But then Morris calls himself an idiot. If McFarland had searched his room, he would have been waiting with a couple of cops, and the cops would have handcuffs.
Nevertheless, he snatches open the closet door to make sure the Tuff Totes are where he left them. They are. He takes out the money and counts it. Six hundred and forty dollars. Not great, not even close to what was in Rothstein’s safe, but not bad. He puts it back, zips the bag shut, then sits on his bed and holds up his hands. They are shaking.
I have to get that stuff out of here, he thinks, and I have to do it tomorrow morning. But get it out to where?
Morris lies down on his bed and looks up the ceiling, thinking. At last he falls asleep.
13
Monday dawns clear and warm, the thermometer in front of City Center reading seventy before the sun is even fully over the horizon. School is still in session and will be for the next two weeks, but today is going to be the first real sizzler of the summer, the kind of day that makes people wipe the backs of their necks and squint at the sun and talk about global warming.
When Hodges gets to his office at eight thirty, Holly is already there. She tells him about her conversation with Tina last night, and asks if Hodges will talk to Howard Ricker, aka Ricky the Hippie, if he can’t get the story of the money from Pete himself. Hodges agrees to this, and tells Holly that was good thinking (she glows at this), but privately believes talking to Ricker won’t be necessary. If he can’t crack a seventeen-year-old kid – one who’s probably dying to tell someone what’s been weighing him down – he needs to quit working and move to Florida, home of so many retired cops.
He asks Holly if she’ll watch for the Saubers boy on Garner Street when school lets out this afternoon. She agrees, as long as she doesn’t have to talk to him herself.
‘You won’t,’ Hodges assures her. ‘If you see him, all you need to do is call me. I’ll come around the block and cut him off. Have we got pix of him?’
‘I’ve downloaded half a dozen to my computer. Five from the yearbook and one from the Garner Street Library, where he works as a student aide, or something. Come and look.’
The best photo – a portrait shot in which Pete Saubers is wearing a tie and a dark sportcoat – identifies him as CLASS OF ’15 STUDENT VICE PRESIDENT. He’s dark-haired and good-looking. The resemblance to his kid sister isn’t striking, but it’s there, all right. Intelligent blue eyes look levelly out at Hodges. In them is the faintest glint of humor.
‘Can you email these to Jerome?’
‘Already done.’ Holly smiles, and Hodges thinks – as he always does – that she should do it more often. When she smiles, Holly is almost beautiful. With a little mascara around her eyes, she probably would be. ‘Gee, it’ll be good to see Jerome again.’
‘What have I got this morning, Holly? Anything?’
‘Court at ten o’clock. The assault thing.’
‘Oh, right. The guy who tuned up on his brother-in-law. Belson the Bald Beater.’
‘It’s not nice to call people names,’ Holly says.
This is probably true, but court is always an annoyance, and having to go there today is particularly trying, even though it will probably take no more than an hour, unless Judge Wiggins has slowed down since Hodges was on the cops. Pete Huntley used to call Brenda Wiggins FedEx, because she always delivered on time.
The Bald Beater is James Belson, whose picture should probably be next to white trash in the dictionary. He’s a resident of the city’s Edgemont Avenue district, sometimes referred to as Hillbilly Heaven. As part of his contract with one of the city’s car dealerships, Hodges was hired to repo Belson’s Acura MDX, on which Belson had ceased making payments some months before. When Hodges arrived at Belson’s ramshackle house, Belson wasn’t there. Neither was the car. Mrs Belson – a lady who looked rode hard and put away still damp – told him the Acura had been stolen by her brother Howie. She gave him the address, which was also in Hillbilly Heaven.
‘I got no love for Howie,’ she told Hodges, ‘but you might ought to get over before Jimmy kills him. When Jimmy’s mad, he don’t believe in talk. He goes right to beatin.’
When Hodges arrived, James Belson was indeed beating on Howie. He was doing this work with a rake-handle, his bald head gleaming with sweat in the sunlight. Belson’s brother-in-law was lying in his weedy driveway by the rear bumper of the Acura, kicking ineffectually at Belson and trying to shield his bleeding face and broken nose with his hands. Hodges stepped up behind Belson and soothed him with the Happy Slapper. The Acura was back on the car dealership’s lot by noon, and Belson the Bald Beater was now up on assault.
‘His lawyer is going to try to make you look like the bad guy,’ Holly says. ‘He’s going to ask how you subdued Mr Belson. You need to be ready for that, Bill.’