Part 14 (1/2)
Do you show up early for a blackmail lunch, or late, or on time? He decided on time would be best, and took a detour down by the student ghetto, a part of it that still had trees and shade.
This was where Qabil had lived when they met. He'd gone to his apartment a couple of times, though the house was less risky. Unless your wife came home early.
Alice's Tea Room probably had its share of clandestine meetings. The only expensive restaurant in a block of student eateries, it had what they used to call a ”shotgun” shape, a long rectangle with one row of tables.
They were at the farthest table, and the two nearest them were empty, with ”Reserved” signs.
Otherwise the restaurant was full.
The maitre d' approached and Norman pointed. ”Joining that party.”
The walls were decorated with mediocre-to-okay paintings by local artists. It occurred to Norman that this was an odd choice for a supposedly clandestine meeting. If the bartender at that pool hall had recognized him on sight, what were the chances no one here would?
Pretty good, actually. The bartender was a fluke; besides his students and the Hermanos crowd, there weren't too many people in town who would know him.
The lawyer, if that's what he was, and w.i.l.l.y Joe and another man, a small skinny weasel with a sallow complexion, watched him as he walked down the aisle. He sat down wordlessly.
The sallow man thrust out a hand. ”The bag.” Norman slid it over. ”I smell gun oil.”
Norman tried to keep a neutral expression while the bodyguard, if that's what he was, zipped open the bike bag and sorted through its contents. ”It's valve oil you smell, genius. I'm a musician. I was cleaning a trumpet.” They might know something about his s.e.x life, but he doubted they knew which instruments he played. Definitely not trumpet.
”It's okay, Solo,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said. ”Professor wouldn't bring a gun in here.” The man zipped up the bag slowly, staring.
He slid it across slowly. ”What outfit you with?”
”What?”
”You've killed people, maybe lots.” He was almost whispering.
”It's in the way you walk, the way you're not afraid. So you were a soldier?”
This man was dangerous, ”Hundred and first. Second of the Twenty-third. But that was a long time ago.”
”You killed men, Professor?” w.i.l.l.y Joe said conversationally. ”As well as f.u.c.king them?”
Interesting that he didn't know that elementary fact. ”As I said, a long time ago, both.”
The lawyer leaned forward, and he did whisper: ”There's no statute of limitations on being a f.a.ggot.”
Norman felt heat and a p.r.i.c.kling sensation on his palms, the back of his neck, his scalp. Adrenaline, epinephrine. He knew his face was flushed.
If they hadn't been in a crowded restaurant, at this moment he might find out how many of them he could kill before he died. Certainly one.
”There ain't no need to be insulting, Greg,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said. ”Let's not use that word.”
”I apologize,” he said. ”This is a financial proposition, not a moral judgment.”
Norman sat completely still. ”Go on.”
”We know that your wife knows,” the lawyer said. ”She paid off the police.” He looked up as a waiter approached.”My name is Bradley,” he said. ”For today's specials, we-”
”I want the special,” w.i.l.l.y Joe interrupted. ”We all want the special.”
”But we have four-”
”We want the first.”
”The grouper?”
”Yeah. What kinda wine goes with that?”
”I would suggest the Bin 24, the-”
”Bring us two bottles of it. p.r.o.nto?”
”Yes, sir.” He hurried away.
”You was sayin', Greg.”
The lawyer paused, staring at Norman. ”To be blunt, it's your wife's money we're after. Her inheritance.”
”We have a joint account.”
”We know that, of course. But your wife seems to have enough on her mind right now. So we thought we'd approach you instead.”
”She'd lose her job,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said. ”Even if she didn't go to jail, for buying off the cops. And you and your boyfriend would get Raiford for sodomy. Separate cells, I think.”
”You might live through it,” the lawyer said, ”but he wouldn't. A f.a.g ... a h.o.m.os.e.xual cop in Raiford.”
”They'd use him up real quick,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said.
One chance for the offensive. ”I don't think you've thought that through, w.i.l.l.y Joe. Qabil has a lot of friends on the force.” He saw the man's eyebrows go up and thought, My G.o.d, they didn't know his ident.i.ty. But he pressed on. ”And he's a family man, cute kids; everybody likes him. You send him off to certain death in prison- yourself not a man well loved by the police-and what do you think his friends are going to do to you?”
”I got friends in the police, too.”
”It just takes one who's not your friend, but is a friend of Qabil's. You may have noticed that the police kill criminals all the time, in the course of their duties. If one of them killed you, he wouldn't go to jail. He'd get a promotion.”
”This isn't about Qabil,” the lawyer said. ”It's about you and your wife. Your wife's job and money.”
”Oh, really. You can expose me as a h.o.m.os.e.xual without naming my partner?”
”This Kabool ain't the only one you done,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said.
”Oh? Name another.” Norman stared into the little man's face. ”Give me one name and I'll write you a check.” There were no others, not in this state, this country.
”You're a piece of work,” the lawyer said. ”You take a false premise and build a considerable edifice of conjecture.”
”Oh, I'm sorry,” Norman said. ”That's your job.”
”You can't f.u.c.kin' turn this around,” w.i.l.l.y Joe said.