Out of Sight

SEVENTEEN

Karen's phone rang at half-past eight. As soon as she heard "Karen, it's Marcie Nolan" she knew how her picture got in the paper, on the back page of the food section under "Names & Faces."

In the two-column photo Karen, in a tailored black suit, straight skirt, black bag hanging from her left shoulder, is holding a Remington pump-action shotgun, the butt of the stock resting on her cocked hip, the barrel extending above her on an angle, her right hand gripping the gun just above the trigger guard. Karen wears dark glasses and is looking past the camera, her lips slightly parted. The cut line reads:

U.S. Marshal Karen Sisco guards the entrance to the federal courthouse in Miami during recent drug trials of Colombian nationals. Other assignments involve transporting offenders to prison and defendants to court for trial. Investigative work means tracking criminal offenders.

Assigned to the Miami office of the Marshals Service, Karen was in town yesterday to meet with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment.

"It was a mistake," Marcie said.

"I mean they jumped the gun, they were supposed to wait till I interviewed you, see if there was a story."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"I saw you going into 1300 yesterday. I didn't know who you were seeing, but I thought I'd catch up with you sooner or later, so to save time…"

"That picture," Karen said, "was in the Herald."

"Yeah, I asked my editor to get it. Both papers are Knight Ridder-tell them what you need and a few minutes later it's on your computer. I mentioned to my editor, if there isn't a story it might work in "Names & Faces' and he put a note on it to that effect. But then when I couldn't find you, I got on another story and didn't get back to my editor. What happened then, the "Names & Faces' guy saw the note, revised the caption in kind of a generic way and ran with it. Karen, I'm awfully sorry I wasn't able to talk to you first."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"I was afraid you might be furious."

"I get pissed off sometimes," Karen said, "but I'm rarely furious. The FBI office and the marshal's might wonder what I'm doing here."

Marcie said, "They don't know?"

"I mean they might think I'm a publicity nut, that I called you. But I can't see them making an issue out of it."

"You didn't want them to know you're here," Marcie said, "and I blew your cover. I'm sorry, Karen, really." She paused.

"Can you tell me what you're on?"

"

"Meeting with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment." What's wrong with that?"

"It doesn't say anything, though, really."

"I think more than enough," Karen said, wanting to get off the phone, but had to ask, "How did you know I'm at the Westin?"

"Inspector Cruz. I asked around till I found out he's the one you saw.

Can't you tell me anyhing? Even off the record?"

"Let's see what happens," Karen said.

"How do you like Detroit?"

"Compared to what, the North Pole?"

"It's not as cold as I thought it would be."

"Just wait. I'd kill to get back to Miami."

"Well, if you do, I'll take you," Karen said.

"And if I have any free time I'll call you. Okay?"

She phoned Raymond Cruz and had to wait almost two hours for him to get back to her, to learn that he was awfully sorry but would be tied up most of the day. She said, "Raymond, are you trying to avoid me?" And he got a little flustered because he was a nice guy, telling her no, never, he really wanted to see her, but… It made her feel a little better, even though now she had nothing to do all day. She could call Marcie Nolan back, make a lunch date or meet her for a drink after five. Or, she could forget about waiting for Raymond. She could quit wasting any more time and check out Maurice Snoopy Miller's last known address.

Foley read the sports and entertainment pages, glanced through the food section and came to the back page… After he read the caption and stared at the photo for a while he called Buddy's room.

"You have the paper?"

"I saw it. What do you think?"

"It's a terrific shot of her."

"Outside of that."

"I don't know," Foley said, staring at the photo.

"But I don't think her being here has anything to do with us."

"She came up here on her vacation," Buddy said, " 'cause she likes shitty weather."

"I think she's after Glenn."

"How'd she find out he's here?"

"You know Glenn, he probably told her he was coming. Can you think of a way she'd know we're here?"

There was a silence before Buddy said, "No, but if they're on his ass and we're seen with him… She wouldn't be up here by herself, working alone."

"The girl still with you?"

"They don't stay the night, Jack, 'less you pay for it."

"Let me give it some thought," Foley said, still looking at Karen Sisco holding die shotgun.

"I'll call you back."

Even if Karen suspected they were here and checked the hotels… They had registered as George R. Kelly and Charles A. Floyd-making the names up on the spot-and paid cash for a week in advance, telling the reception clerk they'd just as soon not have a hotel showing on credit card bills that came to the house.

"If you get my drift," Foley said to the clerk and almost winked, but the guy's bored expression stopped him.

He called Buddy's room and Buddy said right away, "If they got a tail on Glenn we're fucked. Tomorrow night at the fights we all get picked up."

"I understand that," Foley said.

"I'm thinking maybe we can finesse around it, find out if they're on him or not before we go in."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet. Let's drive by where they have the fights and look it over, the State Theater."

"That's what it is, a theater, a movie house."

"Yeah, but what's around it? We'd check it out anyway. How about later on we go for a ride. You can show me where you used to work."

"Did you see in the paper," Buddy said, and paused.

"Here it is.

"Fight over tuna casserole may have spurred slaying." This woman's live-in boyfriend, seventy years old, complained about her tuna noodle casserole and she shot him in the face with a twelve-gauge."

"I never cared for it either," Foley said.

"Or macaroni and cheese. Jesus."

"It says police found noodles in the woman's hair and beV lie ve the guy dumped the casserole dish on her. They'd been together ten years."

"Love is funny," Foley said.

He hung up, looked at the photo as he thought about what he was going to do now and rang the hotel operator.

"Ms. Sisco's room, please." He waited. The operator came back on to tell him there was no one by that name registered. Foley got out the Yellow Pages and opened the book to Hotels. He tried the Atheneum, a couple of Best Westerns, the Pontchartrain, skipped to a couple of Hiltons, looked at a list of five Holiday Inns, said "Shit," looked out the window at those giant glass tubes across the street and had to think for a minute.

The Westin, that was it.

He found the number and called it.

"Ms. Karen Sisco, please."

After a moment the operator said, "I'm ringing."

Foley waited. He had no idea what he would say, but he stayed on the line.

The operator's voice came on again. She said, "I'm sorry, but Ms.

Sisco's room doesn't answer. Would you care to leave a message?"

Karen rang the doorbell and waited, hands shoved into the pockets of her dark-navy coat, a long one, double-breasted with a belt in back.

The house on Parkside was in the first block off McNichols, a street the Westin doorman said everybody called Six Mile Road 'cause it was six miles from the river and the next roads after were named Seven Mile, Eight Mile and so on. Take the Lodge, get off at Livernois, go on up past the U of D and Parkside was a few blocks over to the right. Big homes in there, old but they're nice.

One right after another, most of them red brick and showing their age in the bleak cold, the street lined with bare trees.

Karen had asked the doorman if it ever snowed and he said, "Mmmm, it should be starting pretty soon."

The door opened.

Karen said, "Moselle Miller?"

The woman, about thirty, light-skinned, sleepy-eyed, said, "What you want?" She wore a green silk robe and was holding her arms close against the cold.

"I'm looking for Maurice."

"You find him, tell him the dog got run over and I'm out of grocery money."

A male voice from inside said, "Moselle. Who you talking to?"

"Lady looking for Maurice."

"What's she want?"

"Hasn't said."

Karen said, "That's not Maurice?"

"That's Kenneth, my brother. He's talking on the phone."

The voice said, "Ask what she want with him."

"You ask her. Maurice's business," Moselle said, "is none of my business," sounding tired or bored. She turned from the door and walked into the living room.

Karen stepped inside, pushed the door closed and moved into the foyer.

She heard Kenneth's voice and saw him now- in the study, a small room with empty bookcases-black male about six-one, medium build, twenty-five to thirty, wearing a yellow T-shirt and red baseball cap backward, talking on a cordless phone. She saw him standing in profile and heard him say, "How do I know?" Now he was listening, nodding.

"Yeah, I can make it. The State, huh. Who's fighting?" He listened, nodding again, said, "What's this other deal?" turning to the foyer, and Karen walked into the living room.

Moselle was on the sofa lighting a cigarette. She said to Karen, "You like to sit down?"

Karen said thanks and took a chair and looked around the room: dismal, gray daylight in the windows, dark wood and white stucco, the fireplace full of trash, plastic cups, wrappers, a pizza box.

Moselle said, "What you want Maurice for?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine I think Maurice knows."

"You not with probation, one of those?"

Karen shook her head.

"No."

"You a lawyer?"

Karen smiled.

"No, I'm not." She said, "Maybe you know him. Glenn Michaels?"

Moselle drew on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

"Glenn? No, I don't know any Glenn."

"He wasn't here last November?"

"He might've been, I don't know."

"He said he stayed here."

"Here? In this house?"

"He said he stayed with Maurice."

"Well, he ain't even here that much." Moselle drew on her cigarette, let the smoke drift from her mouth and waved at it in a lazy gesture.

"I like to know where he goes, but at the same time I don't want to know. You understand? I was with a man before Maurice, I knew his business, I knew everything he did, a beautiful young man, and it was like looking in the future, seeing how it would come to an end and, sure enough, it did. He got blown up."

Karen waited.

"He sat down in a chair this time… I spoke to him on the phone. He sat down in the chair and when he went to get up, he got blown to pieces."

Karen said, "You knew it was going to happen?"

"I knew too much," Moselle said.

"I knew waaay too much.

It's why I don't know nothing now. I don't know any Glenn, I don't know nothing what's going on. Understand?"

Karen watched her, Moselle's arms hugging the green robe closed.

"Your dog was killed?"

"Got run over by a car."

"What did you call it?"

"Was a she, name Tuffy."

"Where do you think I might find Maurice?"

"I don't know-the gym, the fights. He thinks he still in that business. I know he don't miss the fights. Having some tomorrow night at the State. He use to take me."

Kenneth stood in the arched entrance from the foyer. He said to Karen,

"What you want with Maurice?"

Moselle said, "She looking for a man name of Glenn."

Kenneth said, "Did I ask you? Go on out of here. Do something with yourself." He waited until Moselle got up, not saying a word, and walked away from them through the dining room. Karen watched him coming toward her now in kind of an easy strut, the backward baseball cap low on his forehead, letting her know he was cool, he was fly, by the way he moved.

She saw the scar tissue over his eyes and said, "You're a fighter?"

"How you know that?"

"I can tell."

"I was," Kenneth said, moving his head in what might be a feint, "till I got my retina detached two times." He was standing in front of her now, so close Karen had to look up at him.

"What'd you fight, middleweight?"

"Light to super-middleweight, as my body developed. You go about what, bantam?"

"Flyweight," Karen said, and saw him grin.

"You know your divisions. You like the fights? Like the rough stuff?

Yeah, I bet you do. Like to get down and tussle a little bit?

Like me and Tuffy, before she got run over, we use to get down on the floor and tussle. I say to her, "You a good dog, Tuffy, here's a treat for you." And I give Tuffy what every dog love best. You know what that is? A bone. I can give you a bone, too, girl. You want to see it? You close enough, you can put your hand out and touch it."

Karen shook her head.

"You're not my type."

"Don't matter," Kenneth said, moving his hand across his leg to his fly.

"I let the monster out, you gonna do what it wants."

"Just a minute," Karen said. Her hand went into her bag, next to her on the chair.

Kenneth said, "Bring your own rubbers with you?"

Her hand came out of the bag holding what looked like the grip on a golf club and Kenneth grinned at her.

"What else you have in there, Mace? Have a whistle, different kinds of female protection shit? Telling me you ain't a skeezer, or you don't feel like it right now?"

Karen pushed out of the chair to stand with him face-to-face.

She said, "I have to go, Kenneth," and gave him a friendly poke with the black vinyl baton that was like a golf club grip.

"Maybe we'll see each other again, okay?" She stepped aside and brushed past him, knowing he was going to try to stop her.

And when he did, grabbing her left wrist, saying, "We gonna tussle first."

Karen flicked the baton and sixteen inches of chrome steel shot out of the grip. She pulled an arm's length away from him and chopped the rigid shaft at his head, Kenneth hunching, ducking away, yelling "God damn," letting go of her and Karen got the room she needed, a couple of steps away from him, and when he came at her she whipped the shaft across the side of his head and he howled and stopped dead, pressing a hand over his ear.

"What's wrong with you?"

Scowling at her, looking at his hand and pressing it to his ear again, Karen not sure if he meant because she hit him or because she turned him down.

"You wanted to tussle," Karen said, "we tussled." And walked out.

Moselle came out of the dining room holding her robe together, shaking her head to show her brother some sympathy.

She said, "Baby, don't you know what that girl is?"

Kenneth turned to her frowning, showing how dumb he was from getting his head pounded in the ring.

"She some land of police, precious. But nice, wasn't she?"

"You gonna tell Maurice?"

"You the one she beat on, not me."

"Maurice is coming by later. We gonna do a job."

"If I'm upstairs, tell him I need grocery money."

The phone rang. Kenneth went into the den to answer.

The doorbell rang. Moselle opened the door and there was Karen again, handing her a business card. Moselle looked at it as Karen said, "I wrote the hotel number on there-in case you run into Glenn."

Moselle slipped the card into the pocket of her robe.

Kenneth didn't ask who it was at the door and she didn't tell him.

What Foley couldn't understand, for a big industrial city like Detroit there were so few people on the streets. Sunday, Buddy said it was because it was Sunday and everybody was home watching the game. Today was Tuesday, there still weren't many people walking around downtown.

You could count them, Foley said. Buddy said he didn't know, maybe they built the freeways and everybody left town. They were on their way out East Jefferson in the Olds, a Michigan plate on it now, Buddy the tour guide pointing out the bridge to Belle Isle, the old Naval Armory, the Seven Sisters-those smokestacks over there on the Detroit Edison power plant, they were called the Seven Sisters. There's Waterworks Park. Buddy said, "You know Pontiac? Not the car, the Indian chief? Somewhere right around here he wiped out a column of British soldiers, redcoats, and they called the place Bloody Run."

Foley was half listening, looking around but seeing Karen, Karen's picture in the paper, Karen in real life coming out of the trunk saying, "You win, Jack," his favorite picture of her in his mind.

It was snowing now, pretty hard.

"We're coming to it," Buddy said, "there's the fire station."

Now he was frowning, sitting up straight behind the wheel, windshield wipers going, Buddy squinting, trying to see through the snow coming down. He said, "Where's the plant? It use to come all the way out to the street, with a bridge across to the offices, the administration building; it's gone. There's something way over there. Jefferson North. You see the sign? Yeah, way over there, some stacks. It must be the new one. I mean this was a big fucking plant, took up blocks around here, six thousand hourly, and it's gone. You want to see where I lived?"

"That's okay," Foley said.

"We may as well turn around," Buddy said, guided the Olds into a gas station and came out again to go back toward downtown.

"It keeps coming down they'll get the salt trucks out.

The job I had in the old plant, I hooked up transmissions to the engines."

Foley had torn the picture out of the paper, Karen with her shotgun in the black outfit that looked familiar. He had it in the inside pocket of his suitcoat. He was imagining what would happen if he phoned her.

She says hello and he says…

"The engine comes down the line, let's say it's for an automatic. Okay, I take this brace in my left hand-it's hanging from a track-work the hoist button with my right hand, get it in position so the pins in the brace line up with the holes they have to fit into in the transmission, jockey it around."

He'd say his name. Hi, this is Jack Foley, how you doing?

Like that, keep it simple. She'd ask where he was or how he knew she was here. No, she'd say she was surprised, or she'd say something he wouldn't expect. Either way he'd listen to her tone of voice.

"Then you hit the button on the hoist again and swing the transmission over to the line, rock it, get it in position with the engine. You let go of the hoist then and pick up your air gun and run four bolts into the top of the housing-tsung tsung tsung, fire 'em in."

Or go over to the Westin and call her room. She's not there, watch for her to come in the lobby. She had to come back sometime from whatever she was doing here. Unless she was through and she'd already left.

"But let's say you have the transmission on the hoist and the engine has moved past and it's already out of reach. You had to pick the transmission up in your two hands-honest to God, you pick up this fucker weighing close to two hundred pounds-hump it over to the engine and run it on to the shaft."

Foley saw her crossing the lobby, coming toward him. She looks up. She sees him and stops and they stare at each other and it would be up to her if there was such a thing in this kind of situation as taking time to talk, taking a time-out, and he thought of making the sign for it, one hand flat on top of the raised fingers of the other hand, whether it made sense or not, letting it happen.

"While I was working there the one-millionth car rolled off the line, a Chrysler Newport, buy one for forty-one hundred. It sounds like a deal, but that was a lot of dough then."

Foley listened to the wipers whacking back and forth.

"Man, it's coming down," Buddy said.

"You can barely see the RenCen, just the lower part."

"There stores in there, shops?"

"Yeah, different ones."

"I think I'll go over and look around, maybe get a pair of shoes for this weather, some high-tops."

"It's easy to get lost in there. You have to watch or you're walking around in circles without knowing it."

"The hotel's right in the middle, huh?"

"Yeah, the tallest one there. The cocktail lounge I told you about's on top. Revolves around. You can eat up there. Or there're fast-food joints all around inside. You hungry?"

"I may just get a drink."

"I got to call Regina," Buddy said.

"She's not praying for the Poor Souls since you don't hear that much about Purgatory anymore. She's still saying rosary novenas I don't fuck up.

Twenty-seven days petition, what you're saying the beads for, and twenty-seven days thanksgiving, whether you got what you're praying for or not. I call, it means I haven't been arrested. I called her one time on the twenty-seventh day, she goes, "See?" Regina's way of thinking, if I haven't been busted I must not've done any banks. In other words her prayers have been answered and I'm not going to hell.

So, as long as she knows I'm out it gives her something to do. Hey, but who knows? Maybe what she's doing is saving my ass, or I should say my soul. Even though I'm not sure if there's a hell anymore or not. You think there is?"

"Just the one out in Palm Beach County that I know of," Foley said.

"I doubt anybody's saying novenas for me, but I'm sure as hell not going back there."

"You can't be that sure," Buddy said.

"Yeah, well, that's the one thing I've made up my mind about."

"They put a gun on you you'll go back."

"They put a gun on you," Foley said, "you still have a choice, don't you?"