Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  She frowned slightly. “You got a personal stake in this, Micah?”

  “Yeah.” I told her about Calvin. “I want him to be innocent, but we have to go with whatever we find.”

  “We may not find anything,” she said. “You know these cases, Micah: one person’s word against another’s.”

  “I know. But all we can do is check everything out. I’m going after his enemies to see if I can find a connection; I need you to check out the boy. See if he’s really clean, or whether there’s something else going on there.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she promised, rising again like a jungle cat. “But I’ve got to go home and change first. Can’t hardly go looking like Mademoiselle.”

  I watched the door close behind her and was just reaching for my notebook when the phone rang.

  “Micah?” It was Calvin’s voice, but there was something in it I wasn’t used to hearing.

  “I’m here, Cal. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’m down at the garage now. I finished the first job. I was just thinking I’d call before I started the second one, since I hadn’t heard nothing from you. …”

  “I’m sorry, Cal. I should have called. But I’ve been working on it. And these things take time.”

  “Sure. I understand. Look, did you talk to the cops? I mean, is there anything they didn’t tell me?”

  “You know as much as I do,” I reassured him. “No hidden punches, so far as I can tell. Listen, how did you like O’Rourke?”

  “The lawyer? Oh, all right. Sure, I mean, he seemed like a straight shooter. He wanted money like you said, but—”

  “Believe me, it’ll be money well spent,” I promised.

  “I know. It’s just, hell, Micah, a man shouldn’t have to put himself in hock just because some fucking little bastard lied on him.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  “I’m not complaining,” he said quickly. “I mean, I don’t expect nobody to work for nothing. It’s just the system that ain’t worth a damn.” There was a pause. “Look, Micah, my day ain’t that full. If you happen to be around here about four or four thirty, I still got that bottle of Black Label from the Fourth of July.”

  “Sure. But you’ve got to understand, Calvin; I may be on the job. So just keep a couple of swallows for me.” I replaced the receiver and tried to tell myself that I’d given him the truth and that it had nothing to do with not wanting to have to sit next to him and wonder.

  I took out my notebook and then got out the city directory and began to match names to addresses and telephone numbers.

  I already had Morris Frazier’s address. He owned a service station on Esplanade a few blocks from Cal’s garage. Herman Villiere was harder to pin down. There was no listing for him in either the city directory or the telephone book. I considered calling Cal, but I thought it would be best to keep him out of it for the time being. So I started through the Villieres in the phone book, calling each and asking for Herman. I hit pay dirt on number three. She told me that I had the wrong number and that Herman lived across town. She didn’t see him much, but she had his business card somewhere. After a minute she came up with it; so I thanked her, entered the information in my notebook, and went on to the third name. There were about two dozen Guidrys in the phone book. I’d call them all if I had to, but it would be easier to drop by Calvin’s and get what I needed from his records.

  But first I’d see what I could find out about Frazier and Villiere.

  That there were unresolved complaints against Morris Frazier and the Esplanade Full Service Center I was able to find out just by calling the Better Business Bureau. I slapped on enough cologne to set a hound baying, threw on a jacket and tie, and donned a pair of glasses. Making sure my Rotary pin was on my lapel, I grabbed the attaché case Sandy called my “nerd prop” and went down the steps to the courtyard. When I’d loosened the clamp on my car’s radiator hose and let my engine run for a while, I headed out onto Barracks and over to Esplanade. I drove past Frazier’s to get an idea of his operation. It was an old-style service station, with a young black man to pump gas while a grease monkey in a gray jumpsuit worked on a car inside one of the two repair bays. A hard business to keep going these days, I thought as I made a U-turn in the next block and came back to slide in beside the pump island. Close up I could see paint flaking on the walls of the office, and the window needed a good cleaning.

  I got out as the pump boy ambled over. “Your mechanic busy?” I asked. “My temperature light’s on.”

  The pump boy rubbed his nose and went back into the office. A second later a plump little man in his fifties came out, walking pigeon-toed. His red face and veined nose made me wonder if he drank his profits, but I’d often thought running a filling station these days would make anybody drink.

  “Yes sir?” the man asked, trying a little too hard with his smile. “You got a problem?”

  “Red light’s on,” I said. “I don’t know what’s the problem. I just paid somebody three hundred bucks for a new water pump. I don’t mind paying money, but I expect to have the thing fixed. I’m never going to that place again.”

  “What place is that?” the man asked, and I could see the wheels already turning in his mind.

  “Garage down the way; what’s the man’s name? Same as some old cowboy star.”

  “Autry,” the man breathed, and leaned back against one of the pumps. “Calvin Autry. You shouldn’t have gone there. He don’t know what he’s doing. Should’ve come here to begin with.”

  “Somebody recommended him,” I said. “Poor recommendation, I must say.”

  The man signaled for me to release the hood. I reached in, pretending to fumble for the inside lever. His head disappeared inside the engine space, and I knew he was checking the new water pump Cal Autry had put in two weeks ago, for a hundred dollars, not three hundred.

  “Start her up.”

  I got in and complied, watching the red temperature light go on. I knew the water would be coming out of the upper hose where it joined the radiator, something anybody could see. When the man came back around the car shaking his head and wiping his hands on a rag, I knew he’d taken the bait.

  “Water pump again,” he said. “Have you looked at this pump since he put it in?”

  “I just told him to do the work,” I said. “I don’t know anything about water pumps, or care. He told me it had a thirty-day guarantee.”

  “When was that?”

  “In August, I think. Yes, August, because I remember we had the accounting convention then.”

  “Well, you need another one,” he said. “But it won’t cost you anywhere near three hundred. I can get it for two and a quarter.”

  “And is it guaranteed?”

  “A full ninety days. But they generally last a couple of years. I imagine you got cheated on this one. Doesn’t look like he put one in at all. My guess is he just poured some sealant in, to hold it for a little while. And that’s another problem.”

  “Oh?”

  The man’s expression became mournful. “Sure. No matter what they claim in the ads, those sealants they use mess up your cooling system. I wouldn’t be surprised your radiator’s so gummed up it’ll have to be pulled and flushed out.” He motioned for me to cut off the engine and then gestured for me to come and look under the hood with him while he poked his penlight at the backside of the radiator.

  I made a face, as if the worst thing that could happen would be to get some grease on my jacket.

  “Now see there?” he said, his flashlight beam hitting the wet part of the engine block, where water from the leaking hose had thrown it. “That’s radiator water. Coming right out the core. We’re gonna have to send it to a radiator shop.”

  I touched the wet spot on the hose where it entered the radiator. “What’s this?” I asked.

  He squinted at me for a second and then chuckled like I was a little too backward to understand. “Water from the radiator’s getting flung up every which way af
ter it hits the fan.”

  “Oh.” I straightened up. “And how much will all that cost?”

  “Pull your radiator and repair the damage? Two hundred. But we’ll flush the system for nothing. And add antifreeze.”

  “What about that other mechanic?” I said irritably. “I have a good mind to report him. I mean, he simply can’t be allowed to cheat people that way.”

  The man shrugged. “Happens all the time. Lot of crooks in this business, and you picked one to deal with.”

  “You’ve had other complaints about him?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Many’s the car I’ve had to straighten out after that man’s had his hands on it. We get a lot of our best customers from him, you know what I mean.”

  “But he should be put out of business!”

  “Man like him puts himself outta business, sooner or later.”

  “But how long has he been down there? Surely not very long?”

  “Ten, twelve years. I been here longer. But I stay in business ’cause I treat people right, see; he stays in business by cheating old ladies and people that don’t know—” He stopped, realizing he might have said too much, but I went on as if I hadn’t noticed.

  “And another thing,” I said, leaning close to him and dropping my voice to a whisper. “When I was in there, he had these little colored boys sweeping out the place. Now I don’t know about you, but I didn’t like the looks of it. Never know when something’ll turn up missing.”

  But he only looked blank. “Yes sir. Well, we can take care of you, and nothing’ll be missing.” He checked his watch. “Walter’s just changing a set of shocks on that car now and he can get to you in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  A light seemed to go on in his mind. He turned around and gave my front fender a shove. “Come to think of it, you could stand some new shocks yourself. We could put ’em on while the radiator’s being fixed.”

  “Really?” I said. I glanced at my own watch. “I have a meeting in half an hour. Very important meeting. The assistant auditor will be there.” I let my brow rise a half inch. “Can I come back this afternoon, say?”

  “You won’t get very far like this,” he warned, sensing the fish starting to slip away. “I’d hate to see you stuck on the freeway.”

  “I just have to go downtown.”

  “I can put some water in,” he offered, quickly adding, “but it won’t last long. That radiator’s like a sieve, and the water pump bearing’s shot.”

  “I’ll make it. If I don’t, I’ll call you. Do you have a card?”

  He stumped into the office and come out with a dog-eared square of pasteboard with ESPLANADE FULL SERVICE CENTER, MORRIS FRAZIER, OWNER printed on it.

  I watched them fill the radiator from a watering can, and when they’d finished, I thanked him again, promised to come back, and chugged off into the traffic, leaving him with a perplexed expression. I’d seen that look before: he’d sized me up for the handicapped brother-in-law of somebody high enough in the city bureaucracy to give me a meaningless job, which meant I wasn’t really good for anything, and so why was I escaping from his net?

  I’d let him figure that one out. But I had to admit I hadn’t come out much better for my trouble. I’d confirmed the fact that he didn’t like Calvin Autry, and that he was a crook. But if he’d put the boy up to complaining, Frazier had resisted the temptation to rise to the bait and let something slip. And somehow I didn’t have the feeling he was smart enough or had the will power to let such a chance go by.

  I decided to pay a visit to Herman Villiere. I chose my financial consultant’s card and, after tightening my hose clamp, drove over to the address I’d been given.

  It was an office building on Elysian Fields, near where Gentilly crosses it, a low, modern one-story that formed a U around the parking lot, like a corporate motel. The aunt hadn’t told me which office in the honeycomb belonged to her nephew, but when I’d checked the directory board outside and eliminated the psychologist, the travel agency, the bookkeeping service, and the lawyers, the only tenant left was MVP Properties. I knew I was taking a chance by not calling first, but I didn’t want to give anybody an opportunity to turn me away. This way I could at least get an idea of the layout. And then, if necessary, I could wait until the man himself appeared.

  The office was twentieth-century impersonal, with furniture that might have come from a rental agency and prints on the wall that probably came with the lease. The receptionist’s desk seemed exceptionally tidy, and I had the feeling I hadn’t interrupted anything more pressing than her daydreams of next weekend. She was pretty, but I suspected the red hair came out of a bottle, and the long nails must have played hell when she typed.

  “Can I help you?” she asked as if she thought I had the wrong door.

  “Is Mr. Villiere in?” I asked.

  “No, he’s not here,” she said. “Does he know you?”

  “No, but I think he might like to. I have a client who may be interested in some property he owns.”

  Her penciled brows went up a fraction. “He’ll be in this afternoon,” she said. “Do you want him to call you?”

  “I’ll check back,” I said, and started out.

  Her voice caught me at the door. “Maybe I can get him in his car.”

  “That would be fine,” I told her, coming back to the desk and handing her my card.

  She dialed. “Hi,” she said into the phone, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, but not enough to keep me from hearing. “There’s a Mr. Hudson here to see you about some property. No. Just said he’s interested.” She looked up from the phone. “What property is that?”

  “I’d prefer to discuss it with him in person.” I wrinkled my nose. “You know these car phones. Never can tell who’ll be listening.”

  “Okay,” she said, and hung up. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. He’s just leaving one of our properties on St. Bernard.”

  I thanked her and took a seat. For the next few minutes I watched her don fresh makeup and admire herself in the mirror. The phone didn’t ring and nobody else appeared until a quarter to eleven, when I heard a car skid to a halt outside. A door slammed and a few seconds later the office door opened and Mr. Herman Villiere walked into the room.

  He was young, late twenties at the oldest, with fine features and dark slicked-back hair. His blue blazer was open, showing a silk shirt underneath, and in lieu of a tie he wore gold chains at the neck.

  “Hi,” he greeted me, sticking out a hand. “You wanted to see me?” He smelled like a whore’s boudoir, but his grip was firm and I could tell from his muscles that he placed a high value on fitness.

  “Carl Hudson,” I said, handing him my card. “I’m here at the request of a client. He was interested in some property you own.”

  He gave his gum a few chews and put my card in his top pocket. “Yeah? What property is that, Carl?”

  I gave him the address. “I think it’s being used as a garage now.”

  He nodded. “That’s one of our properties.” He motioned for me to follow him into the office at the rear. I noticed his desk was clear, except for a small gold model Ferrari that would have served as a paperweight if there had been anything to hold down. The walls were hung with the same kinds of pictures as were in the front office, and as he slumped into the big chair behind the desk, I wondered how much time he actually spent here.

  “So who’s your client, Carl?”

  “I’d rather not say at this point,” I told him, taking the chair across from him.

  He gave a single nod. “What does he want with it? Going to open another garage?”

  “I doubt that.” I let him have what I hoped was a winning smile. “He frequently invests in areas he thinks have potential. Old neighborhoods that could be renovated.”

  “He looking to raise a new River Walk in the ghetto? What is he, a one-man HUD?” Villiere’s laugh had a nasty tone.

  “He doesn’t always explain these things,” I said. “But he mig
ht be willing to make an offer. Now, if the person in there’s got a lease—”

  “No lease,” Villiere said. “But he’s been a renter for more years than I can remember. Rented from my aunt before she passed away. They were big friends. I can’t say he’s a special friend of mine, though.”

  “Then you might be willing to sell?”

  “I didn’t say that, Carl. If I sell, your client’s going to evict him. I’m not sure that would be right. Man’s got a right to make a living.”

  “Couldn’t he go somewhere else?”

  “Maybe he’s used to where he is now. Location’s a lot in that kinda business.”

  “Admirable attitude,” I said. “I’ll tell my client you aren’t interested.”

  “Tell him that, Carl.” He tapped his pocket. “But if I change my mind, I’ve got your card.”

  “Right.” I rose, and he extended a hand without getting up.

  “Thanks for your time,” I told him, shaking hands.

  “Right.”

  I turned and started out, feeling distinctly uneasy. Maybe it was his eyes on my back. Or maybe it was the fact that Herman Villiere didn’t seem like the kind who was interested in renters’ rights. Whatever it was, it was catching, because the girl at the desk had put down her magazine and watched me like a cat as I went through the front office and out the door.

  I noted the license number of the red Ferrari at the curb and then got into my own slightly battered Chevrolet. I’d learned to sense when a situation wasn’t right, and every part of my body was vibrating a warning. Maybe, I told myself, Villiere is the man.

  But I still had to check out the other two, Guidry and DeNova.

  I got a burger and some tea at a Burger King and took them with me to Pontchartrain, where I sat in my car and watched the gray waves roll in with the inevitability of disappointed dreams. I’d barely begun the investigation, but I wanted Villiere to be the villain. I wanted to find that, for whatever twisted motive, he was trying to ruin Calvin Autry. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have to falsely accuse the man to get the building: maybe, I thought, he was afraid Cal would kick up a stink if he evicted him. This way, Cal would be on the defensive. Maybe he was afraid of Cal. God, I wanted to believe that. Anything but the memory of that New Year’s Eve.