Well , let's show him it's established." He watched Rose n reach into the case and pick up some hundreddollar bills. "No, I don't need any more. The thousand Mr. Bandy gave me'll cover it."
Rosen paused. "How long you think it'll tak e you?"
"Forty minutes. If Mr. Bandy's there and he's go t it ready."
"He'll be ready," Rosen said. He went over t o the phone that was on the counter separating th e kitchen from the living-room area. He dialed a number and asked for the room.
Now the lawyer would get chewed out. Davi s felt good about that and was anxious to hear it. H e didn't want to appear to be listening, though. I t wasn't any of his business. Walking out on the balcony, he heard Rosen say, "Tali, let me speak to Mel. . . . Yeah, he's here. Everything's fine." Hi s voice sounded calm; he was in control, knew wha t he was going to say. The man was all right. Peopl e trying to kill him, he still seemed to have it prett y well together.
"Mel . . . I got your note. . . ." Rosen was listening; then: "Mel . . ." not able to get a word in.
Davis could picture the lawyer with his hand in hi s light blue pants, talking, looking up at the wall.
Davis was looking down five stories at the limegreen Camaro, the racing stripe--he hadn't realized the white stripe didn't extend over the roof of the car. Just on the hood and the trunk. The ca r looked empty. The black guy, his new buddy , wasn't inside.
"Mel, you're a wonderful person, I appreciat e your concern. . . . Of course not, I understand. . . ."
It surprised Davis, Mr. Rosen's tone, his patience.
There he was. The black guy was over towar d the far end of the parking lot standing by a car , leaning against the side, bending down a little now , talking to somebody in the car. One in front, behind the wheel, one or two in the back seat.
". . . I understand, Mel, you don't want to dela y this any more than I do . . . Mel, would you just d o one thing for me? PUT THE FUCKING MONEY IN A BOX AND HAVE IT READY . . . RIGHT NOW!"
Davis heard the phone slammed down.
"There," Rosen said, quietly again.
"You better come out here," Davis said.
"What is it?"
"You know anybody owns a white BMW?"
Teddy Cass was the driver. Valenzuela was in bac k with the worried-or sick-looking street kid, Mat i Harari, who sat with his hands folded tight.
"He says he thinks its the top floor," Valenzuel a said. "Number 23?"
Mati nodded.
"No name of Rosen on the mailboxes," Rasha d said. "Less it's in Jewish. There's a little elevator , one set of stairs, very dark. I think it looks good.
You want to hand me something out of the trunk?"
"When the hot-rodder leaves," Valenzuela said.
"What do I do, he comes out?" Rashad said.
"I'm standing there."
"No, you better get around the back of th e building someplace, till he comes out," Valenzuel a said. "He'll think you got tired and left."
"What about him?" Teddy Cass said, half turne d on the seat, nodding at Mati.
"He's going with us," Valenzuela said, "He' s gonna knock on the door for us."
"It's the same car," Rosen said. "You can almos t see the dents in the front end. Sonofabitch with a n Arab thing over his head."
"He showed it to me," Davis said. "Jesus, I neve r had any idea. Guy trying to get you to like him."
"I'm not blaming you," Rosen said. He wa s standing away from the balcony railing so that h e could just see the BMW past the flat cement surface. "You wouldn't have any way of knowing.
Maybe--could they have seen you with Tali?"
"I guess that was it, in the lobby. We weren't together more than a minute."
"Then the colored guy sucks up, gets in you r car," Rosen said. "The one in front, I think that' s the young guy with the hair. I don't know his name.
Val's probably in back. You see a guy looks like a n off-duty cop, that's Val. Or a fucking linebacker , something like that."
"The colored guy said his name was Kama l Rashad."
"Yeah, they're getting these cute names now,"
Rosen said. "Alabama Arabians. Well, shit, I
Rosen paused. "How long you think it'll tak e you?"
"Forty minutes. If Mr. Bandy's there and he's go t it ready."
"He'll be ready," Rosen said. He went over t o the phone that was on the counter separating th e kitchen from the living-room area. He dialed a number and asked for the room.
Now the lawyer would get chewed out. Davi s felt good about that and was anxious to hear it. H e didn't want to appear to be listening, though. I t wasn't any of his business. Walking out on the balcony, he heard Rosen say, "Tali, let me speak to Mel. . . . Yeah, he's here. Everything's fine." Hi s voice sounded calm; he was in control, knew wha t he was going to say. The man was all right. Peopl e trying to kill him, he still seemed to have it prett y well together.
"Mel . . . I got your note. . . ." Rosen was listening; then: "Mel . . ." not able to get a word in.
Davis could picture the lawyer with his hand in hi s light blue pants, talking, looking up at the wall.
Davis was looking down five stories at the limegreen Camaro, the racing stripe--he hadn't realized the white stripe didn't extend over the roof of the car. Just on the hood and the trunk. The ca r looked empty. The black guy, his new buddy , wasn't inside.
"Mel, you're a wonderful person, I appreciat e your concern. . . . Of course not, I understand. . . ."
It surprised Davis, Mr. Rosen's tone, his patience.
There he was. The black guy was over towar d the far end of the parking lot standing by a car , leaning against the side, bending down a little now , talking to somebody in the car. One in front, behind the wheel, one or two in the back seat.
". . . I understand, Mel, you don't want to dela y this any more than I do . . . Mel, would you just d o one thing for me? PUT THE FUCKING MONEY IN A BOX AND HAVE IT READY . . . RIGHT NOW!"
Davis heard the phone slammed down.
"There," Rosen said, quietly again.
"You better come out here," Davis said.
"What is it?"
"You know anybody owns a white BMW?"
Teddy Cass was the driver. Valenzuela was in bac k with the worried-or sick-looking street kid, Mat i Harari, who sat with his hands folded tight.
"He says he thinks its the top floor," Valenzuel a said. "Number 23?"
Mati nodded.
"No name of Rosen on the mailboxes," Rasha d said. "Less it's in Jewish. There's a little elevator , one set of stairs, very dark. I think it looks good.
You want to hand me something out of the trunk?"
"When the hot-rodder leaves," Valenzuela said.
"What do I do, he comes out?" Rashad said.
"I'm standing there."
"No, you better get around the back of th e building someplace, till he comes out," Valenzuel a said. "He'll think you got tired and left."
"What about him?" Teddy Cass said, half turne d on the seat, nodding at Mati.
"He's going with us," Valenzuela said, "He' s gonna knock on the door for us."
"It's the same car," Rosen said. "You can almos t see the dents in the front end. Sonofabitch with a n Arab thing over his head."
"He showed it to me," Davis said. "Jesus, I neve r had any idea. Guy trying to get you to like him."
"I'm not blaming you," Rosen said. He wa s standing away from the balcony railing so that h e could just see the BMW past the flat cement surface. "You wouldn't have any way of knowing.
Maybe--could they have seen you with Tali?"
"I guess that was it, in the lobby. We weren't together more than a minute."
"Then the colored guy sucks up, gets in you r car," Rosen said. "The one in front, I think that' s the young guy with the hair. I don't know his name.
Val's probably in back. You see a guy looks like a n off-duty cop, that's Val. Or a fucking linebacker , something like that."
"The colored guy said his name was Kama l Rashad."
"Yeah, they're getting these cute names now,"
Rosen said. "Alabama Arabians. Well, shit, I
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