ELMORE LEONARD: Unknown Man #89

THE DOOR TOsuite 1705 stood open. The chambermaid was there, a man from Security, and the hotel’s first assistant manager, who stood in the middle of the room staring at the wall above the sofa. Mr. Perez came out of the bedroom, finally taking off his topcoat and throwing it over a chair. He went to the bookcase bar and began making himself a drink.

“They took one of the paintings,” the assistant manager said. He seemed mildly surprised as he realized it.

Mr. Perez came away from the bar with his drink. “They did, huh? That’s the first indication of genuine concern I’ve heard from you. As I recall, it was a print of a Winslow Homer. A photographic re print.”

“Mr. Perez, I just noticed it. That’s all. I didn’t mean to imply-”

Mr. Perez wasn’t finished. “Two men, two nigger men, come in here and steal valuable documents and you’re worried about a picture you can get in a ten-cents store.”

“I wasn’t worried about it.”

“You let anybody you want come in your hotel?”

“Well,” the assistant manager said, “the problem, we can’t actually screen everyone who comes in. You can understand that.”

“I understand I’ve been robbed,” Mr. Perez said. “That’s what I understand. What I’d like to know is what you’re gonna do about it.”

“Well, we’ll call the police, of course. If you can give them a list of what was stolen-”

“A list? My friend, they stole”-Mr. Perez almost said, “my whole goddamn business,” but stopped in time-“papers, documents, beyond commercial value in themselves.”

The assistant manager didn’t understand. “Not notes then, or stock certificates?”

“I mean records and proposals that can’t be duplicated and are worth, conservatively… several million. That’s why, sir, I hope you don’t mind my asking what you’re gonna do about it. Or do I have to sue your ass for some kind of negligence?”

“Mr. Perez,” the assistant manager said, “you know the hotel can’t be responsible for anything left in the room. That’s why we have safe deposit boxes.”

“That’s a sign,” Mr. Perez said. “You can bring it to court with you and show it to the judge.”

It was not the assistant manager’s hotel. When Mr. Perez moved out, someone else would move in. He said, “As I mentioned, we’ll call the police, and it’s possible your… documents will be recovered. If you’ll give me a list of what was taken-I know they’ll also want to question you.”

Mr. Perez knew it, too. He wanted to threaten and kick ass, impress and intimidate the assistant manager; but he didn’t want to talk to the police just yet, or perhaps ever, for that matter. He knew who’d taken the papers, or had them taken; that wasn’t hard to figure, though it did surprise him. But now, what would the two niggers do if they read in the paper tomorrow about Jack C. Ryan, Process Server, Found Shot to Death? Better wait and see.

“I’ll let you know,” Mr. Perez said to the assistant manager. “Good night.”

“You’ll give me the list of items?”

“That’s right. Then you can call the police. But not before I tell you.”

“If you prefer to do it that way,” the assistant manager said.

“I prefer everybody out,” Mr. Perez said.

Jesus, he’d no sooner closed the door and walked over to his chair when somebody started knocking and he had to walk all the way back to open the door.

“Now what?”

Raymond Gidre came in.

Driving back to Detroit in the Hertz car, once he’d slipped past the blue flashers that were all over the place and screaming up the Interstate toward Rochester, Raymond kept telling himself, You hit him. You must’ve.

So by the time he was sitting with Mr. Perez and had heard about the niggers breaking in and was holding a cold drink on his lap, Raymond was convinced Ryan was lying dead somewhere in a wet ditch. He told Mr. Perez it was so because he thought it would make him feel better. Mr. Perez was more itchy than he’d ever seen him. His skin was blotchy from drinking and the red veins in his nose were sticking out. Even sitting in the chair he was hunched forward, wouldn’t let himself relax.

“What do you mean you think you got him? You either got him or you didn’t.”

“I know I hit him,” Raymond said, “on account of the blood.”

“What blood?”

“See, I must’ve hit him good when he started running again, but as I told you, it was dark. He cut through some yards and come to a street where there’s this donut place open-counter where you get your coffee and different kinds of donuts you order to go or else take over to a table there.”

“Raymond,” Mr. Perez said, “where was the blood?”

“In this place I’m telling you about. The boy works there’s standing by the pay phone, dialing it, till he sees what I got. Then he like to shit. I said to him, ‘Where’s he? Man come in here.’ He points to a door leads out back. Then I see the blood on the counter where he must’ve put his hands, smeared on it. Out back was a field and then a ravine full of scrub and shit. That’s where I figure he’s laying.”

Mr. Perez waited a moment. “You didn’t go find out?”

“I couldn’t. A squad car come in the alley as I was standing there, starts shining a spot all around. They was others, you could see the blue flashers over the other side of the field and up by the apartments, you could hear them all over. Was time I had to get out of there.”

“So they find him and he’s alive,” Mr. Perez began.

“I don’t see how he could be.”

“He gives them your name and address. You get rid of the gun?”

“Jesus, you know what that Weatherby cost me?”

“You know what it could? Twenty years.”

“I’ll dump it somewhere.”

“There’s a river out there, the Detroit River,” Mr. Perez said. “That’s where you put it. On your way over the bridge to Windsor, Canada, where you’re gonna be staying awhile.”

“I’m pretty sure I got him.”

“Raymond, check into a motel, then call me, give me the number and I’ll be in touch with you.” Mr. Perez seemed calm now, because he knew what he was doing. He was patient with Raymond, because it was the way to handle him.

“Want me to leave right now?”

“In a minute. Bring the phone over here.”

Mr. Perez dialed Ryan’s number. When the answering service came on, he hung up. “Not home.”

“I told you where he’s at,” Raymond said. “In the field.”

“Or at the police station,” Mr. Perez said. “Or the lady’s apartment.”

“Was cops all over there.”

“You remember Miz Leary’s number?”

“I never had it.”

Mr. Perez looked over at the bare, cleaned-out desk. “You certain you didn’t write it down someplace?”

“I never even saw it.”

Mr. Perez sat back in the chair. It wasn’t going to do any good to blame Raymond or curse or break things. If Ryan was alive-or even shot-up some-and got hold of the papers, he’d learn the name of the stock and the show would be over. Not only that, Ryan would likely press charges-assault with a deadly weapon or attempted murder-and here’d come the police looking for two ex-cons who’d done it before in Louisiana. If Ryan was alive, it was time to go. And start compiling another list of names to get himself back in business again, which could take him three or four months, at least. On the other hand, if Ryan was lying dead in the weeds, if Raymond wasn’t bullshitting him…

“Raymond, fix me one, will you please?”

… he’d be free to work on Miz Leary some more and, goddamn it, get her signed up this time. But if Ryan was out of it…