The girl at the UBS switchboard told the caller that Mr. Joseph Orlando was busy in Makeup and could not be disturbed.
The caller inquired as to when Mr. Joseph Orlando would be available.
The girl said well, probably not until tomorrow morning because he’d be leaving shortly. Doctor’s appointment, she added.
The caller said oh, gracious, was Mr. Joseph Orlando ill?
The girl said that Mr. Joseph Orlando had been mugged on Tuesday.
The caller expressed shock and heartfelt regrets.
The girl thanked the caller. She wanted to know what this contact concerned.
The caller said that it had to do with a personal matter.
The girl asked if there was a message.
The caller said oh, yes, there was a message all right, and that it would be delivered to Mr. Joseph Orlando in person.
At exactly 5:02 P.M. Central Daylight Savings Time, the caller busted Mr. Joseph Orlando behind his right ear with a very stiff right hand, causing him to lurch forward with a sound like the mating call of a bull elk. Willow caught him under the arms, steadied him, hoisted him, spun him around, pinned him against the side of the white Corvette, and hit him in the mouth with a crisp left. This time Joe Orlando was permitted to sag to the ground at the door of his automobile. Willow looked down at him and said, “Joe, better times are coming but they ain’t got here yet.”
From his sitting position, Orlando stared blinkingly up at Willow, shielding his battered face with his hands, bleating, “Aw, give a man a chance, Willow!”
Willow dropped into a crouch beside him, seizing Orlando by the front of his fancy ruffled shirt. He drew him up very close. He said, “Now, looky, Joe, the very next time you try to implicate me in something I ain’t implicated in, you know what I’m gonna do?”
Orlando shook his head foggily.
Willow said, “I’m gonna feed your ass to that big Sicilian broad and she’s gonna bite your balls off, is that fucking clear?”
Orlando nodded, shuddered, spat blood, and said, ‘“I didn’t mean no harm, Willow! I was only there on accounta them pictures!”
“On accounta what pictures?”
“Them pictures Brumshaw had—them dirty pictures of Gladys.”
“Who told you about dirty pictures of Gladys?”
“She did—couple, three weeks ago. I wanted to get ’em back for her. I figured I’d wait until Brumshaw went out, and I’d kick his door in and grab ’em. Then I saw you and Gladys go up there. When you come out I stuck around, waiting for Brumshaw to go to lunch, and all of a sudden the cops got me and they wanted to know did I see anybody around there? What the hell am I supposed to do—lie to the goddamn cops? The big one, that Lieutenant Curtin, he’s a bad sonofabitch. Five years ago I seen him bust a guy’s jaw with a fucking tire iron, for no goddamn reason at all!”
“How long were you watching the Walton Building?”
“Since nine, when it opened.”
“Anybody else go up to Brumshaw’s office?”
“Yeah, some old nun.”
“How old?”
“Hell, I dunno—old is old.”
“What’d she look like?”
“The wreck of the fucking Hesperus.”
“Describe her.”
“How do you describe a nun? All you can see is a face!”
“Take a shot at it—fat—skinny?”
“Sort of skinny. She was wearing glasses and black gloves, that’s all I can remember.”
“What time was this?”
“Maybe an hour before you and Gladys showed up.”
“How long was she in the building?”
“Could of been fifteen minutes.”
“She was in Brumshaw’s office?”
“Sure, she was in Brumshaw’s office!”
“How do you know?”
“I went up to the second floor to use the washroom. Brumshaw’s door was closed, but I could hear ’em in there, hollering at each other. Boy, that washroom’s sure a mess.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“The nun was cussing. Hey, for a nun, she cussed real good!”
“No doubt that it was the nun?”
“Had to be the nun—no other broads went in.”
“Was she carrying anything?”
“A black handbag the size of a Volkswagen.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all? Christ, it was bigger than she was!”
“Could there have been a green folder in it when she came out?”
“There could of been a green folder in it when she went in! You could of stuffed the Encyclopedia-fucking-Britannica in there!”
“But you didn’t see a green folder?”
“No green folder.”
“Did you tell the johns about this old nun?”
“Why, hell, yes, I told ’em! That Lieutenant Curtin had my ass to the wall and nobody messes with Lieutenant Curtin! Curtin hurts people! I told ’em I seen a nun go in and I seen a nun come out and that’s all I told ’em.” He coughed and sprayed the side of the white Corvette with blood. “Hey, Willow, can I go home now before I fucking bleed to death?”
Willow said, “Yeah, Joe, you can go home, just as soon as I tell you what you should do.”
“What should I do?”
“Well, Joe, what you should do is, you should stay the hell out of my life. You’re developing into a first-class nuisance.”
Orlando nodded wordlessly, and Willow got up to walk through the smoky late afternoon in the direction of his rusty Buick, the length of the UBS parking lot away. Behind him, he heard the Corvette’s door bang shut. He heard its engine snarl to life, roaring to full throttle. He heard rubber scream, ripping at the parking-lot concrete. Willow glanced over his shoulder. Joe Orlando’s white Corvette was bearing down on him at a high rate of speed. It was another dozen feet to the Buick and Willow negotiated that distance in three terror-stricken strides, throwing himself up and onto the hood headfirst, facedown, with an acceleration that would have turned Rickey Henderson green with envy. The Corvette rocketed by, its front bumper actually snicking that of Willow’s Buick. Joe Orlando’s Prince Valiant hairdo was sticking straight up like the ruff of an infuriated wolf, his battered face contorted into a mask of demoniacal hate. He whipped the expensive sports car through the gates of the parking lot, onto Ashland Avenue, and into the side of a passing garbage truck.
Willow, thoroughly mesmerized, shook himself out of it to climb into his Buick and guide the weary vehicle through dust, smoke, steam, shattered glass, garbage, and Corvette parts—carburetors, speedometers, fenders, driveshafts, steering wheels, and the like. Two burly black men were dragging Joe Orlando clear of the wreckage. He appeared to be all right, but his eyeballs were rolling around and around, each in a different direction, and a gearshift shaft protruded from low in the seat of his pants. Willow drove north on Ashland Avenue, listening to sirens screaming in the distance, frowning, shaking his head. Someone, possibly Winston Churchill, had said that he wouldn’t give a tuppence for a man who didn’t have a single-track mind. Which made Joe Orlando worth at least a shilling, probably a pound, possibly a ton.