Unknown Man #89

“Let me hear you say, I will never fuck with Mr. Perez again.”

Jay Walt began to repeat the words.

“Speak up,” Mr. Perez said. “I still can’t hear you.”

“I will never…”

“I will never fuck with Mr. Perez again, ever.”

“I will never fuck with Mr. Perez again,” Jay Walt said.

“Ever.”

“Ever,” Jay Walt said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Perez said. “Now wipe your nose and go home.”

Ryan liked a dark business suit and white shirt with a suntan. It made the person look successful: sitting at a table in the Salamander Bar, quietly waiting to hear the outcome of a business deal. The subdued lighting was also good for suntans. He had a 7Up, then switched to a ginger ale and fooled with it, making it last, sucking at the ice in the bottom of the glass when Jay Walt came in.

“Wow,” Ryan said, with reverence. “You look like you been stung by bees.” He made a gesture of rising as Jay Walt wedged himself into the table and collapsed.

“We got to get out of here. No, I want a drink, Christ.” He was gasping, barely moving his swollen mouth. “They open the window, Christ, try and push me out. This big son of a bitch starts hitting me as hard as he can.”

“While you’re out the window?”

“Seventeenth floor, I look down, Christ, I said, Hey, guys, come on, this isn’t fu

“What’d Perez say?”

“What’d he say? He tried to push me out the fucking window. Where’s a waitress in this place?”

Ryan sat back in his chair. “So he didn’t think much of the mandatory injunction, uh?”

Buying Jay Walt a couple of doubles and sitting with him gave Ryan time to plan his next immediate move. He gave Jay Walt another hundred dollars, saying he was awfully sorry it turned out the way it did-with Jay Walt getting some of his nerve back with the scotch and threatening to sue the son of a bitch-walked him over to the escalator, thanked him again, then crossed the lobby to the house phones.

When Mr. Perez came on, Ryan said, “Jay Walt just phoned me. Looks like you’re go

Mr. Perez said, “Don’t you believe it.”

“Not afraid to go to court, huh?”

“Why don’t you come by and we’ll talk about it,” Mr. Perez said.

“If we can do it on the ground floor,” Ryan said. “Maybe later on. There’s something I got to do first.”

“There is, huh? Son, you don’t have anything pressing on you like I’m going to.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryan said. “Why don’t we have di

That part was done, getting it set up.

Ryan went to a pay phone then to call Virgil Royal, with the odds heavy against Virgil answering or even finding him short of a few hours. Virgil said hello, with his lazy tone, and Ryan couldn’t help but grin. Imagine being glad to hear Virgil Royal’s voice. They talked for a minute and agreed on Sportree’s in about an hour. Ryan said he’d find it.

“I don’t see you doing much,” Ryan said. “You want something, but I don’t see you breaking your ass especially to get it.”

“I’m being patient,” Virgil said, “waiting till everybody make up their mind. You want a real drink this time?”

“No, this is fine.” Ryan still had half a Coke. He watched Virgil nod to the waitress. She was over at the bar where several black guys were sitting with their hats on, glancing at themselves in the bar mirror as they talked and jived around. “What’s this, the hat club?” Ryan said. “There’s some pretty ones, but they can’t touch yours.”

Virgil was looking at him from beneath the slightly, nicely curved brim of his uptown Stetson. “I get my money, what’s owed me, I’ll give it to you,” he said.

“I’ll take it,” Ryan said, “and everybody’ll be happy. If we can get you to do a little work.”

“What kind of work?”

“First, how much we talking about? What you say Bobby owes you?”

“Half.”

“Half of what I heard he got is nothing.”

“No, I’m telling you. Round it off, ten grand,” Virgil said. “Now you tell me, how much we talking about? The whole deal.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“But you got an idea. Explain it to me again, what the man does.”

The hatbrim rose as the waitress put another orange drink in front of him. Virgil gave her a look that was warm but sleepy. She smiled taking his empty, like they had something going.

“All the guy does,” Ryan said, “as I told you, he tries to make the beneficiary sign an agreement for his fee or give him power of attorney to make the stock transaction, you know, get certificates issued by the corporation, and according to what his percent is, stated in the agreement, he gets that much on the sale of the stock.”

“How much is that?”

“Whatever he thinks he can get.” Ryan paused. “Does it make any difference what the guy does? You want ten grand. Okay, I’m not going to argue with you, I respect your position in this.”

“My position.”

“I do. I’d like very much for you to go away and never be heard from again. But you’re here, and since you are, you might as well be doing us some good.”

“Doing what?”

“Break in the guy’s hotel room. Can you handle something like that?”

“Go on.”

“Collect his papers. Every paper you see, you take. Whatever’s in his briefcase, files, folders, a note on the back of an envelope, you take it. Something written on a matchbook cover, everything.”

“All the man’s papers.”

“And it’s got to be tonight. Around eight o’clock, in there. Room 1705.”

“You go

“I hope so. I don’t, I’ll call you,” Ryan said.

“That would be nice.”

“Maybe bring a suitcase. Walk across the lobby you look like you’re checking in.”

Virgil gave him his lazy smile. “You go

“Not if you know the way,” Ryan said. “It’s your show.”

“And it’s my ass if I get caught,” Virgil said. “Must be very important stuff.”

“Think of it like a paper drive. You go out collecting paper and bring it in and get ten grand,” Ryan said. “I’ll call you later.”

It was five-thirty by the time Ryan got home. He sat down on the couch with his coat still on and called Denise.

“I just walked in,” she said. “God, I’m dead.”

“How’d it go?”

“I’m supposed to be sick and I come back with a tan. If you were the manager-you can imagine.”

“If I was the manager,” Ryan said, “I’d have you on the potato sacks. Listen, I’ll be out later. The injunction thing didn’t work-I’ll tell you about it, it’s kind of fu

“I wasn’t here all day.”

“That’s right. I’ve been trying to think, I still wish there was some place you could go for a while.”

“I’m not going to hide,” Denise said, “it’s not worth it.”

It irritated her when he brought it up, that she might need protection. Screw Mr. Perez, Denise said. She was through sitting alone with the shades drawn. It was a good attitude, but it made Ryan nervous.

He said, “All right, but don’t open the door unless it’s me. Or answer the phone unless I tell you before exactly when I’m go

“Okay.”

“Listen, when I come later, I could bring my toothbrush and a few things.”

“Why don’t you bring everything?” Denise said.

“Pretty soon. It won’t be long.”

“Hey, Ryan?” Denise said. “The money’s a side issue now, isn’t it? Like a bonus maybe, not something we have to have.”

“Yeah, except it’s right there.”

“What I mean,” Denise said, “they could threaten to break my legs or something, and if they do I’ll sign anything they want. They can have the money, the fuckers. What’re we out? So don’t worry.”

“I won’t,” Ryan said. “I’ll see you later.”

He called Mr. Perez, got him on the line, and gave him the sales pitch: the Paradiso on Woodward just north of Six Mile, softshell crabs, very good fish, steaks, or you can go Italian all the way… and greens. They actually cooked things like collards and escarole… Fine. Seven o’clock.