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hesitated for a moment, then nodded and grasped it. 'You'll have to excuse me, son, busy schedule. You understand?'
'Sure.' He went to walk on, then stopped. 'What you rich and famous for anyway, man?'
'You ever see Roots?'
Savant nodded. His eyes appraised Smith more keenly. The portly detective raised his palms, turned his face to
profile, left it for a second, then turned it back to Savant and smiled. 'Chicken George,' he purred.
'You sure gone to seed,' said Savant, and walked on down the block.
It was just edging towards darkness when we locked the car and walked quickly across the road to the apartment
block. I said, 'I still don't think this is a very good idea.'
'Wait in the car then.'
It wasn't so gentrified that the owners had got round to providing a security man. There was an old buzzer system
in operation. There were no name tags posted on the door, so using common sense, Smith pressed the bottom button.
In a second a tired sounding voice crackled over the intercom.
'Press the damn button, man, I'm freezing my balls off out here,' said Savant, or the closest approximation to him I
was ever likely to hear.
'Fuck you, man.'
'Please, just this one time.'
'Savant, you betta get yo'self another key. This the last time.'
The buzzer sounded and we were in. The foyer was well lit. We moved quickly across to the stairs. Smith,
instigator and investigator, led. I, being the procrastinator and agitator, shuffled along nervously behind. For a fat
bloke he mounted the stairs almost with grace, like he was floating rather than pulling a couple of tons. He didn't even
seem to be breathing hard when we hit the landing five floors up. There was just the one door. Smith knocked on it.
'He hasn't any family, but it's always good to check,' he said.
We waited another thirty seconds then Smith produced a screwdriver and a couple of long pieces of thin metal
piping from the folds of his coat and started playing with the lock. I stepped across and looked back down the stairs.
Nothing happening. I turned back and the door was open.
'You're sure this is a good idea?'
He nodded and stepped into the apartment. I followed him into a small hallway. Stairs ran off it immediately to the
right, up to the top floor. A lounge and kitchen were ahead of us. 'Close the curtains so no light gets out,' said Smith.
I moved, but said: 'But if he see the curtains closed. ..'
'Will you just do it?'
I gave him a shrug. 'Of course.'
I pulled the curtains. Smith closed the front door and switched on the lights.
As my old dad used to say, Savant's taste was right up his hole.
If it clashed, he had it. If it looked cheap and gaudy but cost the earth, he had it. He had excellent picture frames,
with cheap posters of Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson in them. He had original oil paintings sellotaped to the wall.
He had CDs by Barry Manilow, with covers which he hadn't even bothered to deface.
'Money to burn,' I said.
Smith nodded. 'Let's get lookin',' he said. 'For what?'
'Evidence.'
'Evidence of what?'
'Anything.'
He held my gaze for a moment. Then I nodded. 'Shouldn't be hard to find now that you've spelt it out.'
'I'll go upstairs,' he said.
He glided up the stairs. I started in the kitchen. Through the cupboards. All the right equipment, but none of it
looked overused. The fridge had a fair selection of vegetables, no meat, some Coke, some Dr Pepper, some CDs. I'd
read in a magazine that keeping CDs in the ice-making compartment was supposed to give them a longer life, but
Savant had missed the point. His approach to cryogenics ensured that not only did his CDs avoid the life extending ice
but that they would also smell almost indefinitely of cauliflower on the turn. Yum.
The bathroom was clean. There was one bedroom downstairs, plainly furnished. One cupboard full of expensive
clothes. A bottle of perfume sat on a bedside table. I moved on to the lounge. One massive television set dominated the
room. The right wall was partly hidden behind a large bookcase. It was half full. Most of the books seemed to be of a
religious nature. Along the left wall, beneath the basketball posters, there was a CD system and a stack of CDs. Beside
them in a cardboard box there were about a hundred long players. I flicked through them: a lot of seventies disco,
several good Motown compilations, Italian and German opera, early rap; not a power chord amongst them. There was
a big black leather sofa. I pulled the cushions out of it and checked down the back and sides: an assortment of pens
and candy wrappers, a few dimes and nickels. I did the same with both armchairs. More bits and pieces.
Smith appeared at the bottom of the stairs, having descended in almost total silence. He shook his head. 'Clean up
there,' he said. 'I'll do the bathroom.'
'Done,' I said.
He nodded and went into the bathroom. He emerged a minute later.
'See?' I said.
'We'll see.'
He began moving around the lounge, his fingers extended before him like a blind man on a crazy golf course. I
stood back and let him search. He was the professional. I went to the window and pulled the curtain back a little. I
watched the street for a couple of minutes. Cars, plenty of life; it would be difficult to see Savant returning.
I looked over my shoulder. Smith stood in the lounge doorway, finger on lips, looking thoughtful. 'You think
there's something worth finding here?' I asked.
He nodded slowly. 'When you were a kid, a teenager, and had something to hide from your folks, where would
you hide it?'
'Depends what it was.'
'Something they'd hate you for having.' I thought back. 'Like porn mags.'
Smith nodded.
'I used to keep them inside my album covers. The ones they'd never look in in a million years.'
'Been there,' he replied and crossed to the box of long players. He began flicking through them, his fingers slipping [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]