“Was it a Die Hard?” I asked.
“A Die Hard?” Stalin laughed harder. “A Die Hard battery, that’s funny. You’re a funny guy, McKenzie.”
“You’re a real humorist yourself.” I was trying to sound confident. I doubt I looked it. Especially after I heard the voice to my right.
“Shhhheeeeeeettt,” it said, drawing the word out. I took my eyes off
Stalin only long enough for a glance. Two men were standing in the doorway of what looked to be a bedroom. One was sporting a mustache. The other was clean-shaven. The same guys the cops rousted outside my house Saturday. The one with the mustache was hefting a Soviet-made RPK light machine gun with forty-round magazine—our equivalent to the BAR. He was pointing it at me.
Where were they getting this stuff ?
The man without the mustache said, “This is McKenzie, man.”
“No shit. You just tune in?” Stalin asked calmly. “Git with the program.”
“You’re dead, McKenzie,” said the one with the mustache as he sighted down the barrel of the machine gun. My three companions became anxious and started to slip away.
“Nobody moves,” I told them and they froze in place around me, my bodyguard.
Stalin seemed almost amused. “What’s the matter with you three? Get outta the way.”
I kept pointing the Beretta at Stalin. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Well?” he asked.
I brought my left hand up from behind the screamer’s back and let Stalin get a good look at what I was holding.
“Fuckin’ A!” He said it like an actor trying to reach the upper balcony. “What up with that shit?” He looked at Mr. Mustache with the light machine gun then back at my companions at the door. He was staring directly into the screamer’s eyes when he said, “I am really, really, really unhappy ’bout this.”
“It weren’t me,” the screamer told him. “Damon here left his post.”
Stalin looked at Damon. The guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looked at me, looked at the closed door behind us, wishing he was out the door and down the street.
The room fell silent. Somewhere a TV played loudly—a game show
host was telling a disappointed contestant that there were parting gifts waiting backstage.
From his chair the man with the ledger told Stalin calmly, “Ax him what he want.”
“So why the fuck you here, white meat?”
“I thought we’d get together and chat, seeing how we have so many friends in common.”
“What friends?”
“Bradley Young and Cleave Benjamn for two.”
“Let me smoke ’im!” shouted the man with the machine gun. “Let ’em put ’im down. You say the word, he gone.”
The shout jolted me and for a moment I thought I saw a train conductor coming my way with a paper punch in his hand. Only Stalin was on top of it.
“Chill!” he shouted, then added in a calmer voice, “Slack off but don’t back off.”
Mr. Mustache allowed the muzzle of the light machine gun to dip slightly—instead of my head he was now aiming at my chest, not much of an improvement.
Stalin crossed his arms like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Why you comin’ like this, McKenzie? You erase two a my family then you come to my house playin’ fuckin’ GI Joe. What up with that?”
“Like I said, I want to talk.”
“So talk.”
“Crowds make me nervous. Everyone out except you. And tell this moron to put the machine gun away.”
“Or what?”
I waved the grenade.
“You ain’t got the size,” Stalin told me.
“Tell it to Young and Benjamn.”
Stalin walked right up to me—didn’t seem to mind at all that the
muzzle of the Beretta was now pressed against his chest. He stuck his face an inch from mine and gave me the mad dog. I could smell his breath. Peppermint.
“You make me mad, I’ll be makin’ you sad,” he hissed. Then, “Everyone out. Me and McKenzie gonna discuss his life ’spectancy.”
The room cleared slowly. Mr. Mustache leaned in close when he passed me. “You think you’re large, you think you’re bad,” he hissed. “Later for you, my man.”
He was followed by the man in the imitation leather chair moving at his leisure. “We ain’t got time for this, Raymond,” he said. “We got business can’t wait.”
“I know, I know.”
“Raymond?” I asked when we were alone.
“Name’s Stalin. It’s Russian. It means steel.”
“Did the name come with the machine gun?”
“That why you come to my house? Talk ’bout my name?”
“I want to know why you’re trying to kill me.”
“You keep comin’ at me, bitch. You want my ass cuz me and mine are gettin’ and niggers ain’t supposed to get.”
“You don’t mean shit to me,” I told him. “I didn’t want your ass until you started comin’ after mine. Tell me why?”
“I was told you’re bad for business.”
“Who told you?”
No reply.
“Was it Napoleon Cook?”
“Could be.” Stalin kept smiling. I’ve seen sociopaths like him before. They frighten me.
“Why did you kill Cook?”
“If’n I done Cook and I’m not sayin’ I did, it woulda been cuz he be bad for business, too.”
“What business are you in?”
Stalin glanced around the apartment. I followed his eyes and got part of an answer. The apartment was loaded with hard goods and appliances—copy machines, stereo receivers, TVs, VCRs, CD players, answering machines, fax machines, microwaves, an electric range, clothes hanging from racks like a department store, about a dozen PCs. The floor sagged from the weight of it all. Most of the merchandise was still in boxes, much of it was covered with dust.
You have to understand, a player doesn’t care about owning things, or using things, only about his ability to
buy
things. His life is centered on money, nothing else. The women, the cars, the clothes, the merchandise he piles up—that’s just for show. What matters is the money he holds in his hands, he measures his self-worth in cash. That’s why he never pays for anything with a check or credit card. He wants to see your face when he digs the bills out of his pocket, he needs to see the envy in your eyes when he presses them into your hand.
“Why did you kill Jamie Bruder and Katherine Katzmark?”
For the first time Stalin’s eyes displayed a genuine emotion: outrage.
“Don’t be blamin’ that shit on me. I ain’t had nothin’ to do with that, man. You gotta be crazy to do like that.”
“If not you, who?”
“Bruder, man.”
“How do you know?”
“What the paper says.”
“Where is Bruder?”
“How should I know?”
“You and him are tight, aren’t you?”
“That’s business, man. I don’t ’sociate with them exceptin’ for business.”
“Them. The Entrepreneurs, you mean?” When he didn’t reply I asked, “What business do you have with them?”
He didn’t say. I glanced over the apartment again. What was I missing?
I looked back at Stalin. His smile had returned. I was tempted to wipe it off his face. At the same time I realized that he was probably telling the truth, that he had nothing to do with Jamie’s and Katherine’s murders. I could see him raping both women before killing them. Raping them and then bragging on what a fine lover he was. But the rest? You don’t do that in front of an audience and I couldn’t imagine Stalin doing anything without a chorus applauding him.
I also realized that I wasn’t going to get any more from him—I had learned precious little considering the huge risk I was running.
“We’re leaving,” I said.
“We?”
I gestured at the door. He went to open it. I shoved the muzzle of the Beretta against his spine.
“It’s real simple,” I said. “If anyone does anything foolish, I’ll kill you.”
“And then you die.”
“Do you really want to trade your life for mine?”
“You gonna go down, McKenzie. You gonna die.”
“Just not today.”
“Day ain’t over yet, man.”
Stalin opened the doors. The guards had retrieved their weapons and the machine gunner still had his. They pointed them at us. Stalin smiled.
“Me and McKenzie goin’ for a walk. I don’t come back you kill him, you kill his momma, his old man, his brother and sister and aunts and uncles and cousins—you kill everyone he ever knew.”
“It’s done,” said Mr. Mustache with the machine gun.
Satisfied, Stalin led us out the door, along the corridor, down the stairs, out the back, and across the field. His people watched but didn’t interfere. When we were on the other side of the hole in the fence, I told Stalin to remove the pin from my pocket. He did. I told him to slip it back into the grenade. He didn’t like that plan at all but the Beretta
convinced him. I was pleased to see his hands shake as he carefully shoved the pin through one side of the firing mechanism and out the other. I smiled at him then and tossed the grenade through the open window of my Cherokee. It landed on the passenger seat, bounced off and rattled on the floor.
“You nuts, man,” Stalin said.
He heard no argument from me.
Stalin was breathing hard now and looked sweaty and tired—he burned energy like a highway flare. I fought the impulse to blow his brains out.
“Next time,” I said.
“Next time gonna be
real
soon.”
I shifted the gun to my left hand, opened my car door, and slid behind the wheel while making sure the Beretta was pointed at Stalin through the open window. I closed the door and started the car.
“The Jag in the parking lot. The XJ6. That yours?”
“Cost fifty K,” he announced proudly.
“Just the kind of car you’d expect a Motor City pimp to drive.”
The remark seemed to disturb him more than the grenade.
“I ain’t no pimp,” he yelled at me as I drove off.
I went north, then west, then south, then west again, then north, then east, then south, making sure I wasn’t followed until I was completely lost. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely control the Cherokee—it was like the lug nuts had fallen off and all four wheels were wobbling. Finally, I pulled over and shut down the engine. I had intended to stir the pot and see what surfaced. Yeah, I stirred it, all right. What was I thinking of, letting Molly Carlson’s tears move me to such a risk? Or was it Bobby and Clayton Rask accusing me of murder? My hands shook and my legs shook and my stomach churned with fear. I was perfectly calm
in the apartment, almost arrogant, thank God. Only now I just wanted to go home.
You’re gonna die.
The words echoed through my brain. How do I get myself into these situations?
I was nearly thirty-seven. In medieval times I’d be considered ancient. In ancient times I’d most likely be dead of old age by now. In this century I was merely stupid.
I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, waiting for my nerves to quiet themselves, breathing deep, exhaling slowly. Eva Cassidy was on the CD player. I thought her exquisite voice would help. It took both her and Ella Fitzgerald.
“You don’t look like a detective,” the old man told me. I hadn’t told him I was one. Like Nina Truhler, he connected his own dots.
“Who does?” He gave me a little head shake, suddenly embarrassed, so I answered for him. “James Garner? Tom Selleck?”
“Robert Mitchum,” the old man said. “And Bogart. He was good.”
“I always liked Alan Ladd. Remember
This Gun for Hire?
”
“He was a bad guy in that one. A hit man. ’Sides, Ladd, he was a pretty boy. And short. They made all his leading ladies stand in slit trenches.”
“Well, you can’t judge a book by its cover,” I said, which was another of Dad’s favorite clichés.
“No, I s’pose not,” the old man said, smiling slightly and patting his ample stomach. The old man was the proprietor of the Paradise Motel, the one I saw watering the asphalt a couple evenings earlier. After sitting in my car for an hour I decided the best thing I could do for my nerves was to get back to work.
I asked about Napoleon Cook. He spoke about the woman.
“The dark-haired lady, she comes in plenty, but I ain’t hardly never got no up-close look at her, if you know what I mean. She always parks at the far end, in front of sixteen. I keep the room empty for her cuz I know it’s her favorite.”
“She comes in often?”
“Couple times a week usually, never no trouble. Sends the man in for the key and to pay up. ’Course it ain’t always the same joe. This guy you’re askin’ about, this Cook fella, I seen him maybe two, three times, no more than that. What I figure, I figure the lady, she must rotate ’em. Like tires.”
I pulled a newspaper clipping out of my pocket, one that featured a photograph of David Bruder, and showed it to the man.
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Could be, can’t say for sure. He looks familiar but after a while, don’t they all sorta look alike?”
I folded the clipping and returned it to my pocket.
“How long has the woman been coming here?”
“A year, maybe. Good customer. Hardly ever messes the room. I figure she’s one of those nymphomaniacs you hear tell of. ’Course I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that except what I see on them there adult movies—we have adult movies here, you know.”
I wasn’t surprised.
“She probably ain’t right in the head,” the man offered. “But her money is healthy.”
I gave the man my card and told him to call me the next time the woman came in.
“You don’t have to wait for no call,” he said. “You want to see her, come by t’night or tomorrow ’round eight, eight-thirty. She’s due.”
“You don’t look so hot,” Nina Truhler said when I sidled up to her at the downstairs bar in Rickie’s. She was shuffling through a deck of time cards, a large calendar turned to the month of October set before her.
“How do you know?” I asked her. “I might never have looked better.”
“In that case, medical science has failed you.”
She had a point. It was just past noon, yet I felt like I had been up for three days and probably looked it. Nina, on the other hand, was stunning in a violet shirt and a steel-colored one-button jacket with matching trousers that set off her magnificent eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She set her cards down on the calendar. “I’m not usually such a smart aleck.”
“I’ve been known to bring out the best in people.”
Her mouth worked like it wanted to say something, but only “Arrrggg” came out. Nina pronounced it like a word.
“Nice command of the English language.”
“I’m frustrated,” she said.
“Emotionally? Physically? There’s a cure for all that which has nothing to do with medical science.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.
“I’m trying to but it’s coming out wrong.”
“You should practice more.” I made a production out of adjusting my sports coat, shaking my head, flexing my shoulders and smoothing my hair. “Okay, I’m ready. Give me your best shot.”
“Hi, honey. Come here often?”
“Puhleez.”
“Baby, I’ve been looking for a man like you all my life.”
“Like I haven’t heard that a hundred times before. C’mon, make an effort. You meet me in a bar and you want to take me home. What do you say?”
“Nice butt.”
“Very good. That works with me.”
“It does?”
“Every time. So, your place or mine?”
“Depends. What do you think of children?”
“I’d like to try dating adults, first. See how that works.”
Nina laughed, which was my intention. Afterward she leaned in closer and said, “Seriously. What do you think of dating a woman with children?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I have a daughter. I told you.”
“Erica, a.k.a. Rickie—boys bore her.”
“Most men, you tell them you have a child, a family, and they run the other way, guys who’d be all over me otherwise. I learned that the hard way. Now I’m right up front with it. I let them know before date one I have a daughter so not to waste my time.”
“Wise decision.”
“Well?”
“It doesn’t bother me that you have a daughter. I’d like to meet her. If she’s as pretty as her mother she must be beautiful indeed.”
Nina took a deep breath and said, “I told them you were here the other night, that you were following Napoleon Cook—that’s his name, isn’t it?” with the exhale.
“Yes.”
“Did you get into trouble?”
“No more than usual, but thank you for asking.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing. I would have done the same.”
“I’m sorry anyway. I wanted you to know in case this goes any further.”
“Since we’re being honest here, I should tell you that I’m coming off a relationship and I don’t know how I feel about that yet.”
“You’re afraid of getting involved again?”
“I’m afraid of getting involved with the wrong woman again.”
Nina cupped her chin in her hand and leaned toward me. I cupped my chin in my hand and leaned toward her. We were close enough to kiss. I should have kissed her. I don’t know why I didn’t. Instead, I told her, “I need a favor.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“I want you to call me the next time Hester comes in. I need to find out about her.”
Nina pushed herself off the bar. “I can do that. But I also promised I’d call the cops.”
“Who?” I was thinking it was Bobby.
“Policewoman named Jean Something.”
“Oh.”
“Know her?”
“I’m told she’s young, beautiful, and smart as hell.”
She wagged her hand like she wasn’t sure she agreed.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Nina.” She opened both eyes wide in feigned shock. “I mean with the cops.”
“I promised to call when Hester came in. I didn’t promise I wouldn’t call you, too.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I slid off the stool.
“But what if she doesn’t come in again?” Nina asked.
“Then I’ll call you.”
Nina smiled bright and beautiful. “What does the telephone company say? ‘Reach out and touch someone’?”
I went home, checked my mail, checked my telephone messages, and made a pot of coffee—hazelnut, ground from fresh beans purchased
from the Cameron Coffee Company of Hayward, Wisconsin. While it brewed I stretched out on my sofa, Fleetwood Mac on the CD player singing “Then Play On.” I didn’t know which was more exhausting, my encounter with the Boyz or all that heavy flirting with Nina Truhler. I closed my eyes, which was a mistake. I didn’t open them again until the ringing telephone woke me about an hour later. I debated not answering it, coming up with five, six, seven good reasons to pretend I wasn’t home. Only the challenge of the unknown was too great. After all, it could be Dick Clark and Ed McMahon arranging to give me a cardboard check the size of my mattress.
“Mr. McKenzie, I need your help,” a voice told me instead of “Hello.”
“Who are you?”
“Dave Bruder.”
Bruder wanted to call the shots. I let him. That was my first mistake. But all I could think about was the look on Bobby’s face when I brought him in—the look on his face
and
Tommy Thompson’s.
Bruder wanted to come in, too—he was tired of running, of hiding. Only he was frightened.
“I need protection.”
“This isn’t East L.A., pal,” I told him. “The St. Paul cops aren’t going to beat on you with sticks.”
“It’s not just them.”
“Who else? The Family Boyz?”
“I’m afraid.”
Who could blame him?
“Why are you calling me?”
“I’m told you can be trusted.”
“Whoever gave you that idea?”
“Friends.”
“What friends?”
“Will you help me?”
I thought about it for maybe, oh, three seconds.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Meet me. Come with me to the police station.”
I could do that.
“Do you promise not to call the police?”
“Yes.”
That was my second mistake.
A half hour later I was sitting at a small table hard against the railing of the third floor food court of the City Center, looking down into the courtyard below. The City Center is a combination shopping mall and office building in downtown Minneapolis. Bruder insisted on meeting in Minneapolis. He figured the cops weren’t looking for him there. I should have set him straight, but I didn’t.
I watched him ride the escalator up. He was wearing a Pierre Cardin suit with sharp creases, black wing tips shined to a high gloss, a freshly pressed white cotton dress shirt and a perfectly knotted power tie. His face was clean shaven, his hair neatly parted. I didn’t know where he had been the past week, but he had taken good care of himself. He stopped in the center of the food court and glanced about. I recognized him, but he didn’t know me from the kid at the Orange Julius stand. I gave him a little wave and he came over.
“So, Mr. Bruder. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
He hushed me—“Don’t use my name”—and glanced around nervously before sitting.
“Seriously,” I told him. “You look nice. Why is that?”
He had no idea what I was talking about.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” he announced.
You sure look good for it,
I thought but didn’t say.
“I didn’t,” Bruder insisted, as if he had read my mind.
“Okay.”
“Everyone thinks I did.”
“Do you blame them?”
He didn’t say if he did or didn’t.
“Mr. Bruder, where’s your son?”
“He’s safe.”
“Listen to me. I don’t give a shit about you. But your son, Jamie’s son, is a different matter … .”
“All you care about is Jamie’s sister.” Bruder sounded disappointed.
“That’s why I’m involved. Now tell me where he is.”
“With friends.”
“What friends?”
“When I’m safe, I’ll tell you. But only after I’m safe.”
“Is he with the same friends who said you could trust me?”
No answer.
Since Bruder refused to confide in me, I decided to tell him a thing or two.
“You had dinner with a woman at Rickie’s the evening your wife was slaughtered.”
That brought a high color to his face.
“You know about that?”
“Me and the woman on the psychic hotline. We know everything. What happened afterwards?”
“I went home and I saw, I saw what they had done to her. I took TC—he was asleep in his crib, thank God—and I ran.”
“What
they
had done to her. Who is
they
?”
“I won’t talk now.”
“No?”
“When I’m safe I’ll tell you everything.”
I was wondering what it would take to make him change his mind.