Джо Горес - Dead Man

The man who had said his name was Edgar Dain was still watching the water. His face was still sad. His hands had given the rest of her praline to the dog, who lay down at his feet, panting with his tongue out and a silly look on his face.

“Sorry. I fed one of your pralines to the dog.”

Vangie shuddered as if the scorching sunlight had a wind-chill factor. “Jesus, you’re a cold-blooded bastard.” No answer. “It was that goddam phone call of Jimmy’s, wasn’t it?”

“That confirmed it, yes.”

The river looked very peaceful. Downstream the same side-wheeler full of tourists that Dain had ridden two mornings before bellowed raucously with its steam whistle. Dain chose his words carefully, as if they were brittle and might break.

“Maxton is screaming for blood, but I think if he had his bonds back he’d not go looking too hard for you or Zimmer.”

She began shrilly, “That fucker’s screaming for blood? What about...” She stopped, controlled herself. “Yeah, we give you the bonds and they don’t get to Maxton, and we end up—”

“I don’t want the bonds, Vangie.”

“Oh sure, I believe you.”

Dain scratched the black Lab behind the ears, stared out over the slow brown water, shook his head, said patiently, “You came in by bus, you’re too smart to leave a locker key with Zimmer, so if I searched you right now...”

Vangie had sprung to her feet at mention of a bus depot locker key. This jerked the Labrador’s head up, but she was just standing there. He chuffed and put his head down again. Slowly, uncertainly, Vangie sat back down.

“Maxton doesn’t know where you are — yet.” He turned to look at her. “I stirred somebody up by coming here to look for you — for my own reasons I want to find out who and why.”

“Maybe that I’d believe. Good old self-interest.”

Dain was stroking the dog’s back absently. “But I’m going to have to give him something pretty soon.”

She said despairingly, “If I fuck you will you—”

“No.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that we might be killed?”

“I stopped worrying five years ago about what happens to people.” Smothered anger entered his voice. “Especially people who ask for it.” He stood up. “If you don’t give them back to Maxton I won’t be able to help you, Vangie.”

“Jimmy won’t do that,” she said regretfully.

“Then you give them back.” He was suddenly, harshly angry. “You stole two million dollars from a guy who said he loved you and then offered you to his friends—”

“Yeah, so I stole his fucking bonds. And you know what? I’m glad I did if it gives that pig one sleepless...”

She ran down again, a startled look on her face as if she hadn’t known she was capable of so much hatred. Dain nodded.

“That’s terrific, Vangie. Some great revenge you’re getting on him. Think about what can happen, for Chrissake! Keep the room you have, but have a friend rent you another room in your hotel under another name and sleep in that one. And keep Zimmer off the street — I might not be the only one looking.”

Vangie started to speak, stopped. Her spirit was gone.

“How do I get hold of you?”

“Call me at the De La Poste Motel in Chartres Street by this time tomorrow. I can give you that long.”

“Edgar Dain. De La Poste Motel. Tomorrow afternoon.” As he nodded and turned to start off up the steps, she added almost wistfully, “We almost made it, didn’t we?”

Dain looked down at her bowed head for a long moment.

“You weren’t even close,” he said.

It was dusk, the huge high piles of cumulus on the western horizon were shot with pink, Bourbon Street was opening its doors and tuning up its music. Vangie sat on the edge of their bed in the Delta Hotel regarding Zimmer with resigned eyes. Between the edges of the curtains on the window behind her was the pornhouse marquee, the scattered lights on it still unbroken flashing intermittently.

“It’s the only way, Jimmy. You know that when Dain tells Maxton where we are...”

Jimmy, a weak man scared, kicked over a chair. “No, goddammit, no!”

Vangie sighed, got to her feet, went to him. She put her arms around his neck, her face close to his. “Jimmy-honey, listen to me! You know we have to—”

He shook her off angrily.

“All I know is that I lose the bonds, I lose you!”

“Maybe, maybe not — but you won’t lose your life.”

“According to Dain.”

Vangie controlled her anger. “ Not just according to Dain. You know what Maxton is capable of—”

“I never knew Maxton as intimately as you did.” He had worked himself up into a fine, nasty, self-justifying anger. “You’ll end right side up, though — or should I say backside up? I bet you slept with Dain this afternoon and made plans to—”

“Jimmy, I have to go to work. I get paid tonight, we need the money. We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?” Zimmer was petulantly silent, refusing to meet her eyes.

“At least think about giving them back. And please let’s get another room like he suggested.”

Zimmer replied in his childishly defiant way, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I please.”

At Carnal Knowledge, the musicians were just arriving, having a drink, looking to their instruments. A few local guys on their way home after work were having a quiet beer before the entertainment drove the prices out of reach. Two bulky men, Nicky and Trask, entered like matched, mobile, very heavy bookends. They moved in on the bartender in unison.

“Harry?”

The bartender jerked an indifferent thumb toward a dark corner by the end of the bar. Bulky guys asking questions were no novelty to him, and Harry was a pain in the ass.

“Him.”

In the dark corner, Harry had Noreen crowded up against the wall, trying to caress her breast while talking earnestly about sexual matters. Noreen looked bored. The bookends closed in on Harry as if he were an encyclopedia of slime molds. Seeing them over Harry’s shoulder, Noreen did a quick and grateful fade, then found something to talk about with the bartender, out of earshot but able to watch obliquely in the backbar mirror.

The one named Nicky, who had a whole lot of blond hair, said to Harry, “You phoned about a girl named Vangie.” He tossed a photo of her on the bar. “Yes or no?”

Harry picked up the picture, studied it with a show of concentration. He had gotten a sly, money look on his face.

“Well-l-l... I can’t be certain.”

Trask, the one with short black hair, said, “Get certain.”

“I ain’t gonna get in trouble over this, am I?” asked Harry with belated caution. “I mean... how heavy is it? I mean... what’d she do?”

“Asked questions,” said Trask.

Harry said hurriedly, “Ah, yeah, yeah, she’s the one, all right, fellas, she dances here.” He added in a smaller voice, “Stuck-up fuckin’ bitch.”

Nicky rolled two $100 bills into a cigarette-like cylinder and stuck the cylinder into Harry’s shirt pocket.

“See, pal?” he said. “Easy money. Now just tell us where she parks her pasties and we’ll be on our way.”

Harry told them. As they started out of the place, Trask paused to finger Harry’s shirt collar regretfully.

“Ring around the collar, Harry,” he said. “Mention us around town, you got no collar. Maybe even you got no neck to go into the collar you ain’t got. Capisce? “

He guffawed loudly and swaggered out after Nicky. He had really liked that TV series, Crime Story, about the old days in Vegas, and had patterned himself after the show’s mob characters.