Elmore Leonard - Riding the Rap

“And since we partners, we get there you gonna move half your money from your bank account to my bank account.” Louis paused. “Go on, nod your head.”

Harry nodded.

Chip was back on his weed, moving like a man underwater to sit down on the sofa, stoned as far as you could go without losing it. He looked up at Louis fooling with the remote and said, “He killed him. Just like that.” As if Louis hadn’t been here to see it.

“That’s Bobby’s way,” Louis said, “you fuck with him.”

“He’s going to see Dawn tomorrow.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Louis said.

“I told him he didn’t have to, I’d call her. He said he wanted to talk to her anyway, get his fortune told.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” Louis said.

Friday morning Raylan called Reverend Dawn from Miami, gave his name, told her he was there last Sunday for a reading, had stopped by yesterday and was anxious to talk to her again.

She said, “I know.”

Her voice calm, telling him-the way Raylan heard it-she knew who he was and what he wanted to talk to her about. She didn’t try to avoid him. When he asked if he could come by this morning, she said as long as he came an hour or so before noon; she’d be leaving then to go to the restaurant. So Raylan got in the Jaguar and headed up 95 in the traffic, the lanes both ways, north and south, strung with cars and pickups, vans, semis, motor homes… Otherwise it was a nice sunny day and Raylan felt ready for it. He had on his dark blue suit, the air-conditioning turned up high.

Yesterday afternoon he had stopped by the Sheriffs Office to run Louis Lewis on FCIC, the state computer, and found he had spelled the name right. Lewis comma Louis. Also known as Ibrahim Abu Aziz. Date of birth-Louis three years younger than Raylan. A notation said: Born in Freeport, Grand Bahama. Black male, black hair, brown eyes. Six feet tall, 165 pounds-if they ever had a fistfight they’d be evenly matched. Scar, right arm, not specific. No FBI number. Early charges of importation of marijuana nolle prossed, temporarily dismissed for some reason and never brought up. Grand theft, auto, nolle prossed. Here we go:

A 790.01, carrying a concealed weapon. A 790.16, discharging a machine gun in public, and a 790.19, shooting into or throwing deadly missiles into a dwelling. Which sounded like a drive-by. Convicted on all counts. His sentence wasn’t on the sheet-or all the hustles he got away with that Raylan read between the lines-but Louis must have done a few years’ state time.

So Raylan’s three suspects were all felons: Warren Ganz, one-time homicide suspect convicted of bank fraud and placed on probation; Bobby Deo, suspected killer for hire, convicted of manslaughter; and Louis Lewis, minor felon until brought up on gun charges and convicted. The question that remained in Raylan’s mind: which one was in charge? It would appear to be Ganz. But could he handle two ex-cons? Raylan didn’t know enough about Louis Lewis to make a valid judgment, so he saw Bobby Deo as the one to look out for.

Later on he picked up Joyce and they went to Joe’s Stone Crab for dinner. At the table he told her everything he knew to date and his theory that Harry could be in Ganz’s house-even though, he admitted, it didn’t make much sense.

It did to Joyce. She jumped at the idea, wanting to believe Harry was alive and not buried in a swamp. Raylan had to tell her why he couldn’t go in to investigate without permission or a search warrant, and this was the part that didn’t make sense to her. If he had no trouble shooting a man seated at a table with him in a restaurant, why couldn’t he walk into someone’s house?

He said to her, “Why don’t you take my word for it?” tired of trying to explain distinctions, the gray areas in what he did for a living.

They picked at their crab claws pretty much in silence after that. He asked why she didn’t try the mustard sauce. Joyce said she preferred drawn butter. Would she like another beer? No, she was fine. How about a piece of key lime pie?

He said to her, “We’re sure polite, aren’t we?”

Joyce didn’t bother to answer.

This morning Raylan stopped by the Sheriffs Office to listen to the tape Falco had mentioned, off the wire Dawn was wearing when she met Warren Ganz.

Falco set it up in one of the squad room offices, saying the conversation had taken place right out there-Falco pointing through the glass wall of the office to a row of chairs-Ganz thinking he’d been brought in again for questioning. “You understand this was Dawn’s idea,” a way she could touch Ganz, their prime suspect in the murder of the woman in Boca, and find out if he did it or not.

Falco started the tape and sat down with Raylan. This was what they heard:

Ganz: You waiting to see the lieutenant?

Dawn: They want to ask me about Mary Ann Demery, the lady who committed suicide? I’m Dawn, a friend of hers.

Ganz: No, you’re not. I’m her friend, you’re her fortune-teller.

Dawn: If you say so.

Ganz: What’s going on?

Dawn: What do you mean?

Ganz: You sit down and shake my hand ? What’re we gonna do, get cozy here? You read my mind and I confide in you?

Dawn: I already know things about you.

Ganz: Is that right? From Mary Ann or you look in a crystal ball?

“Dawn doesn’t answer,” Falco said.

Ganz: You read palms?

Dawn: I can. I don’t usually.

Ganz: Here, take a look. Tell me what you see and maybe I’ll confide in you.

Dawn (following a long pause): You’re egotistical.

Ganz: Where do you see that?

Dawn: Your index finger’s longer than your ring finger. Most people, they’re the same length.

Ganz: Amazing.

Dawn: You have trouble paying bills.

“You’ll notice he doesn’t deny it,” Falco said.

Ganz: Which one’s my life line?

Dawn: This one, curving down.

Ganz: All the way to my wrist. That’s good, huh?

Dawn: The length doesn’t mean much.

Ganz: What do you see?

Dawn: A lack of energy.

Ganz: Don’t you see anything good ?

Dawn: Well, your fate line-you’re ambitious, you know what you want. The line’s a bit ragged though.

Ganz: You want me to confide now?

Dawn: If you like.

Ganz: What if I tell you Mary Ann didn’t commit suicide, she was murdered?

Dawn: How do you know?

Ganz: It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I’m a suspect and they want to know what you feel about me, or however you get your messages. If you’re any good you know I didn’t do it. But what if I tell you I know who did?

“The guy isn’t dumb,” Falco said.

Dawn: Do you?

Ganz: Let’s say I know, but I can’t tell the people here. Let’s say for personal reasons I can’t afford to become implicated in any way, the idea I was close to a woman who was murdered. Okay?

Dawn: You want me to tell them who did it.

“She isn’t dumb either,” Falco said.

Ganz: You go in there, you tell them you laid out your magic cards or you touched something Mary Ann gave you… Listen to me telling you how to do it. You’re the pro, you see things, right? You turned over a card and there he was. Or you closed your eyes, went into your clairvoyant mode and you actually saw what happened, the guy picking Mary Ann up and throwing her off the balcony. You hear her scream as she’s falling. The guy looks down, he turns, and that’s when, clairvoyantly speaking, you see his face. You describe the guy to the cops and they go looking for him. Overnight you’re famous, the clairvoyant who cracked a murder case.