Out of Sight Read online

  “It wasn’t about getting laid,” Foley said. “You told me out on the highway it was too late, you know, to have a regular life. I knew that. I still wanted to know what might’ve happened if things were different.”

  “You find out?”

  Foley said, “Yeah, I did,” not sounding too happy about it. But what did that mean? He was disappointed by what he found? Or was sorry now he’d robbed all those banks?

  Don’t ask, Buddy thought. He said, “What happens now?”

  “We’re back where we were.”

  “You don’t want to move on?”

  Foley sipped his laced coffee. He said, “If you want to, I’ll understand, but I’m staying.”

  “Well, shit,” Buddy said, “if you aren’t worried—a big sensible fella like you . . . I think we ought to move to a different hotel, though, not be so close.”

  “It’s all right with me.”

  “She know Glenn’s here?”

  “I think so, but I doubt she’s located him.”

  “Glenn’s nervous, being with those guys. White Boy and this Kenneth, they’re the kind probably can’t write their own names but know everything. They took me by the State, it’s a regular movie house on Woodward Avenue. If the snow wasn’t up to our ass we could walk. Those salt trucks, they pile the snow up down the middle of the street and then haul it away, I believe dump it in the river.”

  “What time are the fights?”

  “They start at eight.”

  “Let’s go about ten. They say why Snoopy wasn’t there?”

  “Said he was busy. I’d call him Snoopy talking to Glenn? Glenn’d look at White Boy and I’d see White Boy in the mirror giving me the evil eye. We work with those assholes one time only, that’ll be enough for me.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Foley said.

  “They took me past the Detroit Athletic Club, said Ripley goes there for lunch almost every day, comes out about midafternoon and goes home, takes the Chrysler Freeway. Glenn said they’ve been checking Ripley out since November. See, but Glenn wouldn’t tell the Snoop what the score would be till he came back to Detroit this time.”

  “What do they need Glenn for?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “What do they need us for?”

  “That’s even a better question.”

  “We watch each other’s back,” Foley said.

  They’d been doing that for years. Buddy looked at the rolls in the Continental basket. “You gonna eat those?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I got your girlfriend’s shotgun, but the only way I can get it out of the hotel’s in a suitcase. Your Sig Sauer’s no problem.”

  “I don’t have it,” Foley said.

  Buddy was spreading butter on a croissant. He said, “What’d you do with it?” and bit off half the roll.

  “I gave it back to her.”

  Buddy had to chew a few seconds before he said, still with a mouthful, “You want to forget the whole thing and go to California, I’ll drive us.”

  • • •

  BURDON’S VOICE, SOUNDING PATIENT, SAID, “KAREN, I JUST spoke to our people up there, they tell me they haven’t heard a word from you.” Patient and then adding a note of surprise to the lilt in his voice. “Now how could that be?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Karen said. She held the phone between her shoulder and jaw, picked up the paper and turned to the Local News section. “Daniel? ‘Three shot to death in home invasion.’ Last night, during a snowstorm. Detroit Police think one of the invaders may be a guy I was over there asking about the other day, Maurice Snoopy Miller. The victims ran a dope house and this guy used to do business with them.”

  “Snoopy,” Burdon said.

  “Yeah, he’s a friend of Glenn Michaels. They met at Lompoc and Glenn told DEA he stayed with Maurice last November when he was up here.”

  “Karen, you’re ducking my question. How come you haven’t been to see our people?”

  “I don’t have anything to give them. I walk in empty-handed saying I want to help, they’ll say, good, why don’t you put the coffee on.”

  “I told them you were coming.”

  “Yeah, and what’d they say?”

  “They thought with something like two hundred agents in the state of Michigan and a bunch of marshals they had enough help.”

  “See? I don’t want to go in until I can give them something, like pay my way, and I know I’m close to locating Glenn. In fact, I’m going to the fights this evening, and I have every reason to believe he’s gonna be there.”

  “’Every reason to believe’ is like telling me you think he’ll be there. All I have to say, Karen, you spot Glenn I want you to call for backup. You don’t spot him, you come home and we’ll find something for you to do. You took advantage of me, girl, caught me in a weak moment.”

  “How’d you do with the Super Bowl?”

  “The point spread I had, I was doing fine till you came along.”

  “I won a new pair of shoes, off my dad.”

  “What about Foley? You hear anything?”

  “I’m after Glenn, he’s the key.”

  “Karen, you fuck up and I get sent to White Fang, Alaska as resident agent . . .”

  “I’ll go with you,” Karen said.

  “You bet your skinny ass you will.”

  Karen said, “Okay, then . . .”

  • • •

  SHE SHOULD HAVE SAID, “YOU’RE HOPING I DO FUCK UP, aren’t you?” She didn’t believe she had, yet; because she didn’t think of the time spent with Foley as morally wrong, and if it wasn’t, and if she wasn’t technically aiding or abetting but only violating a code of conduct, she could live with it and not feel guilty. When she was much younger she would go to confession and say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I stole a lipstick from Burdine’s and I let a boy touch my breast but we didn’t do anything.” If she felt a need to tell more, she might add that she had smoked cigarettes after promising her mother she wouldn’t. The priest would give her ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys, absolve her, she would be sorry for her sins, sort of, and whatever degree of guilt she had felt would be gone. Since then, for the past fifteen or so years, Karen hadn’t been to confession because she seldom felt guilty about anything. If she had doubts, she would talk to her dad about it. Or, she would imagine talking to her dad, which to Karen was much the same thing.

  Karen: I spent about seven hours with Foley.

  Her Dad: Don’t tell me everything.

  Karen: Don’t worry. Do you understand our taking a time-out?

  Her Dad: The way you tell it, yeah.

  Karen: There was no time limit specified.

  Her Dad: But now you’re back in play, out of time-outs.

  Karen: I guess so.

  Her Dad: You have to do better than that. You have to accept the fact.

  Karen: Okay.

  Her Dad: What are your options?

  Karen: If I find him? Place him under arrest.

  Her Dad: What else? What if he tries to get away? What if he pulls a gun on you?

  Karen: He doesn’t have a gun.

  Her Dad: You want to do this or not?

  Karen: I’m sorry.

  Her Dad: What if he resists arrest, tries to get away, puts you in a position where you’re trained to use your gun? Could you do it?

  Karen: I don’t think so.

  Her Dad: What if he wants you to take off with him?

  Karen: I wouldn’t go. I told him that.

  Her Dad: Would you let him get away?

  Karen: No.

  Her Dad: Then you’d have to shoot him, wouldn’t you?

  Karen: I don’t know.

  Her Dad: Would he shoot you, if he had to?

  Karen: I don’t know.

  Her Dad: He told you he’s not going back.

  Karen: Yes.

  Her Dad: So whose choice is it, really, if you have to shoot him?

  Karen: Is that suppose
d to make it easier?

  Her Dad: Why did you join the marshals?

  Karen: Not to shoot people.

  Her Dad: No, but the possibility is a fact you have to abide by. Can you do it?

  • • •

  DURING THE AFFERNOON KAREN STAYED IN AND WATCHED A movie on television she had seen at least a couple of times before, Repo Man, because Harry Dean Stanton was in it and he reminded her of Foley. Not his looks—they didn’t look anything alike—his manner: both real guys who seemed tired of who they were, but couldn’t do anything about it. Stuck, putting up with their lives the way people find themselves in jobs they care nothing about, but in time have nowhere else to go. She wondered if Foley ever had goals. Or if his idea of living was anything more than lying around the house, watching movies.

  • • •

  BUDDY SAID HE WAS GOING OUT, SEE IF THERE WERE ANY whores around, maybe bring one up to his room. Foley imagined some poor girl standing in the snow in her white boots, bare thighs and a ratty fur jacket, shivering, getting hit by slush as cars went by; but doubted she’d be there in real life. He wished Buddy luck and pressed buttons on the TV remote until he found a movie. Repo Man, a winner he’d seen a few times before. Old Harry Dean Stanton getting the short end as usual. Fun to watch, though. This was the one, they open the trunk of the car and you see a strange glow. Like in Kiss Me Deadly, the strange glow in the case inside the locker, and they used it again in Pulp Fiction. Mysterious glow movies—some kind of radioactive material, but what it’s doing there is never explained; if it was, Foley missed it. He liked this kind of movie. You could think about it after, when you had nothing to do, try to figure out what the movie was about.

  TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  MAURICE WOULD GET UP FROM THE TABLE AND WALK ALONG the apron of the stage yelling at one of the fighters, telling him, “Stick and jab, stick and jab.” Not in the way of the audience, the ring up on the stage, but it was annoying and Glenn wished he’d shut the fuck up. Maurice would come back to the table and Kenneth would leave, go up on the side of the stage where guys were hanging out, big black guys, and Kenneth would hang with them between bouts, Kenneth dosed on speed and doing all the talking. Glenn had never seen so many big black guys in one place who weren’t wearing football or basketball uniforms. Outside of him and White Boy Bob there were maybe five or six other white people in the whole theater. The waitress would bring a round and White Boy would throw his beer down in three or four swigs, give Glenn’s shoulder a jab and tell him to come on, drink up, “You drink like a girl,” and look to see if there were any other morons around thought he was funny. The black guys and their women at tables close by only stared, tolerating him because of Maurice.

  Where movie seats used to be were rows of round nightclub tables: a row of them on each of four levels rising a step at a time up through the theater to the bar: a long one, and dark up there away from the ring lights. People hung out in the open spaces at both ends of the bar. Behind the bar was the aisle that crossed the theater from side to side, a stairway at one end that went down to the rest rooms. Beyond this area was the outer lobby with a small bar over to one side.

  A fighter from one of the Kronk boxing clubs was announced, rap music came booming out of speakers and a procession of handlers and hangers-on appeared out of a door on the side aisle. Now women crowded in from the audience, jiving, waving as the fighter finally appeared to mount the stage and climb into the ring in red and gold to fight four rounds for two hundred bucks, the gold tassels on his high red shoes jumping now as the fighter worked his shoulders with quick jabs, shuffling around his side of the ring. Watching from the other side a white kid from out of town or some Mexican kid trying to look cool, unimpressed, would weave and do some footwork in his plain black shoes to be doing something, waiting for the rap show to end and the ref in his bow tie and latex gloves to motion them to the center of the ring.

  Ever since they got here Glenn had been trying to think of a way to get the car keys from White Boy—Glenn listening to him and Kenneth talking about last night, grinning at each other, saying tomorrow, man, tomorrow was payday, talking about hitting Ripley’s house. Glenn would listen to the two morons and watch Maurice bopping around from table to table giving brothers the brother handshake, touch fists in their ritual ways, Maurice the hipster, a dude black felt cap set on his head just right, and shades. “Maintaining a low profile,” Maurice told him. “No do-rag. The fights, I’m all the way low profile.”

  They had come here in the Lincoln Town Car, White Boy driving, so White Boy had the keys.

  Glenn had gone downstairs to the men’s and neither of the morons was sent along to keep an eye on him; so he was pretty sure he could slip out of here, cross Woodward Avenue to where the Town Car was parked and if he had the keys, shit, he’d be out of here, on his way to California. He had boosted the car off a lot in West Palm: decided on the Lincoln—parked right in front, ready to go—and while the parking attendant was busy moving cars around, Glenn ducked in the shack and got the Lincoln keys off the board—he knew keys—then waited for the right moment to slip in behind the wheel and take off. He’d brought his tools along that day, not sure what method he’d use to pick up a car, and the tools were now in the trunk of the Lincoln, the car waiting for him right across the street. But White Boy had the fucking keys in his pocket.

  Getting in the car wasn’t the problem, it was unlocked. When they got here White Boy didn’t know where the button was to lock the doors, so Glenn said, “Here, I’ll do it,” standing outside the car, the driver-side door open. White Boy walked away and Glenn reached in as though to press the lock button, saw the three of them already crossing the street to the theater, and all he did was close the door. He hoped to God if the doors were unlocked the glove compartment would be too, so he could get in there and pop the switch to open the trunk. Get out his tools, use the slap hammer to yank the ignition and he was off! White Boy could keep the keys. But if the glove box was locked, he was fucked. He’d have to find something to pry it open. But if he took too long—even if he could pop the trunk—Maurice would send the morons looking for him.

  The glove box had to be unlocked. It would be his only chance of getting away from these people.

  He’d wait . . . No, he’d better go right now. There was the bell, a bout over with and Maurice was getting up, heading for the stage.

  Glenn did wait a few moments before saying, “Man, that beer goes right through me. I got to go take a piss.” He hesitated because he expected White Boy or Kenneth to look at him funny or one of them would say he had to go, too.

  All White Boy said was, “What’re you telling us for? You want somebody to hold your pecker?”

  Glenn was glad to laugh. He said, “I have to use both hands, but I can manage.”

  As he walked away the moron said, “Hey, Glenn? Shake it easy.”

  Glenn had his back to White Boy by now and didn’t have to laugh or even smile. He had to get out of here, fast, away from these morons. And if he couldn’t pop the trunk and start the car, fuck it, he’d run to California.

  • • •

  TWO YOUNG MEN IN RED-AND-GOLD KRONK JACKETS WERE working security in the outer lobby. Karen came along in her navy cashmere coat, a navy wool cloche covering her hair, jeans and hiking boots, and the security guys smiled and asked how she was doing. She said fine. They asked to look in her bag. She showed her ID and star and said, “This is all you need to know, right?”

  They said hey and seemed pleased to see her, grinning, looking her up and down in the long coat, as she walked off through the lighted outer lobby and into the darkened theater. From the bar she scanned the descending row of tables and the stage, the ring empty, looking for white people, rap music coming out of speakers somewhere, a few women rising from their tables to make funky moves with the music. Karen saw a white couple off to the side and two guys down front, in the first row of tables. The bartender asked what she’d like and Karen sai
d, “Just a minute.” The smaller of the two guys at the table was getting up, the other one laughing. The smaller one turned, not laughing—it was Glenn—and started this way through the tables. Karen turned and looked at the bartender waiting for her. She said, “Not right now,” and turned her head enough to see Glenn pause at the end of the bar and look back toward the tables, taking his time, before he moved off and was out of view. Going to the men’s room—Karen was pretty sure—wearing a sweater, no coat. She was surprised then, once she came around the bar, to see him heading out through the lobby, hurrying. He couldn’t have spotted her; there had to be another reason. She waited until Glenn was out the door and then went after him. Said, “I forgot something,” going by the two security guys. Outside, she saw Glenn running across the wide avenue of packed, dirty snow, past car headlights creeping along, and into the parking lot, disappearing into the row of cars facing the street. Karen followed, reached the lot but didn’t see him now. She put her gloves on moving in among the cars, stopping to listen, waiting to hear an engine start. The only sounds came from the street. She reached an aisle through the rows of cars and caught a glimpse of a car interior, almost right in front of her, the light on, and then off as she heard a car door slam closed.

  Karen walked up to the front passenger side of the car. She saw his shape in the dark: Glenn behind the wheel half lying on his right side, his hair hanging . . . It looked like he was trying to claw open the glove compartment. His head jerked around as Karen opened the door and she saw the whites of Glenn’s eyes, big saucer eyes looking at her in the light that came on, Glenn pushing himself up straight as she got in with him. The door closed and it was dark again.

  “Glenn, are you trying to steal this car?”

  He said, “Jesus. I don’t believe it.”

  Pitiful. She almost felt sorry for him.

  “I’m ruining your life,” Karen said, “aren’t I?”