Private Heat

by Robert E. Bailey

  “Yeah, but he gets his degree next month. He still thinks of police work as some kind of uniformed social activism.”

  “He’ll be running his mouth by the end of his shift.”

  “He’ll get shuttled around like he was in a pinball machine. In the meantime, there’s something else. In the ambulance Chuck and Paulie talked about a ‘Russian’ who is in town to tidy up.”

  “They use a name?”

  “Nope, but they did say the Russki shot Campbell and told Paulie to leave the gun with the body. I think we can rule out your basic Brighton Beach black-market thug. He planned their little caper with Karen this morning.”

  “Could have been a very tidy package,” said Ron.

  “I don’t see how I missed Paulie,” I said. “Your .357 should have cut through the chain saw like hot butter.”

  “I only carry soft-nose thirty-eight ammo.”

  I fell back in the seat. “No shit!”

  “Lawyer says that it’s easier to defend in court than hardball magnum ammo. Didn’t you notice the difference?”

  I hit the seat recliner knob, fell back, and closed my eyes. “Nope, I was busy at the time.”

  “Where to?”

  “My office,” I said. “We have to find our pals. I’ll start on the telephone. The office phone is Caller ID blocked.” I winked out. Ron told me later that he had stopped to drop off our still shots. I didn’t know a thing until he started shaking me to tell me we were at my office.

  Marg sat, busy at her desk, looking sharp in a brown-checked suit and a tan silk blouse despite the fact that a troll sat on the divan. He had a foot of grizzled beard that he’d gathered at the point of his chin with a little green rubber band, and a full head of hair that shagged down to his shoulders in filthy strings. Standing he couldn’t have been more than five-foot-one or two and had to weigh at least two-sixty. His baggy brown trousers were shiny at the back side and held up with suspenders. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt and a red bow tie. Balanced on his knees was a brown cigar box that he secured in place with his two clammy paws. His fingernails were long, with a black half-moon at each fingertip.

  “This is Mr. Dutton,” said Marg. “He insisted on waiting.”

  I stuck out my hand and Mr. Dutton wrestled himself from the divan to take it.

  “I sure am pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Please have a seat in my office,” I said. “I need to speak with my secretary for a minute.”

  “She’s kinda uppity,” Dutton said. “But I figure you to straighten her out.”

  Ron stifled a laugh down to a snort. With a sidelong dart of my eyes, I motioned for him to follow Dutton.

  Dutton waddled past with Ron in lockstep. I turned to Marg, smiled, and held my nose.

  “You’re a matched set,” she said. “You need a shave.”

  “I need a check,” I said.

  “How much? You had two hundred dollars.”

  I reached into my pocket and produced forty-six dollars in wadded up bills. I stared at the money. “This isn’t my pocket!”

  “That one, I believe,” said Marg.

  “I have to replace two of the tires on my car,” I said. “They’re custom tires. Figure mount and balance, make it, say, three hundred and twenty-five bucks.”

  “Don’t you have a spare?”

  “Yes ma’am, and that’s just what it is, very spare.”

  “I want the receipt,” said Marg, “and I want your expense report on time for a change.”

  “When?”

  “Now!”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I have to see what Mr. Dutton needs and we have to wrap up our case before Ron goes off the clock.”

  “It had better be a long clock for what we’re paying him.”

  I turned around at the door to my office, and shaking a finger, announced gruffly, “And don’t let it happen again!”

  “Your boots are muddy,” she said.

  I turned back and stepped into the office. Dutton had taken the overstuffed chair in the corner and left Ron the straight-backed chair in front of my desk.

  “This is kind of private,” said Dutton.

  I closed the door.

  “No,” said Dutton and nodded at Ron.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Mr. Dutton, this is Mr. Craig. He is my closest professional associate.”

  Dutton waggled himself forward on the chair and stuck his hand out. Ron leaned forward and shook Dutton’s hand.

  “Now, how is it we can be of service to you, Mr. Dutton?”

  “It’s my mother-in-law,” he said. “She runs the trailer park where I live, so I can’t get away from her. She tells my wife stuff and makes her all crazy like.”

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “Like yesterday,” said Dutton. “I sent her up to tell her mother that we still didn’t have the lot rent.” Dutton squirmed in the chair and visibly gritted his teeth. “And she come back saying like I should get a job, and take a bath, and clean up the junk around the trailer.”

  “How can we help you?”

  “Well,” he said and leaned forward, making his voice a coarse whisper, “I was going to do the bitch myself, but then I read about the hatchet number you laid on that cop, and I knew right off you were the man for the job.”

  “I didn’t kill Officer Talon,” I said.

  Dutton closed an eye and made one vertical nod of his head. “Yes, and I want you to not kill my mother-in-law the same way you didn’t kill that cop.”

  Dutton wrenched himself from the chair and planted the cigar box amid the disordered administrative rubble that constitutes the top of my desk. He lifted the lid so that I could see inside. “There’s a hundred and eighty-seven dollars in there,” he bragged, “and only just some of it is food stamps.”

  I looked at Ron, and we nodded respectfully in unison.

  “So you can see, I got the wherewithal,” he said.

  “Your gal there said that you charged fifty dollars an hour and it’s only up to Fifty-Second Street where you got to go. I figured to pay you for the whole hour, even if it only takes twenty minutes or so. If you can’t work her in, then I’ll just get an axe on the way home and whack her when I get there.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dutton,” I said. “That sounds like a good offer, with a fine tip included, but I just can’t do it.”

  “Well, why not?” he asked as he picked up his treasure chest and backed up to the chair.

  “It’s in Kentwood,” I said. “The Kentwood Police have the concession on domestic murder-for-hire in the City of Kentwood. They don’t allow any poaching whatsoever.”

  “Right,” said Ron. “They might even act like they caught you fair and square and put you in jail like a common criminal.”

  “Don’t that beat all!” said Dutton as the chair groaned under his descending weight.

  “If you think about it, it makes a lot of sense,” I said. “They have to conduct the investigation, and they can make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.”

  “Well, I can see that,” said Dutton as he wiped his nose with his wrist.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll call Detective Van Huis. He’s the chief of detectives, and he assigns the work out.” I winked. “Has to get his cut, you know.”

  I picked up the telephone and started dialing.

  “If he takes the job,” said Ron, “Art and I get a nice cut.”

  “How much is this going to cost?” asked Dutton.

  The line was ringing. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty,” I said, “but I don’t think he’ll take the food stamps.”

  “Uppity cuss,” said Dutton.

  “Van Huis,” the police detective growled into the phone.

  “Hi,” I said. “Art Hardin over at Ladin Associates.”

  “Leave me alone, Art,” he said. “I’m doing the budget.”

  “I’ve got a customer for you,” I said.

  “I’ve got to have it in by four o’clock.”

&
nbsp; “Only take a few minutes,” I said. “It’s only down on Fifty-second Street. Man wants a quick axe murder, no frills. He’s got at least a hundred bucks,” I said and winked at Dutton. He winked back. “Says if we can’t squeeze it in, he’ll do it himself on the way home.”

  “Art, have you lost your goddam mind?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The guy says he’ll do it himself, and you’ll be out your cut of the dough.”

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” said Van Huis. “Call the desk like the rest of the city. Dial 911. I don’t have time for your horseshit today, Art.” Van Huis hung up.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll send him right over. … Yep, I’ll give him a card with the code on it. … Uh-huh. … Right. … You got it. … I won’t forget. … That’s right. … Kentwood is your concession. … Don’t forget my cut … and Ron Craig, too. … That’s right. … He recommended you highly.”

  I hung up the telephone and took out a business card. I wrote on the back: “Personal to Detective Van Huis: This is the guy I told you about.” I signed the card, “XXOOXOO, ART.”

  Dutton inspected it doubtfully, then asked, “Why did you write them kisses and hugs on the back of the card?”

  “That’s the code,” I said. “Everyone is supposed to think they are kisses and hugs, but see here”—I pointed at the card with my ballpoint pen—“the exes, they mean ten, and the ohs, they mean percent. So like it says here, I get twenty percent and Ron gets ten percent.”

  Dutton nodded recognition.

  “Just a damn minute,” said Ron. “How come I only get ten percent? I recommended Van Huis just as highly as you did.”

  “Well, I had to make the phone call,” I said.

  “What did that cost?” said Ron. “A quarter?”

  “I had to give him my card and write on it, too.”

  “Fifty cents, maybe!” Ron’s voice took an edge.

  “Look, fellas,” said Dutton, “I’m getting a headache, and now I got to go down to the police station, and the neighbor kid wants his bike back by three. Little bastard has a paper route. I’ll just go now, and you can work this out after I’m gone.”

  “Just give that card to the desk sergeant,” I said, “and tell them you have to see Detective Van Huis, personally. Tell them I called and made the appointment. When the desk sergeant sees the card, he’ll smile—means he knows it’s a special deal.”

  “We can put your bike in my van,” said Ron. “I’ll give you a ride over to the police station.”

  I told Dutton, “He’s just angling for a bigger tip!”

  “He can get his cut from Van Huis, same as you,” said Dutton, “but I’ll take that ride.”

  When I heard the front door fall shut I poked out the administrative telephone number for the Grand Rapids Police and got myself transferred to the Community Outreach Office.

  “Sergeant Sheridan,” said a male voice, “Community Outreach. How can we help you today?”

  “This is Mike Lyle from the Cliffton Neighborhood Association. I was callin’ to make sure that Paulie from the Community Service squad was going to make it to the barbecue and meeting tonight.”

  “Paulie Milton?”

  “I didn’t never know his last name,” I said. “I just knew him and his partner Chuck by their first names. They just dress like plain folks and ain’t too showy about bein’ policemen and all. He said that they’d come by the barbecue and tell us about how to maybe set up a neighborhood watch.”

  “That’s not their regular duty. I can come over myself if you like. We prefer to have a little more notice, but if this is important to your association, I’ll be there.”

  “That’s what Paulie said—said he’d hook us up with you guys. You know he and Chuck done a hell of a job over here. Put the whores and drug dealers right out of business. We just wanted to ask some questions, you know, before we made this all official like.”

  “If you can hold, I’ll check.”

  “Course,” I said. He was gone for what seemed like a century, but it was only four and a half minutes on my watch.

  He came back. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Lyle, Mike Lyle.”

  “Where are you calling from, Mr. Lyle?”

  “Well, you know, my phone is shut off right now. I come up to the Cliffton Corner Tavern to use the telephone.”

  “Why is the phone blocked?”

  “Well, shit. Everybody knows the number and some of the guys like to call home and let their wives know that they’re workin’ overtime, if you get my drift.”

  “Give me the number and I’ll call you back.”

  “This here phone says it don’t take no incoming calls.”

  “Why don’t you come down to the office here, and I’ll be glad to work this out with you.”

  “Cain’t,” I said, “I’ve been working overtime here and I’m way too tired to drive, if you get my drift.”

  “I don’t know what I can do for you.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll just tell everybody it’s off.”

  “Wait! Wait! Don’t hang up! Paulie had an accident with his chain saw today. He’s in the hospital. Let me put you on hold. I’ll see what I can find out.” The line clicked silent.

  I hung up. The telephone rang. “Shit,” I said.

  “You’ve got a call,” Marg announced.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s Wendy.”

  I picked it up. “Your faithful companion,” I said.

  “She’s talking,” said Wendy, “and I’m taking notes.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We put her on the deck in the chaise lounge,” said Wendy.

  “On the deck?”

  “I put your big straw hat and sunglasses on her. Walt said he wanted to be able to see us.”

  “You’re bait,” I said. “He’s psychotically bored with lunch-bucket bandits.”

  “Look, I could have said no. I just didn’t like the idea of a room-to-room gunfight.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Paulie had an accident with his chain saw this morning. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Which one and for how long?”

  “I’m working on that. What happened?”

  “Smokey jumped up in her lap and started kneading and purring. Next thing I knew, she put her hand on him. I looked and saw she had tears running down her cheeks. She told me about Randy and how they were high school sweethearts.”

  “Does she remember this morning?”

  “I think that’s still pretty fuzzy, but there’s some other stuff about her boss and an Arnold Fay. We can talk about that when you get home.”

  “Fantastic,” I said. “If I can find out where Paulie is and how long they’re going to keep him, I might make it home tonight.”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  “Walt sounds like he’s dialed into this project, but you might want to sound out Denny. He’s young and he may feel that he needs to talk to Officer Friendly before he should.”

  “He’s been with me for two years, and mad at the police since that vice cop burned his cover. He’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll call you back when I get some better information.”

  “Ring twice, hang up, and call back,” she said.

  “I can do that job.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said and hung up.

  Marg walked in and dropped a handful of telephone messages on my desk. “If you’re determined to play with the telephone,” she said, “you should take care of these.”

  The first one was from Ginny Hampton, the adjuster from Pacific Casualty. Two were from Martin Van Pelham, but they were from yesterday. The note on the first one was, “You’re fired.” The second one—received twenty minutes after the first—said, “Finish the job, sorry.” Ginny would have to wait.

  I spun my roller index to Allied Investigative Services, Limited, and dialed the number. The secretary answered.
I gave her my name and asked for Roger Stevens. She said to wait.

  I got to listen to a couple of show tunes and then the line clicked to a forwarding number and Roger answered, “Colonel.”

  “Admiral,” I said.

  “Dog face.”

  “Squid.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Maybe a security leak.”

  “Not good. What happened?”

  “I’ve got a client who hired me because he knew my military rank and that I had an SCI clearance. On the upside, he didn’t know that SCI stands for ‘Secret Codename Intelligence.’”

  “I told you not to put that stuff in your yellow pages ad.”

  “Right. I also have an assistant U.S. attorney who seems to have the same knowledge and is pissed about it.”

  “You tell these people anything? Do they know each other?”

  “They’re parties to the same case. And no, I didn’t tell them shit and I don’t have a yellow pages ad.”

  “Did either one use the project name, mention the Defense Investigative Service, or use the acronym DIS specifically?”

  “No, but I discovered today that there is a Russian wet worker in the mix, uses a twenty-two and leaves it on the body.”

  “Mauser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably a coincidence. A lot of Russian mugs hit the private sector. Is this a criminal investigation on your part?”

  “I’m protecting a probable federal witness.”

  “You’re having all the fun. I’m out here chasing counterfeit watches and blue jeans.”

  “Sure. Do I need to contact the security branch?”

  “Things have changed. The security branch is probably a first-year clerk who makes sure the file cabinets are locked. If this mug was a threat asset at some point, he’s more than likely a common criminal now. Let the police handle him—just remember, if he’s one of our mugs, he’s not apt to be working alone.”

  “And the code name operation?”

  “Unless you’ve left something out, there hasn’t been a breach. In any case, the project was declassified two years ago, and the police agencies we worked with took it on the chin like gentlemen. Don’t stir it up. Just watch your six o’clock. If it goes to hell, dummy up and call me back.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and he hung up.