by Faricy, Mike
“You weren’t there, and I know,” he grumbled.
“There,” Lola said, weaving on her stool as she finished signing my contract with a lavender-colored marker in a signature about four inches high. She pushed the contract back to me through the puddle of beer causing the purple signature to run.
“Did you even read the damn thing?” Mr. Softee scoffed.
“Yes,” she said, eyes flashing as she pushed the soggy document farther across the counter toward me.
Mr. Softee shook his head.
“Come on, I’ll show you out,” he said as he slid off his stool and grasped his walker.
“Let me ask you a couple of questions first. I’d like to get a handle on exactly what happened that night. You said you thought someone was following you?”
“Not tonight, I’ve got another meeting. Come on, I’ll show you out,” he said pushing his walker out the kitchen door and into the darkened dining room. He was still holding a chicken drumstick in his left hand.
“Always nice to chat with you, Lola. Thanks for the beer,” I said.
“Bye-bye,” she said, and then waved.
At the front door Mr. Softee, ever the gracious gentleman, said,
“Okay, you got your damned contract signed. Now find out who in the hell tried to kill me the other night. And I don’t want any more bullshit excuses.” With that he opened the front door and before I knew what had happened I was outside on the steps. He slammed the door behind me then turned off the porch light.
Chapter Eleven
I made it down to The Spot for Jameson Night a little before ten. Two-for-one shots. I hadn’t been there for more than a couple of minutes when I saw a familiar, unattractive face and grabbed an empty stool next to him.
“Well, Bernie Sneen, twice in two days. I wonder who I pissed off to deserve this?”
Bernie looked up at me, glassy eyed, taking a long while to focus. He wore a St. Paul Saints baseball cap slightly off center, just like Bernie.
“Oh you, Dribble, right? You ever find out who tried to take out that prick Softee?”
“It’s Devlin,” I corrected, took out a business card and placed it on the bar in front him.
“Haskell Investigations, shit. So, you catch the guy?”
“No, to answer your question, I’m still sorting that out. I’m not so sure it wasn’t just an accident. Although to tell you the truth, it could be anyone, nobody seems to like the guy. The more I look the longer the suspect list. Everyone feels just like you whenever I mention Softee.” I thought maybe I could play Bernie as a pal.
“Well, you got that part right. You know something? He’s not a very nice guy. That chick’s even worse,” Bernie said and then made a show of searching his pockets for another three dollars to buy two more shots.
“I’ll get it, both of us,” I said, tossing a ten on the bar.
“Gee thanks, always thought you were kind of a jerk, who knew?” Bernie giggled, then waved his head in my direction and stared bleary eyed.
“You know his wife?” I asked.
“Wife? She ain’t his wife, she’s just his current entertainment. Just don’t trust her, is all.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Bernie stared straight ahead, ignoring me.
“And you told me you used to work for Mister Softee, drove one of his trucks? That must have been tough.”
Bernie seemed to shudder slightly.
“Thanks, Carey,” I said to the bartender as the shots appeared in front of us.
“You don’t know the half of it. All those shitty kids, that goddamn little dog chime. Jesus Christ, that don’t drive you nuts, them parents threatening to kill you if you don’t get out of there will do the trick. Then working those late nights.”
“Yeah, you were gonna tell me about the night spot,” I said, raising a shot glass to Bernie. “Here’s to you, buddy, glad you don’t have to put up with all of that anymore.”
“Thanks, man. Yeah the night spot, Jesus, guys wanting to place, then arguing about the odds and shit. That bastard Softee said I was stealing from him. I told him I didn’t, leastwise I was gonna put it back, soon as I got the cash, you know. I meant it to be a little loan is all, like just overnight or something. That really ain’t stealing. Besides she made me pay her, you know how it is.”
I nodded like I knew, then raised the shot glass to Bernie again. He was already onto his second shot and tossed it down without so much as a blink.
“But that weren’t good enough for your pal, that bastard Softee, no sir.”
“The bastard,” I agreed, pushing my second shot toward Bernie and giving him the okay with a slight nod.
“Thanks,” he said then tossed it down, held the glass up for a long moment until the last drop eventually ran down the inside of the glass and fell into his mouth.
“I’ll bet he didn’t like that,” I said.
“Bastard took the first one just because, said he couldn’t let the word get out. I told him I sure as hell wasn’t gonna tell anyone,” Bernie half sobbed, then thrust his right hand along the bar toward me. The little finger, ring finger and half the middle finger were missing.
“I didn’t have the cash,” he was suddenly crying, getting a little louder.
“Hey look, Bernie.”
“I mean, fifty bucks, big deal, I’m good for it, right? She told me no one would ever know. So the next day, he shows up at my joint. Has some goons kick my door in. That crazy bitch is with him and these really mean dogs, barking and growling, big bastards.” Bernie visibly shuddered then continued.
“I told him I’d pay, he takes another finger anyway. Lets her feed it to them dogs. She’s standing there like she’s innocent or something. Softee tells me I owe him interest, hundred bucks a day, he says. What was I gonna do? I can’t hide. He’d find me. So I got the dough, two hundred and fifty bucks, don’t even ask me how. Paid the bastard and he takes half of the next finger. A reminder, he says, like I needed a reminder, Jesus god!” Bernie sobbed loudly, tears rolled down his dirty face.
A couple of guys in a booth behind us were watching, mouths open. We were clearly ruining their buzz.
“Two more for Bernie here,” I called quickly, trying to get things centered back on cheap liquor and moving in a more positive direction.
“Bernie, you okay?” Carey asked.
Bernie thrust his hand back under the bar, nodded, then waited for the next round.
“Those guys at the night spot, they were placing bets, right? And Lola, she just wanted a good time.” I made it a statement rather than a question.
“What in the hell do you think I’ve been talking about? She said no one would know, said she was into freaks like me. Jesus, talk about a freak, you shoulda seen her. Anyway, you think all them guys wanted ice cream for fuck’s sake? That it? They were coming up at night with a couple hundred bucks and they wanted ice cream? Shit.”
“Then she has me follow them, coming home the other night. Told me to ram him. I was gonna, but I chickened out at the last minute.”
“What?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” he sort of laughed, but insanely, there was nothing funny sounding about it. He suddenly lurched off the bar stool, took two steps back, and looked at me.
“Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?” Bernie screeched over Bob Segar on the jukebox.
“Oh, oh,” Carey said and gave the nod to a rather large guy who gently took Bernie by the arm and ushered him outside.
“With his ears so short and his tail…”
“Jesus, Carey, I had no idea. I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d go off like that. All of a sudden he’s…”
“Relax, Dev. It happens sometimes, he’s damaged goods, you know. It’s just real bad for business when he gets like that, sort of ruins the glow around here, if you know what I mean. Get you another?”
I nodded yes.
Carey returned with two more shots.
“Yea
h, it’s too bad. Poor guy was in some sort of industrial accident awhile back and just never got over it. Not that he was playing with a full deck to begin with, but…”
“Industrial accident?” I asked.
“Yeah lost some fingers. I don’t know if you noticed or not, probably a log-splitter or something like that. Not exactly the first guy who’d come to mind for following OSHA recommendations, you know.”
Bernie’s tale of Mr. Softee, Lola, and the dogs rang truer than Carey’s log-splitter version. Now I was curious.
Chapter Twelve
Once again I remained at The Spot longer than I should have, and then decided it would be a good idea at almost two in the morning to find Bernie’s old night spot.
I found one of Mr. Softee’s trucks parked on East Sixth Street, just behind the Holiday gas station. The downtown location seemed a strange place to try and sell ice cream at two thirty on a Thursday morning.
I parked in front of a white Escalade, opposite the ice-cream truck. At least it wasn’t playing the chime that helped drive Bernie Sneen literally off his rocker.
“What’ll it be?” the attendant rasped at me as I approached the window. He had a laptop open, the blue glare off the screen lit his large bald head so it appeared to be floating like a full moon. No doubt he was social networking on the computer.
He had a large black mustache and sported small gold earrings in both ears. The S curve along the bridge of his nose suggested the occasional difference of opinion. He wore a black T-shirt over heavy shoulders that stretched across even heavier biceps. His hands looked like hams, with fingers made from construction rebar. A blue, blurry homemade tattoo adorned the back of each hand. I guessed he got the tattoos in a state institution, not the U of M.
“Give me a Fudgesicle,” I grinned, remembering the fat kid the day I was riding around with Jill.
“What?”
“A Fudgesicle.”
“Get the hell out of here,” he scoffed.
“Okay, okay, just checking. I need to place a bet.”
He eyed me warily, then asked,
“You got a name?”
“A name, you mean like Bernie Sneen or Mister Softee? Come on, what kind of odds you got? Tell me that, then I can give you a name.” I was beginning to enjoy this.
“I think you better leave, sir.”
“Aw come on, be a pal. I’m just screwing around. Look what can I bet on tonight? I need a sure winner, you know?”
“Actually no, I don’t know. I got no idea what in the hell you’re talking about,” he said and slid a little window closed, then sat back down in his chair.
I knocked on the window. I’d clearly gotten to him and even in my over-served state knew I was onto something here.
“Hey, hey, buddy open up. Hey, come on, man, open up,” I called, then tugged on the window. Apparently he’d locked it.
I heard footsteps behind me, turned and faced two fairly large individuals. Certainly larger than me, they wore blue jeans, black T-shirts like the guy in the truck, and had the definite shape of bodybuilders. One had a crew cut and a dopey look, the other wore glasses and had his hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had those sideburn things, the kind that followed the jaw line and tapered down to a fine point, like knives on either side of his face. They stood with their feet apart, arms loose at their sides. They were close but not on top of me. They clearly knew what they were doing.
“Jesus, the guy won’t open up for me,” I said by way of explanation.
“Can we help you, sir?”
“Help me? No, not really. I just wanted to place an order is all, and Baldy in there won’t open up.”
One of them looked over my shoulder into the ice-cream truck. My gaze followed. The thug inside the truck shook his head no.
“I guess he’s closed for the night. Maybe you should just head home. Probably be a good idea.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll do that. I want a goddamned Fudgesicle, and I’m not leaving until…”
It happened so fast I wasn’t sure which one had hit me. Whoever it was, he’d knocked me to the ground, and as I rolled onto my knees a boot kicked me in the ribs, hard. Steel toes based on the bruise and if memory serves. One of them jerked me to my feet effortlessly. I smelled garlic as he held me up on my tiptoes and very close to his face.
I reached under my sport coat into the small of my back and pulled out the snub thirty-eight. Lifted his chin with the barrel just to get his attention. That worked. He let go and slowly took a step backwards.
“Not such a tough…”
“Move another inch, and you’re all over the street,” a voice behind me rasped. Baldy, in the ice-cream truck racked a round into the chamber. An unmistakable sound, especially when your back is to it.
I remained very still.
My two assailants backed off to the side out of the line of shotgun fire. I followed their movement with the thirty-eight but otherwise remained perfectly still.
“Probably be a good idea if you calmly got your dumb ass back in your car and drove away, while you still can,” Baldy advised from inside the ice cream truck.
“Softee’s gonna hear about this,” I bluffed.
“Get the hell out of here,” Baldy said.
I slowly walked away, keeping the thirty-eight pointed in the general direction of the two idiots on the street. I made it to my car, climbed in, waved, and then drove off quickly. I zigzagged for the next ten blocks to make sure no one was following me, all the while wondering how I could be so incredibly stupid?
Eventually, I crept back to the general area where the ice-cream truck had been parked, but the street was clear. No vehicles anywhere so I drove home at three fifteen in the morning.
Chapter Thirteen
I woke the next morning around ten. My neck was stiff, my head throbbed. and my side was killing me. I figured it was because I’d slept on the couch and in my clothes. Based on the empty fifth sitting on the floor I’d apparently poured myself a glass or two of Jameson once I got home.
I groaned to my feet, took off my sport coat, and made it to the bathroom. I stared back at the mirror in disbelief at the purple bruise running the length of my cheekbone. I lifted my polo shirt, saw another bruise the size of a salad plate, and things started coming together. Gradually I remembered my stupid, stupid, stupid attempt to place a bet at Mr. Softee’s truck and the run in with those goons in the street.
“You idiot,” I sneered at the idiot staring back at me in the bathroom mirror.
I had barely enough coffee in the cupboard to make a pot and had just turned it on when the phone rang. It took me a minute to find the damn thing since it was still on the floor in my sport-coat pocket.
“Hello,” I croaked, then cleared my throat. “Hello,” I managed with a little more authority.
“Well, how’s it going this morning?”
It was the police. Actually my pal Aaron LaZelle, a lieutenant with St. Paul’s vice-squad. I’d known him since we’d been kids, and not just because he was on the vice-squad.
“Fine, if you don’t go into detail,” I replied, wishing the coffee to hurry up.
“Say, I have a Detective Norris Manning in front of me just now.”
I racked my brain, such as it was, but the name wasn’t ringing a bell.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me? I’m not placing him. This isn’t the guy we went ice fishing with, is it? The time that Janice chick…”
“No, this is a little more serious than that. Detective Manning finds you to be a person of interest. He spends most of his waking hours working homicide in this fair city and your name seems to have surfaced.”
“Really?” I asked cautiously.
“That’s why it would be a good idea for you to pay a visit to our downtown office suite. Reacquaint yourself with some of our procedures and the responsibilities of upstanding citizens, such as yourself.”
“Do I need a lawyer present?” I asked, getting very concerne
d.
“What time would you like him here?” I heard Aaron ask. Apparently Detective Manning really was in front of him.
“Sometime before noon would be fine.” Aaron said to me. It was already twenty to eleven.
“Aaron, damn it, do I need a lawyer present?”
“I don’t think so. Thank you for your cooperation. Ask for Detective Manning at the front desk. And make it soon, he’s got a noon appointment.”
“I’ll have to make some calls, see if I can move a meeting around,” I replied.
“Yeah, sure, you do that,” he said, then hung up.
I ran through the events during the early morning hours at the ice-cream truck. They were a bit hazy through the Jameson fog, but I couldn’t come up with anything illegal. Well, except for the assault on me, and I wasn’t pressing any charges.
I gingerly showered and shaved. Thought about using makeup or something on my face then decided that could only make things worse.
Chapter Fourteen
Aaron had mentioned that Detective Manning had a noon appointment. I arrived at eleven forty, calculating a ten-minute wait in the lobby, then five minutes to get to an interview room. Five or ten minutes tops for questions. Not that I knew what Manning would be asking me.
“Oh yeah, Mister Haskell, I was alerted to your pending arrival,” the desk sergeant chuckled when I explained why I was there.
Alerted to my pending arrival?
I found myself sitting in an interview room in about ninety seconds. The place smelled of sweat, cigarettes and fear. I think the fear was from me.
“Ahhh, Mister Haskell, is it? Good morning, thanks for coming in. I’m Detective Manning.”
I guessed him to be about six two, maybe two hundred ten pounds, balding, red hair fringe, freckles, early forties, bright blue eyes, a hard charger. He looked a little like Terry Bradshaw and probably enjoyed a good joke. I didn’t have any at the moment. He held a manila file under his left arm, carried a machine-dispensed coffee cup in his left hand as he entered the interview room. He didn’t offer to shake hands with me. His body language was telling me he was in charge, not that I needed a reminder.
