“Sweetie,” I said. “I need you to be safe. I understand that you’re reluctant to go into hiding, but we can hire bodyguards—”
“No.”
“Nina, be reasonable.”
“Look down,” she said.
I glanced at the sheaf of papers our hands were resting on.
“That’s an insurance policy,” she said. “It covers my business. Why do I have a feeling that hanging around with you is going to raise my premiums?”
“Nina—”
“Forget it. I am not going to have guys with guns around my place.” She pulled her hands out of mine. “It seems to me that this is your problem, McKenzie, not mine.”
She has you there, my inner voice said.
“Okay,” I said aloud.
“McKenzie, I’ll be fine. Now go away, will you?”
Schroeder Private Investigations was a cop shop. Every man who had ever worked there had been an investigator for one law enforcement agency or another—sheriff ’s office, police department, even the FBI. They all acted like it, too, answering calls in white shirtsleeves and shoulder holsters, sitting behind gray metal desks with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. It was located on the third floor of an outdated office building in downtown Minneapolis. The directory listing the building’s occupants was hand-written. So were the legends identifying each office; they were painted in gold and red on a ten-inch-wide, floor to-ceiling glass panel next to the doors. A heavy curtain kept everyone from seeing inside. I walked in without knocking.
A woman intercepted me in a reception area just inside the door. “I’m here to see Greg Schroeder,” I said. “My name is McKenzie.”
She led me halfway across the large, busy room until a voice boomed out. “Rushmore McKenzie,” the voice said. “I’ll be a sonuvabitch.” She abandoned me as Schroeder approached.
Schroeder’s fortunes had ebbed and flowed over the years. At one time, he had had as many as a dozen investigators working for him, yet when I first met him he was alone. Now there were five investigators in the office and I couldn’t say how many more on the street.
“Last time I saw you was down in Victoria, Minnesota,” Schroeder said. “Seems to me I saved your ass.”
“So you did. Difficult shot, if I recall.”
“Come.” Schroeder led me to a metal desk against the far wall. “Sit.”
I sat in front of the desk.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Schroeder said.
I told him I wanted to hire a few bodyguards.
“To protect whose body?”
I opened my wallet and retrieved a photograph of Nina. Schroeder took one glance and said, “That’s a body worth protecting. Who is she?”
“Nina Truhler.”
“Your girl?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
I gave him every detail I could think of, including the license plate number of her Lexus.
“What are we protecting her from?”
I explained that as well.
“No specific individual to watch for,” Schroeder said. “Makes it tougher. Where is the lady now?”
“Rickie’s.”
“Okay. I’ll pull in a couple of guys. We’ll go over there. You can introduce us. We’ll give her a couple of rules to follow—”
“Umm.”
“Umm, what?”
“You can’t let her know that you’re watching her.”
Schroeder studied me for a few beats. “That’ll cost you extra,” he said.
“Price is no object.”
“People say that, yet they rarely mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“What about you? Want a couple guys watching your back?”
I shook my head. “Nah,” I said. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
“Famous last words,” Schroeder said.
I decided to take Harry’s advice—finally—and go home. In fact, that was the plan after I stopped for a meal at a pretty good deli I knew on Como Avenue. Only my cell phone rang—I still hadn’t changed the damn ringtone. A voice from my sordid past told me I should drive to a club in downtown Minneapolis.
“You really want to meet me,” Chopper said. “You really want to meet me right now. It’s what you call a matter of life and death.”
Stroll along Block E in downtown Minneapolis these days and you’ll hear opera—La Bohème, Tosca, Madame Butterfly, Don Giovanni, La Traviata. They were playing Bellini’s Norma from a speaker on the corner of Seventh and Hennepin when I crossed the street. It was meant to drive off the riffraff that were now congregating in the area between Hennepin and First avenues and Sixth and Seventh streets. I suppose it might work. Opera, after all, is a complex art form that uses a different style of voice than we’re accustomed to, and that makes some people uncomfortable. On the other hand, I didn’t care for the music at all until an ex-girlfriend exposed me to it, and now I like it, so who knows? Instead of ridding the streets of the less desirable among us, it might turn them into opera fans.
Still, you can’t blame the local merchants for trying. There was a time not too long ago when a tourist couldn’t swing a commemorative shopping bag on Block E without hitting a prostitute, john, pimp, drug dealer, drug addict, mugger, pickpocket, panhandler, or loitering teenager. It was the most notorious chunk of real estate in Minneapolis, a place of disreputable businesses, rough-and-tumble bars, peep shows, sex-oriented bookstores, and triple-X movie theaters that accounted for 25 percent of all the arrests in the city. The city council’s response to this blight on their fair community was to invoke eminent domain, seize all the businesses, and bulldoze them, literally turning Block E into an asphalt parking lot, thereby impelling the sinners to locate elsewhere.
A decade later, a few enterprising entrepreneurs decided that E stood for “Entertainment” and subsequently transformed the block into the crown jewel of Minneapolis’s thriving club and theater scene. A movie house, a pizza joint, an ice cream parlor, a game center, a Hard Rock Cafe, and other attractions were brought in, and the area was lit up like the inside of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome during a ball game. Only, along with the tourists and suburbanites, the bright lights also attracted a criminal element, and Block E was once again becoming known for its casual shootings and what the cops euphemistically referred to as “disturbances.” Thus the experiment with opera. I almost felt guilty for humming along.
I found Chopper in an upscale club near Block E. He was drinking tap beer at a small table with a thin, twitchy white dude who had felon written all over him. The pair had demanded the attention of customers and the waitstaff alike, if not for their scruffy appearance, then certainly for their voices, which were loud and annoying—I heard them from six tables away. Not even the club bouncer dared try to do anything about them. I suppose it was fear. Chopper was sitting in a wheelchair, and nobody wanted to be accused of insensitivity toward the handicapped.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Chopper called loudly as I approached, doing his best Fat Albert impersonation. “Long time, man.”
I caught the eye of an alarmed waitress and made a circular motion with my finger as I sat, and she went off to fetch a round of drinks.
“So you’re fuckin’ McKenzie,” the felon said.
“Lower your voice or I’ll kick your teeth in,” I said.
His face tried to turn red with anger, but he was so pale all he could manage was pink.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Chopper.
I pointed a finger at him. “You, too.”
“I don’t need this shit,” the felon said. Quietly.
“It’s cool,” said Chopper. His voice didn’t carry beyond the table, either. “McKenzie’s cool. You gots t’ know the man has reason to be hostile.”
The waitress came with our beers. “These guys running a tab?” I asked as she distributed the glasses.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have it.” I dropped a fifty on her tray. �
�Keep the change.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” she said and hurried away.
“That’s real white of ya, McKenzie,” Chopper said.
“It’s not hard to make people happy,” I said. “Just speak softly and pay your bills.”
“Yeah?” said the felon. “How happy you gonna make me?”
I turned to Chopper. “Who is this?”
Chopper downed what was left of his first beer and started working on his second. In between sips, he said, “This here is—”
“Ain’t no need for names,” the felon said.
“This here is a friend of mine,” Chopper said. “And a friend of yours.”
“Is he?” I said.
Chopper gestured at the felon with his glass. “Tell ’im what you told me,” he said.
“We ain’t talked about whatchacallit, recompense, yet.”
“No money gonna change hands. What you doin’ is a favor to me.”
“Fuck that.”
Chopper’s eyes grew wide and menacing. Hell, I was frightened and he wasn’t even looking at me. But then, I knew his history. When I was in harness, I found Chopper sprawled in a parking lot in St. Paul with two slugs in his back. Apparently he had run afoul of a rival dope dealer. I saved his life that night (ask Chopper about it, he loves to tell the story), though the damage to his spine put him in a wheelchair permanently. Six weeks later, he wheeled himself out of the hospital. Two days after that, we found the dealer and his two bodyguards under the swings at a park near the St. Paul Vo-Tech. Someone had nined all three of them from a sitting position. The murders were never solved. Of course, that was before Bobby Dunston took over the homicide unit. Shortly after the killings, Chopper moved to Minneapolis. He now made his living operating a surprisingly lucrative ticket-scalping operation; he even had a Web site. What else he was involved in I didn’t know, nor did I care to know.
“You owe me, man,” Chopper said.
The felon gave him the mad-dog, only his heart wasn’t in it. After a few seconds—just enough time to satisfy his manhood—he said, “Aww, fuck it,” and drank more beer.
“Tell ’im,” Chopper said.
“Tell me what?” I asked.
“There’s a price on your ass,” the felon said.
“A price?”
“A contract.”
“A contract?”
“What I’m sayin’.”
“What are you saying?”
“McKenzie,” Chopper said. “Watch my lips. Man put a hit on you. Open contract. Pays fifty large.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?”
“What I’m sayin’,” the felon said.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“I agree,” Chopper said. “I know guys who’d do it for five.”
“I know guys who’d do it for the cost of a Happy Meal,” the felon said. “Less if they’re crackheads.”
“What are you guys, crazy?” I said. “A contract? On me?”
“You are McKenzie,” the felon said.
“Yes, I’m McKenzie.”
“Well, then.”
“A fifty-thousand-dollar contract on me?”
“You fuckin’ quick on the uptake.”
“Listen—”
“I’m just sayin’ what I heard.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did you hear this?”
“Around.”
“Around where?”
“Around. Just around. It’s in the fuckin’ wind.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing it right. I turned back to Chopper for confirmation.
“Fifty grand, every douchebag in the world be gunnin’ for you,” he said. “That kinda change, it’s gonna attract your high-priced talent, too. Your serious professionals.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
“Man must really want you dead,” the felon said.
“What man?”
“Dunno.”
“Who’s shopping the contract?”
“Dunno.”
“How are you going to collect if you don’t know who’s buying the hit?”
“I wasn’t lookin’ to collect.”
“Do you think you could find out?”
“Fuck no, man. I did my civic duty.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Not enough, man. Not enough.” The felon stood. He looked down at Chopper. “We good?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m outta here,” the felon said. “That fuckin’ music they playin’ drives me nuts.”
We sat quietly at the table after he left, nursing our beers. After a few moments, I said, “Chopper?”
“I’ll ask around, but there are people know we’re tight,” he said. “Could be hard to get the intel, know what I’m sayin’? Then there’s that guilt by association thing. I ain’t sure I even want to know you for a while.”
I certainly couldn’t blame him for that.
“I appreciate you calling me,” I said.
He nodded.
“What do I owe you?” I asked. Chopper was nothing if not entrepreneurial.
He surprised me when he said, “Nothin’, man. Gratis.”
“My God, Chopper. Next thing you know, you’ll be voting Democrat.”
They were playing Handel’s Rinaldo when I stepped out of the bar and started walking up the street, only it barely registered. My head was down, my shoulders were hunched, and my hands were in my pockets—the perfect vic. I should have been more attentive, more aware. Still, if you had just been told that a person or persons unknown was paying fifty thousand dollars to see you dead, I bet it would throw you for a loop, too.
The kids outside the Vietnamese restaurant the night before now made sense to me, and so did the extra bullet hole in my Audi. Jeezus, they were shooting at me, trying to kill me, and I didn’t even notice. How dumb was that? On the other hand, I just couldn’t imagine what I had done—or to whom—to deserve such attention. I skimmed in my head the list of enemies I had given Harry. Nothing popped out at me. Probably the hit had something to do with Victoria Dunston’s kidnapping, only that was just a guess, and it seemed even goofier to me than the hit itself. If I had just collected a million-dollar ransom, I’d take the money and run. Wouldn’t you? “Damn,” I muttered. Then it occurred to me that if the kidnapper was behind the contract, he was using my money to pay for it.
“Damn!”
My head came up when I shouted the profanity. There were plenty of people on the street hopping from club to club and theater to theater. Most of them looked my way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two young black men in satin Chicago Bulls warm-up jackets that didn’t. Instead, they glanced down and away.
My Cherokee was parked at a meter on Eighth and Marquette. I knew I’d never make it. Instead, I turned north on Hennepin and joined the river of pedestrians, going with the flow, seeking safety under the blazing streetlamps. Only they didn’t make me feel safe. Last week a gangbanger had attempted to shoot a rival with a .44 Magnum, missed, and killed an innocent bystander who had stepped out of a bar not ten feet from where I was now walking. There were plenty of pedestrians and bright lights then, too.
I thought of my own guns locked in my safe at home. What are you doing walking around unarmed? my inner voice wanted to know. People are trying to kill you. On the other hand, what would I have done with my weapons if I had thought to bring them along? Start a running gun battle on crowded Hennepin Avenue? You should have listened to Schroeder; you should have hired someone to watch your back.
I kept walking. Traffic moved incessantly along the avenue. I tried to hail a cab. One stopped, but before I could reach it, it was seized by a young woman decked out in little more than a faux fur jacket and a belt.
One of the things they teach you about surveillance is to never reveal that you’re aware you are being followed until you can use the information to your advantage. While trying for the cab, I looked behind me.
A mistake. The two black men saw me seeing them. They began gathering speed. I gave up on a cab and increased my own pace. They started running. I started running, weaving in and out of the foot traffic, crossing Sixth against the light. I had no idea where I was running to until I reached the parking lot on Fifth Street. The state had built a light rail train system connecting downtown Minneapolis with the Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport and the Mall of America. The Hennepin Avenue Station loomed in front of me. I cut across the parking lot at a gallop, juking and jiving around parked cars to reach it. I was dragging by the time I jumped the tracks—it was the second time that day I had run for my life and the second time I realized how badly I had let myself go. Never again, I told myself as I crossed the platform and headed toward the train. I figured I was home free until the transit cop standing in the doorway blocked my path.
“Do you have a pass?” he asked. He was smiling when he said, “You can’t buy a pass on the train. You have to buy them—” He pointed at a vending machine on the platform.
Oh, for chrissake, my inner voice shouted. I was too out of breath to say it aloud.
I dashed across the platform. I found two one-dollar bills in my pocket and was fumbling with them when my pursuers arrived, moving confidently, looking no worse for chasing me. Bet they work out, I told myself as I fed the bills into the vending machine.
One of them slid a hand under his Bulls jacket. The other reached behind his back.
“Hey,” I shouted.
They halted.
I pointed at the light pole. There was a security camera mounted there, and it was pointed right at the platform.
“Smile,” I said.
They looked at the camera and then at me. They didn’t smile. I pointed at the transit cop standing in the doorway to the train and looking out. They didn’t smile some more.
By then the machine had spat out a pass. I carried it just as casually as I could across the platform to the train. I stepped aboard and showed my pass to the transit cop.
The two black men stared at the cop. Possibilities flickered over their faces. The cop nodded at them. “The train’s leaving in a few seconds,” he said. “You guys better hurry.”
Madman on a Drum Page 18
