Out of Sight

TWENTY-TWO

Aurice would get up from the table and walk along the apron of the stage yelling at one of the fighters, telling him, "Stick and jab, stick and jab." Not in the way of the audience, the ring up on the stage, but it was annoying and Glenn wished he'd shut the fuck up.

Maurice would come back to the table and Kenneth would leave, go up on the side of the stage where guys were hanging out, big black guys, and Kenneth would hang with them between bouts, Kenneth dosed on speed and doing all the talking. Glenn had never seen so many big black guys in one place who weren't wearing football or basketball uniforms. Outside of him and White Boy Bob there were maybe five or six other white people in the whole theater. The waitress would bring a round and White Boy would throw his beer down in three or four swigs, give Glenn's shoulder a jab and tell him to come on, drink up, "You drink like a girl," and look to see if there were any other morons around thought he was funny. The black guys and their women at tables close by only stared, tolerating him because of Maurice.

Where movie seats used to be were rows of round nightclub tables: a row of them on each of four levels rising a step at a time up through the theater to the bar: a long one, and dark up there away from the ring lights. People hung out in the open spaces at both ends of the bar.

Behind the bar was the aisle that crossed the theater from side to side, a stairway at one end that went down to the rest rooms. Beyond this area was the outer lobby with a small bar over to one side.

A fighter from one of the Kronk boxing clubs was announced, rap music came booming out of speakers and a procession of handlers and hangers-on appeared out of a door on the side aisle. Now women crowded in from the audience, jiving, waving as the fighter finally appeared to mount the stage and climb into the ring in red and gold to fight four rounds for two hundred bucks, the gold tassels on his high red shoes jumping now as the fighter worked his shoulders with quick jabs, shuffling around his side of the ring. Watching from the other side a white kid from out of town or some Mexican lad trying to look cool, unimpressed, would weave and do some footwork in his plain black shoes to be doing something, waiting for the rap show to end and the ref in his bow tie and latex gloves to motion them to the center of the ring.

Ever since they got here Glenn had been trying to think of a way to get the car keys from White Boy-Glenn listening to him and Kenneth talking about last night, grinning at each other, saying tomorrow, man, tomorrow was payday, talking about hitting Ripley's house. Glenn would listen to the two morons and watch Maurice bopping around from table to table giving brothers the brother handshake, touch fists in their ritual ways, Maurice the hipster, a dude black felt cap set on his head just right, and shades.

"Maintaining a low profile," Maurice told him.

"No do-rag. The fights, I'm all the way low profile."

They had come here in the Lincoln Town Car, White Boy driving, so White Boy had the keys.

Glenn had gone downstairs to the men's and neither of the morons was sent along to keep an eye on him; so he was pretty sure he could slip out of here, cross Woodward Avenue to where the Town Car was parked and if he had the keys, shit, he'd be out of here, on his way to California. He had boosted the car off a lot in West Palm: decided on the Lincoln-parked right in front, ready to go-and while the parking attendant was busy moving cars around, Glenn ducked in the shack and got the Lincoln keys off the board-he knew keys-then waited for the right moment to slip in behind the wheel and take off. He'd brought his tools along that day, not sure what method he'd use to pick up a car, and the tools were now in the trunk of the Lincoln, the car waiting for him right across the street. But White Boy had the fucking keys in his pocket.

Getting in the car wasn't the problem, it was unlocked. When they got here White Boy didn't know where the button was to lock the doors, so Glenn said, "Here, I'll do it," standing outside the car, the driver-side door open. White Boy walked away and Glenn reached in as though to press the lock button, saw the three of them already crossing the street to the theater, and all he did was close the door. He hoped to God if the doors were unlocked the glove compartment would be too, so he could get in there and pop the switch to open the trunk. Get out his tools, use the slap hammer to yank the ignition and he was off! White Boy could keep the keys. But if the glove box was locked, he was fucked. He'd have to find something to pry it open. But if he took too long-even if he could pop the trunk-Maurice would send the morons looking for him.

The glove box had to be unlocked. It would be his only chance of getting away from these people.

He'd wait… No, he'd better go right now. There was the bell, a bout over with and Maurice was getting up, heading for the stage.

Glenn did wait a few moments before saying, "Man, that beer goes right through me. I got to go take a piss." He hesitated because he expected White Boy or Kenneth to look at him funny or one of them would say he had to go, too.

All White Boy said was, "What're you telling us for? You want somebody to hold your pecker?"

Glenn was glad to laugh. He said, "I have to use both hands, but I can manage."

As he walked away the moron said, "Hey, Glenn? Shake it easy."

Glenn had his back to White Boy by now and didn't have to laugh or even smile. He had to get out of here, fast, away from these morons. And if he couldn't pop the trunk and start the car, fuck it, he'd run to California.

Two young men in red-and-gold Kronk jackets were working security in the outer lobby. Karen came along in her navy cashmere coat, a navy wool cloche covering her hair, jeans and hiking boots, and the security guys smiled and asked how she was doing. She said fine. They asked to look in her bag. She showed her ID and star and said, "This is all you need to know, right?"

They said hey and seemed pleased to see her, grinning, looking her up and down in the long coat, as she walked off through the lighted outer lobby and into the darkened theater. From the bar she scanned the descending row of tables and the stage, the ring empty, looking for white people, rap music coming out of speakers somewhere, a few women rising from their tables to make funky moves with the music. Karen saw a white couple off to the side and two guys down front, in the first row of tables.

The bartender asked what she'd like and Karen said, "Just a minute."

The smaller of the two guys at the table was getting up, the other one laughing. The smaller one turned, not laughing-it was Glenn-and started this way through the tables. Karen turned and looked at the bartender waiting for her. She said, "Not right now," and turned her head enough to see Glenn pause at the end of the bar and look back toward the fables, taking his time, before he moved off and was out of view. Going to the men's room-Karen was pretty sure-wearing a sweater, no coat. She was surprised then, once she came around the bar, to see him heading out through the lobby, hurrying. He couldn't have spotted her; there had to be another reason. She waited until Glenn was out the door and then went after him. Said, "I forgot something," going by the two security guys. Outside, she saw Glenn running across the wide avenue of packed, dirty snow, past car headlights creeping along, and into the parking lot, disappearing into the row of cars facing the street. Karen followed, reached the lot but didn't see him now. She put her gloves on moving in among the cars, stopping to listen, waiting to hear an engine start. The only sounds came from the street. She reached an aisle through the rows of cars and caught a glimpse of a car interior, almost right in front of her, the light on, and then off as she heard a car door slam closed.

Karen walked up to the front passenger side of the car. She saw his shape in the dark: Glenn behind the wheel half lying on his right side, his hair hanging… It looked like he was trying to claw open the glove compartment. His head jerked around as Karen opened the door and she saw the whites of Glenn's eyes, big saucer eyes looking at her in the light that came on, Glenn pushing himself up straight as she got in with him. The door closed and it was dark again.

"Glenn, are you trying to steal this car?"

He said, "Jesus. I don't believe it."

Pitiful. She almost felt sorry for him.

"I'm ruining your life," Karen said, "aren't I?"

He raised empty hands.

"I don't have the keys."

"I see that."

"I mean I'm not stealing the fucking car."

"You're not?"

"I already stole it. Last week or whenever it was, in West Palm. I can't be stealing it again, can I? I can't even get my tools out of the fucking trunk."

"Let me see if I understand," Karen said.

"You want to take off, get away from those guys. Is that it?"

"You see me in there?"

"And one of them has the keys."

He said, "Yeah," nodding, and said, "Listen, I have to take a leak pretty bad."

"The two guys you were with-that one, that isn't Maurice Miller, is it?

I've seen Snoopy's mug shot and it didn't look like him."

"How could you know about him?"

The poor guy, bewildered; desperate, too, looking toward the theater.

Karen glanced that way. All they could see from here, over the tops of cars, was the marquee and the name STATE in lights. Karen said,

"Another one of those days, huh, nothing seems to go right? Glenn, I know your life history, who your friends are, where you've been and now, it looks like, where you're going," "You're gonna bust me for picking up a car?"

"For the car, for aiding and abetting a prison escape, and conspiring to do whatever you came here for. Tell me, Glenn, are you getting into home invasions now?"

He said, "Jesus," shaking his head.

"Like the one last night," Karen said.

"You were there, weren't you?"

"I'm not saying another fucking word, and I mean it. Jesus Christ, I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Put your hands on the top of the steering wheel."

"What for?"

"So I can cuff you."

"You serious? Listen, these guys, they're gonna be out here any minute looking for me. They're fucking animals, they're vicious. I'm not kidding. I was taking off and that's all I want to do, get as far away from those guys as I can."

"They scare you?"

"They scare the shit out of me, and I'm not afraid to admit it."

"Was Foley with you?"

"When?"

"Last night. About what time was it you hit the dope house?"

"I said I'm not talking to you. I'm not involved in whatever they're doing, the same as I didn't help Foley escape. You said so yourself."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong about that. Where do you suppose Foley is right now?"

"How do I know."

"You're telling me you haven't seen him?"

"What I'm telling you is I have to piss. I mean it, bad."

"What time was it you hit the dope house?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Glenn, tell me what those guys are up to and I'll make you a deal."

"Like what?"

"I'll let you take a leak."

"That's some deal."

"Anywhere you want."

He hesitated.

"You mean it?"

"Anywhere," Karen said.

"Glenn, what time did those guys hit the dope house?"

He hesitated again.

"It was early in the evening. I don't know, about seven."

Karen got a cigarette from her bag and lit it with hotel matches. She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out in a slow stream. At seven, and for at least the next couple of hours, Foley was with her at the hotel.

"Can I go piss? Please?"

The way Karen worked it, she let him urinate against the side of the car, the window down, while he told about Richard Ripley, the Wall Street crook, where they were going to pick him up and take him out to his home in Bloomfield Hills, late tomorrow afternoon. Karen nodded as she listened. She had heard of Ripley and knew he'd served time at Lompoc. She wanted to know exactly where he lived and then asked:

"What about Foley?"

"He's supposed to go with them," Glenn said, his shoulders hunched in the window.

"But I don't know, he didn't show up tonight."

"You know where he's staying?"

"No idea."

"Where do you meet tomorrow?"

"Listen, I'm fucking freezing out here."

"Where're you meeting?"

"They haven't decided." He straightened to look toward the theater, then hunched over to look in the window again.

"You might have something in your car to pop the trunk with. You know, with the jack?"

"You think Foley backed out?"

"I don't know-he doesn't exactly confide in me." Glenn straightened again, hugging himself.

"I'm freezing my ass off."

"You want to get out of here," Karen said, "run, it'll warm you up. But listen, Glenn?"

"What?"

"If you're lying to me…"

"I know, you'll find me. Jesus, I believe it. I keep thinking, if you hadn't driven me to federal court last summer…"

"We wouldn't keep running into each other?"

"You wouldn't even know who I am."

Karen said, "If I didn't know you, Glenn, by tomorrow you'd be in jail or dead. Look at it that way."

People were leaving as Foley and Buddy arrived. They found the table, White Boy and a black guy sitting there. Maurice came down from the stage. He said, "Where you been?" an edge to his tone.

"You miss the big boys, come in time for the walkout fights. Well, shit, you may as well pull up a chair." He said to the black guy,

"Kenneth, this is Mr. Jack Foley and this is Mr. Buddy, famous bank robbers and jailbirds, say they want to help us out."

Foley put his hand on a raincoat draped over the back of a chair at the table.

"Who's sitting here?"

"Your homie, Glenn," Maurice said.

"Only thing, he went to the men's about an hour ago and never came back."

Foley gave Buddy a look.

White Boy, grinning at them, said, "I think he must've fell in."

"I sent these two looking for him," Maurice said.

"They come back shaking their heads."

"Glenn have a car?"

"One he brought from Florida. We all come here in it this evening."

"Well, if he left his coat," Foley said, "and he's been gone an hour..

"

"Hey, I know what you're saying. Glenn didn't want nobody to know he was leaving. Man, I know that. I sent White Boy back out again, see was the car still there, check it out. White Boy had the keys, but knowing Glenn's habits I thought it good to check. You understand? The car's still there and Glenn ain't nowhere to be found."

Foley said, "Everybody's somewhere, Snoop. Where's Glenn staying?"

"My house." Maurice turned his head toward the ring, watched a few moments and yelled, "Reggie, push off and hit, man. Push him off." He turned back to Foley.

"Why don't you and Buddy sit down and have a drink with me. What you want?"

"We're leaving," Foley said.

"The fuck you talking about?"

"Snoop, if you don't know where Glenn is…"

"The man changed his mind, that's all, so he left. Decided he can't take the heat."

"Glenn's pussy," White Boy said.

"He never done shit last night but watch."

Buddy said, "Where was this?"

A waitress came as he said it and asked if they'd like something. Foley shook his head; Buddy did too. The waitress dumped the little tin ashtray in a napkin and left and White Boy said, "You read the paper you'd have seen it."

Maurice said, "White Boy, that's another business. You understand? Has got nothing to do with us here."

"He keeps looking at me," White Boy said, nodding at Buddy.

"I can't help it," Buddy said.

"I hear the Snoop call you White Boy, I'm trying to figure out why you let him."

"It's what they call me at Kronk, from when I trained there."

"You used to fight, huh?"

"Right here and out at the Palace."

"You any good?"

"You want to find out?"

Buddy said, "You ever done time?"

"He's asking do you gouge eyes," Maurice said.

"Do you bite off ears. White Boy's got his own moves. But that's enough of that shit. Look," Maurice said, taking Foley by the arm and moving off a few steps to stand with their backs to the table.

"What you worried about Glenn for? What's he know?"

"I thought everything," Foley said, watching the fighters jabbing and juking each other, one of them patient the way he moved in, the other taking wild swings and missing.

"Glenn knows everything we suppose to do tomorrow," Maurice said.

"Snatch the man he comes out of his club, drive home with him. Glenn could tell somebody that, yeah, but it don't mean shit. You understand? I changed the plan. Glenn don't know it, 'cause while we waiting for you he left. For whatever reason it don't matter. It ain't happening tomorrow."

Foley, watching the fighter, said, "This fight isn't going four rounds."

Maurice glanced over.

"Ain't even going two."

"You're not saying it's fixed."

"Don't have to fix nothing to know who's gonna win. It's in the matchmaking, how you match 'em up, who you bring in to fight the home boy. You understand?"

Foley kept his gaze on the ring.

"If it isn't happening tomorrow, when is it?"

"Tonight," Maurice said.

"Soon as we leave here. Stop home to pick up what we need and go do it."

Foley said, "Give me a minute," and motioned to Buddy as he turned to the table. Behind him, he heard Maurice say:

"You got two minutes, that's all. Make up your mind."

Foley turned back to him to stand in close.

"I wasn't asking permission. Buddy and Fre going up to the bar. We're gonna take however long it takes. We may keep walking. We do come back, it's understood this deal cuts fifty fifty half for us. How you cut your half is up to you."

"We can talk about it," Maurice said.

"No, that's the way it's gonna be, Snoop."

Foley walked away and Buddy followed him to the bar, this dark area away from the ring lights.

"He wants to do it tonight."

"What's the difference, tonight or tomorrow?"

"Glenn. He could be setting us up."

"Glenn's always a risk," Buddy said.

"We've come this far."