August Snow

by Stephen Mack Jones

  This was where old money lived with even older skeletons.

  Berlin wasn’t the only city to have been divided by a wall; there was definitely a high and near-impenetrable wall between Grosse Pointe Estates and the rest of Metropolitan Detroit, though invisible to the naked eye. It was a wall built from generations of money, power and privilege. This was where the term “ethnic cleansing” took on its subsonic American rhythms and rhymes.

  It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a Mexican to enter the kingdom of the Pointes …

  I eased through the idyllic, meticulously maintained and vigilantly guarded neighborhood, hoping I didn’t get pulled over for not quite fitting the narrow Pantone color-scheme in this part of town.

  A common mistake uninitiated plebeians make is to park on the winding, tree-lined street and ring the doorbell of the three-story, two-hundred-year-old home less than forty manicured feet away: you’ve just rung the doorbell of what was once the servants’ quarters. Maintaining on-property staff living in separate quarters belonged, for the most part, to a bygone era of dinner in tuxedos and carriages drawn by Cleveland Bay horses. The same era of black serving staff whistling as they carried dinner from kitchen to dining room, the whistling meant to assure their masters they had not sneaked a cheek full of the master’s food.

  I was pretty sure there were still those who pined for the long-ago days of French Service and whistling Negros.

  These days, most of those quarters had been converted to security checkpoints, private offices, power plants, storage or greenhouses. Any servants required by these estates usually found themselves on an hour-long cross-town bus journey to get here, lugging their own plastic buckets of sponges, rags, Febreze, Windex and Pledge.

  Another good reason to hope we don’t run out of Mexicans any time soon.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  The gargoyle at the gate to Eleanor Paget’s estate was a young man with short-cropped blond hair. He was built like a middle linebacker and wore a spiffy black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie and black jump boots, well-polished. It was easy to see the left side of his suit jacket was cut a little wider to favor whatever weapon was holstered on his waist. I figured he had a six-shooter of some sort. Maybe a Smith & Wesson .32. He had the unmistakable look of well-trained ex-military. If he needed more than six out of a barrel to quell a disturbance at the gate he either flunked out of Airborne training or ISIS had just invaded Grosse Pointe in force.

  I smiled my most reassuring safe-colored-guy smile, had my driver’s license ready and said, “August Snow to see Ms. Paget. She’s expecting me.”

  The security guard returned my smile, quickly compared my driver’s license photo to my face while instantly memorizing the information on the license. After a moment he nodded and said, “You’re cleared, sir. Welcome to the Paget estate.” He pointed at the four-story Federal-style brick structure in the near distance and said, “All you have to do is—”

  “I know the way,” I said, barely able to hold on to my “friendly-Negro/Mexican-don’t-shoot-me” smile. My cheeks were aching. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your visit, sir,” the young security guard said.

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” I said.

  The things us brown people do to make white folk feel comfy: Inoffensive grins. Slumped shoulders. Downcast eyes. Folded hands.

  Résumés.

  I slowly wheeled the car along the narrow drive past dogwoods, oaks and pine trees until I reached the circular driveway in front of Paget’s sprawling home.

  It wasn’t quite Lord Grantham’s idyllic Downton Abbey English countryside estate, but it was a close runner-up.

  Looking at the tall front entrance, I found myself slightly amused. Stuck in the well-manicured lawn near the steps was a small sign: This Home Protected by Digital Defense Home Security, a Division of Black Tree Corp. A discreet, diamond-shaped sign you could see on the lawns of homes from Taylor to West Bloomfield. The difference being Black Tree Defense Corporation wasn’t your average home security company. They were a major player with the US Department of Defense. The guys the DOD called for contract soldiers in Iraq, Afghanistan and off-book incursions into Pakistan, Syria and Yemen.

  Not so long ago in a land far, far away, I’d patrolled as a marine sniper with a few Black Tree guys in Afghanistan. Gung-ho ex-military frat boys without allegiance to anyone or anything, save for their bloated paychecks and eye-popping bonuses. Guys who were one psych eval away from a straightjacket.

  I got out of the car and started walking toward the front entrance. Before I reached the cobblestone steps, the tall white double-doors swung open. Standing framed in the doorway was a powerfully built middle-aged Mexican-American man with skin like tanned leather. He was dressed in white shirt, black tie, tan sport coat, black pants and black soft-sole shoes. His ponytail was jet-black and tightly banded.

  The man gave me a dispassionate, sleepy-eyed look and calmly said, “I don’t recall the lady of the house ordering any black bean salsa, sir.”

  “Geez,” I said. “For a second I thought you were Carlos Santana. Then I remembered Santana isn’t built like SpongeBob.”

  “Welcome home, amigo,” the man said, tightly embracing me. “We missed you.”

  “Good to be home,” I replied in Spanish, returning his embrace.

  I’d known Tomás Gutierrez since I was a kid. He and my father had been good friends right up to the day my father died. I was lucky enough to inherit that friendship.

  Tomás and I went inside. He took my coat and whispered, “She’s completely loco these days, August. Sorry you have to be here.”

  “I don’t have to be here,” I said. “I chose to come.” This was partially true. It was really the damned intractable sense of duty, honor and integrity my father had instilled in me that brought me here.

  “Then you’re as loco as she is,” Tomás said under his breath. Even whispers had a tendency to echo in the massive foyer.

  As Tomás escorted me across the expanse of black and white checkered marble, I whispered, “Thanks for looking after the house while I was away.”

  “You meet Carmela and Sylvia yet?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Nice ladies.”

  “Batshit crazy,” Tomás said. “I think they’re pot-heads. But, yeah, nice ladies.”

  On the way to the first-floor study, as we passed under chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceilings, Tomás told me he and his family were sorry for what I’d gone through with the department and that he missed my mother and father. I said I missed them, too.

  “Your old man,” Tomás said. “He was wise. And your mother? A sister to Madre Maria.”

  Tomás had been in Eleanor Paget’s service for ten years, ever since his failed attempt at owning a restaurant in Mexicantown. The economy had tanked and it had taken his restaurateur dreams with it. He worked briefly for a metal stamping plant in Pontiac, but the Crash of ’08 took care of that. The plant was shuttered and Tomás found himself out on the streets with a hundred fifty other former employees. I found him the job at Eleanor Paget’s estate.

  I briefly wondered if Eleanor had any idea that beneath Tomás’s suit and well-groomed look was the body of Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. Tattoos that snaked around his arms, winding around his chest and back. Tattoos of tarantulas climbing barbed wire that twisted around Christ’s crucifix. Tattoos of ornate daggers in the mouths of rattlesnakes. The strangest of these was a single tattoo on his upper right shoulder of General Emiliano Zapata Salazar.

  And of course there were the yesteryear scars from bullets and knives …

  We reached the study, a bright room resplendent with two-hundred-year-old family heirlooms, Persian rugs and an antique Bösendorfer piano I very much doubted Eleanor played. Through the bank of high-arched windows was a distant view of a white gazebo and the low brick building that housed the swimming pool, sauna and state-of-the-art exercise equipment. Beyond that was Lak
e St. Clair.

  “You got some dinero, right?” Tomás said.

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Then buy up a couple more houses in the ’hood,” Tomás said. “Bring ’em back, man. You don’t buy ’em then some rich white kid will and before you know it we’re all neck-deep in kale smoothies, tapas, Starbucks and Whole Fuckin’ Foods.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “Goddamn right it does,” Tomás said. Then, glancing at the door, he said, “Good luck, amigo. Keep your powder dry.”

  “I have no idea what the hell that means,” I said, smiling at my friend and shaking his hand again.

  Before leaving he asked if I wanted coffee and I said I did.

  Tomás winked and said, “I’ll make it strong. Mexican style. You’re gonna need it.”

  I entered the study and there she sat—the Virgin Queen ready to send another incompetent or conspirator to the Tower.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

  Eleanor Paget was in her mid-sixties. She looked twenty years younger, courtesy of good genes and exceptionally discreet plastic surgery.

  “Hello, Eleanor,” I said. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Oh, don’t be impertinent.”

  A black woman sat near Paget. She was well dressed and about the same age, but without the same easy access to plastic surgery.

  “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to contact you, Mr. Snow?” Paget said, glaring at me. “Any idea at all?”

  “Maybe you heard about my legal trials and tribulations?” I said.

  “Oh, who cares!” she barked. “Yesterday’s news, not even worthy of fishwrap!”

  “Calm down, Eleanor,” the black woman said.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Paget barked. “Who are you to tell me to calm down!”

  The black woman forced a smile, then said, “I should get back to the office.”

  “Yes!” Paget screeched. “Get back to the office! Do something that I actually pay you to do!”

  The black woman gave me a sheepish look. “You’ll excuse me.”

  She made for the door of the study. Paget rose quickly from her throne and clicked on dangerously high black stilettos across the marble floor, reaching the woman at the door. The two talked in low voices for a moment. Then the black woman gently blotted the trail of tears on Eleanor Paget’s cheeks with a tissue and left.

  “Rosey,” Paget said to no one in particular. “Rose Mayfield. She’s—maybe you remember from …”

  I did.

  Paget shook herself out of her momentary stupor and made her way back to her awaiting burgundy leather wingback throne. She sat and crossed her long, smooth legs. Plastic surgeons could do a lot with the human body, but they were limited when it came to legs. Eleanor Paget’s legs were original high-end equipment.

  Paget recaptured me in her icy glare, drew in a sharp breath and said, “How much would you care to wager my concerns trump your inconsequential public hanging?”

  Without embarrassment or gentlemanly aversion of my eyes, I looked at her legs for a good two seconds. It was the type of attention Paget liked. “You’ve been working out, Eleanor,” I said. “You look good.”

  “Don’t play the swarthy Hispanic with me, Mr. Snow,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea of the effort I’ve expended to reach you?”

  I’d never been referred to as a “swarthy Hispanic.” I wasn’t quite sure if I should feel insulted, complimented or simply laugh. “I’ve been out of town,” I said.

  A young Mexican woman dressed in servitude white brought my coffee and carefully set it on the small coffee table between Paget and me. The girl—eighteen, maybe nineteen—asked in a soft voice if “madam” would like anything. Paget waved her off.

  Before disappearing, the brown-skinned girl gave me a furtive glance, hoping to quickly categorize me as either a “friendly” or a threat to her immigration status.

  I lifted my cup of coffee to her and quietly said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir,” the young girl said. Then she made a nearly imperceptible bow to Paget before leaving the study. “Still making people bow to you, Eleanor?” I said after a sip of the coffee. “Isn’t that a little antiquated?”

  “It always amazes me how people these days categorize civility, decency and respect for social status as ‘antiquated,’” she said, still holding me in an unblinking blue-eyed gaze. I was sure any minute I would be turned to a pillar of salt. “To the point,” she continued, “I need you to look into something of a delicate matter.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Eleanor,” I said. “I’m not even a licensed private investigator. I’m just José Public now.”

  “I need your help!” she suddenly shrieked, slamming a slender and well-manicured hand down on an arm of her chair. She snapped her mouth shut, drew in a ragged breath and cast her now wet eyes toward a bank of windows that gave expansive views of a green, rolling acreage. Her silence carried a critical atomic weight.

  “Do you have any idea—any inkling—how long it took to build all of this?” she finally said. “This empire? Almost one hundred years of hard work. I am the empire now, Mr. Snow. I will not under any circumstances have it taken from me. And I need your … help.”

  Eleanor Paget’s business was a private wealth management and investment bank, Titan Investment Securities Group. Her wealthy, erudite great-grandfather had started it in the late 1800s in the heart of Detroit’s then-prosperous business district. And it was the bank her now-deceased husband had embezzled from before killing his sixteen-year-old mistress and himself at a riverfront condominium.

  The murder/suicide was how I’d first met Eleanor Paget.

  Paget spoke to me haltingly about something being “wrong” at the bank. She could feel it; an elaborate maze of obfuscation keeping her from the truth. Board members once opened veins for her. Now they were hushed, insular, evasive. Her new, young, handpicked chief executive officer Joseph Dylan “Kip” Atchison had once kowtowed to her every wish. Now he was laughingly dismissive of her concerns. Her indomitable command of the business and all who served it had been eroded by a force beyond her influence. An amorphous, shadow command. Something that was quickly and quietly rendering her inconsequential. She wanted me to investigate her bank and the people who had walled themselves in and her out.

  “Of course, I’ll pay you,” she said, as if the mention of money was somehow beneath her stature. “Whatever your price, it will be paid.”

  I asked her a few questions: Did she have any current bank records at the house? Did she have remote computer access to the bank’s accounting system? Were there any staff in particular she had suspicions about? Any customers or accounts raising red flags? Were there any current or pending state or federal bank regulation inquiries or investigations?

  She brusquely answered each question: “Yes,” “No,” “Of course,” “How the hell should I know, you stupid man?”

  I reminded her that I was no longer on the force.

  “How hard can it be to get a private investigator’s license?” she said. “Surely anyone who is ambulatory, has citizenship and a GED can get one.” She paused and a look came across her face. “My God. You do have citizenship and a GED, I presume?”

  “Been over the border and out of the cotton fields for about as long as you’ve been off the Mayflower, Eleanor. And I’m armed with a sociology degree from Wayne State.”

  A look of relief washed across her face.

  I said I’d talk to a few people I trusted for their expertise and discretion, but beyond that there was little I could do.

  Paget’s clear blue eyes began filling with tears. Her expertly painted bottom lip trembled. She quickly wiped her tears away, took in a sharp breath and said in a low, hoarse voice, “It appears I was wrong about you, Mr. Snow. I thought you had more spine than those pimps dressed as policemen in Detroit.” She stood, looked down at me and said, “Thomas will show
you out. Goodbye and good riddance, Mr. Snow.”

  “I’ll get back to you with several names,” I said.

  “Don’t bother.”

  I offered my hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, she walked quickly out of the room.

  Classic Eleanor Paget.

  Six

  Tomás met me in the foyer of Paget’s house.

  “How’d it go?” he whispered.

  “Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll be getting an invitation to her Detroit Institute of Arts spring fundraiser,” I said.

  “Thank God,” Tomás said. “Then I’d have to serve your ass and the Aryan Nation.” As I suppressed a laugh, Tomás said, “You want me to roll down your street after I leave here?”

  Tomás was referring to Markham, my street in Mexicantown—the one he’d been patrolling in my absence. A bit of free advice: when someone like Tomás says “roll down the street,” it’s best to take cover—especially if you have villainy in your heart.

  “I’m back and I’m strapped,” I said. “My street, my concern.”

  Tomás nodded. “Don’t forget to drop by the house. Elena will have both our asses if she finds out I’ve seen you and she hasn’t.”

  “How’s she gonna find out?”

  Tomás laughed. “Wow. You young bucks really are stupid. Women are like their own little NSA listening outposts. Especially Elena.”

  In Mexicantown, I would have driven past at least ten shoulder-to-shoulder brick or clapboard row houses, several vegetable gardens, a dilapidated convenience store and a small Mexican restaurant in the time it took me to drive from Eleanor Paget’s house to the security gatehouse at the entrance to her property.

  All I wanted to do was get a burrito and beer, then head back to my house and figure out what to do to make it into some sort of home, however temporary that might be. To hell with Eleanor Paget and the hardships of a life lived in the economic stratosphere. I still had to breathe the pollution wafting in from I-75 South and idling freight trucks waiting for egress to the US or Canada.

  Sorry, Dad.