Authors: Elmore Leonard
MAGUIRE’S PLAN WAS COMING APART.
An hour ago it had seemed close to foolproof. Drop in on Karen, sit around till about ten. Say he was tired or didn’t feel good and leave. Park up by the beach and walk back. Marta lets him in the side door. He and Jesus wait in Marta’s room for Roland to come. Let him enter the house. Say hi, how you doing? Marta screams (optional). Hit him.
But Marta was in Coral Gables, and Jesus had to talk to her and get her back.
And Karen wasn’t home. The house was dark, the three-car garage empty.
He could say to himself, No, it’s going to work. Don’t worry. Keep your eyes open. You see it’s not going to work or too chancy, bail out. You don’t
have
to be here.
But reassurances didn’t relieve the bad feeling, the doubt beginning to nag him.
Maguire drove the Mercedes into the garage,
closed the door from the outside and walked around the house, past the empty patio to the French doors.
There was some definition to the shapes in the darkness: the hedges, the pool, the umbrella table, the yard misty in a pale wash of moonlight. There were specks of moving light on the Intercoastal, the deep darkness beyond the yard. There was the sound of crickets. And now Gretchen barking, inside the house. There was no reason to be as quiet as he might be. Maguire pulled the sleeve of his jacket down over his hand, held it in his fist, punched through the pane of glass next to the door latch and he was inside, Gretchen running up to him, barking.
Moving through the sitting room, his hand feeling the crown of the Louis XVI chair, he told Gretchen to be nice and wondered: If Karen knew she was coming home after dark, why didn’t she leave a light on?
Because Marta must’ve still been home.
Then why didn’t Marta tell them Karen had gone out? If she did, why didn’t Jesus mention it?
Because they had no practice in this kind of thing, that’s why, Maguire thought. And you better get your ass out of here.
But he moved from the front hall to the back hall to Marta’s room, pulled down the shades and turned on a lamp. Okay, Jesus had said yes, he
knew
Marta
had gotten the gun from upstairs. But where would she hide it.
Roland said to Lionel, “Look, I ain’t gonna argue with you. Go on get drunk, sleep on the beach, I don’t give a shit where, and pick up the boat in the morning. Now hand the suitcase here and push me off, goddamn it.” Man, to get through to some people.
The eighteen-footer rumbled away from the dock behind the thin beam of its spotlight, passing the fantails of the motorcruisers and sailers tied up in their slips, heading out into the channel now, Roland keeping the revs low, bearing to starboard as he pictured the map of the Intercoastal, this little section of it. Finding his way through canals and watercourses, natural or manmade, wasn’t anything new. Across the Harborage and where it opened up at the river—hearing a cruiser honking at the drawbridge down there—head for the second point of land and the house sitting there. He figured about a five-minute ride. There were support stanchions along the seawall; he’d tie up to one of them. In the meantime—wedging a hip against the wheel and zipping open the canvas suitcase—he’d get his twelve-gauge put together.
* * *
It took Maguire nearly ten minutes of looking through every drawer, the closet, and the bed to convince himself the gun, the one Jesus
knew
was in the room, wasn’t.
Andre Patterson would look at him and shake his head, Man, the people you associate with. Say to Andre, But look. What do they have to do? Practically nothing. Andre would say, That’s exactly what they doing. Nothing. Where they at?
They’ll be here.
In the meantime, run upstairs and get the gun. Before Karen comes home. Wherever Karen went.
Maguire turned off the lamp, felt his way out to the front hall and moved up the stairway. Gretchen had gone off somewhere.
When Roland saw the house dark it made him wonder for a moment. How come? Then accepted it as he crossed the yard toward the house. They went to get Vivian, that’s why. Both of them.
But at the French doors, about to put the rubber-padded butt of the shotgun through the glass, seeing it busted already, he said, No, they didn’t.
Somebody was home, and he bet he knew who it was, too. Somebody besides little Gretchen panting, trying to climb his leg. Roland sat down in the Louis XVI chair to pull off his cowboy boots, whispering, “You like to smell my feet, do you, huh?
Come on up here you little thing. I don’t like to do this, Gretchie, no I don’t, but I got to.” He put his hand over Gretchen’s muzzle, clamping it over her nose and mouth and held the squirming furry body until it shuddered and became limp.
Roland went through the hall to the living room, looked in, came back past the stairway and paused. Was that a sound up there? Like a drawer being shut? Roland went through the back hall to Marta’s room—no Cubans hiding under the bed—came out and turned into the kitchen. There was a soft orange glow on the telephone to show where it hung on the wall. Roland got an idea. He’d memorized Frank DiCilia’s private number once. Now, if he could remember it—
Maguire closed the top drawer. He opened, looked through and closed every drawer in the dresser. He looked in the drawers of the two nightstand tables. He looked under the pillows and the mattress. Shit. Andre Patterson would say, Get your ass out, boy.
No, be cool. Where would she put it?
He went back to the dresser and got the key to the next room out of the drawer. It was possible—she’d decided to put the gun back with Frank’s stuff, his papers, his money. Maguire unlocked the door and went in. No light showed in the window; the draperies were closed. He turned on the desk
lamp. Straightening then, his eyes went to the photographs on the wall, the shots of Karen.
The telephone rang.
Maguire jumped and Andre Patterson, watching, would say, See?
The telephone rang.
Maguire went over to it sitting on the desk and looked at the number in the center of the dial. Not Karen’s number, a private line.
The telephone rang.
He’d wait for it to stop. And then thought, What if it’s Karen? If she knew, somehow, he was in the house—
The telephone rang.
—Didn’t want him to answer on her phone and have it recorded, so—no, both lines would be tapped. That wasn’t it.
The telephone rang.
But it still could be Karen. Or Marta. It could be anybody. It could be Marta with Jesus, knowing he’d be looking for the gun. No—why this phone?
The telephone rang.
It would stop.
The telephone rang.
The telephone rang.
Shit, Maguire said and picked it up.
“How you doing?” Roland’s voice said. “You coming down or you want me to come up?”
* * *
“So this parrot went to take a piss, see, and drowned in the toilet. How you doing?” Roland said, coming out of the dark bedroom into lamplight, the pump-action shotgun leading.
“In the commode was the word,” Maguire said, sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk, trying to look calm. Where the hell else was there to go?
“I think it sounds better toilet. Where’s Vivian at?”
“I don’t know any Vivian. Vivian who?”
“Shit,” Roland said, “we gonna have a question-answer period or we gonna get to it?”
“I got nothing to tell you,” Maguire said.
“Then you might as well be dead, huh?” Roland put the shotgun on him.
“Unless you want to try a few questions and see where they lead,” Maguire said.
“I got one,” Roland said, “only one. Where’s Vivian?”
“I can’t do it like that, have it on my conscience.”
“How can you do it?”
“I don’t see a way yet.”
“Then die looking, you dumb shit. It’s up to you.”
“You want to go for two counts, is that it?”
“
Two?
” Roland said. “If I notched my gunbutt
you’d get splinters running your hand on it, you dink. I don’t care about numbers. You’re just another one.”
“But it’s money what it’s all about. Right?”
“What do you make, two bucks an hour? Want to give me about a hunnert?”
“I don’t have it, no. But I know where I could get some.” Maguire looked up at the photos on the wall.
Roland glanced over and back to Maguire, then turned to look at the display of photos again.
“What’s this all about, you know? Puts up pitchers of herself.” Roland stepped closer. “And somebody else there, huh? I thought they was all her when I first seen ’em.”
“I think she comes up here and plays pretend,” Maguire said. “Get her mind off things.”
“Pretend what?”
“The mystery lady, I think. Like that other one.”
“Who’s she?”
“I forgot her name.” Maguire heard the car then.
Roland heard it, too. He came around with the shotgun. “She bringing Vivian?”
“Or cops. You gonna wait and see?”
“Stay put,” Roland said. He stepped into the bedroom.
Maguire heard a door, downstairs, open and close. He couldn’t see Roland now. But heard his
voice from the upstairs hall. “Come on up, join the party.”
He could go out the window—if it opened and there was no screen to fool with. He didn’t owe Karen anything. It was the other way around, all the time he’d put in. She owed him more than she’d ever know.
But he remained in the swivel chair. Probably wouldn’t make it out the window anyway—Roland moved for a big man. So what could he do? Nothing. The hell with Andre Patterson there watching, shaking his head.
Karen was coming in, seeing him at the desk. Christ, Karen shaking her head, too. Roland came in behind her saying, “I hope we can get this cleared up, what’s going on.”
Karen took a cigarette out of a pack in her straw handbag and laid the bag on the desk.
“You have a light?”
“I used to chew, but I never smoked,” Roland said. “It’s bad for you.”
Karen took a lighter from the bag and snapped it several times. “I went to Miami for dinner. Alone.” She dropped the lighter on the desk and raised her hip to sit against the corner, picking up the handbag and resting it on her lap now as she felt inside.
“You got a match?” Roland said to Maguire.
“I don’t smoke.”
“That’s smart,” Roland said. He looked at Karen. “I believe you. It’s this dink here causing all the commotion. See, he was gonna bring Vivian here—the way I figure it—and try and get a lot of money out of you to help her get away.” He stopped. “You know why?”
Karen looked up from the handbag on her lap, pausing. “Yes, I know.”
“Then they did talk to you.”
“Not really. I found out on my own”
Maguire kept looking at her as Roland said, “Don’t believe everything you hear, it ain’t required. So he comes to the house wants to talk to you, see if he can bring Vivian, and you’re not home. So what does he do, he busts in.”
“Why?” Karen said.
“To wait for you.”
“Unh-unh, to wait for
you
,” Karen said. “That was the whole idea.”
“Wait for
me?
Why would he do that?”
Jesus Christ, Maguire thought.
“To kill you,” Karen said.
“Shit, he don’t even have a gun.”
“I do,” Karen said.
Her hand came out of the straw bag gripping the Beretta and fired it point blank at Roland’s bright-blue suitjacket and fired it again and fired it again and fired it again, until Roland stumbled against the file cabinet and went down on top of his shotgun,
tried then as if to do a pushup and fell heavily and didn’t move again.
Karen stood up, watching Roland. After a moment she laid the gun on the desk. She said to Maguire, who was staring at her, “How did you get in?”
“I broke in. The glass door in the sitting room.”
“No, that’s how he broke in,” Karen said. “You weren’t here.”
“Look, I’ll tell what happened, or anything you want. I’m not worried about being involved.”
“You weren’t here,” Karen said again. “So you’d better leave, okay? I have to call the police.”
“Wait a minute,” Maguire said, getting up. “This was my idea, right? The whole thing.”
“It wasn’t a very good one,” Karen said. “What did you expect to get out of it?”
Maguire was confused now, frowning. Was she kidding? She couldn’t be. “What’d we talk about all the time? Getting him off your back, going away, traveling together.”
Karen picked up the lighter, flicked it once, and lit her cigarette. Looking at him she said, “Did I promise you anything?”
“It’s all we talked about.”
“We did?”
“Jesus Christ, I paid Jesus five grand—”
“Of my money. Don’t you think I checked it? With you two in the house.”
“Jesus Christ,” Maguire said. He couldn’t believe it. “
Us
two—I paid Lionel a grand out of my own money.”
“And I believe I saved your life,” Karen said. “But I’ll pay you whatever you spent out of pocket.” She walked to the file cabinet, stepping over Roland, and opened it.
Maguire watched her. He said, “You didn’t want to get out of this at all, did you? You get some kind of a kick out of it, playing a role. Like the dolphins—they’re putting up with all that shit, you turn ’em loose. What do they do? They come back to the phony world to play games. You’re just like the fucking dolphins, you know it?”
“Here’s your thousand,” Karen said.
“You’ll get your picture in the paper again, act mysterious—you gonna have room to put it up?”
“I enjoyed meeting you,” Karen said. “Now beat it. Okay?”
I.
ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS
III.
IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT
V.
MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”
This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank
Mr. Gregg Sutter
, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.
Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).
The Big Bounce
(1969);
Mr. Majestyk
(1974);
52 Pickup
(1974);
Swag
*
(1976);
Unknown Man #89
(1977);
The Hunted
(1977);
The Switch
(1978);
City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit
(1980);
Gold Coast
(1980);
Split Images
(1981);
Cat Chaser
(1982);
Stick
(1983);
LaBrava
(1983);
Glitz
(1985);
Bandits
(1987);
Touch
(1987);
Freaky Deaky
(1988);
Killshot
(1989);
Get Shorty
(1990);
Maximum Bob
(1991);
Rum Punch
(1992);
Pronto
(1993);
Riding the Rap
(1995);
Out of Sight
(1996);
Be Cool
(1999);
Pagan Babies
(2000);
“Fire in the Hole”
*
(e-book original story, 2001);
Tishomingo Blues
(2002);
When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories
(2002).
The Bounty Hunters
*
(1953);
The Law at Randado
*
(1954);
Escape from Five Shadows
*
(1956);
Last Stand at Saber River
*
(1959);
Hombre
*
(1961);
The Moonshine War
*
(1969);
Valdez Is Coming
*
(1970);
Forty Lashes Less One
*
(1972);
Gunsights
*
(1979)
Cuba Libre
(1998);
The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories
*
(1998).
As of November 2002:
Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of:
The Moonshine War
(1969);
Swag
(1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of
When the Women Come Out to Dance
(2002).
The Big Bounce
(1969)
Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a
really
big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.
Houston Chronicle
: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”
From the novel:
She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.
“You going to shoot something?”
“We could. Windows are good.”
“So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”
“And boats. Boats are fun.”
“I imagine they would be. How about cars?”
“I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?
“Yeah that is funny.”
“There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”
“And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”
Mr. Majestyk
(1974)
Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all
the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.
Bergen Record
: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”
From the novel:
Majestyk was running across the open scrub, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.
Seventy, eighty yards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.
52 Pickup
(1974)
Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.
Chicago Tribune
: “A splendid thriller.”
From the novel:
The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.
“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.’ Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”
As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.
“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”
At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver’s ear.
“Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.
Swag
(1976)
Three guys with illegal expertise, a plan to snag a tax-free hundred grand, and a taste of summertime Detroit’s sweet life. But it means committing armed robbery. And being smart enough to get away with it.
Publishers Weekly
: “An electrifying novel . . . with a murderous, well-timed suspenseful finale.”
The New York Times
: “Leonard is nobody’s follower, and he has a style of his own. “Swag” is one of the best of the year.”
From the novel:
There was a photograph of Frank in an ad that ran in the
Detroit Free Press
and showed all the friendly salesmen at Red Bowers Chevrolet. Under his
photo it said Frank J. Ryan. He had on a nice smile, a styled moustache, and a summer-weight suit made out of that material that’s shiny and looks like it has snags in it.
There was a photograph of Stick on file at 1300 Beaubein, Detroit Police Headquarters. Under the photo it said Ernest Stickley, Jr. 89037. He had on a sport shirt that had sailboats and palm trees on it. He’d bought it in Pompano Beach, Florida.
The first time they ever saw each other was the night at Red Bowers Chevrolet Telegraph when Stick was pulling out of the used car lot in the maroon ’73 Camaro. Frank walked up to the side window as the car stopped before turning out on the street. He said, “You mind if I ask where you are going?”
Unknown Man #89
(1977)
Detroit process server Jack Ryan has a reputation for being the best in the business at finding people who don’t want to be found. Now he’s looking for a missing stockholder known only as “Unknown Man #89.” But his missing man isn’t “unknown” to everyone: a pretty blonde hates his guts and a very nasty dude named Royal wants him dead in the worst way. Which is very unfortunate for Jack
Ryan, who is suddenly caught in the crossfire of a lethal triple-cross and as much a target as his nameless prey.
The New York Times Book Review
: “Remarkably ingenious . . . Will keep you on the edge of your chair.”
From the novel:
A friend of Ryan’s said to him one time, “Yeah, but at least you don’t take any shit from anybody.”
Ryan said to his friend, “I don’t know, the way things’ve been going, maybe it’s about time I started taking some.”
This had been a few years ago. Ryan remembered it as finally waking up, deciding to get off his ass and make some kind of run.
His sister drove him down to the Detroit police car auction where he bough a 1970 maroon and white Cougar for $250. His sister didn’t like the Cougar because it had four bullet holes in the door on the driver’s side. Ryan said he didn’t mind.
Didn’t mind
; he loved them.
The Hunted
(1977)
Al Rosen was doing just fine, hiding out in Israel — until he decided to play Good Samaritan and rescue some elderly tourists from a hotel fire. Now his picture’s been carried in the stateside press, and the guys he’s been hiding from know exactly where he is. And they’re coming to get him — crooked lawyers, men with guns and money, and assorted members of the Detroit mob who are harboring a serious grudge. Playtime in paradise is officially over; Rosen’s a million miles from home with a bull’s eye on his back. And his only ally is a U.S. Embassy marine who’s been looking for a war . . . and who’s damn well found one.
Bergen Record
: “Excellent . . . fun to read . . . a plot and a chase as good as anything he has ever written.”
From the novel:
Rosen first noticed the tourist lady on Friday, the day before the fire. He saw her and said to himself, New York.
She had the look — a trim forty-year-old who kept herself together: stylish in a quiet way, neatly combed dark hair and sunglasses; tailored beige sundress, about a size eight or ten; expensive cane-trimmed handbag hanging from her shoulder; nothing overdone, no camera case, no tourist lapel badge that said “Kiss Me, I’m Jewish,” Rosen, watching her walk past the cafe, liked her thin legs, her high can, and her sensible breasts.
The Switch
(1978)
Ordell Robbie and Louis Gara hit it off in prison, where they were both doing time for grand theft auto. Now that they’re out, they’re joining forces for one big score. The plan is to kidnap the wife of a wealthy Detroit developer and hold her for ransom. But they didn’t figure the lowlife husband wouldn’t want his lady back. So it’s time for Plan B and the opportunity to make a real killing — with the unlikely help of a beautiful, ticked-off housewife who’s hungry for a large helping of sweet revenge.
Seattle Times
: “Nerve-wracking. . . . One of Leonard’s best.”
From the novel:
Ordell brought out his box of Halloween masks set it on the coffee table in front of Louis and said, “Now you know how long I’ve been working on this deal.”
They were in Ordell’s apartment, Louis stretched out in a La-Z-Boy recliner with the Magic Ottoman up. He’d been sitting here four days on and off, since Ordell had met him at Detroit Metro and told Louis he was coming home with him. Louis had said home where? Some Place in Niggerville? Ordell said no, man, nice integrated neighborhoods. Ofays, Arabs, Chaldeans, a few colored folks. Ethnic, man. Eyetaliain grocery, Armenian party store, Lebanese restaurant, a Greek Coney Island Red Hot where the whores had their coffee, a block of Adult Entertainment, 24-hour dirty movies, a club that locked the doors and showed you some bottomless go-go and a park where you could play eighteen holes of golf. Does it excite you?”
City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit
(1980)
Clement Mansell knows how easy it is to get away with murder. The seriously crazed killer is already back on the Detroit streets — thanks to some nifty courtroom moves by his crafty looker of a lawyer — and he’s feeling invincible enough to execute a
crooked Motown judge on a whim. Homicide Detective Raymond Cruz thinks the “Oklahoma Wildman” crossed the line long before this latest outrage, and he’s determined to see that the hayseed psycho does not slip through the legal system’s loopholes a second time. But that means a good cop is going to have to play somewhat fast and loose with the rules — in order to maneuver Mansell into a Wild Midwest showdown that he won’t be walking away from.