Authors: Michael Koryta
Classic
Auto Body was quiet until almost nine, and then someone drove into the parking
lot in a sleek black Cadillac CTS and pulled to a stop just outside of the
office window, in an area not marked for parking. The driver's door opened and
a large black man stepped out with keys in his hand. He unlocked the office
door and disappeared inside.
I
pushed the blackout curtain aside and climbed into the front seat of the truck
and then got out and walked to the shop, tested the door and found it unlocked,
and stepped inside.
I'd
entered an empty office, but I could hear movement in the garage beyond,
someone walking around snapping on light switches. A few seconds passed, and
then the door from the garage opened and the Cadillac's driver stepped back
into the office and saw me.
"You
need help—" he said, not unfriendly, but not thrilled about seeing me
there, either.
"Got
a couple questions about a car you did."
"Yeah—"
He walked around the desk and leaned on its edge, more intrigued now.
"Like what you've seen out there, huh—"
"Oh,
absolutely. Absolutely"
He
was nodding along in agreement, confident in his work. "You got something classic
you working on, or is it more of just getting it done up right, something newer
but just don't have that
look,
that
style—"
He
appeared even bigger indoors than he had outside. Probably six-four and at
least two hundred and sixty or seventy pounds, with a block of a head above a
football lineman's shoulders. He looked about forty-five and had a pencil-line
beard tracing his massive jaw. Wore baggy jeans and a black jacket open over a
T-shirt. There was a chain of white gold or platinum with a glittering
medallion in the shape of a diamond around his neck, hanging halfway down his
chest.
"I've
got some pictures of it," I said, pulling Dunbar's photographs out of my
pocket. I nodded at his medallion before I handed them over. "That diamond
there, any chance that's, like, your logo—"
"Yeah,
man, like a signature, you know— Every artist puts one on their work." He
was smiling at me now. "Keeps people from passing off their shit as mine,
too. You got these kids, do something on their own, then they want people to
think they spent the money, right— Want them to think they got the money
to
spend, so they say, oh, I took it down to Darius. But I got those diamonds I do
by hand, man, and there ain't any of them going to try putting
those
on."
"Brand
protection," I said. "Trademark."
"Yeah,
exactly, a trademark." He put his hand out for the photographs. "What
is it you've seen around— Which one of em caught your eye—"
I
passed them over. "You probably won't remember this. Did it a long time
ago."
He
took the pictures and studied them one at a time. His face changed to a frown,
but it wasn't suspicious, not yet. Just thoughtful.
"Man,
you ain't kidding, this is a long time ago. I remember the car, though. This
would've been ten years ago at least, got those old dubs on there."
"You
did the work, though—"
"Oh,
yeah. For sure. That's mine."
"You
happen to remember the owner—"
His
mouth twisted, and he hesitated, thinking, trying to remember. It took him a
few seconds, but when he got it the frown came back, this time with a different
quality, and when he spoke his voice wasn't as relaxed as it had been.
"It
was an Italian kid, I think. Maybe not. I don't know."
He
held the photograph out, and when I didn't take it immediately he gave it a
shake to get my attention, as if he were in a hurry to get it out of his hand.
"I
don't even know why that piece of shit grabbed your eye," he said.
"You
don't like it—"
"You
know, I did the work, that's all. People got their own ideas of what looks
good, I try to listen. Now what kind of a ride you got— What are we talking
about doing—"
"I'm
afraid there's been some confusion," I said. "I'm not here to have a
car worked on. I'm here about
this
car."
I
lifted the photograph and gave it the same little shake he had, but he didn't
look, just held my eyes. Now all the good humor was out of his face.
"You
a cop—"
"Private."
"It's
private whether you a cop—"
"No.
I'm a private detective."
"Man,
I don't got time for this. That car's so old, I don't remember nothing about
it, don't know nothing about that Italian kid, all right—"
"That's
fine, Darius. Maybe you could do me a favor, though—"
He
waited, suspicious.
"Give
your nephew a call, get him down here."
"My
family got something to do with you— Man, go on and get out of here. I don't
have time—"
"You
got nothing to do with Alvin— With Cash, I mean—"
He
was giving me flat eyes now, a response to police questioning that he'd spent
some years perfecting.
"Maybe
you could just give him a message," I said. "Write down my name, tell
him that I was down here and that I'd like to speak with him if he gets a
chance. That I'd appreciate it if he could give me a call."
"You
want to talk to Cash, find him yourself."
"Darius…"
I spread my hands. "You really want to make this a pain in the ass— All
I'm asking is for you to give your nephew my name, tell him I was down here.
You do that, and I'm gone."
He
scowled and waved his hand at me, impatient. "All right, leave your damn
name and get out."
"I'm
fresh out of cards," I said. "So you'll have to write it down."
"Man,
write it down yourself."
I
ignored him, reached in my back pocket and withdrew my wallet, flicked it open
to reveal the investigator's license I'd made, and passed it over. He glanced
down at it, but it was a cursory look while he picked up a pad of paper and
extended it to me.
"Write
it here," he said.
I
didn't answer, just kept holding the license in front of his face, and this
time when his eyes went to it they lingered. He stared at it for several
seconds. Too many to be comfortable. Enough to tell me what I needed to know.
"Like
I said, you write it down yourself," he said finally, looking away from
the license and back at me. His voice was much softer, his eyes much darker.
"Okay,"
I said, and I closed the wallet and put it back in my pocket and then wrote the
name from the license in all capital letters across his pad—KEN MERRIMAN.
He
watched me write it and didn't say a word when I dropped the pad on his desk.
"Are
you sure," I said, "that you don't want to give your nephew a call
right now—"
He
looked up at me, and his jaw worked as he studied my eyes.
"It
might be a good idea," I said. "Up to you, Darius, but it might be a
good idea."
He
didn't take his eyes off me as he withdrew his cell phone from the pocket of
his oversized jeans.
"You
wait," he said, and then he stepped out into the garage and closed the
door behind him. I felt my breath go out of my lungs when the door closed, and
I looked around the office and through the window out onto the street. Nobody
in sight. I would be alone with them when Cash came, just as Ken had likely
been. I was more prepared than he had been, though. I had my story ready, had
the scenario I needed, and now it was just a matter of playing it through,
getting the hell out of here, and handing Graham a case that was ready to
close. Simple stuff. Simple. I reached inside my jacket and touched the Beretta
once, a gentle tap, and then I dropped my hands back to my sides and waited.
Darius
wasn't gone long. Two minutes at most. Then the door opened and he stepped
through, face expressionless, eyes flat again.
"You
in luck," he said. "Cash is in the area."
"Going
to come by—"
He
shook his head, and I saw he had his car keys in hand. "You are. I'm going
to take you out to see him."
"No
need for you to do that," I said.
"Man,
I'm helpful like that."
"You
want to leave, fine, but I'll wait for him here."
He
shook his head again. "You want to see Cash, I take you."
"Maybe
you don't understand," I said. "I'm going to wait for him here."
There
was real anger showing in him for the first time now, the sort of look that
probably didn't meet with opposition very often. He said, "He's not coming
here, and you ain't going to stay on my property."
I
dropped into one of the plastic chairs that lined the wall across from his
desk, crossed one ankle over my knee.
"Try
him again, Darius. I think you might be wrong. I think he might be willing to
make the trip."
He
hesitated. It wasn't me he was worried about, it was his nephew's response.
Eventually he turned and went back into the garage, and this time it was almost
ten minutes before he returned.
"All
right," he said. "He's on his way."
"Terrific,"
I said.
"Sure
is," Darius said. He crossed the office, reached for the blinds, and
twisted the rod until they were closed again, and the street was gone and the
office was dark. Then he went to the door and locked it and turned the sign to
closed.
"Sure
is," he said again, and he went behind the desk and sat in his chair, opened
a drawer, and withdrew a stainless steel Beretta that looked identical to the
one I had under my jacket. He placed the gun on the desk without a word, not
pointing at me but close to his hand.
Then
we waited.
It
was about twenty minutes before Cash arrived, and Darius and I did not speak
during the wait. If you've ever wondered how long twenty minutes can feel, try spending
them in total silence facing a man with a gun.
At
some point while we waited, I realized that it was past nine but nobody else
had arrived. Then I remembered the extra time that Darius had spent out in the
garage before telling me his nephew was on his way. He hadn't turned the closed
sign over until after that. Made some extra calls, maybe, told his employees
not to come in— I'd chosen to make my return trip out here in the morning for a
reason, thinking the place would be more active, but that didn't seem to be the
case. Of course, the only employees I'd seen here yesterday weren't exactly the
type of guys whose presence would reassure me now. I wondered if much actual
work went on down here these days, or if it had become a cover operation for
Cash Neloms.
When
a car finally pulled in, Darius got to his feet, taking the gun with him, and
walked over to unlock the door. He stood beside it and waited, and after a
moment the door opened and a slim, athletic-looking black guy stepped inside and
shut the door behind him. He looked first at Darius and then turned to me.
"Morning,"
I said. "Thanks for making the trip."
He
was the same height as Darius but about eighty pounds lighter, with a shaved
head that glowed under the fluorescent lights in the office. The family
resemblance was clear. Same skeptical, watchful eyes and hard-line mouth and
strong shoulders. What surprised me most was how damn young he still looked. If
I'd seen him on a college campus I wouldn't have even considered that he'd be
anything but a student.
"D
says you got a question for me—" he said. The words came slow, each one
studied on before release.
"That's
right." I went through the routine again, took the wallet out and opened
it to my Ken Merriman ID and passed it over. With Darius, the idea had worked
just as I'd hoped, maybe even better than I'd allowed myself to hope. I'd
thought that questioning him and his nephew about Ken might not tell me what I
wanted to know. They were used to questioning; they would know how to play the
game by now. Pretending to be Ken, though, re-creating his visit as near as I
could imagine it had taken place, seemed as if it might produce a different
response, put a touch of deja vu in the air that would be difficult for even veterans
like the Neloms to ignore.