Unknown Man #89

It was cold outside, misty. Almost eight-thirty. It was too early to call Virgil. He started along the sidewalk to the restaurant’s parking lot, getting a buck out of his pocket.

If I need you for anything.

Like nothing Ryan said had impressed him or changed his way of thinking. Business as usual. Sitting there eating his di

He turned and ran back into the foyer of the restaurant. There were magazines on the tobacco counter, Host of the Town, what to do in Detroit, if anything, but no newspaper. Sorry, the checkroom lady said. In the phone booth Ryan got Olympia’s number from information and dialed it.

“Hi, what time’s the game start, eight-thirty?”

The Wings were on the road, the voice told him. At Montreal tonight.

He dialed Denise’s number and listened to it ring. He said, Come on, answer it. Forget what I said and answer it. The phone continued to ring.

21

“IT’S A HOTEL LOBBY,” Virgil said. “You never seen one before?”

Tunafish brought his gaze back and looked straight ahead, toward the bank of elevators. “I never seen this one before. It’s the first time I been here.”

It was Virgil’s first time in the Pontchartrain, too, but he didn’t bother to mention it. He said to Tunafish, “Yeah, we here.” Like what was the big deal? “Anybody ask, we going up to see a man. See if he want his walk shoveled.”

They got off the elevator on 17 and walked down the hall looking at room numbers, Tunafish saying them out loud, begi

“Oh-five,” Virgil said and stopped by the door. He knocked, giving the door panel three light taps, and waited. “Hey, I don’t believe nobody’s home,” he said, and reached in his coat pocket for his ring of keys and was going through them when Tunafish touched his arm.

“Somebody coming.”

Virgil looked past him, his hatbrim brushing the door frame. A chambermaid had appeared from somewhere and was coming down the hall pushing a linen cart. Virgil slipped the ring of keys back into his pocket. His hand moved inside his jacket and remained there.

Approaching them, the maid said, “Good evening,” with the trace of an accent.

“How you doing?” Virgil said, looking over his shoulder as she moved past them with the cart, a heavyset woman in a white uniform, white anklets, and black crepe-soled shoes. Virgil kept watching her. When she stopped at the next door and took a sheet of paper out of her pocket, he said, “Hey, mama?” She looked up. “Yeah, come here, will you? I wonder you could open this door for us. My friend forget the key.”

“Uh-oh, shit,” Tunafish said. He didn’t like the look on the fat ugly woman’s face, puzzled, frowning a little. She came over to them, though, her hand in her pocket, probably holding on to the passkey.

“You stay with Mr. Perez?” she said.

“Yeah, I’m his brother come to visit him,” Virgil said. “Open the door, Mama.” He brought out from under his jacket Bobby Lear’s gleaming nickel-plated .38. The maid didn’t see it right away.

She said, “You his brother?” Then she saw it. “Oh, my God,” and her hand went up to her mouth.

“Open the door, please,” Virgil said. “Nobody want to hurt you.” Getting the key out and putting it in the door, she looked like she was going to cry. Virgil patted her shoulder gently. “Come on, Mama, it’s cool,” assuring her again as they entered the suite and Virgil steered her into the front closet, asking why would anybody want to hurt a pretty woman like her.

As Virgil closed the door to the closet, Tunafish walked over close to it and said, “You make a sound, we come in there, we both of us go

“Get a suitcase,” Virgil said, going to the desk. “Look in the bedroom.”

They used Mr. Perez’s black Samsonite two-suiter. Virgil cleared off the desk, taking loose papers, folders, and notebooks, scratchpads, and everything in the desk, including hotel stationery and the room-service menu, and dropped everything in the suitcase open on the floor. Tunafish made them a couple of scotch and Coca-Cola drinks. Virgil had to jimmy open Mr. Perez’s locked attachй case. Right on top was a Beretta three-eighty, nice little mean-looking piece. Virgil slipped it into his jacket. He dumped the papers and file folders, lists of names and addresses, in the suitcase and went looking for more, finding a telephone-address book and a note pad with some writing on it in the bedroom and copies of The Wall Street Journal and Business Week in the bathroom. Virgil said, Shit, gri

Coming out of the elevator, the first thing they saw was a bellman coming right at them. Tunafish hung back, letting Virgil get ahead of him with the suitcase.

Reaching for it, the bellman said, “Can I get you a cab?”

“No, we got a car.” Virgil let him have the suitcase, the bellman almost dropping it as he took the grip.

“It’s a heavy one.”

“Full of money.” Virgil gri

The bellman laughed.

About the time Virgil got home to his apartment on Seward, on the near west side, and began going through the papers, wondering what he had, Ryan was trying to stay alive.

Raymond Gidre had said, “His place, huh?” And Mr. Perez had said, “No, her place.” Raymond had said, “How do you know he won’t go home?” Mr. Perez had said, “Take my word for it.” In the restaurant before Ryan had joined them.

Now Raymond was sitting in the Hertz car in front of the Leary woman’s apartment building in Rochester. There were lights in windows, but he wasn’t sure if any were hers or if she was home. Mr. Perez had said not to go to her apartment. It would be good to sit up there and wait for him, watch the look on the Leary woman’s face. It was cold in the Hertz car, sitting there with the motor and the lights turned off. “Wait there,” Mr. Perez had said. “He comes, you don’t have to say a word to him.”

Raymond was looking forward to it. He had a 9 mm. Mauser Parabellum, official eight-shot German Luger, under his coat and a twelve-gauge Weatherby pump gun leaning against the seat with the walnut stock on the floor.

But, damn, it was cold.

The vestibule of the apartment building, through the glass door, looked warm. Except it was lit up. He doubted he’d be able to take the Weatherby in there.

After a few minutes the idea of a warm place won out over the shotgun. Then don’t take it. What would he need it for if he’s standing there as Ryan walked in? He got out of the Hertz car, leaving the Weatherby inside with the door unlocked, and crossed the parking area to the front entrance of the apartment wing. Maybe there was a light switch.

There wasn’t, though. It was probably inside the door that had to be buzzed to let you in. Raymond turned around. He couldn’t see much outside through his reflection on the glass door, just the shapes of cars, some highlights in the darkness. He’d be seen from out there, though, for sure. He looked up at the light fixture. Hell, it was only about a foot out of reach. He got out his German Luger, pointed it up there at arm’s length, rose to his toes as he shoved the six-inch barrel through the opening in the fixture and poked it against the light bulb. Hardly made a sound as the vestibule went dark. There. Raymond leaned against the wall to wait. It was a little warmer in here, but not much.