Sneaky People: A Novel by Thomas Berger Page B

large withdrawals that could not be innocently justified.
    Now of course this careful provision had been destroyed, and Buddy could blame nobody but himself. How could he have made such an error? Going back over the events of the day before, he recalled that he had already asked Leo to make the deposit before the sorry incident with Ballbacher. Having arranged the appointment with Clarence, he had been over-eager to join Laverne. It was as if Naomi had already been disposed of. This was his initial mistake. The resulting elation had vanished with the blow of Ballbacher’s fist. Buddy’s luck, good or bad, was often serial, having a run, in whichever direction, until the god in power was appeased.
    His job now was to arrest and reverse the momentum of failure. Above all he must keep his head: no more unwarranted glee, no loss of control when surprised, no surrender to confusion when as now he was discomfited by his own blunder. Calm reasoning revealed that, the bank being closed all weekend, Leo’s deposit would not be dealt with until at least 9 A.M. on Monday, at which time Buddy could report there and correct it.
    That left the matter of the colored hoodlum whom Clarence was due to bring around momentarily. It had been Buddy’s intention, after establishing, as well as you could in an interview, that the man was capable of performing the deed, to pay him something down. Now that the supply of money was not at hand, no such deposit could be issued.
    Buddy’s sole argument being cash on the barrelhead, he had no idiom in which to negotiate. Until he retrieved his treasure next morning, his proposition must be theoretical. For twenty-four hours there would be extant a colored hoodlum who was privy to his plan and, having taken no money, without personal implication. Were he arrested for another crime during the night, he might seek favor with the authorities by informing them of Buddy’s proposal.
    In a town this size, a merchant like Buddy knew all members of the modest-sized police force, remembered them at Xmas, and gave them special consideration on purchases. In return he got no traffic citations for either his personal infractions or those made in the name of his business, for example if a client or salesman had too heavy a foot on a test drive: younger customers often wanted to try the “pickup” of a given car when starting off at a green light.
    The cops would not, certainly, be eager to believe the story told by a Negro under arrest, yet all who heard it would remember if Naomi subsequently died of other than natural causes.
    Buddy retained his self-possession, but he had not worked out an answer to the problem by the time Clarence arrived at the office. Therefore he was relieved to see that the ex-boxer was alone, even though the lone appearance implied that he still would not have his hired killer.
    Clarence wore a black suit so often pressed as to show a glint, a glaring white shirt, and a dull black tie bearing a series of small red figures. Buddy had never seen him dressed in other attire than work clothes. His bearing went with the suit: Buddy saw it as pompous.
    In ambivalent reaction he said derisively: “I see you flopped.”
    Clarence gravely strode behind Leo’s desk and, unbuttoning his jacket, sat down.
    “That’s the ticket,” Buddy said. “Make yourself to home. Maybe you’d like a cigar.”
    “I don’t use them,” said Clarence, apparently without intentional irony, though his dead eye always provided some, willy-nilly.
    “Well now, that’s very interesting, sir . I figure all big muckety-mucks smoked El Ropos.” Buddy exposed his teeth and spoke through them. “What the hell’s your idea coming here empty-handed and all dressed up like a Christmas tree? Didn’t I warn you about getting fresh?”
    Clarence put his big hands onto Leo’s desk and shot each white cuff. Then he leaned back deliberately. “I got that man you wanted.”
    Buddy felt a twinge of fear, and, outraged by