His face lit up and he found his grip. “It’s just that it wasn’t planned,” he said in a plume of exhaled smoke.
“How many of us were?” I said. “It works out.”
“Well, Jennie had planned to get her real estate license now that Nina’s in school. Money’s tight sometimes.”
I took the envelope with his check in it out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. “This won’t make it all better,” I said, “but it’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.”
He thumbed it open and peeked in. “Lots better,” he said. “I’ve got an appointment for a vasectomy.”
I took a long pull on my smoke, extracted it from my face, and looked out over the river. The water looked gray and cold, the current swift and relentless. I bent my head down and scratched my growing tonsure with my pinky finger while I drew a long fresh breath through my nose. Popsicle sticks weathered to gray and the silver pull tabs from beverage cans littered the ground. I exhaled the smoke off my palate with a low “ahh” and asked, “How about a little advice from an old reprobate?”
“Whatever.”
“Jennie isn’t going to get pregnant again next month or the month after.”
“Nope,” he answered with one affirmative nod.
I clamped my cigar in my teeth and showed Ron my open palms. “Clipping you like a poodle ain’t gonna guarantee that she’s never going to be pregnant again.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed and he squared his shoulders. “Just what do you mean by that?”
“You could get run over by a bus. Then what’s she gonna do? Neuter half the male population to sort out a keeper?”
Ron wrinkled his nose. “Jennie would never screw around!”
“Maybe you’ll be hard to replace,” I said with a shrug.
“Okay, Pops,” Ron said with a grin. “I’ll think about it. So, how are Wendy and the boys?”
“Jim made me a grandfather again. Daniel is a senior this year, and Ben is fourteen and has decided that I ‘just don’t get it.’” We both laughed and I flicked an inch of gray ash over the wall into the river. “I haven’t called to let them know I’m working overnight yet. Wendy and I never settled on a definition of ‘quality time.’ I figure you’re having ‘quality’ when the lights and the telephone both work at the same ‘time.’”
“Good luck,” he said.
“I think we’re going to need some. Remember the payroll guy who turned up dead down at the airport?”
“Sure.”
“Well, two things are missing: the shooter and about eleven million bucks.”
“I thought this was a domestic.”
“It is. The embezzler’s secretary is our charge.”
“Didn’t they recover some of the money from her?”
“Four hundred and sixty-five thousand,” I said. “They’re trying to get some Bahamian bank to freeze the funds.”
“Chump change.” Ron laughed.
“The IRS has also levied her house, automobile, and personal property.”
“No wonder her old man is in a state.”
“I don’t know. I just read the county records, and she filed for divorce before the shit hit the fan. She didn’t mention his fast hands and ugly attitude until he filed a countercomplaint and the feds had levied the old homestead.”
“Maybe he didn’t get mean until then.”
“The divorce file listed a second mortgage,” I said. “I don’t think the loss of a couple grand in home equity is going to start him foaming at the mouth. I mean, she was porking her boss and he didn’t get snaky over that little misstep.”
“You think he whacked her playmate?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Her lawyer is talking to the U.S. attorney about the witness program. If her hubby’s the doer, and he shows up at midnight wearing a goalie mask and carrying a chainsaw, and he gets waxed, she’s out of trading material.”
“What if he isn’t the doer, and she wants him whacked so she can say he was?” asked Ron.
“That’s one of three possibilities I’ve considered, so I made a fourth plan.”
“What’s that?”
“We hold up our end of the deal. We keep the little minx breathing for two days. We don’t let ourselves get cornered into trading lead with anybody, then we cash out and go spy on some insurance claimants.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Good. Let’s go eyeball the house and sniff out the stop signs.”
“There’s another thing,” said Ron. “I just made a quarterly tax payment.”
“There’s a lot of that going around; it’s an epidemic.”
“Yeah, except it’s too late to cash this check, and I’m just about out of gas.”
“Not to worry,” I said and took out the money I had just wrenched loose from my bank. “Take this off the back-end billing.” I peeled him off five twenties.
“That’ll work,” he said, pocketing the cash. “I have to run by the house and drop off some milk. The differential is locked up in the old Dodge, and Jennie can’t get out to shop.”
At Ron’s apartment I waited in the truck. Ron said he would be right back, but I had time to light up another stogie before he reappeared. He had a little spring to his step. I guessed he was at least peeking out of the doghouse. I didn’t ask.
The trip to the Union Street address took ten minutes. Karen’s house, a ranch with an attached garage, seemed out of place among the older brick two-story Dutch colonials that neighbored it. The street was a boulevard. Half-century-old hardwoods and flower gardens planted and tended by the residents lined the center island. Fresh paint and manicured lawns were the order of the day. Only the occasional tricycle or scooter revealed the change of the guard in progress, with younger couples moving in to replace older residents who no longer had the endurance for the knee-deep misery of a west Michigan winter.
“You’re the ace in the hole,” I told Ron. “The client has no knowledge that I’m using a backup, and we won’t tell Officer Talon. I need you to watch the street and fill me in if we have a late-night prowler. Plan A is: If someone makes entry to the front of the residence, you dial 911 while the charge and I exit the rear of the residence. We’ll make our way through the yards and you pick us up on Paris Avenue. Then we’ll ride around the block and watch the fun.”
“Why don’t we just take the broad and hide her out for a couple of days?”
“She’s on a tether as part of her bail arrangement. I should have mentioned that earlier.”
“Slipped your mind?”
“A minor detail.”
“It all comes into focus. I take it that if the opposition comes in the back, you’ll come out the front.”
“Sure.”
“What if there’s a crew?” Ron asked. “They could make noise at the front and ace you both as you come out the back.”
I shot Ron a sidelong glance. “You think we’re up against that kind of talent?”
“The accountant in the trunk at the airport parking lot was a pretty neat package.”
“I guess it really isn’t the kind of plan that you’d expect an irate hubby to stumble into.”
“And cops tend toward the physical confrontation when it’s a personal matter,” said Ron.
“I suppose with eleven million dollars there’s plenty of room to write a little professional cleanup into the margin.”
“They didn’t recover the piece with the body?”
“Nope,” I said. “Not exactly like a pro to walk away with evidence in his hand.” I ground out my smoke in the ashtray.
“So what’s Plan B?”
“If I try to hang on to the defender’s advantage, somebody gets a fanny wax for sure. I guess Plan B is that if any shots are fired, you lay back and leave me a clear field of fire until the police arrive.”
Ron nodded. “What’s our subject driving?”
“Blue Monte T-top,” I said. “We didn’t see it in the drive, so I guess he’s busy serving and protecting.”
“When does he get the paper?”
“Client says he’s supposed to be served at the Hall of Justice when he gets off shift. I’m going to give a copy of the service to the watch commander before I head back out here.”
“Good idea. That way they can club you into a puddle right there on Monroe Avenue.”
“You’re watching too much California news film,” I said. “All that constant ground shaking out there makes everybody irritable.” But Ron was right. Policemen don’t get paid to walk away from trouble or lose fights—a mindset that serves them better on their jobs than it does in their private lives.
Ron drove us back to the parking area at the fish ladder, and I gave him a vest and a radio from the trunk of my car.
“Do me a favor and wear this, will ya? For sure, after the sun goes down. People don’t act right when it’s dark outside.”
“Ahh … Those things are hot.”
“Not as hot as lead.”
“I’m the outside guy on this. Besides, if I take one in the head I’m dead anyway.”
“That’s right. You’re dead, and Jennie has your insurance and Social Security for the kids. Take one in the spine, and you spend the rest of your life sitting in a wheelchair, drooling in your lap. You won’t need a vasectomy. You’ll need someone to change your pants.”
“Uncle!” said Ron. “What’s the call sign on the radio?”
“I’ll be five-six,” I said. “You’ll be five-seven. We’re sharing the channel with a plumbing company and a car repo outfit. The repo chatter is pretty entertaining. One of their guys repopped a T-bird and discovered a boa constrictor in it while he was sailing through the S curve on Highway 131.”
“I’m sure the snake was disgusted with the company.”
“He didn’t have it for long,” I said. “The guy bailed out on the shoulder, and a freightliner took the driver’s door off.”
“What happened to the snake?”
“Don’t know, the guy with the radio never looked back.” We laughed. “The plumbing outfit is pretty rude. They’re working off forty-watt dash units and real gratuitous about stepping on other traffic.” I gave Ron a spare battery and the dash plug adapter. “I take it your cell phone is up and running?”
“Sure is.”
“I’ll give you a radio check when I get into the neighborhood.”
Ron nodded in the affirmative and departed.
After normal business hours the doors to the Hall of Justice are locked. You have to announce yourself at an outside box. Telling them that my visit regarded a restraining order got me buzzed in quickly, but I suppose just about anything short of asking to use the bathroom would net the same result.
The fresh young face at the counter disappeared with a copy of the restraining order in her hand. Sergeant Franklin appeared shortly thereafter with the document in his hand and his mustache twitching.
“This is a police officer,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
“He’s on duty,” said Franklin.
“I’m not here to serve him.”
The sergeant studied me silently with angry eyes. Finally, he asked, “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“I’m here because the plaintiff and her family are afraid of Officer Talon. I came to ask for a supervisor, or at least a patrol car, to be present when Officer Talon comes to get his personal effects.”
Franklin loosened his tight jaws to say, “You guys do anything for a buck, eh? This is a police officer. You come here and act like this?”
“Sergeant, you know how emotionally charged a thing like this can be.”
“Yeah, and we don’t need people like you making trouble.”
“Maybe you should come out there just to make sure the plaintiff and I don’t make up any lies about Officer Talon.”
On reflection, I’d say it was right then that Franklin decided that I’d failed the attitude test. He stuck out his left hand and said, “I want to see some ID. I want your driver’s license, your private ticket, your permit, and the registration for that handgun you wag in and out of here.”
He waggled his fingers. I delivered.
He disappeared through the doorway behind the counter, and I could hear him fingering me into a computer terminal. The trainee backed up to the wall, folded her arms over her blue blazer, and regarded me suspiciously. The surveillance camera mounted high on the wall behind the desk deflected in my direction with a hum, then the lens screwed me into narrow focus. Ten minutes. If I’m not out of here in ten minutes I get to meet Randy Talon, maybe his whole squad. Franklin was busy but it was a good bet that someone else was on his way to the dispatcher.
Four minutes into the program I heard the printer ratting me out. I was curious as to what Sergeant Franklin thought worth printing. There was nothing active, not even a parking ticket.
“Social Security number?” he asked through the door.
I told him.
“You got a Social Security card with you?”
“I got a retired military ID card with my number on it. I lost the Social Security card a long time ago.”
“Give it to the CLIP.”
“CLIP” is what they call their interns. Someday I’m going to ask what that stands for. I handed it to the girl.
He got the card and said, “Jesus!” I guess Sergeant Franklin is a veteran. He rattled the keys some more. The girl came out and sat at the desk. The printer rattled on again.
At the north end of the Hall of Justice there’s a door that the public can use to exit the building. Only police officers have a key to use this door as an entrance. At nine minutes and counting, it crashed open and a herd of heavy footsteps thundered up the hallway that ran perpendicular to the desk, well to the right, and out of sight from where I was standing.
“Where is this piece of shit?” said a gravelly voice.
I heard Franklin intercept them in the hall, then the rustle of paper being passed around. Officer Talon came around the corner alone, five-eleven, and a very hard and square two hundred and thirty or forty pounds. His mustache drooped around the corners of his mouth like a Mexican bandit’s, and he’d gathered his shoulder-length, dark brown hair into a pony-tail. He wore blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a plaid flannel shirt untucked and unfastened. His right pants leg was frayed at the cuff and dragged the floor at his heel, which betrayed a habit of carrying the Browning Highpower in his waistband behind his right hip.
“You the guy?” Talon wanted to know.
“I’m the guy.”
“Gimme the paper. I’m Police Officer Randal Talon.”
I fished a copy out of my pocket and held it out. Since I was already in the video camera’s eye, I held my ground.
“If you want to earn your … twelve bucks … you got to touch me with the paper,” he said. “Or didn’t they tell you?”
“No, Randy,” I said. “They told me I’d get thirty pieces of silver if I kissed you on the cheek.” Police Officer Randal Talon stomped over and snatched the paper out of my hand.
“Now I’m served,” he said. “Now you can go fuck yourself.”
“I’m not a process server. Some officer of the court is going to get fat on those twelve dollars. I’m here because your wife and her family are afraid of you. I came down to ask the watch commander to send out a supervisor or patrol car when you go to get your personal possessions.”
Talon balled up the service. He looked up at the camera and then back at me. “Yeah, well, they wasted their money.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. I just meant that I knew this was coming.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his left hand. His pupils were large, given the light. Sunglasses dangled by a leg from his shirt pocket. I suppose that wearing a flannel shirt in the building would explain the sweat, but not his twitchy fingers.
“Just tell Karen to put my shit on the porch. I’ll pick it up when I get off shift. It won’t be too late
unless I have to arrest some creep and put him in jail.” He leaned toward me to emphasize the “creep” and the “jail” parts.
“I’ll tell her.”
“Great. So you’re done. So get the hell out of here!”
“I’m waiting for my paperwork.”
“Randy, let’s go,” said a voice from around the corner.
Officer Talon backed up several steps, then stopped, drew a breath, and held it. The CLIP had vacated the desk area. She and the sergeant had filed through the door and pulled it shut after them. Talon smiled and beckoned me over with a finger.
I smiled back and wagged my head slowly in the negative. “Ain’t happening,” I said.
“Randy, let’s go, dammit!” Same voice.
Randy poked a pointed finger in my direction. He mouthed the words “I’m going to kick your ass” silently, then left.
“Cost a lot more than thirty bucks for me to kiss your ugly ass,” said a third voice as the herd shuffled down the hall.
“Aw, fuck you!” said Randy.
I heard the door close behind them.
The CLIP came out with Sergeant Franklin close on her heels. He threw my ID on the counter and asked, “This registration match the numbers to the piece on your hip?”
“Yes, sir, it does.”
He fingered the green gun registration out of the pile of cards and said, “Lay it on the counter.”
“You want me to clear it?”
“No, I don’t want to play with it, I want to look at it.”
I eased the weapon off my hip and laid it on the counter with the barrel facing away from the sergeant and the CLIP.
He held the card at arm’s length just over the pistol and tipped his head up to make the best use of his bifocals as he compared the numbers.
“What the hell kind of piece is this, anyway?”
“Think of it as a chop-and-channel Colt. Detonics built it to some famous Border Patrol pistolero’s specifications.”
“So the feds are carrying these now?”
“I have no idea. I’d guess they’re carrying fat nines like everybody else.”
A smoke smile washed over his face. “Right, put it away.”
I holstered my sidearm and was picking up my ID cards when Sergeant Franklin reached across the counter and tucked the service into the hanky pocket of my sport jacket. “Just don’t be rude,” he said, “and you won’t have any trouble.”
Private Heat Page 4
