Boldt (14 page)

“Florian would be touched, he really would,” Draper says, “to know that Styles is in town but it's okay; Boldt figures it's only a sentimental journey. Just out of interest, where do you get all this information about the private life of Albert Styles?”

“Does it matter?” I ask him.

Draper looks at me for a moment or two then he turns away, walks over to his desk, then turns back again and leans on the desk edge.

“All right,” he says. “But what does matter is this: I want Styles out of this city before your brother's in. I don't care how. But that's what I want.”

“Maybe Mr. Florian could help us on that one,” I say to him. “I mean, when he finds out he's here.”

Draper steps forward again even closer this time.

“Don't push it, Boldt,” he says. “Don't push by going too deep into those things.”

I shrug. “So now we devote our time to Styles?” I say to him.

“Until he's out, yes. And don't take long. Whoever sent that letter can still write.”

Murdock and I leave Draper's office and while we're going down in the elevator, Murdock remarks, “I may be a lousy cop, but I guess I can figure out your source of information.”

“Yeah, you may be a lousy cop,” I tell him.

When we get downstairs I check on the cab company and a quarter of an hour later I have the address where Styles was dropped--- 1418 Glendale Avenue. So with that little piece of information Murdock and I get back in the car and drive east on Beacon for twenty minutes or so and then we're on Glendale Avenue looking out for number 1418.

Glendale Avenue is a nice part of town if you like the kind of dead life the rising young executives and their families like, if you like the neat lawns and the ranch-style houses and the freshly painted mailboxes. On Glendale Avenue even the dust seems neater than in any other part of town.

Number 1418 is on the left-hand side of the avenue, no different to all the rest, just as neat, just as antiseptic looking. Murdock parks the car and we get out, cross the empty street and walk up the path. On the lawn there are some kid's toys, a bike, a baseball bat.

We climb the steps to the front door and Murdock rings the bell; musical chimes echo inside the house and then Glendale Avenue is quiet again. We wait a few moments and then Murdock pushes the bell again. While he's doing that, there is a shadow behind the frosted glass and then the door is opened and we're facing the ex-wife of Albert Styles. She's around thirty years old and she looks as if there's been some color in her family tree at some time or another. The way she looks at us she doesn't need to see our badges to know what we want. We all look at each other for a moment or two and then she says, “I wondered if you guys'd be around.”

“We'd like to ask a few questions,” I say to her.

“Sure,” she says, turning away from the door. “Whatever you say.”

We go through the door, close it behind us and follow her across the hall into a large living room. As she goes through the door she says, “I told him. I said, ‘If you come here, they'll be on your neck, bound to be. Why don't you have Pauly come and stay with you?' But he said no, he wanted to come here, it would suit him.”

She goes over to the divan, sits down and takes a cigarette out of a box on the table in front of the divan. Murdock and I sit down in chairs opposite her. When she's lit her cigarette she says, “But I knew you'd be around.”

“Mrs. Styles—”

“The name's Burnett. Mrs. Barbara Burnett. I'm a widow; that's how I'm known around here.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “Mrs. Burnett. How long have you been parted from your husband?”

“You mean did I ever know what he did while I was married to him? Did I know him when there was all that stuff in the papers where nobody could prove he'd knocked over some guys but everybody said he did it anyhow?” She shakes her head. “When I knew him he was a runner. A bagman. That's what he was when I knew him.”

“And now? Do you believe what they all say even though it couldn't be proved?”

“Well,” she says, “I'll tell you. I always knew what he was—that he was in the rackets. But now he's out with my boy and that boy is my life, so do you think I'd let that be if I thought what everybody said was right?”

I shrug.

“Everything's possible,” I tell her.

“It sure as hell is,” she says.

There is a silence.

“So why did you separate?” Murdock asks.

“That's not really any of your business,” she says, “but I don't mind telling you. We didn't officially. He just went away. He left me a lot of money and a note and he went away. And since then he sends me money every quarter, plenty of money, more than I really need. So I live here in this nice house with my kid. And that's all.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Does it matter?”

I don't say anything.

“Well, it wasn't because of another woman, that's for sure. In a way I wish it had been. But it wasn't. I guess he just got tired of me, that's all. Not even that; you have to feel something for somebody before that feeling wears out.”

“And you didn't remarry?”

“No,” she says. “Nobody else came along, at least nobody who could take his place.”

“You make him sound like a fish on a slab and then say nobody could take his place,” Murdock says. “I mean, which is it?”

The woman shakes her head and begins to answer but I don't want to hear another description of the charms of Albert Styles so I break in. “We're wasting time. Where's Styles now?”

“What do you want him for?”

“Like you said earlier that's not really any of your business.”

She stubs her cigarette out in a cut-glass ashtray.

“Jesus,” she says. “The kid's only been with him an hour.”

Murdock and I don't respond. Styles's ex-wife leans back on the divan.

“The zoo,” she says. “He's taken him to the zoo. Then they're going to eat at the restaurant there.”

I stand up and so does Murdock.

“What about Pauly?” she says.

“What makes you think we're going to take Styles downtown?”

Now it's her turn to say nothing.

Murdock says, “If we have to talk someplace else, your boy'll be looked after.”

“Sure,” she says.

Murdock and I turn to go out of the room but before we can get to the door Styles's ex-wife says, “Oh, by the way.”

We stop and turn back to look at her. For a moment she does nothing then very deliberately she leans forward and spits on the carpet in front of us, and when she's done that, she settles back into her previous position looking at us all the time.

She doesn't speak. Murdock and I turn away again and go out of the house into the sunlight. As we walk down the garden path Murdock says to me, “She must have meant it because that was a really expensive carpet.”

Murdock and I wander through the warm sunlit smells of the zoo, me smoking, Murdock occasionally delving into the bag of popcorn he's carrying.

“This is the first time I ever came here, you know that?” Murdock says. “I never once got to bring my kids down here.”

“Probably a lucky break,” I tell him. “Like the rest of the kids today they'd probably have asked why don't they have pigs at the zoo?”

We walk along a little more and then, as we round the corner of the lion house, I see Styles and his son, hand in hand, about fifty feet ahead.

“There you go,” I say to Murdock and Murdock scans the crowd for a second or two until he fastens onto Styles.

“That's nice,” Murdock says. “My feet were beginning to ache.”

I look at my watch. It's twelve forty-five. The restaurant is way over on the left and Styles and his kid seem to be moving in that direction.

“Let's go and get our lunch,” I say to Murdock. “I guess it's time for the animals to get fed.”

We drift over toward the restaurant and watch Styles and the kid move in the same direction. Eventually they climb the broad wooden steps toward the restaurant's entrance.

“What do we do about the kid?” Murdock says.

“How do you mean?” I ask him.

“When we talk to Styles,” Murdock says.

“We don't do anything,” I tell him. “The kid is Styles's responsibility not ours.”

We climb the steps and go into the restaurant. Styles and his kid are moving down the endless counter, picking stuff out and putting it on their trays. Murdock and I stand by the be-ginning of the counter, watching until Styles and his kid have filled their trays, moved away from the counter and decided which table they're going to have. When they've sat down Murdock and I thread our way through the tables until we're at Styles's table. When we get there he's in the process of unloading the trays and he carries on doing this, taking no notice whatsoever of our presence, but the kid is different; he tries to attract Styles's attention, tell him about the two guys standing there just looking at them, but Styles just grins and says to his kid, “I know. I already seen them.”

Then Murdock and I sit down and watch Styles until he's finished and when he's done that he says, “Pauly, I forgot to pick up any sugar; go get some for me, will you?”

The kid, almost the image of his mother only a bit darker, looks at Murdock and me and then gets up and moves off from the table.

Styles says, “You guys want to talk to me, it's when the kid isn't around. If you start talking now all I do is get up and walk away and there won't be nothing you can do about it. Sure you can take me downtown on any number of excuses but I like to plan ahead. And I figured supposing cops got in my way while I'm visiting with my boy, it might be a good idea to hire myself a good lawyer; you probably heard of him—a guy called O'Connell. He'll move me out inside of an hour, so if you know that then you'll wait until you think you have something good enough to keep me down there, and I can guarantee that you're not going to come up with anything good enough because I'm clean. I'm whiter than white, man.”

“Sure you are, nigger,” I say to him.

Styles grins at me.

“Cool down,” he says. “Ain't nothing like that going to get under my skin, you must know that.”

He unfolds a napkin, tucks it in the collar of his shirt and says, “But on the other hand, if you want to talk to me, that'd be nice but after I've eaten and without the kid.”

“You're sure you can spare the time?” Murdock asks him.

“Leave it,” I say to Murdock. “Let him have his moment. Let's eat; I'd rather not talk to him on an empty stomach.”

Styles grins again. “We'll talk outside, okay?” he says. “We'll sit and talk and my kid can watch the animals.”

Murdock begins to step forward but I put my hand on his arm saying, “I'm hungry. Let's go and get a tray.”

Styles's kid comes back and I turn away from the table. Murdock follows me and we join the line at the counter.

“That black bastard,” Murdock mutters. “We should smash his teeth in.”

“We don't have to do that, at least not yet,” I tell him. “It's good he should think he can push us around. If he thinks we're hicks, it's in our favor not his.” We fill our trays and go and sit at a table not too far away from where Styles is.

While we're eating Murdock says, “I wonder what the kid thinks his old man does for bread?”

“Maybe he thinks he's in civil rights,” I tell him.

After that Murdock and I finish our lunch in silence, and occasionally I look over at Styles and his kid. Styles is grinning away and joking making the kid giggle all the time, and never once does Styles look over in our direction, only at the end of their meal as if to tell us he's ready to give us a sign. Then he gets up, takes his kid by the hand and weaves his way through the tables toward the exit, Styles all relaxed and slow-moving, the kid all tense with the occasion of holding his daddy's hand.

Murdock finishes the remains of his coffee and we both get up and follow Styles across the restaurant out into the sunlight. We stand at the top of the restaurant steps and watch as he takes his kid over to the bench opposite the monkey house. Styles takes some money out of his pocket, gives it to the kid and sends him off. After that Styles sits down on the bench and takes out a pack of cigarettes. Murdock and I go down the steps over to the bench, and when we get there Murdock sits down on one side of Styles and I sit down on the other. Styles has left his pack of cigarettes lying on the bench seat next to him so I pick up the pack, take out a cigarette and put the pack down again.

“What about one for your buddy?” Styles says.

“I don't care for that brand,” Murdock says.

“Okay,” Styles says. “So let's talk. I mean, you do want to talk to me?”

“We've been told to,” I tell him. “There's a difference.”

“Sure,” Styles says.

I light my cigarette.

“You've got us all wrong,” I say to him. “I mean, you seem to be assuming that we've come down here to bust you, come what may. I mean, you must realize, in our little town, a guy like you is one hell of a celebrity. I mean, you've really got some fan club down at the department, the way you still happen to be walking around after all the action you've been responsible for. Jesus, it almost got that we should draw lots as to who should come and talk to you but we were lucky—the chief gave us the detail. And you've got to admit that your arrival has caused an awful lot of speculation as to why you're in this particular town because when you pay a visit, there's usually a reason, so they ain't no use, Massuh, in playing it like Stepin Fetchit, is there?”

For the first time Styles lets his grin slip a little, but he fights that, and then he says, “I guess you're right. Maybe I shouldn't worry too much. They got to give you guys something to do, after all.”