The address was in the James Scott housing project, a bleak and tragic warren where few outsiders of any color dared to go. Even on a bright winter day, the project gave off a dark and ominous heat. Chemo was oblivious; he saw no danger here, just work. He parked the Bonneville next to a fenced-in basketball court and got out. Almost instantly the kids on the court stopped playing. The basketball hit the rim and bounced lazily out of bounds, but no one ran to pick it up. They were all staring at Chemo. The only sound was the dental-drill rap of Run-D.M.C. from a distant quadrophonic blaster.
“Hello, there,” Chemo said.
The kids from the project glanced at one another, trying to guess how they should play it; this was one of the tallest white motherfuckers they’d ever seen this side of the Interstate. Also, one of the ugliest.
“Game’s full,” the biggest kid declared with a forced authority.
“Oh, I don’t want to play,” Chemo said.
A look of relief spread among the players, and one of them jogged after the basketball.
“I’m looking for a man named Louis Stranahan.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
Chemo said, “Does he have a brother named Mick?”
“He’s got six brothers,” one of the basketball players volunteered. “But no Mick.”
“There’s a Dick,” said another teenager.
“And a Lawrence.”
Chemo took the list out of his pocket and frowned. Sure enough, Lawrence Stranahan was the second name from the phone book. The address was close by, too.
As Chemo stood there, cranelike, squinting at the piece of paper, the black kids loosened up a little. They started shooting a few hoops, horsing around. The white guy wasn’t so scary after all; shit, there were eight of them and one of him.
“Where could I find Louis?” Chemo tried again.
“Raiford,” said two of the kids, simultaneously.
“Raiford,” Chemo repeated. “That’s a prison, isn’t it?”
With this, all the teenagers doubled up, slapping fives, howling hysterically at this gangly freak with the fuzzballs on his head.
“Fuck, yeah, it’s a prison,” one of them said finally.
Chemo scratched the top two Stranahans off his list. As he opened the door of the Bonneville, the black kid who was dribbling the basketball hollered, “Hey, big man, you a movie star?”
“No,” Chemo said.
“I swear you are.”
“I swear I’m not.”
“Then how come I saw you in Halloween III?”
The kid bent over in a deep wheeze; he thought this was so damn funny. Chemo reached under the car seat and got a .22-caliber pistol, which was fitted with a cheap mail-order suppressor. Without saying a word, he took aim across the roof of the Bonneville and shot the basketball clean out of the kid’s hands. The explosion sounded like the world’s biggest fart, but the kids from the project didn’t think it was funny. They ran like hell.
As Chemo drove away, he decided he had taught the youngsters a valuable lesson: Never make fun of a man’s complexion.
It was half-past noon when Chemo found the third address, a two-story Mediterranean-style house in Coral Gables. An ill-tempered Rottweiler was chained to the trunk of an olive tree in the front yard, but Chemo ambled past the big dog without incident; the animal merely cocked its head and watched, perhaps not sure if this odd extenuated creature was the same species he’d been trained to attack.
Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was on the phone to her husband’s secretary when the doorbell rang.
“Tell him, if he’s not home by eight, I sell the Dali. Tell him that right now.” Chloe slammed down the phone and stalked to the door. She looked up at Chemo and said, “How’d you get past the pooch?”
Chemo shrugged. He was wearing black Raybans, which he hoped would lessen the effect of his facial condition. If necessary, he was prepared to explain what had happened; it wouldn’t be the first time.
Yet Chloe Simpkins Stranahan didn’t mention it. She said, “You selling something?”
“I’m looking for a man named Mick Stranahan.”
“He’s a dangerous lunatic,” Chloe said. “Come right in.”
Chemo removed the sunglasses and folded them into the top pocket of his shirt. He sat down in the living room, and put a hand on each of his bony kneecaps. At the wet bar Chloe fixed him a cold ginger ale. She acted like she didn’t even notice what was wrong with his appearance. “Who are you?” she asked.