxed? Well, we can fix you up.”

“Mmmmm, that feels good,” Sandy said, closing her eyes. She could feel him breathing close to her ear. After a moment she said, “I have to do it, huh?”

“You want us to be friends, don’t you?” Clement said. “Don’t friends help each other?”

“I think I feel another little friend-”

“See, Homer don’t pout or wimp out on you. He’s always there when you need him. ‘Specially when I’m hung over some, huh? You can hit him with a stick and he won’t go ‘way.”

“Does it have to be in the river?”

“Can you think of a better place? You get back, sugar, we’ll go see your Albanian. How’s that sound?”

Tell ’em anything long as you tell ’em something.

Women were fun, but you had to treat them like little kids, play with them, promise them things; especially Sandy, who was a good girl and never let him down. Clement kissed her goodbye and looked at his situation as he got dressed.

He’d have to leave here in the next day or so. He’d miss the view, but there was no sense in being easy to reach. Man, they were swift this time. Or lucky. He couldn’t recall a Lieutenant Raymond Cruz. Maybe if he saw the man’s face. Get rid of anything incriminating, like the gun. Which was a shame; he loved that P .38.

Clement picked up his pants from the floor and dug out what he’d scored off the judge. The money, three hundred forty bucks, was clean, no problem with it. He’d left the checks in the wallet; he couldn’t see himself peddling a dead man’s checks. The little 2 by 3 spiral notebook-it was thin, like pages had been torn out-had names and phone numbers in it, also columns of figures and dates, impressive amounts up in the thousands with a lot of dollar signs, but meaningless to him… until he came to a right-hand page-the second to last one in the notebook-and a phone number jumped out at him.

W.S.F. 644-5905.

The initials and numbers gone over several times with a ballpoint and then underlined and enclosed within a heavily drawn square.

To make it special, Clement thought. He didn’t recognize the initials, but the number was sure familiar, one he had seen not too long ago. But where?

Two officers from the Major Crime Mobile Unit-in street clothes, in a black unmarked Ford sedan-were assigned the surveillance of the Buick Riviera, license number PYX-546, located in the lower-level parking area at 1300 Lafayette East. They were given mug-shot photos of Clement Mansell, 373-8411, full face and profile, the photos bearing a ’78 date. If he got in the car, Mansell was to be approached with caution and taken into custody for questioning. If he refused, resisted or tried to drive off, the officers were to arrest him, but under no circumstances search the car. If a woman got in the car they were to follow, keep her under close surveillance and call in.

Which is what the MCMU officers did when Sandy drove off in the Buick, took Jefferson to East Grand Boulevard, turned left-going away from the Belle Isle bridge-and proceeded to a bar named Sweety’s Lounge, located at 2921 Kercheval. The subject went inside, came out again in approximately ten minutes with a middle-aged black male and accompanied him next door, to 2925 Kercheval, where they entered the lower household of a two-family flat.

MCMU called Homicide, Squad Seven, and requested instructions.