Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (9 page)

Dark rivulets ran from her scalp and striped one side of her face. Strands of her long hair clung to the damp mess.

“Come on.” I grabbed her elbow and I looked around for additional attackers. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Without argument, Lisa allowed me to lead her back inside. I locked the door securely and said, “What in the flying fuck just happened? Were there two of them?”

“I think so. While I was tangling with whoever bashed me in the head, I heard someone else doing the emasculated howl. You kick him in the balls?”

“I did.”

“Nice.”

I dragged her over to the sink and ripped a handful of paper towels from the dispenser attached to the wall. I wet a paper towel and started dabbing blood from her cheek.

“Then,” she continued, “I took off after him.”

Her reaction sounded exactly like some stupid stunt I’d pull without a second thought. We seemed to have in common a penchant for self-disregard.

I hit a sore spot and Lisa winced.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay,” she mumbled. “His ass would’ve been mine if I hadn’t slipped off the curb.”

“Hold still.” I was getting close to her hairline and didn’t want to hit the actual wound. Especially since my hands were still trembling from frenzy-fueled adrenaline.

I said, “The jackass who jumped me didn’t have any weapons. Unless he dropped it. Bastard tried to choke me out. He told me … ” I trailed off, trying to remember exactly what he’d said. “Something to the effect of ‘tell O’Hanlon time’s running out for him to sign’ or something like that. I think it’s got to do with the sale of the Leprechaun.” I parted Lisa’s hair looking for the point of impact.

She said, “Your dad intends to sell?”

“You have a gash about an inch and a half long here. I don’t think it needs stitches, but you want to run to the ER to check?”

“Hell, no. I’ve survived worse without a doctor’s interference.”

Okay. I gingerly swabbed some more. “No, my father isn’t interested in selling.”

The bleeding was slowing. I dug out some gauze from a first-aid kit that was attached to the wall by the sink and carefully set it on the wound. I loaded a clean bar towel with ice and gingerly plopped it on top of her head. “Hold this. I think it’ll be okay.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Don’t mention it.” I stepped back and propped my hands on my hips. “You know, I never intended for you to get this involved in my crap. I’m sorry you got hurt trying to do a good deed.”

“Stop. I was the one who decided to get involved. Now I’m damn well invested. Besides, I still haven’t talked to your dad yet.”

Oh yeah. Back to that. Maybe now was time for that little heart-to-heart I was planning on having with her tomorrow. “What on earth do you need to talk to my father so badly about that you’re willing to take your life into your own hands?”

Lisa blew a fast breath through her nose and pursed her lips. I wondered if she was going try to stonewall me again. Maybe if
I whacked her over the other side of her head she’d loosen her lips.

“My mom died this past November. Pancreatic cancer.”

Ouch. Wasn’t expecting that. At all. “Jesus. I’m so, so sorry, Lisa.”

She nodded with a clench of her jaw. “It’s okay. Well, I guess it’s not okay, but … thanks. Anyway, right before she died, she told me that I should find Pete O’Hanlon. She wanted to make sure he got this.” Lisa dug in her pocket and fished out a coin. She handed it to me. “She didn’t say why, only that I should find him and turn it over.”

Lisa’s eyes had taken on a far away, contemplative look. Then she swallowed hard, obviously trying to get a handle on herself. I dropped my gaze to the coin in my hand instead of watching her do her damnedest not to break down. The coin was an old, worn-out Liberty Head nickel. I could still make out the year below Liberty’s head, which now was really no more than an outline.

1905.

When I was a kid, my dad had tried to interest me in collecting coins, but I was too busy playing Lone Ranger and Tonto in the dirt behind the bar to pay much attention to little round metal discs. I was surprised that I was able to pull the name of the nickel out of my head.

Lisa cleared her throat and said, “Anyway, she was on a pretty heavy dose of morphine. Maybe she was hallucinating. I’ve replayed her words in my head a thousand times, especially in the dead of night when I can’t sleep. ‘Please, Lisa. Give Pete O’Hanlon the nickel that’s in my black jewelry box at home. Promise me.’ I promised, and she … ” Lisa shrugged. “She seemed to … I don’t know. Let go, I guess. That night she slipped into a coma and she passed the next morning.”

Ouch. “Hey,” I put a hand on her forearm, my gut falling into the familiar ache that came when I thought about my own mother. “I’m so, so very sorry.” I handed her the nickel, which she tucked back into her pocket. Hesitantly, I said, “If it’s easier for you, you can leave it with me and I can give it to him whenever he shows up.”

For a moment, Lisa’s eyes welled, but she soldiered on. “No. Thank you for the offer, but no. I’m going to follow my mom’s last wishes. I’ll place that damn coin in your father’s hand, one way or another.” She blew out a big breath. “Anyway, the New Year was looming, and I decided what the hell. Everything else in my life has been turned upside down.” Lisa looked at me. Pain and resolve radiated from her like a living thing.

“How did you find us?”

Lisa laughed. “How does anyone find anything anymore? I Googled Pete O’Hanlon. There was a guy by that name in Australia, and I sure as hell wasn’t looking that far away from home. There was a Simon Peter O’Hanlon in Nebraska, but that didn’t seem right. There were a couple of blogs by a Pete O’Hanlon. Sent emails and struck out.” She shrugged. “The only Pete O’Hanlon with a physical presence in the state was your dad. So I figured I’d start here.” Lisa shifted her grip on the rag on top of her head. She slowly said, “You know, she never did say that Pete O’Hanlon was in Minnesota. I suppose he could be anywhere.”

That was true. Since she was now knee deep into my Pete O’Hanlon situation, we might as well play it out and see if he was actually the right one or not. Besides, I liked Lisa. Just not in “that” way. Absolutely not.

We agreed to meet in the morning at the Rabbit Hole and this time made it to our respective vehicles unscathed.

five

Eight o’clock Monday morning
loomed gray and gloomy. The forecast was for another three to six inches of snow throughout the day, and I was getting almighty sick and tired of the white shit.

JT had been furious when I got home and filled her in on the trouble we’d had. She wasn’t happy I hadn’t called the cops and reported the assault.

Honestly, it hadn’t crossed my mind at the time, but looking back, I probably should have. When I thought about it, I realized Lisa hadn’t suggested involving the cops either. Maybe we were both too independent for our own good.

Once JT calmed down, she told me she hadn’t had any luck gleaning more inside info from St. Paul.

The next morning JT headed back to work before I’d gotten out of bed. Once I pried myself from between the warm covers, I inspected my body for battle wounds.

My muscles were stiff, and both kneecaps were black and blue. I figured my neck might have some fingerprints, but miraculously it escaped bruising. I downed four ibuprofen before heading out to meet up with Lisa at the Hole.

On the way, I tuned into WCCO 830 and caught some coverage of what the media had dubbed the “Ice Block Killer.” The on-air talent was having a field day with all kinds of ice jokes. That didn’t help my mood, so I clicked the radio off and called Pam Pine to see how the boys were doing.

“Pam’s Pawhouse.”

I recognized Pam’s cheerful voice. “Hey. It’s Shay. Just wondering how things are going.”

Pam’s voice warmed. “Oh, those two boys of yours are a riot. This morning we had a repair guy out to fix some stuff, and he was in the pen with the mutts when Bogey nosed him in the nuggets. He went down and Dawg leaped on top of him and started washing his face while Bogey tried to get even friendlier. It was hilarious.”

I was mortified. Visions of getting sued for pain and emotional anguish flitted through my mind. Bogey had a thing for sniffing crotches. In his world, life was a crotch free-for-all. He was way better than when we first got him, but he was still a work in progress. I said, “We’ve been working on what you taught us, but … ”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. The guy was laughing his patootie off. He has two feisty Chesapeakes at home. And hey, I’ll work with Bogey. Don’t worry, we’ll get him over it.”

I hoped getting him over it would happen sooner rather than later. I thanked Pam and hung up as I pulled into an open parking spot close to the Hole.

Twenty minutes and two large coffees chock-full of chocolate and sugar later, Lisa and I were on the way to track down Poker Buddy 1:
Brian Eckhart. Lisa seemed recovered from our previous night’s
confrontation, but her head had to be feeling it. Her hair hid the gash, so I couldn’t tell how it was. She insisted she was fine, so off we went.

I parked on North 3rd Street across from the red brick building Sexworld occupied. It was a 24/7/365 adult entertainment and smoke shop in Minneapolis. Washington Avenue cut between the lot where I’d parked and the store, which loomed imposingly at the corner of 3rd and Hennepin.

The gaudy
Sexworld
sign glowed a dull red high up on the corner of the building. Below it, a white-backed,
open 24 hours
sign assured those with a nocturnal itch that a scratch could be found at any time.

At street level, one entrance faced Washington, the other 3rd. Foot-tall, glowing red letters that again spelled out
Sexworld
arched over both entrances. To either side of the entry were vertical rows of six-foot tall neon tubes in blue, white, red, and pink, spanning maybe four feet across. Walking through one of those glowing entrances was like stepping into a den of deviant delights and decadent depravation. I didn’t know how they managed to attract customers day and night, but in they came, probably in more ways than one.

Snowflakes fell from the sky as we dodged traffic and crossed Washington on foot. I headed for the side entrance off of 3rd with Lisa trailing after me.

I pulled the door open and we crossed the threshold. To the left, a square, high-walled checkout counter faced row upon row of various kinds of videographic flesh for fantasy. The back wall was lined with what had to be the largest assortment of sex equipment and toys I’d ever seen. There was something for everyone—small, medium, large, and holy shit.

Speaking of holy shit, the world’s biggest wiener was a seven-foot, heavily veined golden penis situated not far inside the entrance. Flashing lights on the wall alongside the big dick twinkled luridly. Above the thing was a sign that read:
Sexworld measures up.

Impossibly obnoxious and somehow completely mesmerizing.

“What in the hell,” Lisa said, “is that?”

“Wanna ride?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, ma’am. I am not.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

Somewhere along the line, Coop had nicknamed the giant penis the Fantastic Phallus. And it was fantastic. The mechanical wonder sported a gilded saddle with a star-spangled saddle blanket. If someone were drunk or stoned or plain crazy enough, they could hop on for a ride and look like the world’s most endowed human being. It was the X-rated version of those quarter-a-pop mechanical horses or Fred Flintstone cars that used to be parked in front of shopping centers to entertain whiny kids.

The road that lead Brian Eckhart, our target, to Sexworld and the Fantastic Phallus, was harsh. He quit the Minneapolis PD after an officer-involved shooting that resulted in the death of a teenager. He was the officer involved. The requisite investigation had proved the kid had a loaded gun in hand, and Brian had been cleared of any wrongdoing.

However, the stress of the job, worry about litigation, and the failure he felt in his inability to stop the events that had forced him to the take the life of that boy took their toll. Brian resigned and picked up the security job so he could unobtrusively try to help minors who came through the place before they got themselves into something so serious they couldn’t get out. I don’t know what the management would think if they knew Brian’s real reason for working there, but I personally thought it was great.

I turned to the checkout counter to ask for Brian when a familiar voice called from across the floor, “Shay, hey!”

“Hot damn,” I said. “Come on, Lisa. You can contemplate the humongous horror later.”

We threaded our way between stacks of porn and met up with Brian in front of two shelves full of blond and buxom cheerleader smut.

Brian was a good-looking guy somewhere in his forties. He’d retained a full thatch of red hair and kept the old physique in fighting form even after leaving his brothers in blue. At six-foot-something, he cut an imposing figure. Certainly not someone I’d want approaching me as I gaped at naked chicks on the covers of the DVDs lining the shelves.

Brian engulfed me in a big hug. “What’s up, Little O?”

I’d picked up the nickname when I was a kid running around the Leprechaun. It stuck in some circles. Brian had thought it was funny and here we were. “Who’s this?” He none-too-casually cased Lisa from head to toe and back to head.

Lisa stuck her hand out before I had a chance to introduce her. “Lisa Vecoli. I appreciate the ogle, but you’ve got the wrong equipment.”

Well, that answered one question about Lisa.

Brian laughed. “Brian Eckhart at your service. I do like my ladies direct.” He shook her hand.

He looked at me and said, “What brings you into this house of ill repute?” He tugged up his shirtsleeve to look at his watch. “At nine-oh-nine on a Monday morning?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Come on.” Brian led us past the Fantastic Phallus and through a black-painted door into a break room. There was a couch of question
able cleanliness, a crusty counter with a cracked white plastic
microwave that had seen better days, and a sink heaped with dirty dishes. The top of a rickety-looking card table was strewn with a mixture of porn mags and, of all things, a few months’ worth of
Good Housekeeping
magazines. Considering the condition of the little room, whoever brought those in was probably hoping some of the housekeeping hints might rub off.

Brian sank into a chair at the table, rubbed at the nine o’clock shadow on his jaw, and yawned. “Take a load off. You caught me in the nick of time.”

I perched carefully on the edge of a grimy, cracked-vinyl chair. Lisa chose to remain on her feet.

“Long night?” I asked.

“Aren’t they all? Quiet, though. Maybe everyone was still strung out from New Year’s Eve. Now tell me what’s up.”

I recited the events of the last two days. Like many cops, Brian was a good listener and interrupted only to ask clarifying questions.

“So,” I said, “we’re checking with everyone my dad played poker with Friday night to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary about him, or if he might have said something to one of you guys that might explain his absence.”

Brian peered me through, concern etched on his face. “Your dad came to me, oh, sometime this past fall. October? November? Can’t remember. Told me that some guy had come into the bar and expressed interest in buying him out.” Brian squinted one eye shut in thought. “Chase? No that’s not right. Started with a ‘C’ I think. Last name was Shyler? Shiller? Something like that. The guy actually gave him an offer. Pete told him he wasn’t interested.

“Not long after that, Pete said he started getting harassed. Vague threats, shit like that. Phone calls with no one on the other end. Other calls telling him if he were a betting man, he’d better sell. Things escalated over time. He told me someone slashed his tires one night. A big rock shattered the front window of the bar.”

I had no idea. My damn father, Mr. Stoic, hadn’t told me the full story. Of course he hadn’t. He probably knew I’d go ballistic. What surprised me was that he hadn’t gone ballistic himself.

Unless he had.

A bright bolt of shame flared in the back of my head. If I had spent more time with my dad, maybe I wouldn’t be finding out about all of this second hand. Instead, they—whoever “they” were—had escalated from slashing tires to assault. The thought of my not-so-young-anymore father coming into the lot with two thugs lying in wait made my blood run cold.

I told Brian about the two guys who jumped Lisa and me the previous night.

He swore under his breath. “You call the police?”

“No,” I said. “Didn’t think about it. I was too pissed and got caught up patching Lisa’s head. I suppose I should at least report it.”

I glanced at Lisa, who had gone pale. Her lips were pressed together into what almost looked like a sneer, and the glare she sported was enough to make me want to cringe. “You okay?” I asked, wondering if her head wound was causing more trouble than I’d thought.

She gave a minute shake of her head, as if she was coming out of a daydream. “Yeah,” she said absently, “you know, at the time I didn’t think about calling the cops either.” She seemed to pull herself together and focused on Brian. “Do you know if Pete reported any of the prior harassment?”

He said, “We talked about some legal options. He didn’t like anything I offered and said he’d deal with it himself.”

I muttered under my breath, “Of course.”

“Don’t know what else to tell you, Shay. Pete was in a good mood Friday night. He won, which always helps. Even though his head was half in, half out of the game.”

That meshed with what Agnes told me. “Thanks, Brian.” I stood.

Brian laced his fingers and tucked his hands behind his head. He leaned dangerously far back in his chair. “Keep me updated, okay?”

“I sure will.”

We hit the exit, and Lisa said, “Your dad is stubborn.”

“You could say that.” We crossed Washington Avenue and headed for the Escape. “He always thinks he has to take care of everything on his own. Doesn’t know how to ask for help.” I paused as I dug the keys from my pocket and unlocked the doors. “Though he actually did ask for help, considering what Brian said. Why he decided not to take the assistance offered is beyond me.”

We climbed inside and I started the engine.

Lisa said, “Too bad there wasn’t more that Brian could give us. At least we have a partial name. Sort of.”

I pulled into the street. “Yeah. So close, yet … not so much.”

“Where to next?” Lisa asked.

I looked at the radio. 9:40. “Let’s head to St. Paul and see if we can find Mick Simon, better known as the Vulc.”

“The Vulc?”

“Mick was Vulcanus Rex, the Fire King of the St. Paul Winter Carnival, back in the late Nineties, or was it … ah hell, it doesn’t matter when. Anyway, he’s been ‘the Vulc’ ever since. With the carnival coming up, I’m sure he’s working in one of the Krewe’s warehouses feverishly planning the new Fire King’s appearances.”

“I guess I know less than I realized about the carnival. But the Krewe, they’re the crazy guys that run around in those red suits, goggles, and pointy little beards, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said wistfully, memories of the St. Paul Winter Carnival flooding my head. I remembered Mom and Dad bringing both Neil—Eddy’s son—and me out to the festivities when we were little. Every year after the accident that killed both my mom and Neil, Eddy did her best to keep that tradition alive by bringing me to the carnival. My father was too busy running the Leprechaun and keeping himself knee-deep in the sauce to entertain any thoughts of coming along. Only much later did I realize that the prospect of going back to something that had meant so much probably hurt him badly.

I braked to a stop at a light and said, “I think I was about five or six when my father first told me about the history of the carnival, which was initially held way back in the late 1800s. I remember thinking that had to be before the time of the dinosaurs.”

Lisa laughed at that.

The light changed and I picked up speed again. “I suppose life back then was good—if you didn’t mind outhouses in below-zero weather. There’s always a downside to everything, right? Anyway, the biggest problem for St. Paul’s growing rep was a newspaper story some reporter from New York wrote claiming the city was no better than Siberia.”