They loved the idea. Richard welcomed a hands-on project and Charles was delighted by a paying job that kept him home. Richard took the morning off, and we spent the next few hours discussing my good fortune. I would have my basketball court after all. Despite the avalanche of details, I still had very little to do. Charles promised to let me know if he needed any help, but for the time being everything was covered.

I thought about a celebratory joint but passed. I didn’t want to sit around the house and think about what had just happened. I would manage to find the fly in the ice cube. I wanted to go outside, get back to the cases. But there was one thing I had to do first for the project; I had to talk to Money.

When I arrived at the bank I relearned a basic truth: an owner is not an outlaw. I was treated with the utmost respect. Apparently Lou had laid some heavy tracks. I could have worn my gun without being accused of attempted robbery after they heard his name. It was a basic truth I couldn’t integrate right away since, despite the money palace’s treatment, I still felt like a withdrawal, not a deposit. It was a relief to be back in my car headed for Towne Lincoln and Mercury, though I wasn’t thrilled about kissing the car manager’s ass.

I didn’t have to. He wasn’t there. I asked around, but no one seemed too eager to spend any time with me. It was a letdown after the bank. Maybe I was integrating my new status better than I thought, though clearly I still didn’t look like multiple-dealer options. I finally bothered a salesman into listening. I used a James Garner rap about providing Starring with inheritance money. It went over so well I began to consider buying polyester clothes. The salesman left to retrieve Starring’s paperwork and, returning, loped toward me with a smile and a sheet of paper.

“I thought the name sounded familiar.” He held up the single sheet. “Not much paper, huh?” He almost guffawed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Have you met this guy?”

“No. Why?”

“Listen. The reason there is so little paper is this joker bought the fucking car with cash. We’re not talking low end here. We’re talking top shelf, loaded. When you walk in with that much green there’s not too much to write down.” He looked at me and his grin grew bigger. “You just say thanks.”

Looking at a showroom full of new metal drove home the bleakness of Starring’s apartment. “I understand about the paperwork but I still don’t see the humor. Were you the salesman?” I glanced at the clock. I didn’t want to run into the manager.

“No salesmen for this deal. The manager handled it, but everybody knew. First of all it rarely happens, and second, this guy looked like he crawled out from under a rock. Most of us thought he scored big on a drug deal. I guess not, though?”

I fought the sinking sensation in my stomach. “You guess not?”

“I mean, with you here to give him money and all?”

“Mr. Starring’s looks belie his means.” But not much different from your stereotyped drug dealer.

“No shit. Is he going to get a lot of money?”

I did a professional number and ignored what he said. “I assume your manager checked on the legitimacy of the currency.”

He took a turn at being professional while I reached for the paper. The only thing new it gave me was a date and an address in New Jersey. I pointed toward it. “Out of state residence.”

He looked up from the document suspiciously. “Don’t you recognize that address?”

I avoided his question. “Was this address confirmed or was it another ‘just say thanks’?”

He puzzled over that for a moment but the suspicion never really left his face.

“You’ll have to ask the manager. I thought you worked for his family?”

“I don’t remember saying who I worked for.”

“Well, who do you work for?”

Again I pretended deafness, gave him back his papers, and thanked him before he could continue his questioning. I was just out the large glass door when, in my haste, I nearly collided with the manager. His eyes opened wide when he recognized me. Before he could speak I stuck out my tongue and skipped to my car.

I wasn’t so in love with myself after I scribbled down the Jersey address and thought about what the car salesman said. With all the television I watched, I hadn’t really considered drug money. On top of that, the date on the paperwork preceded the burglaries. Another case starting to solve itself. I’d end up a fucking squire yet. I thought of Lou’s disbelief in magical fixes. At least this one was an easy check. If it was drugs it had to have been big enough for Julie to know about.

I started the car, wondering whether Boots had tried to get in touch. For a moment I regretted not having a machine. It was only a momentary lapse. I really didn’t want to go back home and sit around to wait for a telephone call and contemplate my new wealth. I drove toward Brighton. The skinny beard with his fancy cash car bit at me like a bad case of crabs. A simple conversation with Julie, regardless of what I discovered, was not going to be a strong enough shampoo. If the kid was just a lowlife drug dealer, I still wanted to know what he’d been doing hanging around 290 and the Aquarium. Let the fucker convince me of coincidence.

Also, visiting Starring meant a reprieve from returning home.

I pulled into the cut-though and was surprised to see the creamcolored Lincoln parked sedately under a tree in the far corner. I pulled in next to it, got out of my car, and walked around kicking its tires. The Lincoln was empty and locked. I thought about busting in, but I walked over to Starring’s building instead. The only noticeable change was the orange dumpsters had more shit in them.

I walked into the hallway and rang his buzzer. There was no answer.

I rang it again. A long one, but there was still no answer. I would have left but someone hadn’t locked the downstairs door properly and it was too open to ignore. I walked up the stairs and finished concocting a story. Somehow I still expected to speak with Joe Starring.

I hammered on his door, frustrated when he still didn’t answer. Although I didn’t figure he had left his Lincoln behind, I let myself into the apartment prepared to wait for his return. Inside, I stared through the glare of the naked, one-bulb overhead that illuminated the emptiness Starring called home. Only it wasn’t empty. When I realized the tie-dyed mural on the far wall was a mixture of face, brain, skull, and blood, I held on to my stomach, backed out of the room, and ran like hell.

I sat in the car and tried to regain control of my gut. Television hadn’t prepared me for this. I smoked furiously, trying to rid my nostrils of the smell of blood. Then I tried to remember if anyone had seen me.

I started the car and thought about racing home, but instead shut the engine off and lit another cigarette. I should have looked more closely at the body. But the moment I thought of returning, the abstract blood picture on the wall snapped the idea in half. Still, I didn’t feel right about just walking away.

I hopped out of the car and jogged across the lot to Brighton Avenue. The first bar I entered had one of those exposed phone booths so, after a very quick boilermaker, I kept going. You couldn’t make a fucking private call these days, not even in a ginmill. In a drug store I spotted a real booth back in the corner; I walked in and dropped an anonymous tip to the police. Then I ran back to my car and drove it to another spot in the parking lot where I could see the building but remain fairly well hidden. I wished I had my gun.

I couldn’t sit still so I trotted over to the Lincoln and let myself in. There was nothing, not even a garbage bag, or half-smoked butts. The trunk was different. Its floor was littered with paper, and there was a battered blue gym bag shoved into the corner. It looked as if someone had dumped the contents of the bag onto the trunk floor and pawed his way through. When I noticed Eban Holmes’ name at the top of beige stationery I knew I’d struck gold.

Sirens in the distance; after a moment of indecision I stuffed all the records into the bag, and wiped down the trunk with my handkerchief.

I slammed the lid and walked back to my car, where I wedged the gym bag underneath my spare tire. I got back in, lit a cigarette, and waited for the police to show. The case wasn’t solving itself.

None of the police assigned to the scene were interested in anything but the scene. No flashing lights, and they even canned the siren before they turned onto the block. No big red ribbons or sawhorses. Just one ambulance and a few cops. I was impressed that they had brought the ambulance before they confirmed the call. When I was a caseworker and law was needed, police were a lot more aggressive and hostile than they appeared to be here. Maybe they were more comfortable confronting the dead. If I stayed in this business would it be the same for me?

I pushed the image of the dead kid out of my mind and watched the cops go upstairs. After a moment one of the uniformed officers reappeared and used the radio in his car. I felt a little better when I saw him get out of the car, go to the side of the dumpsters, and puke. I hoped he wasn’t a rookie.

He leaned up against the side of the building and lit a cigarette; I grimaced and lit one myself. His heave had bonded us. We were about halfway through our smokes when a gray nondescript sedan pulled up in front of the building, double-parking on the wrong side of the street.

At first all I could see was a hand snake out the window. Suddenly there was a blue light flashing from the roof. I looked back at the uniformed officer and noticed his cigarette was gone. When I saw who he was looking at I drew on mine harder. Every inch of Washington Clifford was neatly crossing the street.