8
The cops exchanged a glance. The man BlueSuit was talking about wasn't Clements, but almost as good: "Fat Johnny" Holden, Clements' brother-in-law. But to have done something as totally dumb-ass as simply stealing a guy's wallet would be--
--would be right up that gink's alley, O'Mearah's mind finished, and he had to put a hand to his mouth to cover a momentary little grin.
"Maybe you better tell us exactly what happened," Delevan said. "You can start with your name."
Again, the man's response struck O'Mearah as a little wrong, a little off-beat. In this city, where it sometimes seemed that seventy per cent of the population believed Go fuck yourself was American for Have a nice day, he would have expected the guy to say something like, Hey, that S.O.B. took my wallet! Are you going to get it back for me or are we going to stand out here playing Twenty Questions?
But there was the nicely cut suit, the manicured fingernails. A guy maybe used to dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. In truth, George O'Mearah didn't care much. The thought of busting Fat Johnny Holden and using him as a lever on Arnold Clements made O'Mearah's mouth water. For one dizzy moment he even allowed himself to imagine using Holden to get Clements and Clements to get one of the really big guys--that wop Balazar, for instance, or maybe Ginelli. That wouldn't be too tacky. Not too tacky at all.
"My name is Jack Mort," the man said.
Delevan had taken a butt-warped pad from his back pocket. "Address?"
That slight pause. Like the machine, O'Mearah thought again. A moment of silence, then an almost audible click.
"409 Park Avenue South."
Delevan jotted it down.
"Social Security number?"
After another slight pause, Mort recited it.
"Want you to understand I gotta ask you these questions for identification purposes. If the guy did take your wallet, it's nice if I can say you told me certain stuff before I take it into my possession. You understand."
"Yes." Now there was the slightest hint of impatience in the man's voice. It made O'Mearah feel a little better about him somehow. "Just don't drag it out any more than you have to. Time passes, and--"
"Things have a way of happening, yeah, I dig."
"Things have a way of happening," the man in the blue suit agreed. "Yes."
"Do you have a photo in your wallet that's distinctive?"
A pause. Then: "A picture of my mother taken in front of the Empire State Building. On the back is written: 'It was a wonderful day and a wonderful view. Love, Mom.' "
Delevan jotted furiously, then snapped his notebook closed. "Okay. That should do it. Only other thing'll be to have you write your signature if we get the wallet back and compare it with the sigs on your driver's license, credit cards, stuff like that. Okay?"
Roland nodded, although part of him understood that, although he could draw on Jack Mort's memories and knowledge of this world as much as he needed, he hadn't a chance in hell of duplicating Mort's signature with Mort's consciousness absent, as it was now.
"Tell us what happened."
"I went in to buy shells for my brother. He has a .45 Winchester revolver. The man asked me if I had a Permit to Carry. I said of course. He asked to see it."
Pause.
"I took out my wallet. I showed him. Only when I turned my wallet around to do that showing, he must have seen there were quite a few--" slight pause "--twenties in there. I am a tax accountant. I have a client named Dorfman who just won a small tax refund after an extended--" pause "--litigation. The sum was only eight hundred dollars, but this man, Dorfman, is--" pause "--the biggest prick we handle." Pause. "Pardon my pun."
O'Mearah ran the man's last few words back through his head and suddenly got it. The biggest prick we handle. Not bad. He laughed. Thoughts of robots and machines that played tic-tac-toe went out of his mind. The guy was real enough, just upset and trying to hide it by being cool.
"Anyway, Dorfman wanted cash. He insisted on cash."
"You think Fat Johnny got a look at your client's dough," Delevan said. He and O'Mearah got out of the blue-and-white.
"Is that what you call the man in that shop?"
"Oh, we call him worse than that on occasion," Delevan said. "What happened after you showed him your P.C., Mr. Mort?"
"He asked for a closer look. I gave him my wallet but he didn't look at the picture. He dropped it on the floor. I asked him what he did that for. He said that was a stupid question. Then I told him to give me back my wallet. I was mad."
"I bet you were." Although, looking at the man's dead face, Delevan thought you'd never guess this man could get mad.
"He laughed. I started to come around the counter and get it. That was when he pulled the gun."
They had been walking toward the shop. Now they stopped. They looked excited rather than fearful. "Gun?" O'Mearah asked, wanting to be sure he had heard right.
"It was under the counter, by the cash register," the man in the blue suit said. Roland remembered the moment when he had almost junked his original plan and gone for the man's weapon. Now he told these gunslingers why he hadn't. He wanted to use them, not get them killed. "I think it was in a docker's clutch."
"A what?" O'Mearah asked.
A longer pause this time. The man's forehead wrinkled. "I don't know exactly how to say it . . . a thing you put your gun i
nto. No one can grab it but you unless they know how to push--"
"A spring-clip!" Delevan said. "Holy shit!" Another exchange of glances between the partners. Neither wanted to be the first to tell this guy that Fat Johnny had probably harvested the cash from his wallet already, shucked his buns out the back door, and tossed it over the wall of the alley behind the building . . . but a gun in a spring-clip . . . that was different. Robbery was a possible, but all at once a concealed weapons charge looked like a sure thing. Maybe not as good, but a foot in the door.
"What then?" O'Mearah asked.
"Then he told me I didn't have a wallet. He said--" pause "--that I got my picket pocked--my pocket picked, I mean--on the street and I'd better remember it if I wanted to stay healthy. I remembered seeing a police car parked up the block and I thought you might still be there. So I left."
"Okay," Delevan said. "Me and my partner are going in first, and fast. Give us about a minute--a full minute--just in case there's some trouble. Then come in, but stand by the door. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Let's bust this motherfucker."
The two cops went in. Roland waited thirty seconds and then followed them.
9
"Fat Johnny" Holden was doing more than protesting. He was bellowing.
"Guy's crazy! Guy comes in here, doesn't even know what he wants, then, when he sees it in the Shooter's Bible, he don't know how many comes in a box, how much they cost, and what he says about me wantin' a closer look at his P.C. is the biggest pile of shit I ever heard, because he don't have no Permit to--" Fat Johnny broke off. "There he is! There's the creep! Right there! I see you, buddy! I see your face! Next time you see mine you're gonna be fuckin sorry! I guarantee you that! I fuckin guarantee--"
"You don't have this man's wallet?" O'Mearah asked.
"You know I don't have his wallet!"
"You mind if we take a look behind this display case?" Delevan countered. "Just to be sure?"
"Jesus-fuckin-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pony! The case is glass! You see any wallets there?"