Downriver by Loren D. Estleman Page A

He tossed the pieces onto the counter. The big end rolled off and landed on the floor with a clank.
    “Registration card.” I waggled my fingers at Vincent Price, who took his jaw off the counter and slid one over. I selected a pen from a coffee cup full of them to hand to DeVries.
    The fat man sent his right hook by Western Union. It started two inches above the rug and picked up speed as it rose, his body pivoting behind it with more grace than you’d have thought him capable of if you’d never seen a bouncer in action. DeVries watched it coming, then slapped it aside and stepped in and picked him up in both arms. He started squeezing.
    Vincent Price reached under the counter. I pointed the Smith & Wesson at him. He relaxed and laid both hands on top, empty. I switched grips on the gun and clicked the pen. “E-I?” I asked.
    “I-E. Big D and V.” The big man’s voice was strained. Not much, but a little. He was out of shape.
    By the time I had the card filled out the fat man had lost consciousness, a large yarn doll dangling in the ex-convict’s embrace. I said, “You better let him go now. He doesn’t look black anymore.”
    He spread his arms and the bouncer slid out of them. The counterman looked down at him disgustedly. “You killed him.”
    Just then the man on the floor took a deep breath and started coughing like a cat. I said, “Nothing wrong with him that can’t be cured with ten or twenty yards of tape and no pole-vaulting for a month. Key.”
    He slapped down a brass one with a green plastic tag. “Eighteen. Upstairs, end of the hall.”
    DeVries picked it up. “You want to meet here tomorrow, or your office?”
    “I had a partner once. It didn’t take.” I put the gun behind my hip. “You hired me, remember?”
    “Who’s going to look after the shotguns and baseball bats?”
    “I got this old without help.”
    He rubbed his beard. I was coming to know the gesture. I said, “The parole board says you can’t get into trouble. It doesn’t say you can’t pay someone to get into it for you. I’ll be in touch.”
    “Okay,” he said after a silence. “Don’t make me come looking for news. I stink at waiting. Marquette taught me that much.”
    I went out after shaking his hand. He was getting better at it. The bundle on the floor made a lowing noise.

8
    S OMEBODY HAD MADE a stab at breaking into my place while I was gone. During my routine inspection walk around the outside of the house I saw the gouges under the bedroom window where whoever it was had tried to force it with a pinch bar, but the paint was unbroken around the frame, so he must have given up. Maybe a blue-and-white had cruised down the street or — less likely — a neighbor had spotted him and sung out. It sure wasn’t due to any burglarproofing on my part. The decision to live without bars on my windows was a hard one, right up there with electing not to change my sex. Not that there was anything inside worth taking except a cheap stereo, a geriatric TV, two suits, and a shower. The Persian rugs were all out being deloused.
    I washed off the Upper Peninsula in the shower, put on a robe, and called my service for messages. A junior partner at a legal firm I sometimes collect affidavits for had called asking me to get back to him, then called again later to cancel the request. A man had tried to reach me saying he was a vampire and wanted someone to act as go-between with the police before he handed himself over; I should return his call anytime after sundown. Two people had called asking for me and then hung up without leaving their names. That would be the last I’d hear from them. It was a comfort to know I had a service and hadn’t missed any of this.
    I’d made a purchase at an all-night liquor store where an alert salesclerk operated the cash register one-handed, keeping the other out of sight under the drawer. I pulled the bottle out of the bag and corrupted the innocence of a clean glass in the kitchen, wound