Trust Me (26 page)

    He saw the Tempo slow down and turn right on Albany. The houses were old and close together, California ranch style, with big front porches. He watched her pull into a driveway, park and get out. O'Clair cruised by and saw the address over the front door as the purple-haired girl walked up the driveway to the side of the house. He noticed there was a two-car garage in back.

    He drove around the block, searching for 310 and found it and parked behind a Ford F-150 with a camper top over the bed. He sat back against the cracked leather seat checking things out. There was no hurry. He saw a teenager pushing a stroller along the sidewalk. She glanced at O'Clair and looked away, minding her own business. In this neighborhood he could've been serving a warrant or repossessing a car or arresting someone who'd skipped bond.

    O'Clair was thinking about the bowhunter from the trailer park. He'd found out the guy was a hick with a police record from Eagle Bend, Minnesota, named Lloyd Henry Diehl. He was in police custody, Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, a second floor private room. The Southfield cops that showed up in response to a 911 emergency—gunshots fired at the Chateau Estates Mobile Home
Community—found a.45 semiautomatic handgun, and a ring stolen from the Lou Starr residence in Bloomfield Hills, O'Clair connecting Bobby and Karen now.

    Lloyd was going to be moved to the Oakland County Jail hospital in twenty-four hours, O'Clair had learned. So if he was going to pay him a visit, he better do it quick.

    He drove to Beaumont and picked up a bouquet in the gift shop, cheapest one was $15, and hung around the second floor waiting room, watching the nurses' station, and when it seemed like something crazy was happening—all the nurses freaking out and running down the hall—O'Clair made his move, got up with the bouquet and walked down the hall.

    Lloyd was watching TV and glanced up when O'Clair entered and said: "Dude, you're in the wrong room."

    "My sister dated a guy from Minnesota, Jim Dudley," O'Clair said. "You don't by any chance know him, do you?"

    "The hell're you talking about?" Lloyd said.

    "These are for you," O'Clair said. He picked up a water pitcher on the table next to Lloyd, pulled the top off and stuffed the freshly cut ends of the flowers in it. Lloyd was flat on his back in bed staring at the TV. It looked like a Seagal action film, the one where Seagal was in a coma for seven years and woke up the day someone was coming to kill him. Lloyd's leg was in a cast elevated by a contraption of silver chains. "You eat a lot of hot dish up there, I understand." O'Clair could see one of the silver hoops of the handcuff locked around the steel bed frame, the other one attached to Lloyd's left wrist. The bed had metal sides that flipped up and locked in position to keep patients from falling out. The only way Lloyd could get out of the room was to drag the bed on one leg. "What exactly is hot dish?"

    Lloyd looked at him now. "You start with a can of Campbell's mushroom soup." He split the name Camp-bell's making it two names. "After that it's anything you can think of. There's hamburger and wild rice hot dish. Chicken and potato hot dish. And my personal favorite, ham and lima bean hot dish."

    Hot dish sounded like the food O'Clair grew up on, casseroles his mother used to overcook. He glanced down at Lloyd, "Where's Bobby? You going to take all the heat while he's out having fun?"

    "You with the A-rabs?"

    "What difference does it make?"

    "I don't have the money," Lloyd said.

    "I know," O'Clair said. "How'd you get hooked up with Karen?"

    "We broke into her house one night," Lloyd said.

    "Got seduced by her charm, huh?" O'Clair said.

    Lloyd said, "I never bought it myself."

    "But you went along with it," O'Clair said. "Where is she?"

    "Somewhere with a whole shitload of money is my guess."

    Lloyd turned away, fixing his attention on the TV now. Seagal was in a karate outfit practicing his moves. O'Clair wondered where he got the outfit and what it was called. "You seen this one?" he said. "Hit men coming to kill him."

    "No," Lloyd said, "and I don't want to know, okay?"

    O'Clair studied his leg hanging in traction. "That nine hits with some force, doesn't it?"

    "What do you know about it?"

    "I know if you don't tell me where Bobby's at there's going to be some serious complications."

    Lloyd picked his cup up off the table and took a sip of water. "Doctor said I shouldn't get excited."

    "We're talking," O'Clair said. "Just lay back and relax."

    Lloyd put the cup back on the table and said, "What is it you want to know?"

    "Where's your sidekick?"

    "If I had to guess, I'd say his girlfriend's."

    "See," O'Clair said, "that wasn't so tough was it?"

    As soon as he finished with the girl with the purple hair he'd drive downtown and visit Megan, and if he was lucky Bobby would be there this time. He got out of the car and walked up the driveway, hoping someone didn't come out of the house and ask him what he wanted. In the tan sport coat and Hawaiian shirt, he didn't look like he was from DTE or Edison. He saw the back of Ariana's house and her garage. Smoke was pouring out of the grill next door and a guy in a tank top rushed out and threw the top open, releasing a white cloud that drifted up over the backyard and disappeared. The guy was dousing it with water now, and the grill hissed and more smoke rose.

    O'Clair crossed a short expanse of burned-out grass and swung his leg over a short rotting picket fence that separated Ariana's property from her neighbor's. He moved along the side of a garage that needed paint, to a door. He turned the knob. It was locked. He leaned his shoulder against the wood and put his weight behind it pushing with his legs. The wood groaned. He tried it again, putting everything he had into it, and the door gave and now he was in the semidark garage that was filled wall to wall with stuff.

    There were stacks of old newspapers, tools and boxes piled up to the ceiling, motorcycle frames and parts. He glanced at the front page of a
Detroit News
dating back to 1969. The headline said, "Man Walks on Moon." Another paper had Kirk Gibson on the front page raising his arms in victory after the Tigers won the

    World Series in '84. O'Clair had gone to the game, remembered Gibson's game-winning home run.

    There were boxes of records. He pulled out several albums scanning the covers:
Live at Leeds,
The Who; Big Brother and the Holding Company with Janis Joplin; and a group called Electric Flag, he'd never heard of. Behind the wall of boxes he saw a vintage Harley with a custom paint job. Sweat dripped down his forehead into his eye. He had to catch his breath and sucked in air that was stale and musty and he coughed. He was way out of shape and had to do something about it after he got the money. Start exercising again.

    It was a two-car garage and there were two small windows in the garage door. He wiped a line of dust away and could see the house.

    "What's he doing here?" Fly said.

    "Looking for Karen," Virginia said. "I want to find out what he wants." The truth was, she was also attracted to him.

    "Maybe he's an old friend," Fly said, "that ever occur to you?"

    "I doubt it," Virginia said. "My sister doesn't have friends like that."

    "What's he doing in the garage?" Fly said. "Better not be messing up my shit."

    Virginia said, "How could you tell?"

    Fly gave her the evil eye. His real name was Gary Garringer. He'd gotten the name Fly before Virginia ever met him. Fly said he used to take acid at parties and think he'd turned into a fly. He'd put on his leather aviator helmet and goggles and move around buzzing at people. That all stopped one night when a guy who called himself the Lizard blew a flaming mouthful of Jack Daniel's into Fly's face. He lost his eyebrows but the name stuck.

    Most of the people who knew Fly had no idea what his real name even was.

    She watched the big guy come across the burned-out lawn to the back of the house. Virginia swung the door open and said, "Won't you come in. I've been expecting you."

    His face had the same confused expression it had at the store. She didn't have a plan—just invite him in and see why he was looking for Karen. But, as usual, Fly screwed everything up. He came in behind the guy and hit him in the back of the head with this thing he called his
schlepper,
a leather sack filled with ball bearings.

    The big guy didn't go down, it was amazing. He turned and threw an elbow that caught Fly and knocked him off his feet. Virginia lifted the heavy iron skillet off the stove and swung it and hit him on top of the head. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. She didn't mean to hit him that hard and hoped he was okay.

    Fly was slow getting up.

    "I wanted to talk to him," Virginia said. "How am I going to do that now?"

    "Don't blame me," Fly said. "You're the one who clocked him with the fry pan."

    "You didn't give me any choice," Virginia said. "He was going to kick your ass."

    "He got lucky," Fly said going through the guy's pockets now.

    Virginia said, "You're lucky I was here to save you."

    Fly had the guy's wallet. He opened it and took out his driver's license. "His name's O'Clair. That mean anything to you?"

    Virginia shook her head, but the name did sound familiar now that she thought about it. He worked for the Arab guy Karen used to go out with.

    Fly dragged the guy by his feet to the basement door, bent over trying to pick him up. He was a load. She could hear his body bang on the steps as Fly took him down to the dungeon.

    Virginia was rolling a joint when Fly appeared a few minutes later, breathing hard.

    "Why's this dude looking for your sister?" Fly grabbed her arm, wrapping his hand around her biceps. "This have something to do with the car I picked up? You know something you're not telling me?"

    "Stop it," Virginia said, "that hurts."

    Fly said, "You holding out on me?"

    "No," Virginia said.

    Fly let her go. "You better not be. Where's Karen at?"

    "I don't know. I've been calling her cell phone all day. She doesn't answer."

    Fly gave her his mean biker look, trying to be a badass.

    "You think she calls me up," Virginia said, "tells me what she's doing every minute? Hey, Gina," she said in a voice trying to sound like Karen, "I'm going to take out the garbage, I just wanted to let you know."

    "Don't get smart with me," Fly said.

    He had the same look on his face the night he hit her. Hauled off and decked her because she didn't bring him a beer fast enough. I'm not your slave, Virginia had said at the time, and he'd lost it. Her cheek was black-and-blue for weeks. She split after that, went to live with her mom.

    Fly showed up a week later and said he was sorry and asked her to come back, and against her better judgment, she did. Karen told her she was nuts. If he hits you once, he'll do it to you again. Virginia realized she was afraid of Fly and always would be. "I'm going to see her tonight, you forget? Me, Mom and Karen—it's girls' night out."

    "You have all the fun, don't you? If you're lucky, Mom will tell you a few of her entertaining choir stories. Or what she did yesterday."

    Fly could be a real dick.

    Karen wanted to drive to the Bingham Center and say goodbye to her friend Mika, a former model from the Czech Republic who ran the Elite Model Agency, the company that had represented her for fifteen years, but realized it was too dangerous. Karen phoned her from Schreiner's house.

    "I can't believe you're leaving," Mika said, a hint of an accent still there after twenty years in the U.S. "I'll miss you."

    "Me too," Karen said.

    "Listen," Mika said. "There were two men here looking for you earlier. One asked for you by name. He said he wanted to hire you."