Repo Madness (29 page)

“She's a knockout,”
Alan gasped, sounding like a teenage boy with an instant crush.

The D.A., Darrell Hughes, was the kind of smarmy jerk who grew up rich, went to law school on Daddy's dime, knew what kind of sweater to wear on a sailboat as opposed to a yacht, and expected everyone to love him and laugh at his jokes. The kind of guy who wears suits that cost more than my truck and who has a Rolex on his wrist.

Well, I actually didn't know anything about his background and his suit didn't really look all that expensive and his watch was one of those cheap digital jobs, but I liked the angry feeling I got when I pictured him living a life of privilege. He was blond, with striking pale-brown eyes, a smooth complexion, handsome features. He looked so much like a district attorney that he always ran unopposed, the opposition giving up the second they saw one of his campaign posters.

“Mis-ter McCann,” Hughes said to me, drawing out his words.

“Darrell,” I greeted, shaking his hand.

He grinned at me. “Okay, then. First-name basis.” They both sat down at our booth. “So, you want to tell me how it is that Blanchard called you, of all people, for this thing?”

Both Strickland and Cutty Wells gave Hughes a cold look. He gave an oh-I-got-caught-I'm-so-bad non-apology grin and shrugged. “I'll let these two ask the questions.”

“Let's not mention any names,” Cutty suggested, glancing around the room. The place was virtually empty. Hughes shrugged again.

“She's not just beautiful, she's smart. She really has it together,”
Alan murmured.

We talked for an hour about the individual who had made the murder-for-hire proposition, speaking euphemistically about the “candidate” who wanted to “contract my services.” If the restaurant staff overheard anything, they probably assumed we were planning the D.A.'s reelection campaign.

“All right,” Cutty summarized. “He's got some sort of plan he's going to tell you about, and that's when he's going to pay you.”

“Not exactly,”
Alan disagreed for my benefit alone.

“Actually, I get the impression he
doesn't
have a plan—not one that's fully baked, anyway,” I corrected. “I have the feeling he doesn't usually think too far ahead.” I reflected briefly on the party boat where he had fleeced his friends without considering they might figure out it was a setup and refuse to pay, but elected not to mention it to the state police. “He knows he'll be the first person anyone will look at, so he is trying to come up with something bulletproof.”

“Maybe he's got a plan for
you,
” Hughes suggested, his grin indicating he kind of hoped so. He made a gun out of his hand and pointed it at me.

“This guy is a douchebag,”
Alan observed. I frowned over his use of a word I'd never before heard him utter. It was as if some of my personality were leeching through the blood-brain barrier into his.

“All right. We'll get ready to wire you up. He calls you, anytime day or night, I want you to ring me here.” Cutty passed me a card with a phone number handwritten on it—her cell, I presumed. As I took it, a faint waft of her perfume gave my senses the barest touch, and I could almost feel Alan swooning.

“Need to get money from him. The crime is exchanging something of value for the … the service,” D.A. Darrell lectured me in a professional D.A. voice.

“Get the money,” I agreed affably.

Cutty glanced around the table. “All right, then. We wait for him to make the next move.”

“Hey, Darrell, before we go, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Darrell looked at me expectantly, anticipating how much he was going to enjoy turning me down.

“My probation. Since I'm involved in the ‘recruitment' of the ‘candidate'”—I gestured at Cutty meaningfully—“I'm thinking we could call an end to my visits with the psychiatrist. She's on temporary disability leave anyway, and this new guy is having trouble getting with the program.”

Darrell had started shaking his head at the word
probation
. “Can't do that. The judge is the only person who can change the terms.”

“Well, could you speak to the judge?”

“Not sure why I should do that.”

“I'm not sure why I should take Blanchard's call.”

Strickland and Cutty were glaring at me.

“You said his name out loud,”
Alan chided.

Hughes gave the others a can-you-believe-this-guy? expression. “Are you trying to
bargain
with me, McCann?”

“I'm pointing out that I'm putting myself into a risky business, and I could use a favor in return,” I responded.

Hughes clearly wasn't going to grant my request.

“For God's sake, look at the bigger picture here, Darrell,” Cutty suggested pleasantly. Strickland made an affirmative noise, and Hughes looked blandly at his two companions for a moment.

“All right. I can't promise anything, but I'll send an e-mail,” D.A. Darrell agreed.

*   *   *

The wind had lessened a little by the time I drove down the road where Mark Stevens and Kenny MacDonell were allegedly working. This time the pickup I was looking for was pulled up to the garage of the small house with all the construction materials lying around in the yard. Towing it out would be no challenge at all. I was a little disappointed—I had this fantastic new weapon in the fight to affect repos and was hardly getting a chance to use it.

As soon as I got out of the tow truck I heard it—a loud boom coming from the house. Not a gunshot—more like an impact, as if someone were taking a sledgehammer to the walls. Curious, I went up the front steps.
Boom.

“This isn't good,”
Alan fretted, so naturally, instead of knocking, I opened the front door and poked my head into the house.

“Mark? That you?” I yelled.

“Up here!” he yelled back.

I found some stairs and climbed up them. The interior of the house was warmer than the outside, but not by much. At the top of the stairs and down the hall, Kenny and Mark were setting a six-by-six fence post on the floor. Both of them were panting.

“Hey, guys.”

They were a lot scruffier than the last time I'd seen them. Mark's rodent-brown hair and scraggy beard were oily, and the beard looked like a flock of crows had been at it. Kenny's pale Irish skin was red and chapped from the cold, his orange hair sticking up in unruly tufts and cowlicks.

“Ruddy!” Kenny greeted. They both slipped off their work gloves to shake my hand, but then Mark's expression changed as he connected my profession to his pickup truck.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked curiously. The fence post seemed out of place.

“We've been hired to remodel this dump,” Mark explained.

“We also get to live here, which is sweet. We'd been living in Mark's brother's ice shanty out Boyne City way,” Kenny enthused.

“Okay, but what's with the fence post?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.” Kenny nodded. “See that air conditioner?”

The bedroom he pointed to was directly over the garage, I figured. In the window was a massive air conditioner, almost the size of a small car. It appeared to be a half-century old and, when I examined it more closely, actually had the word
CHRYSLER
etched into a metal plate on the front. The plastic cover had been removed, and the front coil was pretty dented up. “Looks like this Chrysler's been in a fender bender,” I commented.

Kenny thought this was pretty funny, but Mark was still eyeing me suspiciously. “No, what it is,” Kenny said, “the thing is stuck. So we're taking this fence post and ramming the sucker out.”

“Why not just disassemble it?” I asked.

Kenny shrugged. “This way is more fun.”

“Ah. Well, I'm glad to see you guys working. You get some money up front this time?”

Kenny nodded vigorously, ignoring Mark's warning glance. “Oh yeah. Thousand bucks each, then two fifty a week.”

“That's going to work out, then,” I replied, looking at Mark.

“Sure will,” Kenny agreed blissfully.

“So you're four payments behind, Mark. That's eleven hundred dollars.”

“I can pay something next week,” he offered.

“Wait,” Kenny interjected. “What are we talking about here?”

“How much do you have on you?” I pressed.

“Nothing.” Mark glanced away.

“Kenny, how much have you got on you?”

“On me? Money? A few hundred,” Kenny responded.

“I need eleven hundred bucks.”

“Is this about the truck?” Kenny asked.

“He's a repo man. What do you think?” Mark demanded.

“Okay, but we need the truck,” Kenny replied.

“Eleven hundred dollars,” I said, my hand out.

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. He had just over eight hundred. I turned to Kenny.

“But no, that's not what this money is for!” Kenny protested. “This money is our starting money; it's, like, fun money. Next week's money, that's the bill-paying money,”

“I'm about two seventy short,” I replied.

“It's not my truck! It's Mark's truck.”

“You said we need the truck,” Mark reminded him. “You want him to take it? How are we going to get the lumber and all the other crap we need if we don't have a truck?”

Kenny counted out the rest of it like he was saying good-bye to his children.

“There's going to be a collection fee added to the end of your contract now,” I told Mark. “Two hundred dollars. You actually don't have to pay it, but it will show up on your credit if you don't.”

“My credit,” Mark snorted.

“Ask him about Shantytown,”
Alan suggested.

“So you guys have been staying in Shantytown?”

“Yeah.” Kenny nodded. “It was fun at first, fishing every day, but after a while I'm like, ‘Wouldn't it be nice to like shower or something?'”

“You have running water here?”

“Not yet. Power is supposed to be on today, though, so we'll have heat and then we'll get water,” Mark replied.

“Shantytown,”
Alan insisted.

“You guys know the mayor of Shantytown?” I queried, biting back my irritation.

“Phil? Oh yeah.” Mark nodded. “Everybody knows Phil. He's famous.”

“What's his last name?” I asked.

The two men looked at each other and then shrugged. “Mayor?” Kenny guessed.

“His name's not Mayor,” Mark sneered disgustedly.

“They call him Mr. Mayor. So, you know, that's as close to a last name as I know of,” Kenny explained defensively.

“Would you guys be willing to meet me out there tomorrow morning, show me around, introduce me to the mayor?”

“Sure. We got nothing better to do now that you've got all our money,” Mark pouted.

“But look at it this way: at least you can drive there,” I responded. I looked at the fence post. “You guys want a hand with that thing?”

The three of us hoisted the big beam off the floor. It was pressure-treated wood and weighed what felt like fifty pounds. We awkwardly gripped the thing and strode over to the air conditioner and hit it.
Boom.
The Chrysler rocked in its frame.

We grinned at one another. This actually
was
fun.

“Hey, Ruddy?”
Alan said.

“Let's take a running start,” I suggested.

We backed up.

“Wait!”
Alan said urgently.

Mark yelled, “Go!” and the three of us ran across the room. We hit the air conditioner with such violence, the thing
exploded
out of the frame, landing a second later with a horrendous crash.

“Isn't Mark's truck parked directly underneath the window?”
Alan asked into our triumphant whooping.

 

23

Wrong About Everything

Mark and Kenny were high-fiving each other, but I had dropped out of the celebration. Alan had a good point.

“Awesome!” Kenny shouted. “Man, we hit that thing.”

“Boom!” Mark enthused.

“Did you see? We
hit
that thing.”

“Boom!” Mark repeated.

“Damn!”

“Boom!”

We all went to the rectangular hole in the wall, through which light snow was fluttering. Everyone went quiet when we saw what the air conditioner had done when it landed on the roof of Mark's pickup. The windshield was opaque with spider webs, and the monstrosity itself lay cradled in a huge dent in the top of the cab.

“Boom,”
Alan observed with sincere irony.

“Huh,” Kenny said, rubbing his chin.

“Uh, I changed my mind. You can repo the truck,” Mark advised me.

*   *   *

As long as I was so close, I cruised over to the Ferry Bar. The same two guys were sitting on the same two stools, wearing the same clothes and drinking the same beers. I wondered if Rogan took them out back and hosed them off every once in a while or if he let them decompose in place.

“Hey, Wade,” I said as I slid onto the seat next to the empty one reserved for the mayor. Without me having to ask, he pulled down the tab on the same brand of beer I'd had last time. I liked that. “You seen Phil?”

Rogan regarded me with friendly eyes. “You know what? I haven't seen him in quite a while. This keeps up, I'm going to have to let other people sit on his stool.”

“Maybe he's gone south for a vacation,”
Alan suggested.

I decided I didn't want that to be true, so I didn't mention it. “Let me ask you something,” I said instead. “How did he act when you told him why I wanted to talk to him?”