“What you think he said,” the night man answered. “It was mighty white of you, boy.”
Thomas Edison took the card out of his pocket that the black detective-Wendell Robinson was the name-had given him, picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card for Homicide, Squad Seven.
He said, “That redneck motherfucker you looking for’s driving a ’76 Mercury Montego, light blue, old beat up piece of shit… What?… Wait now, I’ll tell you what. You ask me one question at a time, my man, and I’ll see if I can give you the answers. How that be?”
RAYMOND CAME OUT of Sweety’s Lounge and walked up to the house next door, 2925, the lower flat. Dull light showed in the windows; the porch was dark. He rang the bell. The black man in the velour bathrobe who opened the door said, “How you doing?” stepping aside. “Come on in.”
Raymond wondered if the guy thought he was someone else. He walked in, smelled incense and turning saw clear plastic covers on the furniture, heard Motown music he couldn’t identify coming from somewhere in back, saw a photograph in an illuminated frame of a young man with long light-brown hair parted in the middle and a full beard. Raymond came all the way around to face the black man, Mr. Sweety, standing now with the door closed behind him, Mr. Sweety raising a hand to rub his face thoughtfully and giving Raymond a flash of gold rings.
“You’re not working tonight,” Raymond said.
“Yeah, I’m working. I just ain’t working yet.” He was studying Raymond, eye to eye with him, though Mr. Sweety was much heavier and when Raymond looked at the dark velour robe trimmed in beige and red he thought of draperies. Mr. Sweety said, “We ain’t gonna bullshit each other, are we? You look like you might chew some plug, officer, but I doubt if you smoke what I got.”
Raymond was showing his I.D. now. As he said his name his beeper went off.
Mr. Sweety said, “I like that. Got sound effects. You want to use the phone it’s in the hall there.”
When Raymond came back in the room Mr. Sweety was sitting at one end of the couch with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. He said, “I didn’t think you was the dope squad. They come in, you should see the outfits, shirt open down to here, earrings, some of ’em…”
Raymond sat down across from him. He looked at the photo in the illuminated frame again.
“What kind of car you drive?”
“Eldorado. You want the license? S-W-E-E-T-Y.”
“You own a ’76 Montego?”
“No, never did.”
“You know anybody who does?”
“Not offhand.”
“How’s your buddy Clement Mansell doing?”
“Oh, shit,” Mr. Sweety said, tired, shaking his head. “I knew it.”
“What’s that?”
“I mean I was afraid we gonna get to him. I haven’t seen the wildman in, I believe a year or so. Man runs too fast. I settle down, give up that craziness.”
“You saw his girlfriend the other day.”
“Oh, yeah, Sandy come in, Sandy like her weed. She come in time to time.”
“Sandy tell you why he did the judge?”
“Sandy don’t tell me nothing. Little jive chick run in run out.”
“We can close you down,” Raymond said.
“Man, I know that.”
“Send you out to DeHoCo for a year. I thought you might want to trade.”
“What am I gonna trade you? I don’t have nothing to give’s what I’m saying.”
“The little jive chick ran in,” Raymond said, “but she didn’t run right out again, she stayed a while. Didn’t she?”
“Sampling the goods. You know women, they like to shop.”
Raymond hesitated, then took a chance. “How come she doesn’t want Clement to know she was here?”
The question caught Sweety unprepared. Raymond saw it, the startled look in the man’s eyes, there and then gone.
“You seem confused. What’s the problem?”
“Ain’t any problem.”
“Why would Clement care if she came here?”
“I wouldn’t know if he does or he don’t, where his head’s at these days.”
Get off of it, Raymond thought. His gaze moved to the Scandinavian-looking guy in the photo and back to Mr. Sweety. “Why do you think he killed the judge?”
“I don’t know as he did.”
“Yeah, he did,” Raymond said. “But he didn’t have anybody driving for him. That make sense to you?”
“Man, come on, I don’t know nothing, I don’t want to know nothing.”
“What reason would he have?”
Mr. Sweety sighed. “You have to ask him that.”
“I did,” Raymond said.
“Yeah?… What’d he say?”
“He said what difference does it make. Those were his words,” Raymond said. “What difference does it make?”
“You talking to him like that, what you talking to me for?”
“Because you’d like to help me,” Raymond said. “You’d like to get the wildman off your back, for good. But you’re afraid if you give me something, Clement’s liable to find out.” Mr. Sweety didn’t say anything. After a moment, Raymond got up. “Can I use your phone again?”
In the dark hallway the moving beat of the Motown sound was closer now, coming from a bedroom. Raymond held one of his cards toward the light to read a phone number written on the back, then dialed the number.
A male voice answered. “Lafayette East.”
“Let me speak to Sergeant Robinson, please.” Raymond waited. When he heard Wendell’s voice he said, “Where are we?”
“Got a call out on the Montego,” Wendell said. “Told ’em to get the number, see if it’s on the sheet and tell MCMU where the car’s at. But you see the problem?”
“Which one?” Raymond said. “That’s all I see are problems.”
“They spot him out in Oakland or Macomb County somewhere,” Wendell said, “then the local people got the case. They pick him up for driving without a license, but they can’t take a weapon out of the car less it’s in plain sight. Say they do. Then he’s out of our jurisdiction on some halfass gun charge. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Tell ’em-” Raymond paused. “I’m not worried about jurisdiction right now. But we have to be sure it’s admissible evidence. We find a gun on him, first it’s got to be the right gun, then it’s got to stand up in court the search was legal and the only sure way is if you take him in on the traffic charge and set a bond and he doesn’t make it. Then you can go through the car when you list his possessions. Otherwise, you say you had reason to believe he was carrying a murder weapon-based on what? Shit,” Raymond said. “I can see us losing him again on a technicality.”
“He won’t have the gun on him anyways,” Wendell said.
“He probably won’t, but what’s he doing, driving around? Where did he get the car?… How about Sandy Stanton?”
“Went out, hasn’t come back.”
“What’s your friend say about letting us in the apartment?”
“Yeah, Mr. Edison says fine. Wants to know if we have a search warrant, I told him you’re handling that.”
“Everybody’s into legal rights,” Raymond said. “We see something we want we’ll get a warrant and go back. How about the Buick?”
“Hasn’t moved. Nobody’s gone near it.”
“Okay, call a truck, have it picked up. I’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“I hear the Commodores now,” Wendell said. “You and Mr. Sweety spinning records?”
Raymond was thinking. He said, “Listen, let’s not worry about Clement, I mean picking him up. Tell ’em just try and locate him and stay close. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
He walked back into the living room, looking again at the illuminated photo of the man with the brown beard and long hair.
“Who’s that, a friend of yours?”
Mr. Sweety glanced over. He said, “This picture here?” and sounded surprised. “It’s Jesus. Who you think it was?”
“It’s a photograph,” Raymond said.
Mr. Sweety said, “Yeah, it’s a good likeness, ain’t it?”
Raymond sat down again, nodding, his gaze returning to the heavyset black man in the bathrobe.