Out of Sight

There was a silence before Buddy said, "No, but if they're on his ass and we're seen with him… She wouldn't be up here by herself, working alone."

"The girl still with you?"

"They don't stay the night, Jack, 'less you pay for it."

"Let me give it some thought," Foley said, still looking at Karen Sisco holding die shotgun.

"I'll call you back."

Even if Karen suspected they were here and checked the hotels… They had registered as George R. Kelly and Charles A. Floyd-making the names up on the spot-and paid cash for a week in advance, telling the reception clerk they'd just as soon not have a hotel showing on credit card bills that came to the house.

"If you get my drift," Foley said to the clerk and almost winked, but the guy's bored expression stopped him.

He called Buddy's room and Buddy said right away, "If they got a tail on Glenn we're fucked. Tomorrow night at the fights we all get picked up."

"I understand that," Foley said.

"I'm thinking maybe we can finesse around it, find out if they're on him or not before we go in."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet. Let's drive by where they have the fights and look it over, the State Theater."

"That's what it is, a theater, a movie house."

"Yeah, but what's around it? We'd check it out anyway. How about later on we go for a ride. You can show me where you used to work."

"Did you see in the paper," Buddy said, and paused.

"Here it is.

"Fight over tuna casserole may have spurred slaying." This woman's live-in boyfriend, seventy years old, complained about her tuna noodle casserole and she shot him in the face with a twelve-gauge."

"I never cared for it either," Foley said.

"Or macaroni and cheese. Jesus."

"It says police found noodles in the woman's hair and beV lie ve the guy dumped the casserole dish on her. They'd been together ten years."

"Love is funny," Foley said.

He hung up, looked at the photo as he thought about what he was going to do now and rang the hotel operator.

"Ms. Sisco's room, please." He waited. The operator came back on to tell him there was no one by that name registered. Foley got out the Yellow Pages and opened the book to Hotels. He tried the Atheneum, a couple of Best Westerns, the Pontchartrain, skipped to a couple of Hiltons, looked at a list of five Holiday Inns, said "Shit," looked out the window at those giant glass tubes across the street and had to think for a minute.

The Westin, that was it.

He found the number and called it.

"Ms. Karen Sisco, please."

After a moment the operator said, "I'm ringing."

Foley waited. He had no idea what he would say, but he stayed on the line.

The operator's voice came on again. She said, "I'm sorry, but Ms.

Sisco's room doesn't answer. Would you care to leave a message?"

Karen rang the doorbell and waited, hands shoved into the pockets of her dark-navy coat, a long one, double-breasted with a belt in back.

The house on Parkside was in the first block off McNichols, a street the Westin doorman said everybody called Six Mile Road 'cause it was six miles from the river and the next roads after were named Seven Mile, Eight Mile and so on. Take the Lodge, get off at Livernois, go on up past the U of D and Parkside was a few blocks over to the right. Big homes in there, old but they're nice.

One right after another, most of them red brick and showing their age in the bleak cold, the street lined with bare trees.

Karen had asked the doorman if it ever snowed and he said, "Mmmm, it should be starting pretty soon."

The door opened.

Karen said, "Moselle Miller?"

The woman, about thirty, light-skinned, sleepy-eyed, said, "What you want?" She wore a green silk robe and was holding her arms close against the cold.

"I'm looking for Maurice."

"You find him, tell him the dog got run over and I'm out of grocery money."

A male voice from inside said, "Moselle. Who you talking to?"

"Lady looking for Maurice."

"What's she want?"

"Hasn't said."

Karen said, "That's not Maurice?"

"That's Kenneth, my brother. He's talking on the phone."

The voice said, "Ask what she want with him."

"You ask her. Maurice's business," Moselle said, "is none of my business," sounding tired or bored. She turned from the door and walked into the living room.

Karen stepped inside, pushed the door closed and moved into the foyer.

She heard Kenneth's voice and saw him now- in the study, a small room with empty bookcases-black male about six-one, medium build, twenty-five to thirty, wearing a yellow T-shirt and red baseball cap backward, talking on a cordless phone. She saw him standing in profile and heard him say, "How do I know?" Now he was listening, nodding.

"Yeah, I can make it. The State, huh. Who's fighting?" He listened, nodding again, said, "What's this other deal?" turning to the foyer, and Karen walked into the living room.

Moselle was on the sofa lighting a cigarette. She said to Karen, "You like to sit down?"