First Avenue (29 page)

“Sure I do. I thought it was you, all right,” he said as he stepped jauntily up to the car.

“Where are you going so early in the morning?”

“Down to the Pike Market. I hear you can get some work unloading when the trucks come in.”

Sam looked at
Henry
with more interest. He had shaved within the last day or so, and he had changed his clothes. Although they didn’t fit well, they didn’t look too bad either.

“You’re looking good,
Henry
. What’s going on?”

“Nothing much. I got me a room at the Lutheran mission. They treat you pretty good there. Say, I told them how I got these shoes, and you know what? They wouldn’t believe me. I think they figured I stole them.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by and set them straight one of these days.”
Sam
spoke the words, but he was looking away from
Henry
and out the front window as another bus stopped at the corner.

“That would be real nice,”
Henry
said. “You think you could do that?”

Again
Sam
looked toward
Henry
, focused, and listened.
Henry
was pale and his hand trembled as he rested it on the roof of the police car, but there was a new look in his face.
Sam
was almost sure of that.

“I could do that. Are you trying to get enough together for a bottle?”

“They don’t let you drink at the mission. It’s not a bad place, either. If I can, I’d like to stay there a while.”

Sam was not sure what else to say. He had not expected
Henry
to confuse him—everyone else, perhaps, but not
Henry
.
Henry
’s face twitched nervously as he leaned down to look into the police car.

“Maybe they’re getting you some religion.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Want to get in for a minute?”
Sam
indicated the passenger door with a nod of his head. “If you’re interested in a job, maybe I’ve got something for you.”

Henry went around to the other side of the car and
Sam
reached over and pulled up the lock.
Henry
opened the door on his own. There was a trace of the childlike pleasure that
Henry
had shown the first time he opened that door.
Sam
looked at the man sitting beside him and felt like laughing.

“Do you know anything about the Donut Shop back there?” he asked without laughing at either of them.

Henry’s eyes followed the direction of
Sam
’s hand to the corner of First and Pike. “Not really,”
Henry
said.

“Ever heard of the owner,
Pierre
?”

“Never met the man.”

“He’s got mean, beady little eyes and a fat butt.”

Henry appreciated the description and laughed.
Sam
found himself chuckling, too.

“Maybe that’s just the way I see him. I’ve heard things, street talk, you understand, but still, I’d like to find out what he’s doing. He opens the store, fiddles around for a while, then takes off down the street. I’d like to know where he goes.”

“You want me to follow him and find out?”

“If you’re interested. I wouldn’t want him to get suspicious or notice you.”

“People don’t notice me much. That won’t be no problem.”

Of course
Sam
knew that to be true. He need only think of himself to know how true it was.
Sam
dug into his back pocket for his wallet, took out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to
Henry
.

“It’s something for your trouble,”
Sam
said.

“I ain’t done nothing yet.”

As
Sam
put his wallet away, he expected
Henry
to put the money into his pocket, but the little man continued to hold it with the same two fingers. They had reached a new level of absurdity as
Henry
debated with himself what to do with the money.

“Consider it a down payment,”
Sam
argued absurdly. “Use it to pay the Lutherans for your room.”

“What if I drink it up? I won’t see nothing then.”

Sam had stopped listening.
Maria
was on
Pike Street
. She looked toward the police car as she drew close, uncertain who was in it—looking again as she passed. He watched her in his side mirror as she crossed
Pike Street
behind him and knocked on the door of the Donut Shop. He turned in his seat and saw her walk inside. He saw her silhouette inside the darkened glass. It was time to move.

He looked over at
Henry
, who still held the bill in his hand.

“Five bucks is no big deal,
Henry
. If you’re going to drink it up, then you’re going to drink it up. You decide, but I have to get going.”

He reached across
Henry
and pulled the handle on the passenger door. It opened and
Henry
got out. The enthusiasm, the delight, with which he had seated himself in the car disappeared as
Sam
closed the door.
Henry
bent down and tapped on the window.
Sam
reached over and rolled it down a few inches.

“Where do you want me to meet you?”
Henry
asked.

“What?”

“Where you going to be? If I learn something about that fella, where you going to be so I can tell you?”

“In the parking lot behind the Donut Shop. Sometime in the afternoon.”

“Which parking lot?”
Henry
asked.

“There’s only one,”
Sam
said slowly and distinctly. “If you’ve got something to tell me, I’ll be there at
two o’clock
or as close to that as I can. If you’re not there, don’t worry about it.”

“All right,”
Henry
said, but he was clearly worried.

Henry walked behind the police car to the sidewalk. He stood behind it and did not come up to the window again. As he drove away,
Sam
saw in his rearview mirror that
Henry
had not yet put the money away.

With the morning under way, the calls began pouring out over the radio. He was sent to a traffic accident on
Denny Way
and wrote a ticket to a man who turned left where no left turn was allowed. Then he listened to the ticketed man express a lengthy opinion about the traffic mess that was getting worse every day.
Sam
could have pointed out that on this particular day the complainer was responsible for the mess, but that would have extended a conversation he was ready to end. For the second time that morning,
Sam
opened the door for a passenger to hurry the exit. As the man stepped reluctantly out of the car,
Sam
smiled his best traffic cop smile and told him to drive carefully.

Sam remained logged on the traffic accident when he drove into the station. If nothing appeared on the log sheet and nothing was reported to Radio, then nothing existed. If they wanted nothing, they got nothing.

It was after
9:30
, and
Markowitz
was one of the few detectives in the office. His back was to the door, and he was typing slowly on an electric typewriter.
Sam
sat down in the chair that was becoming his.
Markowitz
raised his finger for a moment of silence, and
Sam
waited while he typed a few final words.

“Not worth a damn anymore,”
Markowitz
said as he pulled the paper out from the rollers of the machine. “We have typists who do this now. We’re just supposed to talk into little machines.”

“So what are you typing?”
Sam
asked.

“I’m typing up a visit I had with your neighbor. One of those things we keep in the ‘other’ file. How does a guy like you become neighbors with somebody like her?”

“I was there first,”
Sam
said. “How did it go?”

“Okay. She met me over at the hotel. I talked to the girl there. Not much new that I can see. She’s sure jumpy, isn’t she?”

“Who?”

“That girl. You wouldn’t want to drop anything loud behind her. The lawyer said she would ask
Mrs.
Abbott
if I could look for prints on some of
Ben
’s stuff. She doesn’t think that will be a problem. I gather you’ve been in
Mrs.
Abbott
’s house, too?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else I should know—just in case you want me to do my job without sticking my foot in my mouth?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve just been wondering something. How come you trust this lawyer lady when you don’t trust anybody else, and why does she trust you?”

“I’ve known her a long time.”

“Sure. You’ve known
McDonald
and Fisher a long time, too, but that doesn’t seem to help.”

“I know
Georgia
a lot better.”

“How much better?”

Sam was not eager to reveal the details.

“
Jesus Christ
, don’t tell me you’re screwing the lawyer,”
Markowitz
said for him.

Markowitz made it seem simple. Maybe it was simple. It had been more complicated once. No, it had been simple once. It was complicated now.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“I thought she was married,”
Markowitz
said.

“She is—technically.”

“Technically? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means it’s none of your business.”

“Does
Murphy
know about this?”
Markowitz
asked.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What do you mean by that?
Murphy
’s like any other cop. We just happened to end up on this thing together.”

“Oh sure. Who are you kidding?”

Sam thought for a moment whom to kid, then simply shrugged his shoulders.
Markowitz
, who was digging into his folder of papers to find a place for his last sheet, missed the eloquence of his gesture.

“She’s pretty good, though, isn’t she?”
Markowitz
asked, looking at
Sam
again.

“Who?”

“Murphy. Knows her stuff, I mean.”

“I guess you could say she brings a new perspective to this business.”

“You could say that,”
Markowitz
said. “I’ve never worked with a woman cop before.”

“It’s a new day,
Fred
,”
Sam
said, using
Markowitz
’s first name for the first time in a long while. “Nothing is the same anymore. You and I are the dinosaurs.”

“I hope not,”
Markowitz
said. “They didn’t come out too good.”

Sam passed the gates of the Garden of Eden, where bold red signs promised an easy trip to paradise, and stopped at the black asphalt void between paradise and the Donut Shop. He was not surprised and barely disappointed that he didn’t see
Henry
.
Henry
’s absence was not an inconvenience. He had to wait for the girl anyway. Besides, his stomach was satisfied with Silve’s oxtail. He walked toward the alley on the east side of the parking lot, still looking but certain that
Henry
wouldn’t be there.