"Burroughs does illegal cremations and has the remaining ashes mixed with clay and resins, then baked into these forms. So even if the law should suspect, they'd never be able to find a trace of the missing person."
She held the creature out for me and I took it in both of my hands. I didn't know what to say.
"I thought you knew and that's why you came up here. But for the last three days you never said anything about it as you pushed yourself through your exercise routine. I figured it was only right I tell you. I suppose I'm just sentimental." She sat on her desk and crossed her legs, showing a lot of thigh.
I was staring at the statue's monster face, looking for some sign that it was Nap. All it did was make me mad at Wilma again. It was her fault Nap had been shot, her fault me and my ace had tussled. I put the thing back on the shelf, looking closely at the other figures.
"Not every statuette represents somebody real," she said, "but there's enough on those shelves from over the years."
"Thanks, Monique."
"Sure, Zelmont."
I walked out and went into the sauna. Sitting there with the towel around my waist, I cried quiet-like to myself. The other people in there noticed, but nobody asked me what I was going on about. Not that I could have told them if they had.
Chapter 17
We are pleased to announce that Wilma Wells is the new general manager of the Los Angeles Barons. As such she will also enjoy stock options which, when exercised, will make her a minority partner in the club."
If I hadn't been prepared to be blind-sided I might have gone straight playground while driving the car Monique lent me back to town. As it was, the announcement on the all-sports radio station, a live report from the Coliseum, made my head knot up inside. That smart bitch had jooked me good. I wondered what Danny's part was in all this. I couldn't see that roughneck hanging around in the front office, grabbing coffee and a bagel for the queen bee.
Weems was talking, "We are of course hoping that Coach Cannon pulls through. He's undergoing more surgery today and all our prayers go out to him. We are comforted by the knowledge that one of the men responsible for his unfortunate condition has been arrested… "
I tuned him out and kept driving. A little while later, the two clowns on the sports station took phone calls about how this was gonna change the game, how Wilma was making history as the first black woman to hold such a position in the NFL and so on, yakatty and blah. She had made history, all right. But if I had anything to say about it there was still another chapter to be written.
I got back to town around two and went straight to the Barons' offices in El Segundo. I parked in the lot fronting the main building, putting the car way back so I wouldn't be spotted. I knew which office she'd have. It would be the one that had belonged to Stadanko. Of course she'd be redecorating it soon.
I hadn't worked out much of a plan. My idea was to bogard my way inside, find Wilma, and beat her down until security pulled me off her. Then I'd go to jail and spend the next twenty years contemplating what I was gonna do when I got out. Eventually I'd get paroled, go find Wilma, and beat her down again until I was too tired to lift my arms. Simple but effective, as coach liked to say of the best plays.
I sat there running that scenario around my skull but decided that even though it was late in the game, maybe it was time to get on the good foot. Whatever that meant. Instead I split and drove to the Proud Bird. I got a ginger ale and sat in a corner both, the early evening creeping in with the customers. On the TV over the bar the four o'clock news was showing the report announcing Wilma's new gig. I went over to hear it.
"… I think this is the best move we could make under the circumstances." Julian Weems was showing his wolf teeth as he talked. Wilma was standing next to him, and Trace was in the background. One big happy fuckin' family.
Weems was talking. "Ellison Stadanko has graciously stepped aside to concentrate on his current legal battles. In that void the team owners, who I brought together in an emergency meeting, have unanimously selected a sterling individual with a keen mind and impeccable credentials. I can only add that it's about time we did the right thing and handed the reins of power to a young woman who represents the future."
The clip ended. Some dudes sitting at the bar started yapping about whether this was good or bad for the Barons. I went back to my corner.
Eventually I headed back to the apartment. It was as neat as I'd left it. Chekka hadn't had a chance to toss it, plus they knew I wasn't stupid enough to leave several million laying around like stank laundry The couch looked good and I laid down, wondering how I was gonna get my share. After a while I got up and drove over to the Locker Room. The place was open and I walked inside.
''Danny around?" The bouncer had his back to me and was talking to a couple of honeys in straining tops.
"Who's that, sir?" The dude had turned around, and I got a real good look at the flaming cross tattooed on his cheek.
"The brother that owns this place."
"I wouldn't know about that, sir."
"Then how is it you're doing duty here?"
"That would be on Mr. Trace's say-so, sir."
"Oh." I went further inside, expecting things to look and sound different, but they didn't. There was bumpin' music on the speakers, booze at the bar, and fine mamas flowing about the joint. Then I spotted a big man with his back to me at the top of the stairs, standing where he always did by the rail.
"Nap," I said to myself, gulping hard.
The man saw me and waved so I walked up there, everybody around me moving in some other dimension. Had everything been a dream? Was I laying on the field in Barcelona, a concussion ringing the bells in my head? Naw, the truth was scarier.
"How's it going, Zelmont?" Trace was G'd up in a crisp new Hugo Boss suit and polka dot tie. He touched the flaming cross on his cheek.
"Where's Danny Deuce?"
"I understand he had to leave the hereabouts in a hurry." Trace looked at a chick walking past us in a very un-Christian way. "It seems that the younger Mr. Graham is wanted by the authorities for a possible connection in a murder. A rumor has been going around that he had his brother killed to take over the club. Something to do with Stadanko and his illicit affairs."
I knew, and maybe he knew, the cops could have only got that 411 from Wilma. But what did it matter? She'd had this worked out from jump street.
"So Weems has taken over this place?"
"Miss Wilma has. I'm considering a new direction."
"I guess you would be. But don't you want to get back at her for what she did to your boy at the cabin?"
Trace jerked his head like he was shaking off a fly "Let's just say I got an understanding of the order of things since that time."
"Ain't that something?"
"Yes, I believe so." The bouncer came up the stairs and whispered something to Trace. I might as well have been invisible. He wasn't mad about Wilma capping his buddy, wasn't upset at having to dig the grave for the dude, and he could care less about me. He was in tight. I guess the Lord had told him night clubbing was his calling. Or maybe Wilma would turn the joint into one big 24-hour gospel-and-grits diner. I left, not knowing what to do.
If I hung around town, Fahrar or some Joe Friday wannabe was gonna clap cuffs on me for sure. But the thing was I had to get to Wilma. She must have used the money we ripped off to buy herself into the GM/part owner position. Shit.
I drove by her pad, but like I expected there was a for sale sign stuck in the lawn. I peeked in a window between a gap in the shade. The joint was stone dark and it looked like she'd never be back. I got in my ride and drove around some more, lost in a city I knew by heart.