THE ALAMO HOTEL looked worse by day. Dirty sunlight canting in through the front window threw the neon letters across the old rug and an older man snoring in the elephant’s-foot chair. He had on a stained shapeless sportcoat over a dirty undershirt and his ankles were bare above deck shoes worn through at the toes. The hole in his gray stubble had one tooth in it.
In that light the man propping his chin on his hand behind the counter looked less like Vincent Price and more like a long stagnant drink of water with shoeblack on his hair. He was wearing the same shawl collar and brown wing tips, but he had shaved recently. Tufts of bloodstained toilet paper clung to his chin like dandelions gone to seed. His runny eyes took in St. Charles and me with a look that said nothing could surprise or repulse him.
“Double’s forty bucks. Up front.”
I said, “Where’s Hank Aaron?”
Recognition sank in like rancid butter melting. He took his chin out of his hand. A piece of toilet paper fluttered like a moth to the counter. “Home,” he said. “With four cracked ribs and a pink slip. I got a scattergun back here.”
“I remember. Mr. DeVries in? We want to talk to him.”
He relaxed visibly. “Eighteen. Upstairs—”
“End of the hall. I remember that too.”
The tight staircase smelled of dust and worse. We kept our hands off the walls. At the top St. Charles hesitated. I looked back at him and he caught up. He had his hand on the gun in his side pocket. We stopped before eighteen and I laid my knuckles against the scaly wood.
“Yeah.” The big man’s voice was muffled on the other side.
“Walker,” I said. “I brought someone with me.”
The door opened a crack. A brown eye looked down at us from near the top.
“Who’s he?”
“George St. Charles. You wouldn’t know him.”
“What’s in his pocket?”
“The ugliest gun you ever saw. I told him to keep it out of sight or get slapped with an anti-blight citation.”
“What’s he fixing to do with it?”
“Shoot you, what else? Open the door.”
The command was just weird enough, or else he was used to obeying orders from men who sounded like they expected him to. Anyway he opened the door. Standing there he blocked whatever light was in the room. He was wearing stiff new clothes from a Big and Tall shop, but the buttons were strained on the plaid flannel shirt and the twill pants rode dangerously low on his hips.
“Stay away from the stomach and lower torso,” I told St. Charles. “Takes too long; he might get medical help. The heart’s too easy to miss. Bullets glance off the skull sometimes. The groin’s best at close range. There’s a major artery there and it’ll all be over in a few minutes. Make the first one count.”
DeVries didn’t move. Neither did St. Charles for several seconds. Then he took the gun out of his pocket.
He wasn’t shaking now. Somehow that seemed worse than when he was. I bent my fingers under the hem of my coat. If I’d gauged him wrong I’d have to be quick. The Police Special was all the way behind my hip.
“Shit.” He thrust the German weapon across his body, turning the butt up.
I took it. I breathed for the first time in a while. “Go home,” I said. “Nineteen sixty-seven’s over finally. Happy New Year.”
He turned exhausted features on me. “How’d you know?”
“You’re no killer. Twenty years ago you might’ve been. Henry’s a long time dead.”
“I hope you’re not waiting for thanks.”
“You can get a cab on Jefferson.”
He walked down the hall and descended the stairs. We listened to the lobby door slam.
“What the hell was that?” DeVries demanded.
“Not a redstick ranger,” I said. “He wasn’t lying to the Wakelys about that.”
“That was him? No shit. What’s his problem?”
“Nothing to do with you. Can we go in, or have you got a woman in there?”
He started a little, then moved aside. “Make it quick. I’m going out.”
The room had a chair, a bed, and yellow-painted walls. A braided oval rug had started to take on the contours of the boards beneath. The window looked out on a block wall. The toilet he’d said he was lucky to have was down the hall, the telephone mounted next to the door. He shared them with the floor, and maybe with the rest of the building. He left the hall door open and hung a leg over the footboard of the bed.
I pointed my chin at the door. “House rule?”
“Hot in here, man. Window’s stuck shut.”
“Headed anywhere in particular, or just restless?”
“Thought I’d take your advice, shoot some hoops. You my parole cop now?”
“You act wired.”
“Yeah. You think I’d be used to sitting around. It’s harder when nobody’s making you. Would you of let that dude shoot me?”
“If he were ever going to he’d have done it up north when we came out of the lake. One siren wouldn’t have stopped him. You didn’t look too worried.”
“I never seen the dude in my life. I didn’t know what was what.”
I told him what was what. He ran a hand over his short beard.
“I thought I was the only one still fighting that fight,” he said.
“Some wounds take more stitches to close.”
“I was a stupid kid. I got no trouble admitting that now. But I didn’t start out to hurt no one. Especially not a brother.”
“He knew that. Finally.” I twirled the chair and straddled the seat. The legs swayed under my weight. I figured DeVries had never sat in it. “We could be getting a break from high up. Leland Stutch has offered to find out some things in return for whatever we scratch up on our end.”
“Who’s Leland Stutch?”
“You never heard of the Commodore?”
“Him. Hell, ain’t he dead by now?”
“Not hardly.”
“What’s his angle?”
“He spent an hour explaining it. The point is he’s got drag.”
“Can he get the money out of Hendriks, you figure?”
“If he wanted to he could draw a check on the household account. What he’s going to do is help us prove Hendriks was here at the time of the robbery. Don’t say you know that. The cops don’t.”
“What’s the cops got to do with anything? Man in jail can’t give me what I got coming.”
“He can if he wants to stay out of jail.”
He grinned slowly and leaned back against the headboard, lacing his hands behind his shaved head. The box springs groaned. “Thought you said you was honest.”
“There’s honest and honest. Gouging stolen money from thieves was good enough for Errol Flynn.”
“You ain’t wearing green.”
“Even Errol would put on gray in Detroit.”
“You believe me about not robbing that armored car?”
“It’s nothing I could take to court. Yet. But yeah. If there’s a way to make Hendriks square up with you we’ll do it. But if he hit that car and killed Davy Jackson he’s going down for it either way.”
“I ain’t paying for eithers.”
“Call a plumber. They guarantee their work.”
Something started beeping. DeVries was off the bed and halfway to the door when he realized what direction the noise was coming from. He hung back. I unclipped the paging device from inside my coat and turned it off. “You got a date for basketball or what?”
“Lady called,” he said. “She’s calling me back. It ain’t worth talking about.”
“I guess not.” I watched him starting to pace. “You letting me do this like we agreed?”
“Yeah, yeah. Shit. You as nosy as one of them guards. I’m getting my ashes hauled is all.”
“You do pretty good for a guy just out of the joint.”
“Coach always said I was a self-starter.”
I decided I was wired too. It was getting so you couldn’t count on two hours’ sleep doing the trick. I rose and turned the chair back the other way. “I’ve got a message. Okay if I use the horn?”
“Don’t tie it up.”
The hallway had been repainted recently, judging by how few numbers had been scratched on the wall beside the telephone. A him of grime was forming already. I bonged two dimes into the slot and dialed my service. The mouthpiece smelled of bad breath.
“One call, Mr. Walker,” said the sugary voice. “She left a number to call back. A Mrs. Marianne.”