by Faricy, Mike
“So,” he said sitting down.
I wanted to ask what this was about, but experience told me to shut up and answer precisely and with as few words as possible. I was pretty sure we were being watched through the one-way glass, probably Aaron, maybe a couple of other folks. Manning switched on a recorder, read the opening statement covering his ass, gave the date, time, my name, asked me if I was there of my own free will, then got down to business.
“Your name surfaced as a person of some interest in a matter under investigation. I’m hoping you’ll be able to clear up some questions we have.” He was doing what good investigators do, starting in generalities, suggesting the two of us could just work together to clear up a couple of items before I went on my way.
I was racking my brain trying to figure out what this was about. The standoff last night? Pocketing a pair of diamond earrings I’d given an ex-wife right before she filed for divorce? Letting a former girlfriend’s parrot out the window last Memorial Day weekend? Stalking charges from another ex-wife? President of the PMS club, Sandy from Connie Ortiz’s office, about her DWI that I got pled down? Linda the…
“Mister Haskell?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. It’s just that this is all so unexpected. Sorry, Detective, you were saying?”
Manning looked at me, knew I’d broken the roll he was on. Knew I’d done it on purpose. The manila file lay open in front of him, and he took a long moment to read from the top sheet. Eventually he asked,
“Mister Haskell, are you by any chance acquainted with a woman by the name of Lucille Lentz?”
I thought long and hard. I knew a lot of people, a lot of women, but Lucille Lentz was not one of them.
“No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name. At least, not that I can remember at this time,” I added, covering myself.
“I see.” He turned a page, read from the next sheet for a long minute.
“How about a man by the name of Harold Benton? Ever hear of him?”
“No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name. At least that I can remember, at this time,” I added again.
Manning looked up at me, smiled. Stared for a moment then said,
“Nice, you’ve done this once or twice before.”
“Comes with the territory, I guess. I’m a private investigator.”
“Yeah, we’ll get to that in a moment,” he said turning the top sheet over and taking some time again to read from the next sheet.
“Have you ever heard of, or do you know a gentleman by the name of Monty Norling?”
“Norling?”
“Yes.” Manning seemed to brighten just a bit.
“No, no idea who that might be, at least as far as I can recall.”
He smiled again, but I wasn’t sure he meant it.
“What about a man by the name of Willard B. Sneen?”
I thought for a moment, it was out there but I wasn’t connecting. I was beginning to regret at least the last two Jameson’s I’d had before I fell asleep last night.
“No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. At least to the best of my knowledge.”
Manning smiled coldly.
“Nasty looking bruise on your face there, a fight? Trouble with the wife?” he half laughed.
“I’m not married,” I replied.
“Oh, I’m sorry, our files indicate that…”
“Which one do you have listed?”
“Which one?”
“Which wife I’ve had more than my share.”
“Bernice,” he said reading my third wife’s name off some sort of bio sheet.
“No, she divorced me a couple of years back, you should have that in there, somewhere?”
“You’re right, we should,” he said turning a page and looking at the next sheet.
“Can you tell me where you were last night?”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
“I had a dinner meeting with clients, a contractual thing. I finished that meeting about nine thirty. Met with some friends for a bit then went home.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Time?” I stalled, I couldn’t believe those thugs had reported me, how did that work?
“Yes, what time did you arrive home?”
“I don’t know, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t really paying attention. I know I stayed up for a while. Had a couple of drinks, fell asleep on the couch.”
“I see,” Manning said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, staring at me and maybe thinking.
“You see, Mister Haskell, now I have a problem. We have witnesses who place you with someone last night. A number of witnesses as a matter of fact. We have a witness placing you with this same individual the day before. But you’ve told me you don’t know this person. Yet you’ve met with him the past two days. Met him in out-of-the-way places. That’s not exactly like running into someone walking down the street. Can you see my problem? See, it becomes a coincidence for me and as you might guess, I’m not all that fond of coincidences.”
“Who the hell am I supposed to be meeting with? I didn’t meet with anyone, well except some clients for dinner in their home last night?”
“You’ve stated you have no knowledge of Willard B. Sneen?”
“No, Willard… wait a minute, you mean Bernie? That fruitcake? Well, I mean I saw him last night, bought him a drink as a matter of fact. Not that he needed anymore. I saw him at The Spot. His name is Willard?”
“The Spot.”
“Yeah, it’s a little bar on the corner of Randolph and…”
“I’m familiar with The Spot, Mister Haskell.”
“Bernie’s name is Willard? Like that old rat movie?”
Chapter Fifteen
The fact that Bernie’s first name happened to be Willard was the least of my problems. Turns out he’d been found, or at least what was left of him, along the railroad tracks after being hit by a freight train.
“We found your business card in Mister Sneen’s pocket. We know you met with him earlier that evening and that he was very upset when he left. We also know you met him the day before and that he departed that meeting in a somewhat agitated state as well.”
Manning was staring at me, unblinking. Those once bright blue eyes now carried a decidedly icy cast.
“Look, I gave him my business card last night at The Spot. He was hit by a freight train? What the hell? I mean, he was sort of screwy, I guess. I just saw him last night by accident. The day before, it was at Dizzies, a bar over on…”
“We’re familiar with the establishment.”
“Okay, I knew he hung out there occasionally. I wanted to talk with him about an investigation I’m working on. He had some work experience in a particular field and I wanted to learn more, that’s all.”
“Sneen had work experience?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting, what’s the investigation?”
“I’d have to claim client privilege there.”
“All right.”
“Do you know a woman by the name of Lucille Lentz?”
“I think you asked me that one before. No I don’t. To the best of my knowledge at this time,” I added with a little smile.
“What about a gentleman by the name of Weldon Sofmann?”
That wiped the smile off my face.
“Yeah, I mean he’s my client. That is…”
“I see, but you don’t know Lucille Lentz, his, I guess, what, associate?”
“Lucille? You don’t mean Lola? His wife? Nice looking blond, pretty big… Her name is Lucille?”
Not good, I thought.
“Tell me about Mister Sneen getting upset last night. What did you say to him?”
“He was, well no offense, but the guy was somewhat unstable in the best of times, you know. And, he’d been drinking last night. He was telling me about some industrial accident he’d been involved in.”
“Industrial accident?”
“Yeah, lost a finger.”
<
br /> “A finger?”
“Well, a couple, three, I guess, course he never really got around to telling me exactly what happened, he just sort of went off the deep end. The poor guy started crying, then singing, bothering other customers, and they let him outside, kind of a nice way of kicking him out. That was the last I saw of him. Honest.”
“This was when?”
“Probably about eleven I would guess, I’m not sure exactly.”
Manning paged back through a couple of sheets, then made a note.
“And you left, when did you say?”
“I didn’t say, actually. I think I closed the place.”
“You think?”
“Kind of foggy on the latter part of the night?”
“How did you get that bruise on your face?”
“I fell. At home,” I added as an afterthought.
It went on like that for at least another hour. If Manning had a noon appointment he was awfully late. I was regretting not grabbing a couple of Egg McMuffins or something to fill my stomach. Eventually he wound things up.
“I guess that’s all for right now, Mister Haskell. I appreciate your help, here. We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it?”
“It is, sir, for the time being, you’re free to go.”
I didn’t argue.
Manning’s little interview had done nothing to improve my hangover. I needed a drink. I kept a bottle of Maalox in the glove compartment of the Lincoln and chugged down a couple of healthy glugs as soon as I climbed in, then sat for some time, head pounding, while I attempted to think.
The odds were fifty-fifty Bernie threw himself in front of a freight train as opposed to being pushed. Manning had suggested Mr. Softee was involved. Of course the way things were going he might think I could have done Bernie in, too. Hopefully, the same witnesses that told him about Bernie also confirmed I closed up The Spot last night. I figured if I really needed more witnesses I could always try and track down the thugs who beat me up, or that bald prick that threatened to splatter me across the street with his shotgun. I was sure they’d be willing to help.
There was someone else I could check with, too.
Chapter Sixteen
I was a half block away from the old gas station that was the Giant Scoop office when I spotted a large pile of rubble out in front of the building. The moment I opened the door of my car I could smell smoke, wet plaster, and something like bad milk from my refrigerator. The two Giant Scoop ice-cream trucks were parked in their bays. Now just charred hulks.
Jill stood out front, talking to a couple of guys in yellow hard hats and white hazmat suits. SPFD was emblazoned across their shoulders in large red letters, Saint Paul Fire Department. A Channel Five news van was just pulling around the corner. I stood off to the side for a few more minutes while Jill finished her conversation. At one point she looked over and saw me, but didn’t acknowledge the fact. Eventually they all shook hands and the two guys walked over to a fire department SUV parked at the curb.
Jill stood with her back to me. One foot was planted in a small stream of water that oozed from the pile of rubble, ran across the concrete apron and into the street.
I waited a moment before I approached.
“Jill, are you okay? What happened here?”
She turned and looked at me with a tearstained face. But her jaw was set firm and her eyes flashed fire.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” she said slowly, a razor edge on every word.
“Look, Jill, I don’t know anything about any of this. Honest. I, I just came from the police station, dealing with something else. What, what happened?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“Really, I don’t, I don’t have any idea.”
“Who else but your pal, that asshole, Mister Softee. What? We weren’t losing money fast enough for his taste? That it?”
“Look, first of all, he’s not my pal. Okay? Secondly, I, well, I don’t know what to say. Tell me what I can do to help in some way.”
“You? Help?”
“Yeah, if I can. First of all tell me what happened here.”
“What happened is someone fire-bombed us last night. Those two guys are arson investigators,” she nodded at the SUV pulling away from the curb. “They’re going to file their report saying we were fire-bombed. That should slow down any insurance payment for a couple more years.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they already warned me. They’ll try and claim it was us, the insurance company, that is. You know, they’re your best friend until you really need them. We’ve never missed a payment in something like forty-seven years and suddenly we’re gonna be the bad guys. I just know it, goddamn it,” she shuddered and then looked the other way and wiped the tears from her cheeks. I could see her shoulders shaking as she fought to keep everything together.
I’m not necessarily a caring, sensitive type of guy but I automatically stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her. She broke into deep sobs, cried for a long minute.
“Grandpa, grandpa, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. Eventually she came to her senses.
“Let go of me, you creep,” she sniffled and then shook her way out of my embrace.
Past experience had taught me not to argue.
“Look, Jill, I’m really sorry. But I didn’t know anything about…”
“Just go, will you? Things are bad enough without you being here.”
I thought that was probably a pretty good idea, and so I left.
Chapter Seventeen
I stood listening to the ringing on the other end of the line. Either no one was home at Mr. Softee’s or they were ignoring me. The dogs were lying on the front steps, just resting. No doubt they were conserving their energy until the next innocent was buzzed through the front gate. I was in no mood for their routine and planned to tell Mr. Softee as soon as someone answered, but at the rate things were going that was liable to be tomorrow. I hung up, dialed again, someone picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?” It was either Lola or a child from a nearby kindergarten.
“Hi, Lola. Dev Haskell.”
“Dev?” she asked, sounding more like she had no idea.
“Yeah, the investigator, I was here last night. You signed a contract. Remember?”
“Contract?”
Suddenly there was a buzz, and the lock on the gate clicked open.
Heads shot up on the two evil dogs sitting on the front steps. They held their position, but I could tell they were waiting for the gate to swing open. One of them licked his lips.
I dialed the phone again. It rang interminably. Eventually the front door opened, and Lola stood in the doorway.
“It’s the dogs, could you put them away?” I called.
Their growls began to rumble across the lawn.
She looked at me for a moment, as if she were translating, then clapped her hands and said,
“Come on, come on, puppies, lets go.” They followed her inside, tail stubs wagging.
Puppies? I waited a few moments before I pushed the gate open, then walked to the open front door. Lola stood in the hallway,
“Come on, he’s in the study,” she called like she had been waiting for me all day. She motioned me forward. She was wearing a very short black skirt, some sort of spaghetti-strap black top, and a wide red belt.
I could hear scratching and growling coming from the rear of the house, back toward the kitchen if memory served. I prayed the door held.
Mr. Softee sat slumped behind his desk in a large black leather chair, the ever-present cell phone attached to his ear. His walker was pushed off to the side. He was nodding repeatedly to a voice on the other end. Eventually he snarled by way of acknowledgment and hung up.
“Looking a little worse for the wear, what happened to you?” he said noticing my bruised face.
“Industrial accident, helping a friend clean up after a fire.”
He didn’t blink.
“What hav
e you got for me? And don’t tell me nothing!”
“Actually something has surfaced,” I said.
“Oh?” he creaked the black leather chair forward, eyes riveted on me.
Lola shifted from one foot to the other, and then back again, she crossed her arms, bit her lower lip, and maybe looked just a little wide eyed.
“Yeah, I’m picking up reports of a disgruntled employee. He sounds a little unstable.”
“Christ, that could be just about any one of them,” Softee shook his head.
“This guy seems to have made some threats, at least he threatened to harm you in some way.”
“Not much help. That could still be just about anyone I know,” he said.
Lola nodded in agreement.
I wasn’t going to argue.
“You remember one of your ice-cream truck drivers from awhile back, last name Sneen?” I was looking for some sort of reaction.
Lola may have shot a quick glance at Mr. Softee, maybe not. I wasn’t sure.
“Sneen, that the last name? Can’t say I remember anyone like that, but there’s so damn much turnover with those bastards. What makes you think he might be the one?”
“Claims he was assaulted or something. I’m still checking that part out although he seems to have gone missing all of a sudden. I was planning to follow him around, see what I might learn.”
“And now you can’t find the bastard. I’m not surprised. Hell, he’s probably up in the tree out front with a high-powered rifle and a sniper scope. Wonderful! That’s just great!”
“No, I checked the tree.”
“What did he say we did?” Lola asked.
“As near as I can determine he claims he was wrongfully discharged for stealing funds,” I sugarcoated Bernie’s version.
“Wrongfully discharged?” Mr. Softee chuckled. “Bastard was stealing from me. I remember now, he was pilfering cash. I think he had some sort of chemical problem, nervous little son-of-a-bitch. We attempted some sort of rehabilitation, if memory serves. Yeah, definitely the unstable sort.”
