"Frankly, Mark, I find it hard to believe you couldn't remember some of this last night," Greenway said.
"Gimme a break, would you? Look at Ricky here. He saw what happened to me, and it drove him to the ozone. Did we talk last night?" "Come on, Mark," Dianne said.
"Of course we talked," Greenway said with at least four new wrinkles across his forehead.
"Yeah, I guess we did. Don't remember much of it though." Greenway frowned at Dianne and their eyes locked. Mark walked into the bathroom and drank water out of a paper cup.
"It's okay," Dianne said. "Have you told the police this?" "No. I just remembered it. Remember?" Dianne nodded slowly and managed a very slight grin at Mark. Her eyes were narrow, and his suddenly found the floor. She believed all of his story about the suicide, but this sudden surge of clear memory did not fool her. She would deal with him later.
Greenway had his doubts too, but he was more concerned with treating his patient than reprimanding Mark. He gently stroked his beard and studied the wall. There was a long pause.
"I'm hungry," Mark finally said.
REGGIE ARRIVED AN HOUR LATE WITH APOLOGIES. GREENway had left for the day. Mark stumbled through the introductions. She smiled warmly at Dianne as they shook hands, then sat beside her on the bed. She asked her a dozen questions about Ricky. She was an immediate friend of the family, anxious and properly concerned about everything. What about her job? School? Money? Clothes?
Dianne was tired and vulnerable, and it was nice to talk to a woman. She opened up, and they went on for a while about Greenway saying this and that, about everything unrelated to Mark and his story and the FBI, the only reason for Reggie's being there.
Reggie had a sack of deli sandwiches and chips, and Mark spread them on a crowded table by Ricky's bed. He left the room to get drinks. They hardly noticed.
He bought two Dr Peppers in the waiting area and returned to the room without being stopped by cops, reporters, or Mafia gunmen. The women were deep into a conversation about McThune and Trumann trying to interrogate Mark. Reggie was telling the story in such a manner that Dianne had no choice but to mistrust the FBI. They were both shocked. Dianne was alive and animated for the first time in many hours.
JACK NANCE AND ASSOCIATES WAS A QUIET FIRM THAT ADvertised itself as security specialists, but was in fact nothing more than a couple of private investigators. Its ad in the Yellow Pages was one of the smallest in town. It did not want the run-of-the-mill divorce cases in which one spouse was sleeping around and the other wanted photos. It did not own a polygraph. It did not snatch children. It did not track down thieving employees.
Jack Nance himself was an ex-con with an impressive record who'd managed to avoid trouble for ten years. His associate was Cal Sisson, also a convicted felon who'd run a terrific scam with a bogus roofing company. Together they scratched out a nice living doing dirty work for rich people. They had once broken both hands of the teenaged boyfriend of a rich client's daughter after the kid slapped her. They had once deprogrammed a couple of Moonies, the children of another rich client. They were not afraid of violence. More than once, they had beaten a business rival who'd taken money from a client. They had once burned the downtown love nest of a client's wife and her lover.
There was a market for their brand of investigative work, and they were known in small circles as two very nasty and efficient men who would take your cash, do your dirty work, and leave no trail. They achieved amazing results. Every client came by referral.
Jack Nance was in his cluttered office after dark when someone knocked on the door. The secretary had left for the day. Cal Sisson was stalking a crack dealer who'd hooked the son of a client. Nance was around forty, not a big man, but compact and extremely agile. He walked through the secretary's office and opened the front door. The face was a strange one.
"Looking for Jack Nance," the man said.
"That's me." The man stretched out his hand, and they shook. "My name's Paul Gronke. Can I come in?" Nance opened the door wider and motioned for Gronke to enter. They stood in front of the secretary's desk. Gronke looked around the cramped and messy room.
"It's late," Nance said. "What do you want?" "I need some fast work." "Who referred you?" "I've heard of you. Word gets around." "Give me a name." "Okay. J. L. Grainger. I think you helped him on a business deal. He also mentioned a Mr. Schwartz who was also quite pleased with your work." Nance thought about this for a second as he studied Gronke. He was a burly man with a thick chest, late thirties, badly dressed but didn't know it. Because of his clipped drawl, Nance immediately knew he was from New Orleans. "I get a two-thousand-dollar retainer up front, nonrefundable, all in cash, before I lift a finger." Gronke pulled a roll of bills from his left front pocket and peeled off twenty big ones. Nance relaxed. It was his fastest retainer in ten years. "Sit down," he said, taking the money and waving at a sofa. "I'm listening." Gronke took a folded newspaper clipping from his jacket and handed it to Nance. "Did you see this in today's paper?" Nance looked at it. "Yeah. I read it. How are you involved?" "I'm from New Orleans. In fact, Mr. Muldanno is an old pal, and he's very disturbed to see his name suddenly show up here in the Memphis paper. It says he has Mafia ties and all. Can't believe a word in the newspapers. The press is going to ruin this country." "Was Clifford his lawyer?" "Yeah. But now he has a new one. That's not important, though. Lemme tell you what's worrying him. He has a good source telling him these two boys know something." "Where are the boys?" "One's in the hospital, a coma or something. He freaked out when Clifford shot himself. His brother was actually in the car with Clifford prior to the shooting, and we're afraid this kid might know something. He's already hired a lawyer, and is refusing to talk to the FBI. Looks real suspicious." "Where do I fit in?" "We need someone with Memphis connections. We need to see the kid. We need to know where he is at all times.".
"What's his name?" "Mark Sway. He's at the hospital, we think, with his mother. Last night they stayed in the room with the younger brother, a kid named Ricky Sway. Ninth floor at St. Peter's. Room 943 We want you to find the kid, determine his location as of now, and then watch him." "Easy enough." "Maybe not. There are cops and probably FBI agents watching too. The kid's attracting a crowd." "I get a hundred bucks an hour, cash." "I know that."
SHE CALLED HERSELF AMBER, WHICH ALONG WITH ALEXIS happened to be the two most popular acquired names among strippers and whores in the French Quarter. She answered the phone, then carried it a few feet to the tiny bathroom where Barry Muldanno was brushing his teeth. "It's Gronke," she said, handing it to him. He took it, turned off the water, and admired her naked body as she crawled under the sheets. He stepped into the doorway. "Yeah," he said into the phone.
A minute later, he placed the phone on the table next to the bed, and quickly dried himself off. He dressed in a hurry. Amber was somewhere under the covers.
"What time are you going to work?" he asked, tying his tie.
"Ten. What time is it?" Her head appeared between the pillows.
"Almost nine. I gotta run an errand. I'll be back." "Why? You got what you wanted." "I might want some more. I pay the rent here, sweetheart." "Some rent. Why don't you move me outta this dump? Get me a nice place?" He tugged his sleeves from under his jacket, and admired himself in the mirror. Perfect, just perfect. He smiled at Amber. "I like it here." "It's a dump. If you treated me right, you'd get me a nice place." "Yeah, yeah. See you later, sweetheart." He slammed the door. Strippers. Get them a job, then an apartment, buy some clothes, feed them nice dinners, and then they get culture and start making demands. They were an expensive habit, but one he could not break.