Back to Max yet again.
There was a certain amount of gore. There almost always is. Once you learn to get past the mess, you can usually work out what happened.
The hitter made Max kneel down, then shot him high in the back of the neck. Bye-bye, brain stem. Max pitched forward into the remains of his throat and chin; he was probably dead before he landed. His legs might have straightened as he died, or maybe the killer grabbed Max’s ankles and pulled his legs out straight afterward.
Either way Max had also been kneecapped, shot through both knees from behind. I grabbed a handful of trouser cloth and hoisted up his leg. The vinyl floor underneath was scarred but not particularly messy.
Max had fallen with his arms loose; his hands were palm up beside his hips. The killer had chopped the right hand with an ax, a meat cleaver, something like that. Three whole fingers and half of another lay like wrinkled sausages, separated from Max’s hand by an inch of gashed tile. Not much blood, though.
Summation: Max was already dead when the hitter kneecapped him and chopped off his fingers. You don’t need a pathology degree to recognize wounds inflicted after the heart has stopped pumping. Corpse mutilation, then, not the results of a struggle.
And because the money was still there, the fake-robbery gambit had been dropped. Instead, the hitter or the nervous man, or both, wanted to sell this as a thrill killing. Booga-booga, a psycho stalks the night.
Bad move, guys. A grocery store robbery that escalated into murder was brutal but predictable. As a crime, it slotted nicely into a category any cop could accept.
Wandering psychos don’t fit, though, and this wasn’t even a particularly good wandering-psycho scenario. I could picture Ricco in here later tonight. He would look around and think and finally sneer. He would probably say it didn’t “make no god-damned sense.”
And Ricco would be right. This didn’t make no goddamned sense. So I tried to find something that did.
There was a desk and a bulletin board in one corner of the back room. Half the company memos on the board had been signed by Max Krandorff. Someone named Carl Dresden had signed the others. There were also dog-eared price lists and work rosters—Max was clerking two nights a week, which seemed odd for a guy who made company policy—and there were lists of phone numbers and business cards for various repair firms and wholesalers. One of the cards belonged to a sales rep from Shanahan’s tobacco and candy company. Talk about your small world.
Mostly the things in the desk were junk—matches, half-empty cigarette packs, an old Penthouse, things like that. But the grand prize was in the desk, too, tucked away in the bottom drawer.
It was a glossy brochure called “The Mini-Maxi Story: a guide for employees.” The cover had a color photograph of two men standing in front of a Food Barn. They had their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders and they grinned self-consciously at the camera.
One of the men was Max Krandorff. The other was the nervous man who wanted Max dead. The picture caption said: “Mr Krandorff and Mr Dresden at the grand opening of the second Mini-Maxi Food Barn.”
Carl Dresden, read my lips: Gotcha!
I folded the brochure lengthwise and shoved it into my hip pocket. That was the last interesting item I found. When I ran out of places to look, I unlocked the front doors, put the keys back in the junk drawer, and removed the CLOSED sign. I put the sign, the note pad, the tape, the gloves, all the things I’d used, into the garbage bag.
I ducked out the back door, walked around the corner, and unlocked the Mustang. The garbage bag went into the trunk and I hid the brochure under the seat. The Mustang started first try; new points and plugs last week. I drove back toward the Mini-Maxi store.
Eleven o’clock on a warm clear evening. Peaceful. Half a long block away, traffic flickered by on Walnut Hill Lane, but there were no cars here. I pulled into the parking lot, stopped near the door, and went inside.
Imagine my shock and surprise when I found a dead body in there. Truly. A dead body.
Naturally I looked for a phone to call the police right away.
Chapter 9
I checked each aisle and the back room to make sure no one had wandered in. The Mini-Maxi was too quiet to expect anything unusual like a customer, but a tourist might have dropped by. A couple from Michigan: perhaps, wanting directions to J. R.’s ranch.
But there was only Max, still sprawled beside the Fritos like an exhibit in a punk-art gallery. Max, sans throat, kneecaps and fingers: a confrontational work.
It seemed to be taking minimalism a little too far.
I was getting punchy. Wednesday was becoming another long day. I grabbed the phone to tell the cops about Max. Whoops, not Max, that poor man in aisle three. Gotta remember I’m not supposed to know who he is.
In the same spirit, I didn’t worry about fingerprints now; I was here legitimately.
Verisimilitude, thy name is Rafferty.
But when the police emergency number answered, I had second thoughts and hung up. Was I trying to play it too cute? The first uniformed squad might believe I had found Max by accident, but whoever was muzzling Ed Durkee would know better. Tomorrow the heavies would be at the front door before my cornflakes had a chance to sog.
Then, too, I realized for the first time that I had another option. I could walk away. When I had come here to warn Max, I’d expected to run a gauntlet of watching cops. They weren’t here. If I wanted, I could not be here, too.
That idea was briefly attractive, but it didn’t feel right. Too easy for a tough hombre like me.
I tapped out Ed Durkee’s home number. The phone rang six times before he answered it with a grunt.
I said, “Hi, Ed. Asleep, huh?”
“No, Rafferty, it’s a game I play. I put on my pajamas, turn out all the lights, and guess who’s going to phone me. What the hell do you want?” He yawned loudly.
“Stay awake; this will be worth it. What do you know about the surveillance on the Mini-Maxi place I told you about?”
“Nothing, except it should be tight. They’ve got enough manpower to stake out all of Oklahoma.” Ed’s voice was muffled on “Oklahoma.” I could imagine him dry-washing his malleable face. “Why?” he said. “You can’t figure out how to get in there without being spotted?”
“Get in? Ed, I’m already in.”
“The hell you say.” Ed seemed to wake up in a hurry then.
“The guy got wasted a day early, Ed. The Dudley Do-rights who wouldn’t warn him didn’t bother to keep an eye on him, either.”
Ed sighed. “Jesus, I … You call the emergency number yet?”
“I kind of figured doing it this way might give you some leverage and save me some hassle. Right or wrong?”
“Right. Give me the number there, and for Christ’s sake, Rafferty, don’t touch anything. I’ll call you back. Five minutes.”
Eight minutes later the phone rang. I picked it up but didn’t say anything. I had begun to reconsider whether or not I wanted to be here officially. After a few seconds of silence, Ed said, “Rafferty?”
“Yo.”
“Are there any civilians there?”
“Only the dead one.”
“Does anyone but you know about this?”
“I don’t see how they could, Ed. This is the dullest convenience store in captivity.”
“Good. Here’s the story, then. Those jerk-offs upstairs screwed up, I don’t have to tell you that. Personally I think they’re about to compound that screwup, but I’m only the messenger tonight.”
“And loving it,” I said.
“Waiting my turn,” he said. “Waiting my turn. Now listen. What I’m going to say is official. From high up, you got that?”
“Hang on a minute,” I said. “I’ll take one of my heart pills.”
“Walk away from it, Rafferty. A team will be there soon—”
“A team? What is this ‘team’ crap? What happened to a patrol squad, a meat wagon, and whoever’s awake down at Homici
de? Ed, what is all this?”
I was beginning to think I’d messed up; maybe I should have taken the cut-and-run option.
“You’re clean,” Ed said. “But they have a four-part message for you. One: Leave the scene immediately.”
“That part I like.”
“Two: Thank you for cooperating.”
“Betcha five dollars they choked on that one.”
“No bet. Three: They will contact you in due course. I don’t know what ‘in due course’ means,” Ed said.
“On current performance, I’d guess that means late next year.”
“Yeah, probably so. And four: Once you’ve gone away, stay away. Do not do anything or say anything that even remotely involves this case.”
“Ed, why are they so uptight?”
He sighed. “You’d have to see it to believe it. Just do what they want, okay? For what it’s worth, that would help me out. A lot.”
“Okay, but … let me get the last part straight. What if I’m walking down the street tomorrow, and I see the guy who thought I was a hit man? Do I grab him? Or tail him? Or what?”
“You pretend he doesn’t even exist. That’s the way they want it.”
“This is crazy, Ed.”
“No shit. Do it, will you? Now get out of there.”
“Getting out of here, boss,” I said and hung up.
I started out, then went back and wiped the phone clean.
Rafferty’s Rule Forty-three: When in doubt, be sneaky. I didn’t trust the squirrels running this operation.
I got into the Mustang, fired up, and backed out of the parking lot as a car came down the street. It pulled into the parking lot and took the space beside the one I’d just left. There was one man in the car.
I stopped the Mustang and got out. Despite the “get lost” orders Ed had relayed, I decided to chase away the customer before he found Max’s body, then gave the cops my license number or description.
The car was a dark blue Buick four-door. The driver got out carrying an attaché case. He bounced the handle in his fingers as he walked toward me.
It was Carl Dresden, Max’s murderous partner, and he had a wide smile on his face.
Chapter 10
Carl Dresden said, “It’s done, then? You’re, uh, finished?” He stood well away from me, a full step farther than normal. Couldn’t blame him, though. Most people would stand back from someone they thought was a hit man fresh from the kill.
Dresden’s round face suddenly sagged; he looked apprehensive. “You have done it, haven’t you? He’s not still, um, alive in there?”
“No,” I said.
This was not going to be easy. I wanted to feed this jerk a knuckle sandwich, then cart him off to the slammer. Ed Durkee wanted me to do what his superiors ordered: pretend Dresden wasn’t there.
Still, how wrong could it be to say one little word?
So I said, “No,” again. And I added, “He’s not alive.” Sometimes I take liberties.
Dresden let out his breath in a long, loud sigh. “Good.” He nodded his head rapidly a dozen times or more. He nodded without emotion or meaning, like those nodding plastic dogs you see in car windows. “I hate it that this had to happen,” Dresden said, “but when a partner does what Max did … well, like I said last night, what can you do?”
That sounded intriguing. You said that last night, did you, Carl? And to whom did you say that, pray tell? But I played it the way Ed wanted. I only clucked my tongue and echoed Dresden. “What can you do?”
“Darn right,” he said. He’d lost the flop-sweat nervousness of our downtown meeting. He seemed bright tonight, even chipper. Apparently having your partner killed did wonders for the old motivation.
Dresden said, “I hope I didn’t mess up on the phone, You weren’t alone, huh? I mean, that’s why you pretended we hadn’t met, right?”
There was another comment that screamed out for elaboration. Arrgh!
Dresden took a cautious step closer and held out the attaché case. “Anyway, here,” he said.
I took the case. It was getting more and more difficult to pretend he wasn’t there. “Thanks,” I said. Oh, Rafferty, you ad-libbing fool you.
Dresden shrugged “Excuse me,” he said, “but I better run now. I’m supposed to be out of town.” He grimaced apologetically, nodded several more times, turned, and hurried to the Buick.
I let him go, but it hurt. I felt slow and foolish, like a smart-mouth disk jockey bogged down by a lip full of Novocain.
I memorized Dresden’s license number as he started the Buick and pulled out. If Ed and the hotshots “upstairs” didn’t like it, that was their problem. When Dresden had gone, I put the case on the hood of the Mustang and clicked open the latches. The case was full of money. Well, not crammed tight, perhaps, but pretty damned full.
I looked at all that cash for a moment, then realized it was way past time for me to be gone. I tossed the case into the backseat of the Mustang and drove away, wondering exactly how much money that was. Had to be ten thousand, maybe twelve.
Not killing Max Krandorff had turned out to be a lucrative job. I should not do it more often.
As I stopped for the light at Walnut Hill Lane, a tan Pontiac hurried around the corner, then slowed to a crawl. There were several men in the Pontiac—four at least, maybe five. One of them shined a powerful flashlight out a window. Checking for street numbers, probably, so he could find the Mini-Maxi Food Barn.
A hundred yards away the giant Mini-Maxi sign swung around and around like a landlocked lighthouse.
Never fear, the team is here.
I drove home and put the money case on my dining room table. Then I got a beer and drank some while I phoned Hilda.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said.
“Yeah, well, it got a little more complicated than I expected, babe.”
“But you’re all right?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“What about your relationship with the police?”
“Uh, patchy is perhaps the best word,” I said. “It’s a long story. Dinner tomorrow, okay? A full and factual account, delivered with my usual witty asides and insightful anecdotes.”
“Rafferty, le raconteur,” Hilda said.
“Avec fromage,” I said.
“You nut. Good night.”
“Night, Hil.”
I drank another beer while I looked at the money case again. The bills had been separated by denomination and rubber-banded into untidy stacks. Twenties, mostly, though there were several stacks of fifties, too. One stack of tens, three stacks of hundreds. Each stack had a scrap of paper tucked under the rubber band with an amount scrawled on it.
I found the little calculator the gas station gave me last year and added up all the numbers on the paper slips. Fourteen thousand and eight hundred dollars. I must have made a mistake. Fifteen thousand, probably. It was way over the going rate for a simple hit either way.
I put the case in my closet, drank one more beer, and went to bed. I woke up briefly around four-thirty, when the cat yowled and spat outside the window.
Watch your back, cat. It’s a goddamned jungle out there.
The cat yowled again. Maybe it already knew that.
Chapter 11
Ed Durkee came to the house at nine-thirty the next morning. He planted his bulk in a chair at the dining room table and accepted a cup of coffee. It was a warm day; almost eighty degrees already. Even so, Ed wore one of his rumpled brown suits.
“You’re alone?” I said. “I thought you and Ricco were Siamese twins. Joined at the badge since birth.”
“Har, har,” he grumped. He sipped his coffee and frowned at the cup. “You’re off-limits,” he said. “Just talking to you violates a direct order. Ricco doesn’t quite have the clout to get around that yet.”
“Spare me the turgid tales of department politics, Ed. Been there; done that; bought the T-shirt.”
I looked past his shoulder and out into the backyar
d. The cat had not come back since I’d accidentally spooked it over an hour ago.
“Good point,” Ed said. “It’s my problem. Fill me in on last night.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I got the attaché case and put it on the table. I put the Mini-Maxi employee’s guide on top of the case. Max Krandorff and Carl Dresden smiled their glossy aw-shucks smiles up at us.
I tapped Max. “This is the guy who got whacked last night.” I tapped Carl. “This is the guy who wanted me to do the whacking. Have you been out there, Ed?”
He grimaced. “No. And don’t give me any crap about how you didn’t have time to notice any details.” He waggled his fingers at me. “Speak to me.”
I described the body and told him how the killing and mutilation must have happened.
Ed looked puzzled. “Why the extra touches?”
“Beats me. I thought it was very inconsiderate of him not to leave a note explaining that.”
“Uh-huh.” Ed prodded the attaché case. “And what’s this?”
“An immodest emolument. Fifteen big ones, which is enough too much to tell me Dresden doesn’t know zip about hiring a hit man.”
“Oh, shit,” Ed said. “He showed up last night? At the store?”
“Yeah, I thought that indicated a certain lack of sophistication myself.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?”
“I seem to recall very rigid instructions about that,” I said.
Ed nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I figured, what the hell, we know who he is. And I got his license number. He won’t be hard to find.”
“Um,” Ed mumbled. He tugged at his lower lip and frowned into space.
“He was naked,” I said, “and painted blue, with a pointy clown hat, two electric trains, and a frozen chicken.”
“Uh-huh.” Ed pulled his lip another half inch out of shape.
I left him to his thoughts. Outside there was still no sign of the cat. I got my breakfast plate out of the sink and carried it into the backyard. I left the plate on the grass, then sat on the back step. Egg yolk and bacon grease should pull the cat out of hiding. Outdoor lore from Bring ’Em Back Alive Rafferty.
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