Out of Sight

SIXTEEN

The first thing Maurice said to Glenn was, "Uh-unh, you don't call me Snoopy. I don't answer to that Snoopy shit no more." Later on in the car he said, "I let White Boy call me Maury sometime if I'm in the mood. White Boy Bob's my all-around man, my bodyguard when I feel I need one, and my driver."

Right now he was driving the '94 Lincoln Town Car Glenn had brought from Florida and Maurice had fixed up with a Michigan license plate and what he said were clean papers, Glenn not sure now if it was his car or belonged to this dude wearing a lavender do-rag bandanna, this ex-con who used to be known as Snoopy.

White Boy didn't seem to pay any attention to Maurice and Glenn in the backseat talking about him. Driving out to the suburbs on a cold, sunless afternoon, all the way out Woodward Avenue from downtown to show Glenn Mr. Ripley's house in Bloomfield Hills.

"White Boy," Maurice said, "never made it as a pro, even though he can be a mean and vicious motherfucker. See, but if a fighter works in and gives him a good shot, White Boy's eyes cross and he don't know where he's at. I'm talking about in the ring, you understand, where you have to go by the rules. You mess with him on the street it's a whole different situation.

Look at him, the shoulders, a size twenty neck on him. White Boy Bob stands six-four and goes two-fifty, can put his fist through a plaster wall. I've seen it." Maurice said, "White Boy," raising his voice,

"tell Glenn the reason you went down on that burglary that time."

Glenn saw White Boy Bob look up at the mirror.

"I left my wallet in the house I robbed."

Glenn saw him grinning now in the mirror.

"Come out of his pocket," Maurice said, "as he's climbing through the window. Takes the TV, the VCR, some other shit and leaves his wallet on the floor. The police come by to see him.

"You lose this, Bob?" White Boy goes, "Yeah, I guess I did," not thinking where he might've left it. Got sent to Huron Valley." Maurice raised his voice again.

"What was it, two years you done that time?"

"Twenty-two months."

Glenn watched him looking at the mirror and Maurice said, "Watch the road, Boy." He said to Glenn, "I like this Town Car. We can cruise the man's neighborhood without getting the police or the private security people on our ass. Understand what I'm saying?"

Glenn said, "Sure, right, they see Bigfoot driving around a black guy wearing shades and a lavender fucking bandanna, no, they won't think anything of it."

Maurice said, "It's lilac, man, the color, and the style's made known by Deion and other defensive backs in the pros. I could be one of them living out here with doctors of my race and basketball players. Man, all you need is money. Here, this road we coming to… What is it, White Boy?"

"Big Beaver," White Boy said, grinning at the mirror.

"White Boy can't get over a road name Big Beaver. Okay, we come about fifteen miles from that whorehouse motel you staying at downtown. Now we in Bloomfield Hills. We go left a ways and then right. They no hills to speak of, huh, but lots of trees.

Remember Lompoc, we had that nice view of trees and the warden had 'em all cut down?"

"Eucalyptus," Glenn said.

"New warden," Maurice said.

"Cut down the trees and kept the yard closed till noon every day. I worked nights, see, in the bakery? Use to come off and do my training.

So I couldn't do it no more, work on my legs. You don't have legs, you got no business in the ring."

White Boy said, "I let Maury hit me in the gut as hard as he can."

Maurice said, "Watch the road, Boy. Slow down, I think it's the next street… Yeah, Vaughan Road, nothing but money.

Here come Mr. Ripley's house up on the left. Yeah, the brick wall..

There's his drive, right there."

Glenn turned his head to look out the back window and caught sight of a slate roof, glimpses of a Tudor-style country house through the trees, a huge place, Glenn saying, "He went by too fast."

Maurice told White Boy to turn around, in that drive there, and go slow so Glenn could see the house.

"Okay, now creep.

Big place, huh? We come by and see people trimming, cutting the lawn, so I send White Boy to go find the boss of the crew, ask was there any work for him. The boss say no, so White Boy goes around to where this houseman is washing a car, in back, and ask can he have a drink of water from the hose. The houseman's white too, see. They get talking, White Boy ask him they any trouble with prowlers around here, car thieves and such. The houseman say they got a system, the man's sleeping and hears a sound he don't like? He press a button and every light inside and outside the house comes on. He wants to, he can press the button again, all the lights outside the house start flashing, a siren goes off and the police get a call, like a signal.

The man has everything but U.S. Marines run out the garage at you. I'm thinking, we don't need none of that shit. I make up my mind, if this Ripley place is worth going into, they's only one way to do it. Which I believed from the time you first told me about Ripley was how to do it anyway."

"How?" Glenn said.

"I'll show you, soon as I get two more people I'm gonna need. Couple of young gym rats I know, hang out at the Kronk.

Give 'em a hundred each they go anywhere I say."

"Wait just a fucking minute," Glenn said.

"I'm letting you in on this, not all your friends."

"You let me in on what?" Maurice said.

"You come this time and tell me, finally, the whole story, how this man has all kind of money in there, stones, gold; but that was five years ago the man told you. What's he got in there now? You tell me you gonna bring some people, couple old cons know what they doing.

Then you say you change your mind, you ain't bringing these people."

"And you told me," Glenn said, "you know how to break and enter, only your expert here leaves his fucking wallet in the house."

"You learn from doing," Maurice said.

"You learn where the money's at, then you do it. You don't go in a house and toss it looking for valuables, slit open the mattress, that kind of shit.

They young fellas do that call the Head Bangers, go in and beat up on old ladies for money they save in a coffee can. No-the way to do it, you go in where you know they's money from illegal trade and the man ain't gonna tell on you. Like Mr.

Ripley, you say made his from illegal trade. But what he told you, not only was it some time ago, it might've been bullshit.

Understand? The one thing visible this Ripley deal has going for it, I mean we're sure of, is that big fucking house you have to be rich to live in."

"He's got it," Glenn said, "don't worry."

"Man, the only thing I'm worried about is you, if you can step up and do it. Understand?

"Stead of just talking the talk."

"Can I do what?"

"Walk in a house with me I got picked out. Man that lives there, a white guy, I used to sell to when I was in Young Boys, Incorporated."

"Excuse me," Glenn said, "but I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Quit looking out the window and listen, you find out. Young Boys, man, we had the whole west side. This man I'm talking about would drive down to the projects, stop by my corner and I'd fix him up. Okay, now later on when I was doing business for the Chambers brothers-the ones had the crack factory?"

Glenn shook his head.

"Had girls working there cooked the rocks they called the Rockettes."

"I thought you were into credit cards."

"That was like on the side, use 'em to buy clothes, things for my house. See, but when I got ratted on and the feds wanted me for product, I had the credit cards to plead down to. Understand?

They saw it as better than nothing, sent me to Lompoc and I let you talk me into escaping. Only stupid thing I ever done in my life. Okay, now this man I'm talking about… You know the one I mean?"

"The guy who used to buy coke off you."

"Was scag he bought off me. After while kicked it and found his happiness with crack, what I started dealing him when I worked for the Chambers brothers. But, see, the man turned around and got into dealing himself, selling to white people out this way. You with me?"

"This is a long fucking story," Glenn said, looking out the window again at shrubs, stone walls, driveways, trying to be cool, but feeling his control of the situation slipping away as Maurice took over the car and now, it seemed, was taking over the whole fucking deal, the con named Snoopy nowhere in sight.

"Look," Maurice said, "I know you cool, but don't give me no tone of voice, okay? You don't like what I'm saving, you can get out anywhere along here you want."

There it was. Still, Glenn felt he should call him on it. He said, "I think you're forgetting, this is my car. I drove it up here."

Maurice said, "Hey, shit, come on. I say I want this car, man, it's mine. You go get yourself another one. Now you gonna listen to me?"

They weren't having a discussion, Glenn realized for sure now, they were arm wrestling, Maurice showing him who was boss. Glenn, sitting there bundled up in his new wool-lined raincoat, his wool gloves and scarf, acted surprised, for what it was worth, saying, "What's all this fucking hostility about? I thought we had an understanding."

"I said you gonna listen to me or not?"

So much for the understanding.

Glenn took his time, making Maurice wait, before he said, "This guy who used to be your customer is dealing now, selling to white folks. You're thinking of a way to rip him off, knowing he won't call the cops 'cause it's money, as you say, from illegal trade," Glenn getting just a hint of a bored tone in there. He glanced at Maurice in his silk bandanna, sitting there like some fucking African prince.

"What else?"

"You either stupid or you showing me some nerve," Maurice said.

"Okay, we gonna find out how much you actually have."

A young woman named Marcie Nolan, the police beat reporter for the Free Press, spotted Karen Sisco going into 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police headquarters. Marcie was coming back from lunch at a Greektown restaurant, two blocks away, approaching 1300 when she saw Karen. But by the time Marcie got to the lobby and through the metal detector, Karen was in an elevator on her way up to… Well, she could be seeing one of the brass on the third floor, or someone in the Homicide section on five or Major Crimes on seven. If Karen was picking up a prisoner she'd eventually end up on nine, where the holding cells were located.

Unless her prisoner was across the street, in the Wayne County jail.

Marcie Nolan went up to her office on the second floor, a partitioned room she shared with the News beat reporter, and called an assistant editor at the Free Press.

She said, "Hi, it's Marcie," eager to tell about Karen Sisco, the federal marshal she got to know in Miami when she was at the Herald, but had to answer questions first. No, they still weren't giving out information. All they seemed to have was the witness report of four guys in a blue van. Two of the women were here this morning for show-ups. She said they had to release the suspect they'd brought in.

"But listen, there's a U.S. marshal here from Miami, Karen Sisco… I don't know yet, I have to find her. She's probably picking up some guy they have on a detainer. That's what I'm gonna find out. In the meantime the Herald has a terrific shot of her taken in front of the federal courthouse. No, in Miami It wouldn't matter, it's a really terrific shot. Karen has style, and she's a knockout… You'll see.

It's the land of shot, if what she's doing here isn't a story, you could run it in "Names & Faces' instead of whatever Madonna's up to…

It'll have a cut line with it we can revise, add that she's picking up a prisoner, or whatever she's doing here… That's fine with me.

Once you see the picture I know you'll use it."

Karen phoned her dad late Monday afternoon from her room in the Westin.

He asked about her flight, hoping, he said, Northwest wasn't still serving that scrambled egg sandwich with the banana and yogurt, and the bagel if you got the sandwich down and were still hungry. A cold bagel, for Christ sake. He didn't wait to hear what she did have or ask about the weather.

"So what're you doing?"

"Right now?" Karen said, standing at her window.

"I'm looking at Windsor, Ontario. You remember that movie Stranger Than Paradise?"

"No-who was in it?"

"Nobody. It doesn't matter," Karen said.

"I went to see Raymond Cruz."

"The Homicide guy."

"He was. He's crimes against persons and property now, also sex crimes and child abuse."

"Detroit, he must be pretty busy."

"Home invasions are big, sexual assaults… They're after a gang that cruises around in a van raping women, four guys.

They pick up a woman off the street or pull her out of her car, gang-bang her in the van and throw her out. Raymond says they're close to nailing these guys so he's staying on top of it.

But, he knows who Maurice Miller is, the guy Glenn Michaels stayed with when he was here in November? Or said he did.

They even had Maurice's case file out, looking at it-his priors, a lot of credit card stuff. They're checking him out to see if he's into home invasions. They had a wiretap on some guys who were hitting dope houses and heard Maurice's name mentioned as someone, it sounded like, they wanted to bring in."

"The bad guys."

"Yeah, to work with them."

"Has Maurice been picked up?"

"They haven't looked for him yet. I told Raymond maybe I could save him the trouble. He gave me Maurice's last known address, but doesn't want me to go after him alone. I said, "Raymond, I'm a federal officer, I'm armed…" What it is, he wants to go with me, but he's tied up."

"Would this be like a date?"

Some of the things her dad said she ignored.

"I noticed in Maurice's case file," Karen said, "something that might interest you. He gave his occupation as prizefighter and his employer, the Kronk Recreation Center. You've heard of it, haven't you?"

"The Kronk? Sure, all the good Detroit fighters the last twenty years came out of there. Emanuel Steward's program, the guy who trained those fighters, Tommy Hearns…"

Her dad paused.

"McCrory," Karen said.

"Yeah, Milton McCrory."

"There was a lightweight, Kenty?"

"Hilmer Kenty. You remember those guys? You were a little girl. Your friends are at the mall, you're home watching the fights."

"Well, once in a while I did. And soaps," Karen said.

"General Hospital, I almost became a nurse."

"What're you doing tonight?"

"Nothing. Watch TV if there's anything on."

"Monday night, Poirot's on followed by Miss Marple. You thinking of going to the Kronk?"

"I might, just to see what it's like."

"A place like that," her dad said, "the fighters are okay, they're in there working their tail off. Then there're the guys who want you to think they're fighters, they might even shuffle around like they're doing their footwork, hit the bags, but they never go in the ring. And you got the ones who hang out there 'cause it makes them feel like they're tough guys. You know, the atmosphere. But you can take care of yourself, right?"

"I'll call you tomorrow, let you know how I'm doing."

"I forgot to ask you," her dad said, "what's the weather like?"

"Was a time," Maurice said, "you see a gold Mercedes over in the parking lot has a license plate on it say HITMAN? You know Tommy Hearns is inside. Seeing the car would get our juices flowing."

Glenn said he thought there'd be guys hanging around outside or running, doing their roadwork. Man, it was a bleak, depressing neighborhood, trash blowing in the street…

Maurice said it was too cold to be outside, the dude in his lilac do-rag and tailored black pea jacket, enough shoulders in the coat for White Boy Bob-White Boy wearing a wool shirt hanging out over his T-shirt-coming behind them up the ramp to the front door of the Kronk Recreation Center at McGraw and Junction, a two-story red-brick building that looked to Glenn like a public library no one used in a poor section of town. The streets around here were a clutter of up and-down two-family flats with porches, dingy cars out front narrowing the streets.

Inside at a table they signed their names, the time, and wrote «boxing» in the last column. Glenn could hear kids' voices, basketballs beating on a wood floor, in there where auditorium doors were closed, as they walked past to a stairway, went down to the basement and along a hallway that brought them to KRONK BOXING, lettered on a door painted yellow across the top and the rest of it a bright red, with more words on it that said THIS DOOR HAS LED MANY TO PAIN & FAME.

"More the one than the other," Maurice said, waiting for White Boy to edge past them and open the door. Going in, Maurice said to Glenn,

"You feel the heat, uh? Hits you smack in the face." Maurice slipping off his pea jacket now, getting down to his black silk shirt and pleated trousers a shade of taupe.

"Even how much they sweat in here, it don't smell bad, does it? Go sit over there on those benches. I be with you in a few minutes."

Some were like park benches, along the near wall facing the ring, a big one flat on the floor, its size taking up most of the gym. Four young guys, three black and one who looked to Glenn like an Arab, were in there shadowboxing, weaving, ducking, throwing jabs with their taped hands. Glenn had noticed a body bag over where they came in, pictures of fighters all over the walls, a sign above the ring on the other side that said TURN UP THE HEAT. Another one, THE BIGGER THE REWARD THE BIGGER THE SACRIFICE. Glenn stared at it a few moments thinking it should be turned around, lead with The bigger the sacrifice… In the space to the left of the ring were workout machines, a speed bag, a training table, athletic bags in jazzy colors on the floor.

There were old black guys over there in yellow T-shirts with KRONK in red, the trainers, talking to kids working out, watching the ones shuffling around in the ring. Maurice and White Boy were over there now, Maurice approaching the trainers one at a time, faking jabs, rolling his bony shoulders, jiving with them, but not getting any kind of cordial response, no smiles; a trainer would shake his head and Maurice would move on to the next one. White Boy was on a workout machine now, shirts off, popping his muscles.

Glenn brought a cigarette out of his shirt, looking at another one of the signs. NO PAIN NO GAIN. No shit. He reached in for his lighter, the cigarette in his mouth, as one of the trainers, a big heavyset guy, came along from the other side of the gym where the door was-shaking his head at him and pointing to a NO SMOKING sign. Glenn held his raincoat open to slip the cigar rette back into the pack, chin on his chest to see what he was doing.

When he raised his head again he was looking at two white guys in overcoats coming this way, the two guys looking right back at him.

Christ. Jack Foley and Buddy.

Buddy the one saying, "Hey, Studs, how you doing?" as they walked up, Foley with kind of a mild expression, neither one acting like a hard-on, except they sat down on either side of him, close. It gave Glenn only a few moments to deal with his nerves.

He said, "Jesus Christ, what're you guys doing here?" and it didn't sound too bad. Surprised, but not overdoing it, almost like he was glad to see them.

Foley said, "Weren't you expecting us?"

Getting to it right away. Glenn said, "Listen, I'll tell you what happened." It was awkward the way they were sitting, the three of them facing the ring, only two guys in there now. He said to Foley, on his right, "That broad you picked up-did you know she was a U.S. marshal, for Christ sake?" He turned to Buddy as Buddy stood up, took off his overcoat and sat down again.

"She knew me, from that bullshit dope bust. She drove me to court.

Twice. You know what she said, we're in the car on the turnpike?

"I never forget anybody I've cuffed and shackled." Foley said, "Yeah?

She said that to you?"

Glenn turned to see Foley, still with a mild expression, almost smiling. Glenn said, "She asked me if I had a gun," and saw a little more of the smile, not much, just a hint, but like Foley thought it was funny.

"She told me to drive, leave you there, or I was going down for the rest of my life."

Foley said, "Then what happened?"

"I drove. What would you do?"

Foley didn't answer, his face close, deadpan now. Glenn turned his head and was looking at the two guys in the ring sparring, dancing around each other, ducking, throwing jabs, smacking each other's gloves.

"What happened after that?"

"She wanted me to get off the turnpike so she could take me in. No thank you, I had it on the floor. The next thing I know she wigged on me, grabbed the wheel and we spun out and piled up."

"What'd you do then?"

"Got out of the car and ran."

"She try to stop you?"

"She was out cold."

"How do you know she wasn't dead?"

"She was breathing."

"But she could've been hurt."

"What was I supposed to do, get help? She wakes up, she's gonna fucking put me away. I got out of there, man, I ran. I picked up a ride, drove to Orlando and hung around Disney World, in crowds, man, I hid in crowds of people till I figured out what to do."

Foley said, "You hid out with Mickey Mouse, huh?"

"Yeah, Mickey and Minnie, that whole crowd. I thought about it and decided I could kill two birds, hide out up here and do the job I told you about at Lompoc. You know the one I mean?"

Foley nodded.

"So I called Maurice."

"Who's Maurice?"

"Snoopy," Buddy said, leaning over now to get his suitcoat off.

"Snoopy Miller."

Glenn-it was weird-felt a sense of relief come over him hearing the name Snoopy. For some reason he thought of Snoopy the dog, saw him in his mind the way Snoopy appeared in the comic strip, before thinking of the other Snoopy who wasn't Snoopy anymore-the one over there with the trainers; no, talking to White Boy now and they were coming this way, White Boy carrying his shirts. Glenn had to wonder why only a few moments ago he'd felt cornered.

Leaning against Foley he said, "Here comes Snoopy now.

You recognize him?"

Foley wasn't sure. He had seen him fight only a couple of times at Lompoc, about the same time they began calling him Snoopy instead of Mad Dog and he quit the ring; and had seen him once in a while with Glenn, in the yard. Glenn got up and Foley looked over at Buddy.

"The guy in the do-rag."

"Yeah?"

"That's Snoopy."

"Little squirt," Buddy said.

"What's he do now, tell fortunes?"

He was walking up to Glenn when Foley said, "Hey, Snoopy, how you doing?" and he stopped and looked over.

Standing at the edge of the ring apron, he looked from Foley to Buddy and back again, pretty serious about it. He said to Foley, "I'm suppose to know you?"

"Lompoc," Foley said, and waited for Glenn to say something, it was his party. But he didn't.

"Yeah, Lompoc," Maurice said, like he was remembering it now, picturing some part of it.

Now the big guy with him moved in closer saying, "We have a problem here?"

It took Foley back to the yard, guys sizing each other up, making judgments that could mean somebody's life. Foley didn't look at the big white guy, but kept staring at the Snoop he remembered as all show, had the moves, the weaves, the head fakes when he wasn't even near his opponent, doing that little jive skip and touching a glove to his head.

He stared at the Snoop till he saw the man's face begin to relax and now he was smiling.

"Jack Foley. Am I right?"

Foley nodded.

"And Buddy. Yeah, I can see you two now in the yard, sure.

Jack Foley, famous bank robber. It seem to me I been reading about you in the newspaper. Busted out of some joint in Florida, huh?"

"Low class of people there, Snoop. I got out with a little help from my friends." He saw Glenn about to speak.

But the big guy cut him off saying, "You call him that again I'll put your head through the wall."

Buddy said, "What? You mean Snoop?"

Foley watched the Snoop raise his hand to the guy as if to hold him off.

"Nobody calls me Snoop no more or Snoopy, is what White Boy's trying to say. He's a little crude, you understand. No, I left that Snoopy shit behind me."

Buddy said, "What do they call you now?"

"My name, Maurice. Nothing fancy."

Buddy said, "And you call this bozo White Boy?"

"White Boy Bob," Glenn said, putting his two cents in, and it sounded innocent enough, though not to Foley. Glenn telling them now, "White Boy used to be a fighter." Giving Buddy the bait.

Buddy said, "What's he do now outside of shoot his mouth off?"

Foley said to Maurice, "Like being back in the yard, huh?"

Maurice grinned at him.

"Just like it. Nobody backing down.

You back down you pussy. Tell me what you and Buddy doing up here in the cold."

"They think they're getting in on our gig," Glenn said, "but no one told me they were coming. I told you I had two guys and then told you I didn't? These are the two."

Maurice said, "Let's go outside to talk."

"What's the matter with right here?" Foley said.

"It's nice and warm."

"Warm? Man, it's ninety-five degrees in here, sometime a hundred-the way Emanuel always kep' it so his boys'd sweat, get lean and mean like Tommy Hearns. No, I ain't talking any business in here. To me this is like holy ground, man. You understand? I got to be someplace anyway. Y'all want to talk, come to the fights Wednesday night, we'll sit down and look at it good."

Foley turned to Buddy. Buddy shrugged and Foley said, "Where?"

Outside, walking to the car, Foley said, "You notice, it's supposed to be Glenn's deal, but now it looks like he's working for the Snoop."

"Call him that again," Buddy said, "you heard that musclebound asshole, what he'll do to you."

"He was telling us who he is, that's all, making himself known."

"Yeah? Who is he?"

"A musclebound asshole. You know the thing that bothers me?"

"If the Snoop's been reading about you," Buddy said, "he knows you're worth ten gees."

"You recall did it say dead or alive?"

"I think it's for information leading to your being apprehended. They might pay off on your being dead, but I don't see how the Snoop'd work it. You know what I mean? It wouldn't be the same kind of deal as that bum giving up the Cuban."

"Lulu," Foley said.

"I wonder if they got Chino."

"They might have. We been out of touch."

Crossing the street now, approaching the car, Foley said, "I kind of like that do-rag the Snoop had on. You know it? It looked cool on him."

"I ever catch you wearing one," Buddy said, "I'll turn you in for the ten gees."

Glenn was trying to get some answers while Maurice watched the two guys sparring, poking at each other, and it was like talking to the wall.

"You said you could get a couple of guys for a hundred bucks each.

Right?"

Maurice would yell at the one with RICARDO OWEN on the tank top he wore over his yellow T-shirt, telling him to jab, jab, telling him it was what he had the gloves on for. Keep 'em up and jab.

"If you can get the two guys, what do we need Foley and Buddy for?"

"My guys ain't here no more."

"Where are they? Did you find out?"

Maurice said, "Ricky, stick and move, man. Stick and move."

And to Glenn, "They ain't allowed in here no more."

"What do you mean, they aren't allowed in here?"

"Stay tight on him, Ricky. Don't give him room. They fucked up their privilege, trainer caught 'em selling weed outside the front door.

Ricky, you got to crowd him he does that."

The bell rang and the fighters moved away from each other to walk around on the canvas, their arms hanging.

Maurice said, "Come on," and brought Glenn away from the ring, away from the trainers looking over, to sit down on the bench nearest the door. White Boy went over and began hitting the heavy bag.

"You tell me you bringing these people," Maurice said, "then you ain't bringing the people, but the people show up anyway."

"I told you I didn't know they were coming."

"But they here, they know about the deal and want to discuss it. Fine.

Meantime the two I thought of getting I don't want now, they dirty. You understand? So what's wrong with using the bank robbers? We know they cool-go in as many banks as those two have?"

"You know," Glenn said, "you'll have to offer them a split, not any hundred bucks."

"Was that your deal with them?"

"We never got that far."

"Well, what we offer and what they get," Maurice said, "could be two entirely different things."