Twin Cities Noir

by Julie Schaper

  Uh oh. What kind of yahoo was this? She half-expected the bartender to laugh in his face, but he brought out a bottle of Bartles & Jaymes and set it in front of Hiram.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” Hiram apologized, and glanced at her nearly empty glass. “Another for you?”

  She shook her head. He was a handsome young man, not that this was any requirement. In fact, it couldn’t matter less to her what he looked like. That thought made her shiver slightly.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I’m just not sure exactly what I’m doing here,” she said.

  “Not nervous, are you?” He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t be. We’re just talking. Nothing’s written in stone.”

  But she felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. Was she going to be able to go through with this, after all?

  “I wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t feeling just a tad apprehensive,” Hiram said encouragingly.

  And you’re just a tad too glib, she thought. Suddenly it seemed important to knock him down a peg. “A better question,” she said, “would be whether or not I can trust you.”

  He smiled, not in the least offended. “We do have a reputation to maintain. If a client doesn’t feel at ease, it’ll be a no-go from the get-go—”

  “Stop sounding like Chili Palmer. I already feel like I’m in an Elmore Leonard novel.”

  “Just trying to loosen you up a bit. Gain your confidence. Think a minute—how did you hear about us?”

  She hesitated. “From a friend.”

  “Exactly. I’m betting it was one of our satisfied customers.” He took out a small green notebook, gave her a grin. “We don’t have any unsatisfied ones.”

  “Who are they?” she asked. “Your customers. In general, I mean.”

  “In general?” He shrugged. “Ordinary people. Angry housewives. A shadow baby or two. Sometimes it’s just…what a woman must do.”

  “So it’s mostly women.”

  “Oh, no. A lot of men hire us too. Let’s just say your needs are not unique.”

  “That’s how you look at it then? You’re supplying a need?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I assume you’ve read our brochure?”

  She nodded.

  “And was there anything that particularly caught your eye?”

  “Would it make a difference?” she asked. “In terms of cost?”

  “Most definitely. It’s a bit like ordering pizza—the more toppings, i.e., the more exotica, the more expense.” He clicked the point of his Cross pen—a cheerful gesture designed to put her at her ease. But it didn’t. She’d been lying to herself, she suddenly realized. Pretending to explore her options. She had no options. She was in this for keeps. She gave a long sigh.

  “If anyone were to find out—”

  “No one will,” he assured her. “Anonymity is our motto. And it works both ways. For instance, I’m just the one who signs you up. I won’t be providing the services.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Too bad. I was just beginning to like you, Hiram.”

  Again he grinned. “That’s my job. Do you have any questions? Any preferences?”

  “Yes.” She almost whispered it. “I want to know what happens to…the leftovers.”

  “The remains? Not to worry. We take care of all that. It goes to a place where the sea remembers. A rainy lake. And there’s no telling. After all—the body is water, you know…” He paused and gave her a quizzical look. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? For our private files? How much did they take you for?”

  “Twenty thousand,” she said gloomily.

  He whistled. “The price keeps going up.”

  “At first they said it would be $688. But when they found out I wasn’t just another crook like them—that I was the real Kendra Schilling trying to buy back my own domain name— they jacked the price up.”

  “Highway robbery,” Hiram said.

  Kendra took the last swallow of her Syrah. “You know, I never thought it would come to this. When my lawyer said there was nothing I could do—”

  “Nothing legal, that is.” Hiram smiled. “People don’t usually find out about this scam until they decide to get a web-site. And suddenly you discover that someone has bought your name, and for a tidy little piece of your income they’ll be only too happy to sell it back to you.”

  “The worst part is how darned chipper they are about it,”Kendra said. “Hey, congratulations, you lucky thing, now you own your own name again!”

  “Kind of sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?”

  “Like having a bee in my bonnet.”

  “They’re jackals,” he said. “Hanging’s too good for them.”

  “They prey upon a person’s ignorance and lack of computer savvy.”

  “You’re savvy-less,” Hiram said. “But not helpless. Not anymore. Not when you’ve got us. We’re Assassins Anonymous. The score-settlers.” He leaned back on his stool. “So have you picked out a weapon? We have some premium choices—the 9mm Glock, the Mercedes-Benz, the magic whip…”

  She waved them away. “Nothing that smacks of luxury.”

  “Right. Sets the wrong tone. Something cruder. Baseball bat. Clothesline. Hair dryer in the tub—”

  She covered her ears.

  “Or you can simply leave it to us. Some prefer the hands-on approach. Others only want to be informed after the fact. Are there any modes of elimination that especially interest you?”

  “Yes,” she said carefully, “I like cruel and unusual.”

  He entered this in his green notebook. “Multiple wound-ings? Dismemberment? Recitation of suitable Bible verses…?”

  “You mean like in Pulp Fiction?” she asked. “That was effective, wasn’t it? Samuel L. Jackson played that to the hilt. Yes, I think a Bible verse might be appropriate. Do I need to come up with it myself?”

  “Not at all,” Hiram said. “We have a number of them in stock. You are of your father, the devil…John, Chapter viii, Verse 44. Or, It biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder… Proverbs, Chapter xxiii, Verse 32. Another favorite is Sweet is revenge—especially to women. Lord Byron. From Don Juan.”

  “Could I get back to you on this?” Kendra asked. “I think I may want to compose something.”

  “Very good.” He made a note.

  “Now, about payment—” Kendra said.

  His turn to wave. “Someone else handles all that. You’ll be contacted on completion of the contract. We’re flexible. If you like, you can spread the payments over a number of months.”

  “I was more concerned about how to get the money to you,” Kendra said. “I don’t want to write a check.”

  “Nor would we want to cash one,” he agreed. “No— unmarked bills in a number 10 envelope works best for us. After the damage is controlled.”

  “And the score is settled. I guess you’re the Venus flytrap of the cyber world these days.”

  He nodded. “The cat’s pajamas.”

  “The tiger rising.”

  “The strangler fig.”

  Kendra laughed. “You’re a trickling tributary of truisms tonight, Hiram.”

  “A churning channel of chestnuts,” he said cheerfully. And before she could top him, he got up from the stool, dropping a twenty onto the bar. “A pleasure doing business with you, Kendra.” And with that he was gone. Kendra, too, rose from her stool. She felt like a million bucks. Life was good. People would get their just desserts. She picked up the red carnation—proof of purchase—and tucked it into her purse. Come to think of it, there were several messy situations in her life that could stand some cleaning up. Hiram, she thought. Hire’em she would. Hang the cost; it would be worth every penny.

  BLASTED

  BY MARY LOGUE

  Kenwood (Minneapolis)

  When were you the most scared in your whole life?”

  Claire Watkins looked over at her gangly teenaged daughter Meg, who was somehow managing to slouch while still wea
ring her seat belt. Nice to have her darling self-involved daughter ask her a question.

  Claire was driving them up to the big city. The Mississippi River flowed in the opposite direction as they passed along it going to the Twin Cities. Specifically they were headed to Minneapolis to go shoe shopping, a big treat for both of them. School was starting soon.

  “The most scared?” Claire stalled. She didn’t need to think about it. There was no contest. One moment in her long career in law enforcement stood out in her mind.

  “Yeah, you know, heart-zapping, teeth-chattering fear. You know, the whole ball of wax?”

  “The whole ball of wax? Jeez, you sound like Rich.”

  “Whatever, Mom, you know—petrified?”

  Claire had never told Meg about this event in her life, had always thought that she would save it for when she was older. But Meg was going to be fifteen in a few months; maybe she was old enough to hear it.

  “There was one time when I was pretty petrified.”

  “Tell me, tell me.” Meg pulled herself up straighter.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on, tell me. We have an hour before we get to DSW,” Meg said, referring to her favorite shoe store.

  “Well, this was a long time ago. I was still new at the job, working in Minneapolis. Not quite a rookie, maybe I had been a cop for a few years. I answered a call. A domestic. It’s the worst call a cop can get.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because people are usually killed by those that love them. Passion gets out of hand very fast.”

  “Go on.”

  “I remember it was very late at night. Technically, early morning. Three-thirty, as I recall.”

  “What was your shift?”

  “I was working the midnight-to-8 shift. Brutal. I don’t know how I could have done that. I certainly couldn’t do it anymore. Good thing we moved down to Fort St. Antoine.”

  Claire saw they were catching up to a northbound train near Diamond Bluff. She loved this drive up along the river. She had driven it so many times, it demanded nothing of her. She could watch the scenery and talk to her daughter.

  When Meg nudged her, she continued her story: “The wife had called in, the dispatcher told me—she sounded drunk, he said. She claimed her husband was threatening to kill her.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “Yeah, and I was on my own, which was unusual. My partner had gotten sick in the middle of the shift and I had dropped him off at home. I was heading back to the squad room to do some paperwork when I got the call. My mistake was I took it.

  “The first surprise was the address the dispatcher gave me. It was in Kenwood, an older, very nice neighborhood in Minneapolis. I drove up to the house and wanted to move in. It was probably built in the ’20s and had leaded windows, a tiled roof, even a turret. I remember walking up to the house and lusting after it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, the lights were on in the house. I mean they were all on. When I rang the doorbell, a blond-haired woman came to the door. I guessed she was in her late thirties. She asked what I wanted.”

  “You mean she wasn’t the one who called?”

  “She hadn’t remembered she’d called. She was sloshed. I think she had a drink in her hand as she was talking to me, but getting drunk in your own home wasn’t any kind of offense. I asked her if I could come in and just see if everything was all right. At first, I didn’t think she would let me, then her husband yelled from the other room and she stepped aside.

  “As soon as I was in, I could see that a battle had been going on. Dishes broken on the kitchen floor. A mirror shattered over the fireplace. But this elegant older guy stood as I entered the living room and asked what seemed to be the problem.”

  “Was he drunk too?”

  “Yes, but he held it very well. One of those drunks that pronounces their words even more carefully, trying not to appear drunk.” Claire caught sight of a bird flying along the bluff. Looked like an eagle. She pointed it out to Meg.

  “I told him I had received a call. And I wanted to check out the situation. He assured me that everything was fine. His wife had been a little difficult, he explained, but he had calmed her down. I was turning to leave when he said some- thing to her. I didn’t hear what it was, but she exploded. Said she wanted him out of there. Said she hated his guts. He stayed very calm. She turned to me and said, ‘Make him leave.’

  “The husband sat down on the couch and said, ‘I’m not going.’

  “The wife said he had been beating on her and showed me a badly bruised arm. I asked him if this was true. He didn’t say anything. I suggested to him that maybe he should go to a hotel for the night, come back in the morning. He said he wasn’t going anyplace. Then he pulled a gun out from between the couch cushions.”

  “A gun? Wow, is that when you were afraid?”

  “No, not really. He wasn’t pointing the gun at me, and it all seemed a little unreal. He was waving it at his wife and yelling that she wasn’t going to tell him what to do. She was screaming, ‘Why don’t you go see that woman you’ve been seeing?’

  “I told him to put his gun down. He wasn’t really listening to me. He kept talking in this very controlled voice to his wife, and then he let loose a shot into the ceiling. The sound of it was incredibly loud. I realized that was what had happened to the mirror. He had shot it.

  “He was so gone, ranting at his wife, he wasn’t paying any attention to me. All his anger was focused on her. They were in this huge war, screaming at each other. I walked up behind him and chopped the arm that was holding the gun. It went flying. At the same time, I grabbed him in a chokehold.”

  “Way to go, Mom.”

  “Yeah, it worked. He collapsed, didn’t put up a fight at all. I felt reasonably in control. The wife started crying. She was sitting on the couch. I dropped the husband to his knees and put cuffs on him. Then I helped him up to take him away. And that’s when it got really bad. You see, the wife had grabbed his gun and was aiming it at me.”

  “Was this it—the time you were most afraid?”

  “Not quite yet. Not the most. But I was afraid. She was only about three feet away from me, too close to miss.”

  “Why was she doing that?”

  “She was crazy, hysterical, screaming, saying things like, ‘Let him go. I love him. You can’t take him away. I won’t let you.’

  “For what seemed like a long moment, I could think of nothing to do. I had both hands on the husband and my gun was in my holster.”

  “Mom, what did you do?”

  “I knew I had to distract her. I pushed her husband hard and he fell to the ground. She shrieked, dropped the gun, and went to his side. She was asking his forgiveness when I snapped the cuffs on her, too.”

  Meg stared at her. “Then what happened? Was that it?”

  “Not quite.” Claire looked for a place to pull over. She needed to stop to tell the end of the story. She pulled onto a field road, cornstalks rustling in the slight wind. She looked over at her daughter, so happy and easy in her life. A beautiful, healthy girl. How she loved her.

  “Then I heard a noise upstairs. I left the two of them sitting on the living room floor and bolted up the stairs to see what was up there. I found a baby sitting in her crib. I almost fainted when I saw her. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move.”

  Claire reached over and pushed back her daughter’s hair, then said, “She reminded me of you, my own baby home asleep. I’ve never felt such pure panic.”

  “I don’t get it. Why?”

  “Because there was a hole in her bed, a gunshot hole that had blasted through her mattress and into the ceiling of her room. All I could see was this smiling baby.”

  IF YOU HARM US

  BY GARY BUSH

  Summit-University (St. Paul)

  It was dusk as the train rounded the bend and I saw the skyline of St. Paul for the first time in five years. It looked different. I turned to the Pullman porter
leaning next to me on the half-open car door. “What’s that big building with the red neon ‘1’ on the top?” I asked.

  “Why, that’s where the money’s at. That’s the First National Bank. Thirty-two stories high, they built it in ’31. You’d think there was no Depression on, looking at that, would you?”

  “I guess not,” I replied. The train slowed as it approached Union Depot.

  “You’re Jake Kane,” he said. “I recall you from the old days.”

  “Leonard Charles,” I said, suddenly remembering. “We played baseball together at Mechanic Arts. Class of 1917.”

  He nodded. “I heard you got sent up. Nice to see you home.”

  I thanked him. As the train pulled to a stop, he swung down with a step stool in his hand and placed it next to the bottom step.

  I followed him, carrying my valise with my meager belongings.

  “Warm,” Leonard said. “For November, that is.”

  But I was cold. I was wearing the same tropical suit the marshals had nabbed me in when I walked off the boat from Havana in 1929. After spending the last four years in Leavenworth, I was glad to be home. I had unfinished business.

  I took out my sack of Bull and started to roll a smoke. “Have one of mine, kid—it’s your old brand, Sweet Caporals.” I looked up to see Frank O’Hara.

  “How ya doing, Frank,” I said, taking the cigarette. “You look like you put on some weight. The police business must be good.”

  “It ain’t bad,” he replied, patting his stomach. “I see you lost weight. That suit is a little loose and probably too light for St. Paul.”

  “I guess so. So what brings you down here, Frank?” I asked, bending to light my cigarette from his cupped match.

  “You, Jake,” he said, shaking out the match. “We got a wire that they sprung you early.”

  “Good behavior. If you dicks got the word, the whole town probably knows by now.”

  He chuckled and nodded. Then his demeanor changed. “Jake, the rumor is that you’re gunning for Tommy Macintyre. They say you have a score to settle with him. Talk is, when he disappeared for a year, he left you holding the bag.”