The Devil's Own Rag Doll by Mitchell Bartoy Page B

reputation.”
    â€œI knew your father as well. Did you know that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt seems you don’t know much,” said Hardiman.
    â€œHe doesn’t let on,” said Bobby. “Mr. Hardiman, sir, we won’t take up too much of your time—”
    â€œNo, you won’t. I called you here, remember? I’ve some things to say that couldn’t be spoken last night with my wife present. What progress have you made?”
    â€œWe’ve got two men canvassing the neighborhood. They’ll turn up something, I’m sure. We’re about to see what we can do to track down Toby Thrumm, a known associate of Pease.” Bobby held his hands clasped together like the director of a funeral home.
    â€œIn other words, you’ve nothing at all. A whole day has gone by and you’ve nothing at all.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said. I sized up Hardiman. Natural-born salesman, confident, pushy, the worst kind: believes what he’s selling, entirely oblivious to anything but what’s on his own plate. “Pease probably skipped out by now.”
    Hardiman turned his attention from Bobby to me. “You think it’s possible that Pease went back to his people in the South?”
    â€œLikely. If you get hooked up with something like this, no matter how much of a dope you are, you know how hot it’s going to get.”
    â€œWhat sort of authority do you fellows have to go down there and get him?”
    â€œNone,” I said. I wasn’t about to lower my head or put my eye aside for him.
    â€œWell, listen. I’ve got a thousand dollars—that’s five hundred apiece—if you’ll get that jigaboo and bring him back here for me.”
    â€œAnd then what happens to him?” I tipped the brim of my hat back and stared down my nose at him.
    â€œYou leave that to me.”
    â€œYou got some other flunkies you can pay to do your dirty work so your pansy hands don’t get bloody?”
    â€œPete!” said Bobby. “Take it easy!”
    â€œListen here, Mr. Caudill. My hands have seen their share of blood. Unlike you, I know how to wash up afterward, and I’ve the social grace to think of it as an imperative. My concern is directed by a head for business. If it makes sense for me to a job myself, I do it. If a job doesn’t require the use of the skill I might bring to bear, I shop the job out to someone whose time isn’t as valuable as mine. Now, I could buy ten of you with what I keep in my petty cash account. With one telephone call I could have you sweeping streets and cleaning sewers in Hamtramck. So no matter how tough you think you are, you’re only getting half the picture. Without money, without a wide circle of influential friends and a deep involvement in the community and its running, you’re nothing. Nothing. Rootless like a dry leaf blowing.” Hardiman pulled in his breath deeply and let it out as he put his handkerchief away. “Now, I want that nigger found and brought to me. If the two of you can’t use the money, I’ll find someone who can.”
    â€œHow is it,” I said, “that a bright boy like you can’t keep a teenaged girl in line?” I pulled my hands from my pockets, felt heat throb in them, felt the heat radiating from the barrel of Hardiman’s shotgun.
    â€œThat mouth of yours will dig your grave one of these days, Mr. Caudill.” He paused and tried to drive that home with a level stare. “Now, you bring me that nigger’s balls or don’t show your face near me again. Our business here is finished.” Hardiman turned, red and sweating.
    *   *   *
    As he drove, Bobby tapped his nails on the roof of the car. “Jesus, Pete, what was that all about?”
    â€œJust seeing what Hardiman’s made of.”
    â€œCouldn’t you find a nicer way to do it? You need to learn how to grease people a