silence, waiting for the other fellow to speak. He liked the afternoon sunlight, the way it filtered through palm trees and filled the living-roomwindow wall twenty feet high. Sunlight made a silence seem longer because there was no way to hurry sunlight. You couldn't turn it off. He liked the cheerleader-coach idea too and thought of Woody Hayes. Woody Hayes had probably never spoken to a cheerleader in his life outside of get the fuck out of the way. But this coach would talk to this cheerleader, yes sir, and wait until spoken to.
What he didn't like was not seeing an ashtray around anywhere; he was dying for a cigarette.
"Will there be any problem with the gun?"
"The one you used? No, I don't see a problem. I assume, Mr. Daniels, the gun's registered."
The cheerleader nodded again, thoughtful.
"Yeah, that one is."
That one. The guy still nodding as the detective waited, in no hurry.
"Hey, listen, why don't we have a drink?"
"Fine," the detective said, "if you're going to have one."
He thought a servant would appear and they'd have to wait around for the servant to appear again with his silver tray. But the cheerleader jumped up--let's go--and led the detective through a back hall, up a narrow spiral stairway to an oval-shaped castle door Mr. Daniels had to unlock. Not the wrought-iron crap, Walter noticed, but Kwikset deadbolt double locks. The door creaked. Walter saw shafts of light in narrow casement windows, an oriental carpet, bigger than any he'd seen off a church altar, books from floor to ceiling, inlaid cabinets. Spooky, except for the oak bar and art posters that didn't make sense.
Walter said, "You must read a lot."
Robbie Daniels said, "When I'm not busy."
They drank Russian vodka on the rocks, Walter perched on a stool with arms, Daniels behind the bar--long-legged guy--one tennis shoe up on the stainless-steel sink. Hardly any sunlight now: track lighting, a soft beam directly above them and the rest of the room dim. Walter wanted a cigarette more than ever. There was a silver dish on the bar, but he didn't know if it was an ashtray.
He said, "Detroit, I had a bar down in the rec room, all knotty pine, had these ashtrays from different hotels, you know, different places."
"That's right," Robbie said. "I forgot, you're from Detroit."
"As a matter of fact born and raised in Hamtramck," Walter said. "Twenty-three sixteen Geimer.
Went to St. Florian's, Kowalski Sausages right down the street if you know that area, or you happen to like kielbasa. Yeah, my old man worked at Dodge Main thirty-two years. You know they're tearing it down. GM's putting up a Cadillac assembly plant, buying all that land around there from the city. The city tells the residents, a lot of them these old people, what they're gonna give them for their houses, that's it, take a hike. Ralph Nader, you say GM to him he gets a hard-on, he's mixed up in it now . . . Yeah, technically I was born in Hamtramck, been a Polack all my life." Walter Kouza paused. His eyes, deep beneath his brows, showed a glimmer of anticipation.
"You know who lived not too far away? John Wojtylo." He waited. "The pope's cousin. Yeah, you know. John Paul the Second?"
"Is that right?" The cheerleader gave him an interested little grin.
"Yeah, the cousin use to work over to Chrysler Lynch Road. He was a sandblaster. Only the pope spells it different. Wojtyla. With a a on the end 'stead of a o. He's a Polack too. Hey, and how about that other Polack, Lech Walesa? He something? Doesn't take any shit from the communists."
Walter's blunt fingers brought a pack of Camels and a green Bic lighter from his shirt pocket. "And you live, your residence is in Grosse Pointe, if I'm not mistaken." He looked again at the silver dish on the bar; it was within reach.
The cheerleader was nodding, very agreeable.
"Right, Grosse Pointe Farms."
"I could never keep those different Grosse Pointes straight. You live anywhere near Hank the Deuce?"
"Not far."
"There Fords
What he didn't like was not seeing an ashtray around anywhere; he was dying for a cigarette.
"Will there be any problem with the gun?"
"The one you used? No, I don't see a problem. I assume, Mr. Daniels, the gun's registered."
The cheerleader nodded again, thoughtful.
"Yeah, that one is."
That one. The guy still nodding as the detective waited, in no hurry.
"Hey, listen, why don't we have a drink?"
"Fine," the detective said, "if you're going to have one."
He thought a servant would appear and they'd have to wait around for the servant to appear again with his silver tray. But the cheerleader jumped up--let's go--and led the detective through a back hall, up a narrow spiral stairway to an oval-shaped castle door Mr. Daniels had to unlock. Not the wrought-iron crap, Walter noticed, but Kwikset deadbolt double locks. The door creaked. Walter saw shafts of light in narrow casement windows, an oriental carpet, bigger than any he'd seen off a church altar, books from floor to ceiling, inlaid cabinets. Spooky, except for the oak bar and art posters that didn't make sense.
Walter said, "You must read a lot."
Robbie Daniels said, "When I'm not busy."
They drank Russian vodka on the rocks, Walter perched on a stool with arms, Daniels behind the bar--long-legged guy--one tennis shoe up on the stainless-steel sink. Hardly any sunlight now: track lighting, a soft beam directly above them and the rest of the room dim. Walter wanted a cigarette more than ever. There was a silver dish on the bar, but he didn't know if it was an ashtray.
He said, "Detroit, I had a bar down in the rec room, all knotty pine, had these ashtrays from different hotels, you know, different places."
"That's right," Robbie said. "I forgot, you're from Detroit."
"As a matter of fact born and raised in Hamtramck," Walter said. "Twenty-three sixteen Geimer.
Went to St. Florian's, Kowalski Sausages right down the street if you know that area, or you happen to like kielbasa. Yeah, my old man worked at Dodge Main thirty-two years. You know they're tearing it down. GM's putting up a Cadillac assembly plant, buying all that land around there from the city. The city tells the residents, a lot of them these old people, what they're gonna give them for their houses, that's it, take a hike. Ralph Nader, you say GM to him he gets a hard-on, he's mixed up in it now . . . Yeah, technically I was born in Hamtramck, been a Polack all my life." Walter Kouza paused. His eyes, deep beneath his brows, showed a glimmer of anticipation.
"You know who lived not too far away? John Wojtylo." He waited. "The pope's cousin. Yeah, you know. John Paul the Second?"
"Is that right?" The cheerleader gave him an interested little grin.
"Yeah, the cousin use to work over to Chrysler Lynch Road. He was a sandblaster. Only the pope spells it different. Wojtyla. With a a on the end 'stead of a o. He's a Polack too. Hey, and how about that other Polack, Lech Walesa? He something? Doesn't take any shit from the communists."
Walter's blunt fingers brought a pack of Camels and a green Bic lighter from his shirt pocket. "And you live, your residence is in Grosse Pointe, if I'm not mistaken." He looked again at the silver dish on the bar; it was within reach.
The cheerleader was nodding, very agreeable.
"Right, Grosse Pointe Farms."
"I could never keep those different Grosse Pointes straight. You live anywhere near Hank the Deuce?"
"Not far."
"There Fords
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