Helsinki Noir

by James Thompson

  During my break I glanced at the employee directory. I was not even surprised when I saw Merja’s last name. It was Salo-Virtanen.

  5.

  Sunday night I tossed and turned in bed wondering whether to mention my suspicions to Henrik Bruun. I did not have any concrete proof against Merja and Petri. Giving him the package of tissue had taken place carefully outside the range of the security camera. On the face of it there was nothing peculiar in the occurrence other than that Petri was not wearing an overcoat. Usually the store detectives dressed like the customers for the season at hand.

  But were there more involved than Merja, Petri, and Veli-Pekka? Someone in the watch or electronics department? The regular salespeople knew that Petri was a store detective, but wouldn’t they become suspicious if items disappeared each time he pretended to be a customer looking at them? I must have fallen asleep for a short time, because I dreamed that half the Stockmann staff belonged to a league of store thieves and Bruun was shouting that he’d hired me just so he could set me up as guilty. They’d punish me by suffocating me with my Santa Claus beard. I woke up to find I’d stuffed the corner of my sheet into my mouth.

  Monday was quiet. Merja wasn’t at work and I circulated for over an hour before I saw Petri in the menswear department half a floor up. He was looking at bathrobes. A dyed-blond silicon babe crept up beside him. When I looked more closely I saw that it was the same woman who had slammed me with her purse in the bar Friday evening. Was she following Petri?

  Petri pushed his hand into the pocket of a luxuriously thick terry bathrobe. I saw that his hand was closed in a fist. When he pulled it out his palm was open. He shook his head as if to indicate that the robe did not suit him and moved over to look at the next. The blonde moved along with him to the bathrobe he’d just left and she, too, pushed her hand into the pocket. Then she raised her purse in such a way that she could drop into it whatever object she had taken from the pocket. Petri had already left the bathrobes and moved on to the underwear. The blonde, in contrast, set off purposefully toward the exit on the Esplanade side. No exit alarms sounded when she headed outside into the storm gales.

  I stepped onto the escalator. Petri was fingering long underwear patterned with hockey sticks. I walked over to him and murmured, “Tasteless. Wouldn’t allow those in my pack. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Seem to have left the path of good children.”

  Petri did not lift his eyes from the long johns but he hissed, “What the hell are you babbling about?”

  “I know how you stole the stuff. That blond bird is one of your mules and junkie Virtanen is another. He’s apparently Merja Salo-Virtanen’s son. Are you in debt for Paula Salo’s gravestone? Or just looking for the good life?”

  The color drained from Petri’s face. “What do you know about Paula?” He was clearly struggling not to yell.

  I bent over to whisper into his ear: “Paula chose death over life.”

  “Who are you? Did Jansson send you? You can see I’m sticking to our deal. Another thousand euros’ worth of cameras just left in Milla’s bag. The debt will be paid off by Christmas. Then Jansson can go to hell. Tell him I said so!” Petri glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred.

  “Hey, Santa, can I have some candy?” I was again surrounded by creatures the height of fire extinguishers, there were at least four of them. I said Captain Cavity had forbidden me from handing out candy and that no one wanted false teeth for Christmas when they grew up, anyway. That got the crowd of mothers giggling.

  “Could we at least take a picture?” one mother asked, and I couldn’t refuse. By the time that was done, Petri had disappeared. I, too, vanished to my secret place. Time for Tommy H. again.

  “Jansson?” he sighed when he heard my question. “Sometimes I think Jansson’s as mythical as Santa Claus. In any case, no one’s been able to catch him at anything, though it’s general knowledge that he deals drugs and sells stolen goods. But Jansson’s vassals won’t talk. Quite a number of them have just happened to get their fingers caught in a saw or their toes run over by a lawn mower. Be careful with him. He takes no pity on women, either.”

  I reminded Tommy H. that I was not just any woman, and I promised to let him know as soon as I got more information on Jansson’s doings. I straightened my beard and returned to work. There were rarely children in the furniture department, so I headed there to think things through. I had accomplished my assignment; I just needed proof. Who would be easier to break, Petri or Merja? Women were often tougher, especially when it concerned their children. What if I were to approach Merja as my real self, Hilja?

  I waited to see if she’d come in for the night shift, but she did not appear. A pretty young coworker said she would be back at work the next day. “So Santa’s fallen for Merja?” she teased, and I clutched my hands to my heart dramatically. This wasn’t the first time I’d acted at acting.

  In the final weeks before Christmas the department store stayed open till nine. It was quarter past nine when I took the elevator toward the ground floor. The customers had already left and the elevator was empty. I was terribly tempted to take off my hot wig right there. Luckily I didn’t, because at the P2 level the elevator stopped. Petri stepped in.

  “So, Santa Claus,” he said, as the elevator jerked and came to a stop, “looks like we’re stuck between floors. My, my, after closing it can take quite awhile before they get the elevator running again. I hope you aren’t claustrophobic. Now take off the stupid disguise and we’ll have a face-to-face talk, man to man. Or shall I take it off myself?” Petri whipped a knife from his pocket, one from the souvenir department. I backed to the corner of the elevator, trying to feign fear.

  “For God’s sake, don’t wave the knife around. I’ll take it off . . .” I raised my hand toward my beard and trusted myself to my luck. I had practiced the move many times, and I was quick enough. Petri’s menacing expression vanished when he saw the Glock in my hand.

  “Scissors beat paper, and guns beat blades. Fine with me to chat, but I pose the questions. Santa’s not taking wish lists right now.”

  Of course my gun was not loaded, but how would Petri know that? He evidently hadn’t the slightest idea whose sack I was bagging prey for.

  “Drop the knife. Hands clasped behind your neck. On your knees. Santa expects respect.”

  Slowly Petri obeyed.

  I kicked the knife to the side and demanded, “How’d a boy with clean papers like you and Merja Salo-Virtanen get mixed up with Jansson’s gang? Who joined first, Paula or Veli-Pekka?”

  “So you don’t know the whole story?” A glimmer of hope flickered in Petri’s eyes but dimmed when I held the gun closer to his temple.

  “I know enough. Now I want to hear the rest.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I’ve known VP since we were kids, even before his mother remarried and had Paula. VP was always in trouble and I couldn’t do anything about it. Paula . . . It was too bad we ended up in bed together, sometimes that just happens. We had fuckin’ bad luck, she got pregnant. She wanted to keep the kid and Merja, her mother, was excited too. We agreed to raise it together even though we weren’t in love.”

  Petri had fastened his gaze on the floor and was blinking away tears. “But Paula had postpartum depression. VP, the goddamn idiot, gave her speed to help. And it did. Merja and I tried to get her to stop, but what can you do when someone’s hooked? Paula fell into debt to Jansson’s gang. She saw what they did to Veli-Pekka and she couldn’t take the fear. She killed herself. But you don’t skip out on a debt to Jansson. He knew Paula had left a kid. He sent Veli-Pekka to pay a visit to Merja: if she didn’t pay off Paula’s debt, he’d take the kid and sell her to the highest buyer. The world has plenty of markets for cute four-year-olds.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “He said that Petriikka would die instantly if we went. That he had eyes everywhere.”

  Petri might be an experienced store detective, but the role of father t
rumped the professional. It was a mistake to take anyone into your life whom you’d start to care about.

  “And the blonde? Is that your current girlfriend?”

  “Milla? No. She works for Jansson. Sometimes picks up the payments.”

  “Do you ever hand things directly to Jansson?”

  “Tomorrow it’s his turn to come again. But please don’t get the police mixed up with this. I beg you—” Petri raised his clasped hands over his head for a moment—“this is about my child! Merja’s already lost one and VP is more or less gone. Needs a new liver, but with what money?”

  I faked a Santa’s ho-ho-ho. “Let the elevator move again now. Back to the first floor. Don’t try to follow me. Leave a message at Merja’s counter where and how you’re meeting Jansson. How much does he still need?”

  “Three thousand. Can I get up to press the code?”

  “No tricks.”

  “Who are you, really?” Petri asked when the elevator door opened.

  “I’m Santa Claus. You’d better believe in me.”

  I did not dare go to the secret room. I went out by a different elevator and walked to the streetcar stop. I took the Number 6 to St. Paul’s Church and walked the last part, though the wind whipped my beard and blew my coat hem over my ears. For God’s sake, why hadn’t I left well enough alone? Why did I want to help Merja and Petri? And above all—how could I do so?

  6.

  Merja tried her best to keep up the usual flirting, although we both knew it was fake.

  “Here’s my list for Santa,” she said coquettishly, extending a folded piece of paper to me. Twelve fifteen at the men’s overcoats. Hope you know what you’re doing. P

  I wasn’t sure I did. That’s why I had turned to Tommy H. for help. Because Jansson had long been under police observation, Tommy H. had been eager to work with me. He’d gotten me the needed three thousand from the snitch fund. It was in my coat pocket, wrapped as a gift.

  Petri was waiting for me at the time we’d agreed on. I gave him the package and moved aside. Tommy H. and two other plainclothes police were in the store watching what would happen.

  Jansson arrived at the prearranged time. He was an unremarkable-looking man a little over thirty with no distinguishing features. He stood looking at the overcoats. Petri for his part watched him as a store detective should. Jansson took one of the coats into a dressing room. Petri followed him. The package would change owner under the stall divider.

  A few minutes passed. Petri returned to the men’s clothing department, perspiration on his brow. Would Jansson fall for the trap? The bills had been marked with ink, visible only under ultraviolet light. The police would track their use. It could take years, and in the best case scenario Jansson wouldn’t even know which money had finally caused the demise of his money-laundering operation. The foundation of the plan was that once Jansson got the debt payment in full he would leave Paula Salo’s family alone. Petri and Merja had not earned a cent from their thefts, and though they had committed crimes, it was not my place to judge them.

  The next morning I told Bruun that the thief had been an external one after all and that I had frightened him so thoroughly that the game would end there.

  “But the penalty? The damages?” he asked.

  “The police are on his trail, but because of the investigation they can’t disclose any more. Nor can I. And you of course want to keep your own secret—the secret room.”

  I could see that Bruun was seething, but I didn’t care. Even if I didn’t get a job reference, the important thing was that I got my final paycheck. I told him I’d be gone at the end of the shift.

  As the afternoon wore on, the crowds in the store became unbearable. Merja left after the morning shift, but Petri was doing a long day. Later, after closing time, I saw Petri waving at me from an escalator heading to the ground floor. I set off after him as fast as my fat suit permitted. Most of the staff had already left the store; only the cashiers remained counting their sales. Petri entered a door that read, Employees Only, and beckoned me to follow him. His face was pale, his eyes red, and his skin peeling.

  “I got a message from Jansson that the debt’s been paid. I can’t believe it. Are the police really going to get him without dragging us into it? Will we get off scot-free?”

  “Let’s try our best.”

  “Why did you do this? Weren’t you supposed to rat on us to Bruun?”

  “Does it matter?” I didn’t know the answer myself. I seized him by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. The surprise was so great that it took a minute before he wrenched free and stepped back, gasping.

  “Who are you? Are you police too?”

  I pulled off my Santa hat and tore off the beard and mustache. Petri gaped at me in disbelief.

  “You’re a woman?! You have to be kidding. Are you the . . . Did I meet you in the bar that time Milla was trying to get away from her friend?”

  “We may have met.”

  “But Kanerva Hakkarainen isn’t your real name. At least, I couldn’t find you on Facebook.”

  “My name isn’t important.” I stepped closer to Petri again. He reached out his hand and tried in vain to feel my shape under the fat suit. We kissed again, and there was a moment when I thought I’d go all the way and take the man right there on the spot. Then I came to my senses and pulled away from his embrace.

  “Present distribution ends here. Time to head back to the North Pole.”

  I picked up my things and took off. I left the Santa gear in the secret room, walked up the stairs from the parking garage to the Old Student House and through the underground tunnels to Forum and from there to Yrjönkatu Street. I rode to the Hotel Torni’s Ateljee Bar and ordered tequila-spiked cocoa. I watched the snow blowing in over the sea from the southeast, and I savored Santa’s kiss, still on my lips.

  THE HAND OF AI

  BY JAMES THOMPSON

  Kallio

  I rest my feet on Mama. I don’t feel much, but when I stretch out in my leather wingback chair with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and put my feet up on Mama, I feel a touch of satisfaction. She was sick, very sick and for a very long time, and I made her wel.

  I light one Marlboro off another and stub out the last in the ashtray on the stand at the left side of my wingback throne. My lungs wheeze and I cough like I have tuberculosis plus asthma from my three-pack-a-day habit, but it doesn’t concern me. My dead hand stays cold, has almost no blood flow. Sooner or later, gangrene will set in and blood poisoning may come with it. Depending on whether it’s wet or dry gangrene, they’ll want to take it.

  My hand may be dead, twisted and gnarled, scarred; it may sicken people to look at, but it’s mine, and I’m keeping it or going out with it.

  It happened on the day after my fourth birthday. My birthday present was a bomber-style down jacket. The collar turned up and it was thick and fluffy, but tight at the waist. I suffered from malnutrition—my bones jutted out and my stomach was distended. Mama wasn’t much interested in eating and I suppose she thought I wasn’t either. I knew being so skinny made me look gruesome and ugly, and I thought the jacket helped hide that. I was proud of it.

  I still look gruesome and ugly. My dead hand revolts people. I’ve made it worse. I put out cigarettes on it to make people think I’m tough. I don’t feel the burn, but after using my parlor trick hundreds of times, the already disgusting hand is now just a deformed lump of scar tissue and scabs. The sight and smell of the cigarette burns, and the fact that I don’t even flinch when I do it, causes an attitude adjustment when I sense that people are considering fucking with me.

  Aside from my hand, I never recovered from malnutrition, and I’m paper thin and my face is scarred from beatings, both from Mama and bullies; I’m so weak that I feel as if I’m made of bubble wrap and Styrofoam instead of flesh and blood.

  My hand got ruined on the day after my birthday. Mama had been sweet, even made me a birthday cake, but she was about as predictable as a heart att
ack—she didn’t feel well because she hadn’t taken her medicine, and she was getting angry with me.

  She taught me to play a game. She taught me that men in stores in uniforms were playing the game too. We didn’t know them, but we knew they were playing. The object of the game was to go to stores and get treats and goodies. If we got out unnoticed, we won the game, but it we were seen, we would lose and the men would be mean and take us to bad places.

  Mama didn’t work. She was on permanent disability because of her illness, and her medicine cost almost all her money, like injecting liquid cash into a hole in her arm, so I liked the game, even if it was scary, because we always had something good to eat after we won. If we didn’t play, sometimes dinner, if she bothered at all, was soup made out of ketchup and hot water.

  Mama gave me my nice jacket to help me play the game. One time she wrote, naudan sisäfilet—beef inner filet—on the palm of my hand. I couldn’t read or write, of course, but all I had to do was match the letters on the palm of my hand with the writing on the package, then slip the meat inside my coat.

  The man in the uniform passed by me; I was afraid to lose the game and afraid of him and afraid of Mama, my palms got sweaty and the writing blurred. Sisä turned into a smudge and I got something called naudan ulkofilet—beef outer filet.

  When we left the store and walked away from it, I gave her the beef, and she turned furious. Ulkofilet isn’t as tender as sisäfilet. Her boyfriend—she had a lot of boyfriends, and when she didn’t have one, I would watch out the window as she walked up and down Flemari, getting into cars. When she came home, her hair was a mess and her lipstick smeared all over her face. Say what you want about Mama, even though she was sick, she was pretty.