Whatever it was, it had happened a long time ago. Right after World War II, right about when I was getting ready to get born; and now old Ron was easily in his seventies and maybe a little more than that. A nice-looking old man, even not counting the slim waist and square shoulders, with an engaging grin and a lock of white hair that kept falling down over his eyes.
So he looked.
Old Ron didn't linger by the pool. He led the way to the room with the couch and chairs. In the five minutes since we had passed through it last someone had lighted a fire in the fireplace and put out glasses and bottles on a sideboard. A third young black man, perhaps the fire-layer and drink-setter-outer, materialized to take our drink orders, while Ron sat in the armchair nearest the fire, raising his bare feet to the warmth of it by resting them on a hassock. You remember it was August? I could understand that his little tootsies might be cold, but surely there was some better way of warming them than by heating up the whole damn room.
When we all had our drinks, he raised his in a toast, swallowed half of it briskly, and then gave "Jimmy" and me that engaging grin again. "Well, Larry," he said, "what kind of a hopeless incompetent have you brought me this time?"
WGN's switchboard was suddenly flooded with calls in the middle of a Cubs game. Every call was a complaint, and every complaint was the same. The broadcast had been drowned out in the top of the third inning by somebody describing a football game. The complaints were less urgent than the curiosity: who in the world had ever heard of professional football in August?
19 August 1983
9:15 P.M. Larry Douglas
A person in my line of work needs to keep his eyes open. See, I don't have a paycheck every week. There are plenty of weeks when I have a big fat zero, and some when I wind up minus. So I have to make a dollar wherever I can find it, whenever a chance turns up.
When Nyla told me about the poor sap she'd picked up the night before, the way Nyla tells me so many sometimes very useful things, I decided I'd better take a closer look at him. I smelled a possibility, although I wasn't sure yet what it was.
There's always a way to check out the chances if you look for it, and this one was easy. It was no trouble to drop in on his traffic-court hearing—and no big deal to get old Officer Pupp to drop the charges. "If you say he's okay, Larry—"
"I do."
"Then I'll just tell the clerk I had to get back on duty. But tell your pal to watch himself next time."
"I will," I said, and slipped him twenty as we shook hands. That's just a normal business expense for me. In my line of work you want to stay friendly with the cops. It might not keep them from busting you now and then, but at least they probably won't do you any third-degree stuff.
As Mom used to say, I probably take after Grandpa Joe. He was the bank robber, before he came to America and changed his name. Of course, he used a gun. I don't do that, ever, but then when people are so trusting about buying guaranteed flawless diamond rings on a street corner, or investing in warranted sure-to-double-in-value oil stocks over the counter, I don't have to. Unless one of them catches up with me. And as long as I'm tight with Nyla Christophe, that's not likely to happen without at least a little advance warning. So I keep her sweet, in all the ways I can, and, honest, I've got some really good ones.
I keep the Arabs sweet, too, though not in exactly the same way. There are places where I have to draw a line, so I don't do that with them. Any more . . . Well, the other part of that is that they really like their boys younger than I am now, anyway.
Sometimes I think I'd like it better if I were straight, but then I live in the world I've got.
So when I saw what the wimp was into I got the inspiration to get Ron involved. I've kept him sweet, too—a kind of investment, figuring that sooner or later there was a way to make it pay off. When he insulted the wimp, DeSota, I knew I was all right. See, Ronnie's really a mean-natured old grouch, but if you know how to handle him, he'll do almost anything. I know how to handle him. "Ron," I said—grave, serious, open-minded—"you're right. I should have seen it for myself."
He twinkled at me over his Scotch, one eyebrow humorously cocked the way he did. "What am I right about, Larry?" he asked. It was a really nice twinkle. They'd taught it to him back on the MGM lot in the old days, before he got involved in unions and stuff like that. You didn't want to rely too much on the twinkle or the grin, though, because the grin came off like the shutters off Admiral Nelson's gunports, and then boom you were shot dead.
"You're right," I said, "that Nicky DeSota here is a turkey who got himself into trouble with the FBI, and I had no right bringing him down here to ask you to get him out of it."
Of course, DeSota's jaw just about hit the floor. But Ron's jaw was the one that counted. It jutted out. The eyes narrowed. The whole face took on the steely look of the marshal who's just heard the outlaw didn't leave town after all.
"I think," he said firmly, "that you ought to tell me what's up, and let me make that decision myself."
"I don't want to cause trouble for you, Ron."
"Trouble, Larry, is something I'm used to," he snapped, and I could almost see him trying to catch a reflection of himself in the French doors.
What could I do? Exactly what I wanted to do, of course. "You're right, Ron," I said, and began to fill Ron in. It took time.
Ron is not what you'd call swift. Neither was DeSota. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him glowering at the floor, but he didn't look up or say anything.
And, actually, he had nothing at all to complain about in the way I told his story for him. I explained that it was a clear case of mistaken identity, although the person detected at Daleylab was Dominic's twin, as far as all appearances went. Then I paused, while Ron signaled for another round of drinks, and sat for a moment to take it all in.
"This other guy looked just like him, right?" asked Ron, double-checking.
"Just like him, yep."
"And had the same fingerprints?"
"That's right, Ron."
"But it wasn't him," he finished.
I nodded.
"Then," said Ron, alertly summing up, "it was a clear case of mistaken identity, as I see it."
I gave an admiring little shake of the head, glancing at Dominic to nudge him into doing the same. Dominic wasn't having any. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave me was icy cold. He was not at all pleased with me, Dominic DeSota, but he just didn't understand how you get along with old Ronnie.
Ronnie stood up. "Larry," he said, "you and Nicky will stay for dinner, of course." Of course. It was after ten o'clock at night! Only an ex-movie star would keep hours like that. "Just take it easy while I throw some clothes on, all right? If you'd like some music, just tell Hiram here to switch on the stereo."
And he left us to make up, a task I did not think would be easy.
"What the hell were you trying to pull?" demanded DeSota, as soon as the old man was out of earshot.
I soothed him. "Now, just take it easy. Don't you see what I was doing?"
"I hope not!"
"I was getting him on your side, that's all," I explained. "See, Ron's a deep-dyed liberal. He's committed. Unshakable. He was blacklisted in Hollywood, years ago, for union activities, and—"
I stopped, because the young black man was back in the room. "Some music with the missus's compliments, gentlemen," he murmured, and disappeared again. Some kind of long-hair music came out of hidden speakers, not too loud. I was glad for it; it made it less likely that anybody would be listening to what we said. "Anyway," I finished, "he was lucky. He put his movie earnings into Illinois real estate, and wound up rich."