20

Carl asked for Montez Taylor's room number. The clerk behind the sheet of bulletproof glass checked and said there didn't seem to be no one of that name staying with them. Carl said to Art, "You hear that?"

Art was facing the University Inn's L-shaped area in front, Carl's Tahoe and a few cars parked out there. Art turned saying, "Fuckin smoke." The clerk, a black guy with size, asked if he was speaking to him. Art said, "No, Sambo, I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my partner."

The two walked out, drove up Woodward Avenue to the river and over Jefferson east to the Paradiso residence on Iroquois. Carl pulled into the drive and stopped by the front doors.

"They haven't replaced the glass yet," Art said. "Take 'em five fuckin minutes."

"Maybe that color glass," Carl said, "is hard to get and they have to order it. You know, that shade of pink." He said, "You feel funny about going in there?"

"In the house?" Art said. "I don't feel one way or the other."

Lloyd opened the door wearing the white dress shirt that was a couple of sizes too large, space showing around the collar. He knew right away who these two mutts were and it surprised him, the shooters coming back to the scene? He said, "Yes:?"

The one he believed was Carl Fontana, the short one, said, "Where's Montez?"

"He could be in his room," Lloyd said, "you want me to see?" Stepping aside and they came in. The other one, with the grayish hair slicked back, would be Art Krupa. Lloyd had known all kinds of guys like these two at Jackson, where they learned to be criminals if they weren't already. Avern, drinking martinis, had told him about these two, his guinea and his polack; and Montez, drinking Remy and doing lines, had told him their names. It was amazing what criminals talked about and then were surprised when they got busted.

Carl Fontana said, "Yeah, get him," and they followed Lloyd out to the kitchen where he used the wall phone to call. Lloyd saying to Montez, "They's two gentlemen here to see you."

Montez said shit, and wanted to know if they were cops. Lloyd put his hand over the phone and said to Carl, "He wants to know are you the police."

"Tell him," Carl said, "we're the pissed-off guys he was supposed to meet, at the motel."

Lloyd said into the phone, "No, they the guys you was suppose to meet. Now they angry." Lloyd heard Montez say shit, tell 'em I'll be right there. Lloyd replaced the phone on the wall saying, "He's coming. He's sorry he missed you, he fell asleep." Lloyd frowning now, saying, "He's taking it hard, what happened to Mr. Paradise. I 'magine you saw it on the news?"

Art Krupa said, "Where is he?" sounding impatient.

"At his place, over the garage."

Art turned to the table in the alcove of windows that showed the garage in the backyard, three doors on it.

Lloyd said, "It's finally turning nice out, huh?"

Carl said, "You know who we are?"

"I guess you friends of Montez."

"And you're a friend of Avern Cohn."

"The lawyer? Yeah, I know him."

"You took some falls he defended?"

"A long time ago."

"What'd you do?"

"Jes some stickups."

"You ever shoot anybody?"

Look at him sneaking up on it, dying to tell who he was. The man sounding like he had something in mind.

Lloyd said, "No, I never had the opportunity. I guess there was nobody I wanted to shoot bad enough. Except one."

"But you did time."

"Nine years straight up."

Art, at the alcove of windows, said, "Is he coming or not, goddamn it."

Carl said, "Avern had you watching Montez, huh?"

"Watching him?"

"Telling Avern what he's up to."

"Mr. Cohn told you that?"

Art said, "Well, he's finally decided to come," and went over to open the door.

Carl said to Lloyd, "I wouldn't be surprised we aren't both on the same side."

Montez came in the kitchen wearing a heavy white designer turtleneck that came down over his butt, some of Montez' new look, getting away from the business suit image. Came in and the first thing he said was, "Lloyd, leave us, man."

That was the last thing he heard from the room. Montez shut the door and got ready to do his act. Lloyd believed nothing would happen. They wanted to be paid. Montez didn't have it, but had the thing that could get it for him. Picked it up this morning, the stock certificate. Getting Kelly to sell it would be the trick.

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?"

21

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.