by Jim Heskett
Ethan wrapped up his half-eaten sub and shoved it in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Nazi shitbags.”
“I’m thinking of a way around that,” Rourke said. “Maybe we don’t try the frontal assault method.”
“Have you been inside lately?” Ethan said. “Like, do you know how many we’re going to be dealing with?”
Rourke sat back and thought about how he wanted to answer that question. He didn’t want to tell them about going to the casino in the basement of the Dort Mall with his dad. Didn’t want to tell them about watching his dad waste his college fund at the poker table while Rourke played with his Matchbox cars in the corner of the enormous and smoky room. Blinking lights and twinkling sounds from all directions. Didn’t want to tell them about seeing his dad being dragged off into a back room, then emerging hours later, his face a bruised and bloodied mess. Shaking him awake. Wake up, Rourkey. It’s time to go home and go to sleep in your own bed.
“I’ve been inside,” Rourke said, and left it at that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Micah and Frank sat in the rental car, engine idling. Micah’s newly shaved head itched, and the glasses weighed heavily on his nose.
They surveyed the husk of the Dort Mall, a place as barren as an old drive-in movie theater. Maybe a half dozen cars in the parking lot clustered together like Koi in a pond. Weeds had sprung up through cracks in the concrete. Scattered trash occupied many of the parking spaces.
Reminded Micah of one of those last services for next eighty miles gas stations you’d see on highways, dropped in the middle of nowhere. A business begging for people to pay attention to it, but its pleas were falling on deaf ears.
Frank pointed at the car keys and Micah killed the engine.
“What a dump,” Micah said.
“It’s hard to argue that it’s not, looking like this. Wasn’t always like this, though. Dort used to be quite a happening kind of place. Stores, restaurants, kids being delinquents in the parking lots, just like a regular mall.”
“The casino room is literally underground?”
Frank nodded. “Let me see your phone again.”
Micah handed over the phone and Frank opened the picture Micah had snapped of the two men getting into the truck, right after they had sliced open the throat of the plastic surgeon. Or, he assumed they’d done it. No way to know for sure without asking them.
“Haven’t seen this bastard in at least twenty-five years,” Frank said as he tapped on the face of one of the men, “but I recognize him as clear as day. I was drinking back then, but I know it’s him. Hair’s a little thinner up top, face is a little fuller, but no mistaking it. I don’t remember his name, but he works for a guy that calls himself Harvey. Harvey’s the owner and proprietor of this establishment.”
“Harvey,” Micah said, musing on the name. Seemed harmless.
“But our guy here was a bruiser for this gang that calls themselves Crossroads. Harvey is also the boss of the gang. Skinheads, but they’re the new kind of skinheads that don’t actually have shaved heads. Gambling, mostly, but back then they were into drugs and a bit of prostitution.”
“Mafia sampler platter,” Micah said.
Frank chuckled. “Yep.”
“And this casino under the mall is where they operate from?”
“Used to be, back in the day. I assume it’s still there, but that’s what we’re here to find out. I’m guessing we’re going to discover our guy and Harvey down there.”
Micah drummed his hands on the steering wheel, then ran his index finger over the bump that Boba Fett’s head made in his jeans pocket. “So these people—these Crossroads people—paid a plastic surgeon to cut up some poor guy to look like me, probably so they could collect a bounty on my head from the cartel.”
Frank erupted with a barrage of coughs so intense that tears streamed down his face by the time he was through. “Looks that way.”
“You okay?” Micah said.
“Fine, kid.”
Micah sighed at the dirty windows of the mall. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t like it much, either. But getting access to whatever is going on with these people is the next logical step. We don’t have any warm leads to follow.”
“I get it. I’m ready to go in if you are.”
Frank shook his head. “It’s best if you stay out of it. Why don’t you poke around outside, and I’ll go in and find out what I can. Even if they don’t recognize you as being you, with your fake contacts and your nerd glasses, they probably saw you snap their picture back there at the doctor’s office.”
“They didn’t see me. I was watching them the whole time.”
“Even so, better safe than sorry. I’ll still go in by myself. This may turn out to be nothing, and better to keep you removed from that. If we keep you out of sight, that lets us hold on to our element of surprise.”
“But, Frank, you said they’re skinheads. Like, neo-nazis.”
Frank nodded. “I did say that.”
“No offense, but you’re kinda the wrong color to walk into a skinhead casino.”
Frank laughed. “I’m aware of that. Don’t you worry about me. My skin may be black, but my money is green, so I think I’ll be okay. And if not, I picked this up at a pawn shop before you got here.” Frank popped the glove box and took out a .357 Magnum revolver.
Micah paused to ask himself if he was upset about not going in because he was genuinely concerned about Frank, or because he didn’t want to be out of the loop. The answer came back: yes, he was worried about Frank. Seemed like the old man was about to dive into a nest of vipers.
“Please try not to shoot up the place. You might need more than six bullets to get out safely.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Frank said. “I’m just going to slip in there and see if anything raises any red flags. I’ll keep a low profile, I promise.”
“The murder of this plastic surgeon might not have anything to do with us. Could be a coincidence. We could be connecting threads that have nothing to do with each other.”
“Maybe. Then again, might not be a coincidence.”
Micah watched his mentor spin the revolver’s cylinder. A pain tickled the back of his neck. He had a feeling Frank wasn’t going to get in and out so easily.
“If you’re not out in a half hour,” Micah said, “I’m going in after you. I don’t care if they recognize me or not.”
“Fair enough, kid. Let’s do this.”
***
Frank stepped over the threshold into the Dort Mall. Dust infiltrated his nostrils. He sneezed, sending the sound echoing along the corridors. The mall was a barren place, stuck in time, with most of the shops closed. When Frank had lived here and frequented this mall—over a quarter century ago—Dort had been a lively spot full of people and commerce. Now it was a carcass of what it used to be.
The only way you could tell it was the same place was the insane decor running the length of the interior of the mall. The owner had spent a lifetime collecting antiques and oddities and had displayed them here, plastered on the walls, hanging from the ceiling, in the hallways.
Glowing neon signs. Sports equipment. The wings and propellers of prop planes hanging above as if they were in mid-flight. Road signs collected from a cross-section of American highways. A merry go round in the center of a large room. A giant wooden elephant and a twenty-foot Tyrannosaurus rex made of car parts. It was like the inside of a deranged mad scientist/antique store owner’s head, with bits and pieces of miscellaneous Americana shot from a nostalgia cannon everywhere.
Frank had to strain his memories to the tearing point to remember where the damn entrance to the casino was. Basement somewhere. It had been a dance club at one point, then closed up and made to look sealed off when it had become the casino.
Last time he’d been here, though, there were shoppers everywhere, stores pumping music. This was like a ghost town. The main area of the mall was one long room, a massive rectangle
with store windows lining each side. Some skinny hallways branched off, but most of it was in plain view.
He walked along the main area of the mall, the heels of his shoes clacking on the painted cement like cracks of a whip, echoing in all directions. He could hear the wheeze of air in and out of his nostrils.
Up ahead was the sporting goods store. Hockey place. He remembered this establishment, and it seemed to be one of the only things still in business. If the entrance was in the same place, he seemed to recall that he could access the casino through an entrance past the hockey shop, near the mall janitorial closet.
Maybe there was an outside entrance too, but he couldn’t be sure. Was there some way to gain entry through the hockey store itself? That sounded familiar.
He passed the hockey shop and eyed the janitor’s closet where the mall floor dead-ended. Caught curious looks from employees inside the store as he walked on by. They probably hadn’t seen anyone come to this end of the mall but not go into their shop in years.
He tried the door handle to the closet and found it locked. Bit his lower lip. Micah was good at picking locks, but Frank didn’t want to risk bringing the kid in here. Not until he knew for sure if this Crossroads gang was involved in killing that Micah lookalike or not.
Frank wandered back to the store, and the employees who’d been near the front had left. He poked his head in and noticed there were six of them, huddled off to the side, almost out of sight. Team meeting, or something like that.
His memory sputtered and kicked, not wanting to give in and recover the alternate entrance. He couldn’t figure it out. Instead, he used some old cop logic and relied on a hunch. It would make sense for an entrance to lead from somewhere in this hockey store. Manager’s office, most likely.
Frank took a chance and hurried across the room, toward the back. A piercing ache squeezed his stomach. Had been hurting like this almost constantly, all morning. Maybe shouldn’t have had that second breakfast burrito, even as meager as the damn things had looked.
He reached the back of the store without attracting any attention and opened the manager’s office. Giant room inside with desks and a twenty-person conference table. Bits of unused mall decor sat about in this room too: one of those Depression-era boardwalk love tester machines, some old-timey bicycles with the comically oversized front wheels, and a collection of lamps with bases shaped like legs.
Where the hell had all this crap come from? Who spends so much time and money to turn a place into some elderly person’s garage?
And, at the far end of the room, a door marked basement. Now he remembered that door, like suddenly coming up with the name of an actor on television that’s been eluding you for hours.
The rest of the memories materialized. Frank recalled coming here more than once as a cop for noise complaints, being shown this way, only to find nothing illegal or out of place. Smiling faces. Nothing untoward going on here, officer.
He opened the door and descended a set of stairs lit only by a single overhead light. No handrail to guide him. The stairs felt slick, and he traced a hand down the wall to keep his balance. He could see a turn at the bottom and light coming from the left, and when he reached it, a man at a desk at the end of a hallway perked up.
The man jumped to his feet and slid a hand into his suit pocket. “Can I help you, sir?”
Frank took a few steps toward him, but carefully, so he wouldn’t spook the guy. Seemed like the jumpy type. “Just so we’re clear about what I’m doing, I’m going to reach in my back pocket for my wallet.”
“Slowly, please.”
Frank removed his wallet and drew five twenties. He fanned them out and took a few more steps toward the guard.
The guard stiffened, but let his eyes fall to the bills. Like a cat to catnip. He didn’t want to look, but Frank could practically smell the saliva welling at the back of the gatekeeper’s throat.
“Do you know where you are, sir?”
Frank nodded.
“And if you know that, I would have to assume you know who runs this place.”
Frank nodded again, even though he wasn’t sure, and that’s what he was here to find out. Still, he kept his face even and confident.
“Then you must know we don’t typically let in people of your… type.”
“That’s fine, and I understand people of my type don’t usually find themselves in this hallway. I’m just here to have some fun. I don’t want any trouble. I can spend my money elsewhere if that’s going to be a problem.”
Frank held out the bills. “This is a gift for you, by the way.”
The man hesitated, then tilted his head at the desk. Frank dropped the bills.
“When you go inside, you’ll need a password. The password today is sallow.”
“Swallow?”
“No, sallow.”
“Sallow?”
“That’s right.”
The man waved Frank on to a door behind him, never taking his hand out of his coat pocket. Frank did his best not to startle him because the guy seemed one car backfire away from launching out of his skin.
Frank eased through the door and into something like a living room, with a couple chairs and a sofa, straight out of the seventies. Lime green and fuzzy. He didn’t remember this waiting room from before but it had been an eternity since he’d been here.
Another white man, just like the one outside this room, stood in front of another desk. But this man wore his gun on the outside. Submachine gun on a strap across his chest. And instead of nervous, this one was as still as a statue. Big square jaw and broad chest.
Frank knew his type by his expression. This one couldn’t be bought.
The man’s fingers flew to the grip of the gun, but he didn’t raise it. His eyes stayed dim and focused.
“Password. Now,” The man said, his finger hovering above the trigger.
“Sallow.”
The man took his fingers off the grip and let them fall to his sides. Adopted a grin as his eyes opened enough for Frank to notice they were blue. Now they seemed like old buddies.
He pointed at a door behind him. “Right this way, sir. Welcome to our little club.”
“Thanks. This club have a name?”
“It does not, sir.”
Frank walked to the door, but the man raised his arm, blocking him. “I’ll need to search you, sir.”
“I’m an old man,” Frank said, trying to look pathetic. “What damage do you think I’m gonna do in there, son?”
“I still need to search you.”
“Okay, then,” Frank said as he lifted up his arms. No way would this guy miss Frank’s gun with even a cursory search. Time to think of a distraction, and be quick about it.
The man placed his hands under Frank’s armpits and slid them down. Frank had no idea how to stop him. He couldn’t overpower the big guy.
As the meaty bruiser started to reach around the back of Frank’s waist, Frank threw his elbow into the man’s nose, a half second before he would have discovered the revolver in the back of Frank’s waistband.
The man’s hands rushed to his face and he stumbled back. Frank yanked the pistol from his belt and flipped it to grab it by the barrel, then he smashed the hilt against the man’s face again. Nose bones crunched and blood pooled above his upper lip.
The man opened his mouth to cry out, so Frank jabbed him in the chin. Felt his own knuckle crack. The man crumbled, then slipped, and fell on the desk, his head smacking against it. He slumped to the floor, out cold.
Frank put a couple fingers against the guy’s neck to check for a pulse. Found one. Figured he might have three minutes, maybe four, until this man woke up again. “Shit.”
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He’d wanted to look around and get a feel for the place, but now he’d started something irreversible. No time to worry about that now, though. He had to make some use out of this trip before getting the hell out of here.
He opened the door into the casino
.
Dim overhead lights. No windows. Poker tables, roulette, blinking and clinking slot machines. Not too crowded, maybe thirty or forty people gambling. A thin haze of cigarette smoke in the air. Frank was definitely the only non-white person here. A half dozen girls in skimpy outfits carrying trays of drinks from table to table. And at least ten men in sharp suits, standing at strategic angles to those tables, coiled wires sticking from their ears.
And across the room, chatting with one of those girls in the skimpy outfits, stood Harvey and the man from Micah’s picture, the one fleeing the scene of the plastic surgeon’s murder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Micah circled the Dort Mall on foot, keeping his eyes on the pale purple awning that ran the length of the exterior. The wind picked up every few seconds, ruffling the awning like the hem of a dress. It was a sort of faded color that suggested a lack of upkeep and years of relentless bleaching from the sun.
Denver was such a shining beacon of capitalism and wealth that seeing the city of Flint in this state of decay didn’t compute for Micah. He wasn’t used to barren parking lots and empty, dilapidated buildings. A lack of enthusiasm for upkeep.
Denver had a homeless population, but those people usually had somewhere to go to escape the cold nights. Did they have the same here? Or was the city too broken to care for its least-valuable citizens? Some places, they swept them under the rug like dust bunnies.
As he rounded a corner to the back of the mall, he found himself looking at a long parking lot with a couple big rigs parked, one of them backed up to a loading dock on the far side. The other big rig was not attached to a bay, rather, it sat as an island on its own. Probably some trucker sleeping off a bad drunk in the cab.
Opposite the parking lot was a wall of those massive and pointy trees. The trees kept the Dort Mall hemmed in, when otherwise, it might try to flee to a more prosperous location.
Out of the corner of his eye, Micah caught the only element with any life or motion to it. A group of three guys huddled together near the outside of the mall. One of them was pressing a notebook up against the building, scribbling, while the other two pointed at it. They were collaborating, or arguing, or both.
