Drawing Dead (27 page)

“What the fuck is he doing, going to a baseball game with Freddy Wisnesky?”

“I have no idea. Also, I've been considering how we might get next to this old man. I want to find out who he is and have a talk with him.”

“If there is an old man. I think he's making the whole thing up.”

Ben shook his head. “I don't know about that. If you were telling the tale, I wouldn't believe it for a minute—”

“Thanks a lot.”

“—but Dickie does not have the imagination to dream up something like this. And that notebook he had—that was real. You could tell that whoever listed all those titles knew their business. Some of the titles listed were pretty obscure. Dickie doesn't know comics well enough to invent something like that. The collection is real, all right, and I think we should figure out a way to acquire it.”

“He probably has Freddy Wisnesky sitting on it with a fucking bazooka. Promised him a new tie or something.”

Ben stood up. “I think it's time to talk to Catherine. Let's go wake her up.”

“Not
that I know of. Of course, I haven't seen Dickie in three days,” Catfish said, picking bits of yellow from the corner of her eye. “I mean, not to talk to I haven't. Except just calling him to, you know, let him know I wouldn't be home. Have y'all had dinner yet? I'm starving.”

Tommy moaned. He was lying on the other bed, digesting four

lobster cocktails, a tray of nachos and four hundred dollars' worth of champagne.

Ben said, “Catherine, are you sure? He's never talked to you about an old man with a comic collection?”

“Just the story you laid on him. Tell you what—if that Freddy's gone, I can go home and talk to him, find out what he's up to.”

“Freddy's not gone,” said Ben.

“Then I'm not going near the place. Maybe I could call Dickie and meet him for dinner someplace.” She shook a cigarette loose from the pack on the end table. “You got a match, Benny-poo?”

Ben pointed at the book of matches in the ashtray. She picked them up and lit her own cigarette. “I'll call him right now.”

“I wouldn't bother,” said Ben. “He went to the baseball game.”

“Dickie? You're kidding. He hates baseball.”

“But Freddy Wisnesky loves it,” said Tommy. He sounded ill.

“Freddy is with Dickie?” She thought about that. “It makes sense, when you think about. They have a lot in common.”

MINT (M):
Absolutely perfect in every way, regardless of age. The cover has full lustre, is crisp, cut square and shows no imperfections of any sort. The cover and all pages are extra white and fresh; the spine is tight, flat, and clean; not even the slightest blemish can be detected around staples, along spine and edges or at corners. As comics must be truly perfect to be in this grade, they are obviously extremely scarce and seldom are offered for sale.

—
The Official Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide

Chrissy was looking forward
to meeting her new friend, Laura, for happy hour down at The Parrot. That Joey. God. The stuff she had to put up with. She drove her Miata, top down, out of the ramp and headed south on Lake Shore Drive, her head buzzing with things to say.

The thing about Laura, which wasn't true of any of her other so- called friends, was that Laura understood what it was like to have a boyfriend like Joey. First off, most of her other friends just didn't get it. They would say stuff, always wanting to remind her that he was married, always wanting to introduce her to some guy with round glasses, a yellow tie, and a BMW. She'd gone out with a few of them. They were like kids. Joey was a fat, self-involved slob, but at least he was a grownup, and he knew how to take care of a girl. Chrissy had enough problems in her life; why should she have to worry about paying the rent? With Joey, at least she knew where she stood, and if he was married, well, so what? That gave her that much more time to herself.

But Laura understood. They had met only a few days ago, at Antonio's, and already Chrissy considered Laura to be one of her closest friends.

Joey had taken her out for once, to his cousin Antonio Battagno's new restaurant over in Old Town. Chrissy bought a new dress for the occasion, a stretchy blue sheath with sparkly gold threads woven into it. The blue was for her eyes, the gold for her hair, which she'd had done special by Robert at the Hair-Um. She didn't know what was keeping it up there—Robert could do amazing things with hair. And new shoes with really, really high heels that, with the hair, put her a full six inches over Joey's modest five feet six. When he'd picked her up in one of his limos, he was so knocked out he'd wanted a quickie right there in the back seat. It had taken every trick she knew to get him calmed down. She hadn't wanted to get all messed up, walk into Tony's new restaurant looking like a mid-shift whore, with her hair all knocked down and lipstick on her teeth.

She'd met Laura in the ladies' room while she was checking her face.

“Isn't that Joey Cadillac you're with?” the woman next to her had asked.

Chrissy had arched her eyebrows, preparing to deliver a cold, dignified Yes. But the woman had looked at her with such wide-eyed wonder that Chrissy found herself smiling.

“Yes, it is,” she said politely.

“Wow!” the woman said. “He's a really important guy, isn't he?”

“I suppose he is,” said Chrissy, who had never actually thought so before but liked the idea that someone did.

“I've heard a lot about him. A guy I used to go with bought a Cadillac from him. He got a really good deal. By the way, my name's Laura.” She'd stuck out her hand. Chrissy thought it was weird, shaking hands like that in the ladies' room, but she'd liked this Laura.

They started talking, and it turned out they both belonged to the same health club. The next day they'd found themselves on adjacent StairMasters, and they'd talked and talked. They were both from Minnesota, land of ten thousand boring lakes, and that gave them both plenty to complain about. And Laura, talk about your coincidences, had a boyfriend who paid her rent every month, so she understood exactly how it was.

“It's like having a
job
.” Chrissy panted. The machine reported that she had climbed one hundred seven flights of stairs and burned two hundred twenty-seven calories.

“You ain't a kidding, honey,” Laura gasped.

It was good to have a girlfriend, someone to confide in.

Laura was sitting at the bar at The Parrot, drinking some kind of tropical fruit thing. Two guys were with her, a slim black man and a gangly blond man in shredded jeans and a motorcycle jacket. They looked out of place in The Parrot, which catered to the yuppie crowd. Laura waved, happy to see her friend Chrissy. Chrissy waved back. Laura said something to the black guy. He looked toward Laura and glided away, followed by the tall blond man. Chrissy joined her, two very foxy chicks at the bar, girls' night out, ready to make the animals wail and gnash their teeth.

“Who were they?” Chrissy asked.

“Some guys I don't know.”

“What do you have there? Is that a Mai Tai?”

“A Virgin Island,” said Laura, offering it to Chrissy. It tasted like mango juice. Chrissy ordered a Mai Tai, staying with the tropical theme but going for the alcohol. When the drink came they decided to move to one of the tables.

“So how's Joey doing?” Laura asked as they sat down.

“Oh, God.” Chrissy rolled her eyes. “He just told me he's gonna have another poker game next weekend.”

“Really? Maybe we should go out that night.”

“I can't. He likes me to be there. I'm his luck, he says. And guess where the game is. My apartment.”

“Oh, God. Really?”

“He's always had them there. His wife doesn't like the smell of seven or eight guys smoking cigars. You believe that?”

The two women looked at each other and laughed. A few drinks later, Laura mentioned that her boyfriend was going to be in town in a couple of days. “He plays poker too, except he always loses. Good thing he can afford it.”

“What does he do?” Chrissy asked.

“He makes deals. He's like a businessman. Say, wouldn't it be a kick if we could get your guy and my guy together? We could double date.”

Chrissy laughed at the idea of going with Joey on a double date. It was so high-school. But after another Mai Tai she started liking the idea.

“I could ask Joey if he needs another player,” she said. “Maybe if they played cards together they'd get to be friends.”

“His name's Joe Crow,” said Laura. “I just know Joey's gonna like him. I bet they get to be best friends.” She put her hand on Chrissy's wrist, suddenly serious. “Sometimes I think about what's going to happen when my guy gets tired of me. One of these days he's going to pull the plug and leave me with rent due. Do you ever think about that?”

Chrissy shrugged and shook her hair. “I can take care of myself. I'm saving up.”

“Are you sure you're saving enough?”

Chrissy sucked her Mai Tai dry. She was not enjoying this conversation, but she respected Laura for bringing it up. In fact, the prospect of being cast loose by Joey had occupied her thoughts on many sleepless nights. She had stashed away a few thousand, but that wouldn't last for long.

Laura said, “I was thinking of a way you might make some pretty good money, fast, no risk.”

“I don't do tricks,” Chrissy said.

Laura shook her head. “That's not what I mean. Look, Joey's got more money than he knows what to do with, right?”

“He's rich,” Chrissy said. “What he gives me is nothing. He bought his wife a diamond necklace; you should've seen it. He showed it to me, the jerk. Looked like something the queen would wear. Then he goes and buys me this ruby about the size of a poppy seed.” It felt good to complain to someone who understood.

“You deserve more,” Laura said. “All the stuff you do for him.”

“I sure do.” Chrissy waved at the bartender and pointed at her empty glass. “What do I have to do to make all this money?”

“Do you know how to wink?” she asked.

Chrissy winked.

“That's good. That's all you have to do.”

Beep.

“If you could see me now, Crow, you'd be yawning colors in about three seconds flat. These heels are killing me, and so is listening to Chrissy 'for cute' Swenson. I look like a goddamn fluffhead. On second thought, maybe you'd like it—all the guys at The Parrot did. It was all I could do to get out of there with my virtue, such as it is, intact. Anyway, we're all lined up for a game this Saturday. Chrissy the bimbo is on, and she says they bet the big stuff, so bring plenty of money. I'm at the hotel now, going to bed. Call me tomorrow.”

Beep.

“Mr. Crow, this is Ben Franklin. I have a business arrangement I'd like to discuss with you. Could you call me at the Whitehall Suites, please? Ask for Mr. Hogan.”

Beep.

“Mr. Crow, this is Charles at Jaguar Motor Cars. Got a little problem here with your XJS. We're going to have to replace
both
front struts, it looks like. Also, were you aware that you have a blister on this right front tire? Anyway, we'll hold off here until I hear from you. That other strut is going to run you about…let's see…about two forty. Give me a call. Thanks!”

“I'm
sorry, sir, Ms. Debrowski isn't answering her phone.”

“Keep ringing her,” Crow said.

“I'll try again, sir.”

Fourteen rings later, a husky voice answered, “Hello.”

“Debrowski?”

“That you, Crow?”

“Are you all right?”

“Just a second.”

Crow heard a cough, some shuffling, the sound of her clearing her throat.

“I'm back.” Her voice sounded a little better. “I swear, spending a night in a bar without having a real drink gives me a worse hangover than I ever had while I was using. I must've smoked three packs of cigarettes.”

“You got a cig going now?”

“Yeah, I got a cig going. You get my message?”

“I got it. You want to pick me up at O'Hare?”

“Sure. Hey, I'm finding out all kinds of new stuff about Franklin and Jefferson.”

“They owned slaves, I know.”

“Ha ha. His real name is Tommy Campo. I spent some time in a place called Fatman's Emporium of Comic Book Arts. Fatman's a real guy. He has one leg in a cast, courtesy of your friend Freddy Wisnesky. Fatman didn't have much to say at first, but he loosened up after I told him I worked with the Coldcocks. He's a fan. Anyway, he says those guys' real names are Tommy Campo and Ben Fink, and had nothing good to say about either of 'em. You ever hear of something called a Stasis Shield?”

“Sounds like something out of a science fiction novel.”

“You got the fiction part right. Seems that Campo and Fink—Fatman calls them the Tom and Ben Show—they developed this special system for preserving investment-grade comics. They used these heavy Mylar sleeves, put the comic inside after grading and notarizing it, and sealed it in with a pure nitrogen atmosphere. The idea was to 'inert' the comic book so it could be bought, sold, and displayed without losing its grade. They claimed that a Stasis Shield-protected comic book would stay in perfect condition well into the twenty- third century. According to Fatman, the idea wasn't all that bad. Apparently, they use something like it to package chickens—Modified Atmosphere Packaging.

“The way it worked, collectors would leave their best comics with Tom and Ben to have them 'inerted,' and what they'd get back would be a color copy of their cover wrapped around a blank interior. Part of the pitch was that the extra-thick Mylar sleeve distorted the colors, which was supposed to explain any slight color differences, and since the collectors paid forty bucks a crack to have their books inerted, nobody was inclined, at first, to open the things up and take a closer look. Fatman says the guys that would want their comics shielded weren't your hard-core comics fans—guys like that want to be able to read their books. Most of them were investors, who could give a shit about what was inside. He said no real comic fan would be fooled. Tom and Ben went after the investment-oriented collectors, guys who don't care what's between the covers so long as they can resell it for more than they paid. You ever hear the sardine story? A guy marries into a family that's in the sardine business. He goes to work in the family business, buying and selling sardines, making tons of money. They got millions of cans of sardines, making a fortune trading back and forth on the sardine market, buying low, selling high. One day he gets hungry, so he goes out in the warehouse and grabs a can of sardines. He opens up the can, and it's full of dry sand. He tries another can, and it's full of sand too. All the cans are full of sand. So he goes to his father-in-law, all upset, and shows him this can full of sand. The father-in-law laughs and says, 'Those sardines aren't for eating; they're for
trading
!”