The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  “I wondered when you’d show up.” Zeke leaned against her and she bent over and scratched his left ear. She picked dog hair from her skirt. “When was the last time you brushed him?”

  “It’s shedding season.”

  “It’s always shedding season.” Her back cracked when she stood straighten up.

  “Shall I?”

  She nodded at him and fell into a white Adirondack chair.

  Burr crossed the porch. It wrapped three-quarters of the way around the three-story Victorian, circa 1898. Inside, an Oriental rug ran the length of the hall over an oak and maple parquet floor that led to the kitchen. The refrigerator took up the entire wall and needed eight legs to stand up. It had three doors with claw handles, the deluxe version of Windward’s refrigerator. The compressor sat on top, humming and grinding.

  He opened the freezer and filled two old-fashioned glasses with ice. He poured Bombay into each glass, added a capful of dry vermouth, then one solitary olive in hers, four plus olive juice in his.

  Back on the porch, he handed his aunt her martini and sat across a cocktail table from her, a vase with lavender, yellow, pink and orange snapdragons between them.

  She took a big swallow. “Too much vermouth.”

  “I barely waved the cap around the glass,” Burr said, playing his part of the ritual.

  “Why must you wreck perfectly good gin with vermouth, and you ruined yours with all those olives, not to mention the juice,” she said, playing her part.

  Burr looked out at the harbor. The Lafayette Cottage, Number 59. All of the cottages on Harbor Point were numbered, no names. The height of reverse snobbery, Burr thought, but he liked it just the same. The last cottage at the tip of the point, Cottage 59 faced Harbor Springs and Little Traverse Bay on one side, Lake Michigan on the other. An uncommon view among uncommon views. Aerie had nothing on Cottage 59.

  He smelled the smells of the cottage. The water and the wet sand. The cedar hedge and the white pines, eighty-footers that shaded the cottage.

  “You have no business taking this case. You’re not a criminal lawyer.”

  “This was your idea.”

  “Bail. That’s all I wanted you to do.”

  Burr plucked an olive from his drink. As much as he loved the juniper taste of gin, it was the olives and the olive juice that made a martini a martini.

  “She cost you your practice, your wife, and almost your life.” Aunt Kitty drank again. “How broke are you?”

  “Fairly broke.”

  “You need to give up this appellate practice and get back to what you’re good at. Then you won’t have to get involved in these criminal fiascos. And you need to find a new wife and get your life in order.”

  “My life is in order.”

  “You may be the best commercial litigator in the state, and you’re fooling around with an appellate practice that barely pays the bills. Not to mention that pothead of a partner.”

  “And Eve.”

  “She’s the only thing that keeps you going. Why she does it and how she can afford it is beyond me.”

  She divorced well.

  Burr looked out at the harbor again, the water a pale blue next to the beach, then aqua, turning suddenly to a blue black at the drop off.

  He told Aunt Kitty what he had found out so far, who he had talked to, and what had happened with Conti, Karpinen and Lindstrom.

  Aunt Kitty stared at her crystal-clear martini. A maiden lady, she practiced in Detroit then moved full time to Harbor Point long before there were any year-round residents. She did environmental law, largely pro bono, largely for the Little Traverse Conservancy. She knew all the lawyers and all the judges within a hundred miles of her martini.

  “How much more do you need?”

  “Another ten thousand.”

  “I thought you just got ten thousand.”

  Burr poked around in his glass for an olive but thought better of taking one out. “That paid for the elevator.”

  “So, your next stop is Detroit and asking for more money?”

  Burr reached for an olive.

  “Don’t you dare.” Aunt Kitty set her drink down. “Detroit Screw Machine employs over two hundred people. It more than pays the bills for Martha, Murdo, and Anne.” She looked down at her glass but didn’t pick it up. “We both know what happened to Colonial Broach. Fortunately, Detroit Screw Machine is thriving.”

  Where is she going with this?

  “For such a smart man, you can be naïve at times. Especially about money. No matter what Murdo may have done and no matter what kind of fool he may be, he’s the brains behind Detroit Screw Machine.” She picked up her drink. “If you lose this, and Murdo goes to jail, Detroit Screw Machine will be ruined. That’s why someone who knows what they’re doing needs to take over.”

  * * *

  Burr took M-68 to Indian River, then I-75 south to Detroit. He thought about what Aunt Kitty said, but he was damned if he’d quit now. Plus, he needed the money.

  Once in Detroit, Burr took the Lodge downtown, got off at the Jefferson exit and drove past the Renaissance Center, which hadn’t renaissanced anything. Half-a-mile later he turned right on Atwater, toward the river. Burr drove through the chain link fence that marked the entrance, past the better part of a hundred cars and pickups, mostly pickups – Chevys, Fords, Dodges – all of them built in the USA, most in Detroit. He parked in a “no parking” spot next to the space marked Halverson. He looked up at the Detroit Screw Machine Company, a three-story, rust-colored brick building, vintage 1925, just about the time Detroit took over as the manufacturing capital of the world. The brick had weathered, its surface worn away by the wind, the rain and the snow.

  “Zeke, I shan’t be long.” Just to his right, the Detroit River, half a mile wide. Burr smelled the river smells, the cattails, the gasoline and the sewage. He shaded his eyes and looked around. Detroit Screw Machine wasn’t quite an oasis in a desert of abandoned and burned out buildings, but almost. The neighborhood where tool and die, metalworking, and manufacturing once flourished had moved to Warren, Taylor, or Sterling Heights … or was just plain gone. Behind him now, the Renaissance Center was truly an outpost. In between was Arnie’s, where he had lunched in his days at Fisher and Allen, a lawyer in a sea of the skilled and unskilled trades. The best olive burger in Detroit, not to mention the fire-brewed Stroh’s draft, from the now closed brewery just up Jefferson. Burr thought both he and Detroit had come a long way, and not the way that either of them had expected.

  He walked into the lobby – linoleum floor, tan cinder block walls, and six chairs, all of it pleasantly uncomfortable. Designed for the tool salesman, lubricant vendors, and would-be union organizers. A woman of about sixty slid back a glass window in the wall opposite the door. She studied him, arching her eyebrows over the black frames of her glasses. “No solicitors.”

  “I’m a solicitor only in the British sense of the word,” Burr said.

  “No salesmen on Tuesdays. Everybody who calls on us knows that.”

  “I have an appointment with Murdo.”

  Her eyebrows almost erupted out of her head. “I’m so sorry. It’s your coat and tie, although yours is much nicer than most of the salesmen.”

  “I’m Mr. Halverson’s lawyer.”

  “Right this way.”

  The door next to the window buzzed and Burr popped through. The eyebrow lady led him through an office area lit by fluorescent lights where about fifteen women typed, filed, and talked on the phone. Out a door and onto the shop floor, a floor that had known decades of boots with steel toes, oil and metal shavings ground into the hardwood, now a gray blond, all traces of the grain gone, but the wood had enough give to make it bearable to stand on for hours at a time.

  The screw machines, row upon row of them, hummed, whined and roared. The shop smelled of machine oil, metal shav
ings, and sweat. The screw machines looked like so many headless monsters, monsters cut off at the waist with up to eight arms moving in and out from a defenseless piece of metal. Machine tenders in coveralls shuffled between the screw machines, tightening and loosening, taking finished parts off the machines and putting new parts on. The eyebrow lady led Burr down an aisle to a corner office. Windows looked out on the shop floor. Light poured in from windows that faced the river and the parking lot. The office had a desk the size of a Ford Falcon. A drafting table sat next to the window on the river side of the office.

  “I thought for sure Mr. Halverson was in here. Why don’t you just wait right here.” At that moment, a little man with a plaid, open-collared shirt and oil-stained khaki pants came in.

  “I’ll take you to him.” The little man stuck his hand out. “Floyd Enright.” Burr shook his hand. Enright had thin lips, a flat nose, and just about the finest comb over Burr had ever seen. “He’s in the prototype room.”

  Out they went, past the screw machines, through the tool room and into a room filled with every metalworking tool known to man: lathes, grinders, drill presses, metal saws. There, working on a lathe, was Murdoch Halverson. White shirt and black slacks, tie tucked into his shirt. His hair fell over his safety goggles. Murdo either didn’t see Burr or didn’t care. The lathe turned. Metal shavings flew. The heat of the day seeped into the shop. The back and armpits of his shirt were soaked through. Sweat ran down his cheek. He had an uncommon concentration.

  He doesn’t look a murderer to me. Could it have been an accident? Or a drunken rage? That wouldn’t be first-degree murder. Was it jealousy?

  Murdo didn’t strike him as the jealous type, especially right now, bent over the lathe. Maybe Murdo killed Jimmy because he was afraid Jimmy was taking his business away. But he doesn’t look sympathetic. Unless I find something extraordinary or cook up something spectacular, Murdo is going to get convicted.

  Finally, Floyd walked around the lathe and came up to Murdo from the front of the lathe so Murdo wouldn’t be startled and get himself caught up in the machine. Murdo kept at it, turning and grinding. At last, he turned off the lathe and put his goggles on his forehead.

  “What now, Floyd?”

  “You have a visitor, Mr. Halverson.” Enright fussed with his comb over.

  “I do?” Murdo turned around. “Why, Burr, how are you?”

  “Fine, Murdo. Just fine.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “We had an appointment this afternoon.”

  He turned back to the lathe. “I’ve almost got this jig the way I want it. The way we do it now takes too long to make the fitting. This jig will speed things up nicely.” Murdo rubbed his hands together. “Do you know what a jig is? Of course, you do. Colonial Broach was two blocks over. A shame your father couldn’t keep it going.”

  Burr ignored him. “Can we go to your office and talk about the trial?”

  “We can talk here.”

  Burr looked at Floyd.

  “Floyd can stay. Anne and I were together the whole time.”

  “That may be so.”

  “It is so.” Murdo took off his goggles and his hair spilled over his forehead. He shook his head and flipped his hair out of his eyes.

  “What if the jury doesn’t believe Anne? Then what?” Burr ran his hands through his hair, front to back. “It would be better, much better, if we could point the finger somewhere else.”

  “We talked about this at the Grand. I think it was Jane.”

  “Jimmy worked for you for years. You must know someone who might have wanted to kill him.”

  “Jimmy and I were best friends. I gave him his start. I did everything for him. Even after he left I helped him. I only sued him because I had to.” Murdo took a handkerchief from his pocket, cleaned his glasses and put them back on. “I don’t know who his friends were.”

  “But you and Anne did things with Jimmy and Jane. Didn’t you meet any of his other friends?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “You crewed on his boat. By the way, who is Ronnie Cross?”

  Murdo’s hair fell back into his eyes. He flipped it out of his eyes again.

  That’s getting annoying.

  “There are three floors here. Three floors of screw machines and everything that goes with them. We get all the tough jobs because we know how to make the tools.”

  Why does that matter?

  “Do you know how hard it is to keep a family business going for three generations?”

  “I have an inkling,” Burr said, who had more than an inkling. “Who is Ronnie Cross?” he said again.

  Murdo started to flip his hair again but this time he brushed it off his forehead with his hand. “I have no idea.”

  “He was part of the crew.”

  “One of the boys?”

  “Maybe a ringer.”

  “I have no idea what their names were.” Murdo looked like he was getting bored with Burr. “You came all this way to ask about one of the boys on the crew?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How much this time?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “It’s always about money. Isn’t it Floyd?” Floyd turned red underneath his comb over. “If it’s about money, go see my mother.” Burr gritted his teeth. “Maybe she’ll give you some.” Murdo turned the lathe back on.

  * * *

  Burr and Zeke headed up Jefferson, away from downtown. They drove past the shuttered Uniroyal plant, the abandoned Chrysler factory and the burned-out east side of Detroit. Burr had the doors locked and the windows up, just like all the commuters. Zeke scratched at the window. They crossed into Grosse Pointe Park at Alter Road, a six-foot county drain and a chain link fence topped with barbed wire on each side of the pavement. Burr lowered Zeke’s window. They were on the tree-lined version of Jefferson in Grosse Pointe Park, the first of the five Grosse Pointes, home to the wealthy, the would-be wealthy and the formerly wealthy.

  Burr turned toward Lake St. Clair. Five blocks later, into Windmill Pointe, one of the Pointe’s oldest and finest neighborhoods. At 537 Windmill Pointe Road, he turned into a circle drive and parked in front of an overbearing Tudor with a slate roof.

  Martha Halverson answered his knock. “Why, Mr. Lafayette, how nice to see you. Please come in.”

  The matriarch led him down a beige hall with a hardwood floor and an Oriental runner that Burr thought was probably worth the price of a house in Warren. Past a powder-blue living room, past the requisite paneled library and into the sunroom. Floor to ceiling leaded windows overlooked Lake St. Clair. Beyond that, the Canadian shore and Walpole Marsh, where Burr and Zeke hunted ducks. Martha walked to the windows and cranked them open.

  “A little fresh air is always a good thing.” She sat him in a plaid, overstuffed chair. She sat kitty-corner to him in an equally dizzyingly plaid chair. “How much this time?”

  “Ten thousand,” Burr said without flinching.

  “That’s a bit stiff, isn’t it?” Martha didn’t flinch either.

  “Criminal defense is expensive.”

  “I agree, but exactly what have you accomplished since I wrote you the first check?”

  “Murdo is out on bail.”

  “You did that the first day.”

  This isn’t going in the right direction.

  “Who do you think killed Jimmy Lyons?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “My point exactly. A suspect or two would be helpful,” Burr said. “We need a reasonable doubt.”

  “Isn’t Anne enough for that?”

  “I hope so, but it would be nice to point the finger at someone.”

  Martha looked out at the lake, then at Burr. “So, it’s ten thousand for a reasonable doubt.”

  “Yes.”

  She turn
ed from the window and looked at him. “Mr. Lafayette, the Halversons are not prolific.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “The Halverson men are not a fertile group.”

  Burr didn’t say anything.

  “They don’t have heirs. One child a generation. So far, at least. Beginning with Murdo’s great-grandfather.”

  “Mrs. Halverson, I’m not really following you.”

  She pointed out the window at a slightly smaller but equally overbearing Tudor. “Murdo and Anne live next door.” She sat and put her hands on her lap. “Anne, the former Anne Murphy, comes from a fine family in Winnetka. They live on the sixth hole of the Indian Hill Club. She also happens to come from a large family. Catholic, but nonetheless a fine family. Murdo worships her.” She stood and walked over to a French provincial writing table. She opened a drawer and took out her checkbook. Burr thought this promising. “Mr. Lafayette, we all want Detroit Screw Machine to continue in the family. For that to happen, we need an heir, and we’re unlikely to have an heir if Murdo is in jail.” She dashed off a check and handed it to Burr.

  * * *

  As was his long-standing habit, Burr left as soon as Martha Halverson handed him the check, long having since discovered that once he had the money, absolutely nothing could be gained by further conversation. Indeed, much could be lost, namely the money.

  Jefferson turned into Lake Shore. Burr followed it to 763 Sunningdale, a nicely appointed, red brick colonial with two sycamores in the front yard, a three-car garage, and a greenhouse in back. His former home, still the home of the beautiful Grace, and also the home where he still paid the mortgage.

  He picked up Zeke-the-boy, and Burr and the two Zekes played fetch on the beach next to the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. Burr’s membership had long since expired, but Maurice, the gate attendant, always let him in.

  Lake St. Clair was reasonably clean here but swimming, except in the pool, as well as fetch, violated every rule of the Yacht Club, not to mention Grace’s long list. By the time they were done, the two Zekes were equally wet. They finished their day at the Eastland Chuck E Cheese, which fortunately served beer.

  Burr took I-75 north to Mackinaw City. He and Zeke boarded the Star Line’s last ferry, the spray from its rooster tail disappearing behind them.