The Devil's Only Friend by Mitchell Bartoy Page A

waddled away from him again, pacing to relieve the pain in my lower back.
    â€œMr. Lloyd is anxious to make some progress.”
    â€œWell, Jesus, why don’t you look into it?”
    â€œI’m not sure I enjoy Mr. Lloyd’s complete trust.”
    As best I could tell he wasn’t trying to be funny. He kept his words guarded, but I could see by his face that he was speaking more personally now than professionally.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”
    â€œYou’ve faced danger before. I don’t believe I’d fare as well as you, given the circumstances.”
    â€œListen, I just got the habit of walking into trouble. I’m not anybody to rely on. I could go south any time.”
    â€œMr. Lloyd doesn’t believe you will.”
    The secretary waited me out. As a practical matter it’s hard to stand stock-still for such a length of time without doing something with your hands; but he did. I was flummoxed by the whole load, and panting all the while from the pacing and the pain. A chill ran through me when it hit me that I wasn’t sweating at all—did it mean something?
    â€œI’ve brought you a badge of sorts.”
    It wasn’t a regular badge like a police shield but more like an identification tag. At any of the auto plants it wasn’t unusual to see the men and women with tin tags on their coveralls, but this one was larger and heavier, and it looked like it might be worth a little something if the silver was pure. He held it up for me by its little clip. The rounded Lloyd trademark was enameled in red, and the rest of the raised text had been topped with blue, like a blueprint. It looked official, sure enough. My full name was spelled out, and Jasper Lloyd’s facsimile signature scrawled out at the bottom corner. I took the badge from him.
    â€œThe badge will allow you unfettered access to any plant controlled directly by Lloyd Motors.”
    â€œWhat about the paper you gave me?” I said. “Wasn’t that supposed to get me into the plants?” It occurred to me that James might have arranged the whole beating to see how loyal I was, but I was ranting in my own mind.
    â€œI’m instructed to tell you,” he said, “that notice has been given to allow your passage. The badge was my idea. I’ve found that—you’re to report any difficulty—”
    â€œSo now I’m Lloyd’s flunky? Is that the kind of job that draws a paycheck?”
    â€œCertainly I can arrange for some payment,” he said. “A cash arrangement would be preferable.”
    â€œI know a fella who needs a job. A colored fella.”
    â€œI’m really not in a position—”
    â€œForget it,” I told him. “How much cash are you carrying with you?”
    â€œNone at all.”
    I felt too dry to keep talking, but I didn’t want to have to offer him anything to drink. There was only spigot water and alcohol. We were still standing just inside the door to my place.
    â€œYou can get some money, ah? Deliver it where I tell you?”
    â€œWithin reason,” he said.
    â€œHold on—you have a pencil?”
    He slipped one practiced hand into his jacket and came up with an outsized fountain pen. From another pocket he pulled a little blank card of stiff paper. It reminded me so much of Chew that I gave a shudder. I gave him Walker’s name but I couldn’t think of the street number.
    â€œYou’ve a figure in mind?”
    â€œTen thousand?”
    â€œFive?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    I was beginning to like the fellow, and he continued to win me over.
    â€œMr. Lloyd thought you might lack adequate transportation.” He dangled an ignition key on a ring from his pinky finger.
    â€œWell—”
    â€œI’ve parked the car down below,” he said.
    There wasn’t a thing to do but go to the window to have a look. Down in the alley sat an