Elmore Leonard - Mr. Paradise

But what was Carl Fontana talking about, their being on the same side? He imagined Carl's daddy had come up from Tennessee or someplace with all the ofays to work in a car factory and make a living. He had thought the kid who finked him out and got him the nine years was smart, but didn't think Carl Fontana was. Oh yeah? He was smart enough to listen to Avern drinking martinis tell about the situation here. Avern had even said one time he hoped these two didn't fuck up and make the Dumbest Criminals I Have Known list. He'd almost said to Avern, "What happens to you if they do, they get busted?" But he didn't, because he didn't think Avern had ever asked himself that. It made him wonder if maybe Avern ought to be on the Dumb list.

Lloyd hung out in the pantry where they kept the good glasses and china, sixteen place settings he wouldn't mind taking downtown to DuMouchelle's and sell it off. What else? Not the paintings. Allegra liked the paintings and he liked Allegra. She said to him John wanted to move to California and make wine, but it was awful risky. He told her, "Honey, go with your husband." Thinking, any man can make a bull come and then sell it, can do anything he wants.

The door opened. Art came out and stood there staring at him. Lloyd heard Montez in the kitchen say, "You don't worry about police coming by, stay as long as you want. I'll put on some doo-wop for y'all."

Now the other one, Carl Fontana, put his hand on Art's and got him going again. Montez came out and stopped next to Lloyd.

"You hear any of that?"

"Not a word."

"You never hear anything, you never talk about what you don't hear, either, do you?"

Lloyd said, "All you got on your plate, you want to worry about me?"

Delsa and Harris picked up a warrant at Thirty-sixth District Court that would allow them to enter Carl Fontana's residence, then waited for Jackie to come out of a pretrial exam. In the car Jackie couldn't get over the defense lawyer describing Ardis Nichols, the defendant, as this sweet guy who loved Snowflake, the hooker who lived upstairs and had died of blunt-force injuries, hit repeatedly with a piece of pipe. "You know why I didn't believe Ardis?" Jackie said. "I'm talking to him in the basement where he lives. Has his TV, his medicine and shit on a little table by his bed, his clothes hanging from pipes. Ardis's wearing a wife beater like Kid Rock. We're talking, I notice a huge rat lying on the floor by the furnace. I say to Ardis, 'Isn't that a rat over there?' He says no, it ain't a rat. I say yes, it is, it's a huge fuckin rat. He walks over and steps on the rat and you hear like air come out of it. See, what he might've meant was no, it wasn't a live rat. But the man had lost his credibility with me saying no, it wasn't a rat."

Delsa said, "Just having a rat in his room."

"That was enough," Jackie said.

"Is he going to trial?"

"'Less they agree on a deal."

"There you are," Delsa said.

They took the Fisher west-Manny Reyes and Violent Crimes behind them-and found the house on Cadet, a few blocks beyond Holy Redeemer, a frame house with green paint fading, eight steps to the porch, Manny and his guys going around back.

The door opened and here was Connie Fontana in a housecoat in the afternoon, a big redheaded woman scowling at them, TV voices coming from the living room.

Jackie said, "Mrs. Fontana:?" pausing in case it wasn't. "Is your husband at home? We'd like to speak to him."

Connie said, "What about?"

"It's a police matter," Delsa said. They all had badges showing. "Is Carl home?"

The woman's hair was big and, Delsa thought, involved. He couldn't understand the reason for it. She shook her head and her hair seemed to sparkle.

She said he wasn't there. Delsa asked if she knew where he was and Connie said, "Who knows where that shitbird is. What'd he do now?"

"We'd like to come in if it's okay," Jackie said, pushing the door, forcing Connie to step back, Delsa and Harris following as Jackie said, "Thank you," to Connie and kept going, through the living room-past Dr. Phil on TV saying, "Does that make you feel good? Talking to your sister that way?"-and down a narrow hall to the kitchen. Delsa could see her unlocking the back door and Manny and Violent Crimes coming in, three of them, wearing vests under their jackets. They came through to the stairway with Glocks and a shotgun. Delsa nodded and they went up the stairs.

"Jesus Christ," Connie said, "what in the world did he do? He got in another fight, didn't he?"

Dr. Phil was saying, "You mean this whole thing is about her nose ?"

As Connie was saying, "It's his buddy gets in the fights with his ugly mouth. He's an ugly man, his whole disposition. He's always looking to be insulted. Carl tries to stop the fight and he gets in it. He's short, but, boy, is he scrappy. It's been a while-I'm surprised he's fighting again."

Delsa was trying to follow Connie and Dr. Phil at the same time. It seemed the girl with their dad's nose, it was a honker, was jealous of her sister who had their mother's cute nose. He said to Connie, "It's not about a fight. What's his friend's name?"

"Gene Krupa."

"Wasn't he a drummer?"

"I mean Art Krupa. He thinks he's hot shit 'cause he use to be with the Detroit Mafia."

"They hang out together?"

"Carl spends more time over there, at Art's, than he does here. I told him, you don't come home, I ain't cooking for you no more."

The TV audience was applauding Dr. Phil as the Violent Crimes guys came down the stairs, Manny shaking his head, and went out the front.

Delsa said to Connie, "Can you tell me where this Art Krupa lives?"

"Hamtramck. I think on Yemans."

"What's Carl do for a living?"

"Lays bricks. Does pretty good, too."

"This time of year?"

"He started before it turned cold and snowed."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Yesterday he come by, brought me a fifth of vodka, real expensive stuff. I said Jesus Christ, you could've bought me two gallons of Popov for what you paid for it."

Delsa looked past Connie to see Jackie coming out of the hall. She held an empty Christiania bottle by one finger in the neck. Now Connie glanced around. She said, "What're you doing with that?" her voice rising. "There was still some in there."

The poor woman sounding desperate.

"No, I put it in a glass," Jackie said. "I saw this beautiful bottle-you mind if I take it?"

Delsa said, "She collects bottles, ones with unusual designs on them." He handed Connie one of his cards. "If you hear from Carl, would you mind giving me a call? I'd appreciate it." He put his hand on hers as she took the card and looked down to read it. "I'm Frank Delsa."

"She could've asked me first," Connie said.

Delsa patted her hand and said it was nice talking to her.

Manny was outside by the cars.

Walking up to him Delsa said, "Anything good?"

"Here," Manny said, handing Delsa a leather-bound address book, a small one. "Guy lives like a fuckin monk."

"He's never there," Delsa said, skimming through the book, stopping now and then.

"No guns, but a box of forty caliber."

"Here's Art Krupa's number, and address."

"I'll call the Fourth," Manny said. "Get the precinct to watch the house till we put a crew on it."

"And Avern Cohn's number," Delsa said.

They parked down the street from where Art Krupa was living on Yemans in a neat little two-story house on a thirty-foot lot, no driveway, green and white metal awnings over the windows, a statue of the Virgin Mary holding a dish, a birdbath, in the front yard.

"This Art Krupa," Jackie said, "what's he, a religious hit man?"

She called Communications and had the address checked. It was listed in the name of a Virginia Novak. Jackie called the house and asked for Art. She was told he wasn't home.