ELMORE LEONARD: Unknown Man #89

“Like in the movies,” Ryan said.

“The movies, shit,” Dick Speed said. “I mean you can’t imagine the mess, a guy gets hit in the head. All over the wall, the floor. Jesus, it’s something.”

“You ever get sick?”

“No, I never did. These other guys, the old pros, they’d wait to see how you’re going to take it. But I never have been sick. Knock wood. Shit, knock Formica in this place.”

“I wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor.”

“The movies, listen, you want to see the real thing,” Dick Speed said, “I can arrange it, ride in the meat wagon sometime. Shit, you’d die.”

“Then what would I want to do it for?”

“Sunday morning early’s the best time. Come back to Receiving with the meat wagon, then stop by the morgue, see all the Saturday night hotshots, the good time they had.”

Ryan was polite and listened and made a few comments, but he wasn’t buying him beer to learn about dope-related executions or Sunday mornings at the morgue.

“Listen,” Ryan said, “I got to get over to Probate before it closes”-where he had just come from-“and I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Look and see if you got a sheet on a Robert Leary, Jr.”

“What’s he supposed to’ve done?”

“Nothing I know of,” Ryan said. “But if a guy’s hard to find, I was wondering maybe it’s because he’s got something to hide. Am I wrong?”

“There could be all kinds of reasons,” Dick Speed said. “Maybe he owes money, hasn’t paid his alimony. You sure this guy’s still around?”

“No, I’m not, but I started thinking-what if he’s in jail? I’m looking up all the records and he’s sitting there waiting.”

“You know something you’re not telling me?”

“No, it’s just a thought,” Ryan said. “Something I might’ve overlooked.”

THE TWO-INCH NOTICEthat appeared in the Personal columns of the News and the Free Press said:

Robert Leary, Jr.

Urgent!

Call 355-1919

Ryan planned to stay in the apartment all day if he had to. By midmorning he was restless, not used to sitting around. Pacing and looking out the window didn’t help much until a Detroit Edison crew came along and started tearing up the street with jackhammers. Watching them dig into the pavement, making gradual progress, was better than only listening to the noise. They’d stop for a while and stand around in their yellow slickers and he’d watch TV, popping from one channel to another to find something interesting. Search for Tomorrow wasn’t too bad. He was going to have a sandwich when he got hungry, then decided to cook one of his specials. He sautйed onions and green pepper, threw in a can of tomatoes, peas, and cut-up ham, and dished it over Minute rice. He could do a lot with a can of tomatoes: tomatoes and lima beans, tomatoes and corn. Brown some chicken or chuck roast first, put it back in the tomatoes and onions to simmer awhile and dish it out over rice or noodles. Ryan loved it. Rita said everything he cooked tasted the same.

When the phone rang the first time, he took his time walking over to the footlocker that served as a coffee table and cleared his throat before he picked up the phone and said hello.

It was his sister, Marion. She hadn’t called in at least six months, but she picked today. She was wondering how things were going, living alone. He had been living alone for four and a half years, but Marion was still wondering and asked him when did he want to come over for a home-cooked meal. Ryan said anytime, you name it. Marion was not that much of a cook. In fact, she was pretty bad. But he always said that, anytime. She never picked a date beforehand but always waited until she got him on the phone and then would have to go and get her calendar and study it and try to remember what nights Earl bowled or had Cub Scouts or an Ushers Club meeting. Ryan told her he was expecting an important phone call, but it still took another ten minutes.

He knew it was a remote chance the guy would see the notice in the personals, or that a friend might see it and tell him-if the guy had a friend and if he hadn’t moved away and a few more ifs. Still, he had to give it a chance. And if the guy did call and the line was busy-he didn’t know anything about the guy, if he was impatient or if he’d wait and try again. He wanted at least to cover all the bases, so he could hand in a full report and show them what he did for the three hundred. It surprised him a little that he felt this way, that he was conscientious.

By the time the phone rang again, at a quarter past four, Ryan had decided sitting by a telephone was a pretty dumb way to make a buck, and if the guy didn’t call by five, he’d go for a ride and lay some paper on somebody.

Ryan said hello and the voice on the other end said, “What do you want?” There were faint sounds in the background, voices and music. Country music.

“Who is this?”

“That’s what I want to know. Who’re you?”

“My name’s Ryan. I represent someone who’s looking for-”

“What is it?”

“Ryan. R-y-a-n.”

“You want Robert Leary, it said call this number. What do you want?”

“I’m trying to tell you,” Ryan said. “Are you Robert Leary, Jr.?”

“What is it you want?”

“Tell me something. What year were you born?”

“What year…” There was a pause. “You said call this number. What do you want?”

“I want to know if I’m talking to Robert Leary, Jr.”

“This is him.”

“You in a bar?… You drinking?”

There was a pause again and the background sound was blocked out, as though a hand had been placed over the phone.

“Hey,” Ryan said. “You still there?”

“What do you want?”

The voice was low and husky. Ryan pictured it coming from an old man.

“You want to see me?”

“I want to see Robert Leary, Jr. Tell me what year you were born.”

“Listen, you want to see me or not?”

“All right,” Ryan said. “Where do you live?”

“Meet me-you know where the bus station is?”

“Downtown?”

“Yeah. Nine o’clock tonight. Park on the roof of the bus station-wait a minute.” Another pause, silence. “What kind of car you drive?” Ryan told him. “Okay, park up on the roof, take the elevator down. Go over and stand-wait a minute.” Again a pause, longer this time. “Hello?”

“Yeah.”

“Go over and wait by the door to the men’s room.”

“How’ll I know you?” Ryan said.

“Nine o’clock. You want to see me, be there.”

“Let me ask you something.”

Robert Leary, Jr., or whoever it was, hung up.

Ryan called Dick Speed. He was out on assignment. So Ryan sat around again, wondering if he should bother going all the way down to the bus station. He was reasonably sure the guy on the phone wasn’t Robert Leary, Jr. In fact, he knew it wasn’t. The guy could have been calling for Leary, though, getting instructions from Leary during the pauses. That was a possibility. So he’d have to go down to the bus station, go through the motions, and put in the report.

The second Robert Leary, Jr., called at five to seven, while Ryan was changing his clothes. This time he forgot to clear his throat before picking up the phone.

“Your number 355-1919?”

“That’s right.”

“Who am I talking to?” A slow, quiet voice; maybe a southern accent.

“My name’s Ryan. What’s yours?”

“You put that in the paper today?”

“I’m the one,” Ryan said. “Are you Robert Leary, Jr.?”

“I don’t know you,” the voice said.

“No, I don’t know you either,” Ryan said. “Are you Robert Leary?”