Unknown Man #89

“They drop that TV on the kid, it’s not our fault,” Jay Walt said. “Get him out of the way.” The mother yelled at the little boy, grabbed him, and marched the bewildered kid out of the room. She had to take it out on somebody.

Jay Walt said to the husband, “I was going to give you another month, you know that? But you blew it, give me that shit about the doctor.”

“I can show you. Stevie’s got this allergy.” The husband didn’t know what to do. He was getting frantic.

“Forget it,” Jay Walt said.

When they were in Jay Walt’s light-blue Mark IV, Ryan said, “He could’ve called the cops, you know that? Had you arrested.”

“Sure I know it,” Jay Walt said, “but asshole doesn’t. Listen, you can tell them, Christ, anything, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“I’d believe it,” Ryan said. “What do you do with his stuff?”

“Wait twenty-one days, that’s the law, put three notices in the paper nobody can find, and supposedly sell it at auction,” Jay Walt said. “How’d you like a home entertainment center, Jackie? Pretty good speakers, the йtagиre, everything, seventy-five bucks.”

Rita told him he should have taken it, get rid of the Mickey Mouse record player he had. What the heck, seventy-five bucks, if he didn’t grab it somebody else would. Ryan said listen, the cluck still had to make his payments; you realize that? Okay, Rita said, so it’s a shitty deal. Life’s full of shitty deals.

Well, maybe, but he wasn’t going to get involved in that kind of stuff. He wouldn’t mind having a light-blue Mark IV and an expensive hi-fi setup and a few other things. He wouldn’t mind having a box at the ball park, right behind the Tigers’ dugout, so he could get a good look at the guys as they came off the field and hear some of the things they said. It was possible. But he wasn’t going to get a hernia trying, or give anybody else one.

He was doing all right.

At the end of three years he’d put 83,000 miles on the Cougar and traded it in on a Pontiac Catalina two-door, light-blue, with air and heavy-duty shocks, forty-six fifty-eight delivered. He was glad to finally get rid of the Cougar, though he’d still think about it every once in a while. There weren’t many cars around with four bullet holes in the door.

2

JAY WALT WAS getting a coffee, cream and sugar, to go.

Ryan slid onto a stool between a couple of black girls with coats on, visitors, and hunched over the menu. He didn’t feel like talking to Jay Walt in the coffee shop of the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, ninth floor: Jay Walt talked out loud wherever he was, even on an elevator. When Ryan was with him he’d feel people looking at them.

“Jesus Christ, hey, where you been? Move down one, honey, okay? You mind? Thank you, sweetheart.”

Ryan looked up at the beige leisure suit and trench coat over one arm-belt and rings and epaulets-and the alligator attachй case and the coffee to go with the plastic lid, all of it being wedged in against the counter, close to him.

“What’re you, so busy you don’t call your answering service anymore? I been trying to get you, two days I been calling. I figure you’re shacked up with some broad filed for divorce. Needs a little sympathy, huh? I know, don’t tell me, buddy, I been there.”

Jay Walt’s back filled and stretched the double-knit suit. The black girl next to him looked over. It was close in here, humid, the stools filled shoulder to shoulder.

“I figure you had some paper,” Ryan said, “no hurry. I was going to call you today or tomorrow. But I don’t think I can handle it right now.”

“Jesus, you eat in here?” Jay Walt pulled his tinted glasses off to look at the vapor forming.

“Not too often. Usually I’m downtown, I go around to the Hellas-”

“Eat that Greek shit?”

“-or the Athens.” Sounding like he was apologizing.

“I grab a cup,” Jay Walt said, “drink it in the car, make a few phone calls.”

“You got a phone in the Mark now?”

“Naw, new Cadillac Seville. It’s small, you know, but it’s okay. With the phone, shit, I could drive to Miami handle all my business I don’t have to do personally.” Jay Walt was peeling the lid off his coffee to go.

Ryan was hot in his raincoat. He ought to take it off. He looked past Jay Walt to get the waitress. Get something and get out. Jay Walt glistened. His styled hair, like a grayish ace cap, glistened with spray. His nose glistened, and his tinted wire-frame glasses glistened and reflected the overhead light. The waitress wouldn’t look this way. She’d made up her mind, nothing was going to make her look. He could get up and leave. He wasn’t sure why he’d come in here anyway, or why he’d come downtown. He hadn’t been downtown in a month. He hadn’t seen Jay Walt in about two months. He didn’t like fast-food counter places with slow service. Tell Jay Walt he’d changed his mind.

Christ, walk out if you want. You don’t have to explain anything.

Ryan said, “Well, I think I’m going to give up on getting served.”

“You want the waitress?”

“No, never mind.” The guy would probably yell at her to get her ass down here, then call her honey and sweetheart and give her a lot of bullshit with everybody listening. Ryan started to turn the stool to ease out of there. “I’ll call you later on, okay?”

“Wait a minute, sit still.” Jay Walt laid his hand on Ryan’s arm and left it there. “I got you, let me tell you what I want.”

“I’ll come by. I’d have to pick up the papers, anyway.” He’d do it, just to get out of here.

“It’s not papers. I want you to find a guy for me.”

Ryan could see it coming. A guy ran out on his car payments and took the car, disappeared. Something like that. He said, “What do you need me for? Call the police.”

“It’s not that kind of a thing,” Jay Walt said. “No paper, no summons, anything like that. I just want you to locate a guy for me. A Robert Leary, Jr. He’s probably around sixty. Say fifty-five to sixty-five. Find out where I can reach him and let me know. That’s all. You don’t have to hand the guy anything or even talk to him.”

“So he’s not in the phone book or the city directory.” Ryan turned back to the counter, but Jay Walt’s hand remained on his arm.

“A lot of people aren’t. But this guy, he doesn’t even have a credit record. Can you imagine that today, no credit record? Not even a rotten one. I put some of my guys on it, that’s as far as those shitheads could go, phone book and a credit check. It’s going to take a pro, I can see that. So who do I think of first, immediately?”

“What’d the guy do?”

“He didn’t do anything. There’s nothing illegal, it’s a business thing. Client of mine, guy I do business with, wants to find him. Why would you have to know anything about it? You understand?”

“How much?”

Jay Walt finally let go of Ryan’s arm. He took a sip of coffee and touched a napkin to his mouth. “Guarantee you a hundred and a half for three days. No, shit, say two days. You’re fast, the way you work. You don’t locate him in two days, you get paid anyway and we talk about it some more, see if there’s any point in continuing.”

“This client of yours-he pays the bills?”

“Sure he does, he’s looking for the guy, I’m not. I’m helping him out strictly as a favor.”

Ryan got out his notebook. “How do you spell his name? The guy I’m looking for.”

“Robert Leary. L-e-a-r-y. Junior. J-u-n-i-o-r.” Jay Walt glanced over to see if the girl next to him was listening, appreciating him. She was biting into a club sandwich, then wiped some mayo

Ryan looked at him with a question.

“I know,” Jay Walt said, “it’s all colored down there now, but it’s still a pretty good street-big houses, mansions. I think a lot of colored doctors must live there, or else it’s all whorehouses, I don’t know.”