Shella (16 page)

I walked down the stairs to check out, my duffel bag over my shoulder. The clerk didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up.

When I hit the street, I saw an Indian working under the hood of an old car. I moved slow, so he could see me.

I found another hotel a few blocks away. The window looked out into an alley. The same Indian was out there, working on the same car.

About a week went by. I went for a walk one day, had something to eat. When I opened the door to my room, the Indian was sitting there.

“It’s time,” he said. “Time to meet the man.”

“Okay.”

“Not now. Sunday. We have to go to his office. When there’s nobody around to watch. Be downstairs, five in the morning. I’ll pick you up.”

I was there, waiting like he said. It was a cab that pulled up. The Indian was in the back seat. He didn’t say anything to the driver. The cab took off. Still dark out.

I couldn’t see the drivers face through the partition—he was wearing one of those chauffeur’s caps. His hair was long, black.

The cab was quiet inside, moving steady, stopping for all the lights. I saw the meter in the front—it was running, like we were a fare.

We got on the highway, headed downtown.

“You’re not asking any questions?” the Indian said.

“I don’t have any questions,” I told him.

The cab pulled over. The Indian took a little black box from his pocket, pushed a button. I heard a beep from the front seat. The driver held the palm of his hand flat against the plastic partition. The Indian held his hand against it, like the way you shake hands in prison when they don’t let you touch.

The Indian got out. I followed him. He had a red rose in his right hand. The building was the tallest one I ever saw—I couldn’t see the top from the ground.

The security guard was sitting in front of a whole bunch of little TV sets. Each one had a different picture, black and white. One looked like an underground garage.

The Indian held up the red rose. The security guard hit a switch. One of the little TV screens went blank.

We walked over to the elevators. When the door closed, the Indian pushed 88.

When we stepped off the elevator, the floor was empty.

I followed the Indian down a long corridor, all windows to our left. The doors on the right were all open, nobody inside the rooms. Clicking, beeping sounds, like machines talking to each other. The Indian moved quiet, but he moved fast. The corridor made a right-angle turn at the end, and then we started down another hallway. This was down the middle of the building, no more windows.

The Indian held up his hand. I stopped behind him. He pointed to the carpet in front of us. I looked close. There was a thin line across the hall, side to side. Another one a few feet away. I stared at it until it came clear … a bunch of little X’s covering about four feet, longer than any man’s stride. The Indian held his finger to his lips, pointed to the spot on the carpet where the X’s started. He stepped back, took a short run, and jumped over that section. He walked off a few feet to give me room—then I did the same thing he did.

We made one more turn and the Indian walked into an office. A man was at a desk, typing something. He was facing away from us, next to a big window. The Indian tapped on the door frame. The man spun around, like he was surprised to see us.

The Indian walked in, took a seat in front of the desk. I sat down next to him. On the man’s computer screen I saw what looked like the floor plan of a building.

The man turned to face us. He had a long neck, a small head. Like a weasel. There was a big lump over one eye, bulging. The lump was pale, even whiter than his face. His eyes were bright blue, like the neon signs they use to get you inside the strip joints.

“You don’t make much noise, Chief,” the man said.

The Indian didn’t say anything.

“Is this him?” the man asked.

The Indian nodded.

The man looked at me like he expected someone else. He turned away from us, tapped keys on his computer. Stuff came up on the screen, black on a white background. Too far away for me to read.

“You ever been in Houston?” he asked me.

I didn’t answer him.

“Ever been in the Four Seasons Hotel on Lamar? In Houston?”

I watched him. The Indian didn’t move.

“Ramon del Vega was found in a room there. With his neck broken. Looked like a robbery. Except he had a gold-and-diamond Rolex still on his wrist. Almost nine thousand cash in his pockets.”

I didn’t say anything. I remembered the guy. The people who set it up, they had me registered in that hotel. I got a call. The voice just said “Now” and hung up. I went to the top floor, taking the stairs. Saw the room-service waiter outside the door with a tray. I stood there against the wall. As the waiter was bowing his way out, his hand full of cash, I stepped inside through the open door. The guy inside started to say something. I broke his neck. Then I went
back to my room. Two men came to my room, gave me the money I was promised. I checked out before they found the body.

I never knew the guy’s name before this.

The man with the lump on his head kept tapping the keys, asking me more questions. I sat there, listening. The man rubbed the lump on his head.

“You’re sure this is him?” he asked the Indian again.

The Indian got up, walked over to the side of the room. There was a postage meter, one of those electronic scales. The Indian made a gesture for me to come over, stand by him. The man got up from his desk, came over with us. He walked twisted. Standing next to me, he was much shorter. One leg was in a big crooked boot that laced up the front, like the foot was too big for a shoe. The Indian took something out of his pocket. Flicked his wrist, a long blade shot out. He put the knife on the postal scale. The dial on its face lit up. It said:

0 4.3 1.21.

Then he put his hand on the scale, just barely touching it with his fingertips. The numbers flashed, kept changing. Only the first o stayed the same. The middle numbers jumped: 1.1, 0.9, 1.3, 0.7. The end numbers jumped too, only not as much: 0.29, 0.52.

“It reads in tenths of an ounce,” the Indian said to the man. “You can’t hold your hand steady enough to stop the numbers jumping. It’s too sensitive.”

“So?” the man said.

“Try it,” the Indian told him.

The man put his hand on the scale. I could see him lock up his face, concentrating. He couldn’t stop the numbers from jumping. He pushed down hard—it didn’t make any difference.

“Pick a number,” the Indian told the man.

The man looked at the Indian. Rubbed the lump on his head again. “Zero point six,” he said.

The Indian nodded at me. I put my fingers on the scale, getting the feel, letting my fingertips go right inside my head, no wrist or arm between them. I thought about the numbers the man wanted until they came up on the face of the scale. It fluttered a little bit, then it locked in. I held it there.

“Pick another,” the Indian said.

“One point eight,” the man said.

I let my fingertips go heavier until the number he wanted came up. I locked it in again.

The Indian lit a cigarette. I held the numbers while he smoked it through. The man watched the scale. Then he limped over to his desk and sat down.

We were sitting back across from him. Time passed. I didn’t keep track of it. The man looked over at the Indian.

“So what’s that prove?”

“You know what it proves,” the Indian told him. “You want him to bend a crowbar in his bare hands, break some boards, crap like that?”

“I have to be sure.”

“You know how to do that. What you told me. About Raiford.”

“He’ll sit for it?” The crazy man talked. Talking like I wasn’t there.

“You got Wants and Warrants?” the Indian asked.

“No.”

“You told me he jumped parole.”

The man rubbed his lump again. “You trust me? I could get him pulled in, he’s the same guy.”

“You won’t.”

The man sat there for a few minutes. Then he got up, limped over to something that looked like a Xerox machine. He lifted up the cover, turned it on. It made a whining noise. Then he went back to the computer, tapped some more keys. “Okay,” he said to the Indian, “let’s run him.”

The Indian got up, gestured to me to follow. He spread his hand out, palm down, pointed to the glass plate on the Xerox machine. I put my whole palm against it. Left it there for a minute.

“Okay,” the man said from his desk.

The Indian took a spray can from next to the Xerox, wiped off the glass.

We sat down again. Waited.

In a few minutes, there was a beep from the computer screen. The man hit the keys again, read the screen.

“It’s you,” he said.