by Trace Conger
“I don’t follow,” he said.
“Let’s just say there are things that require a PI license and things that don’t. And until I get reinstated, I’m focusing on those things that don’t.”
“Brooke thinks you might be into something illegal. She said you had a gun.”
“There’s no need to worry about what I do from nine to five, Daryl. PIs carry weapons from time to time. Nothing illegal about that.”
“Well, I kind of do need to worry about it,” he said. “Think about how it looks, carrying a weapon and working cases without a license. If you’re into something illegal, you could be putting Becca at risk.”
“You can stop there.” My hands started to shake again. “First, I’m not into anything illegal, so stop pushing it. Second, Becca is one of the few things I’ve got left, so the idea that I’d put her in danger is insulting.”
“What I meant—”
I cut him off. “I think I’m done with this conversation.”
Daryl turned and stepped back inside, just as Becca jumped over the threshold, pulling her penguin suitcase behind her.
“Daddy!” she said, dropping the suitcase handle and wrapping her arms around my waist, just as she did in her school’s office. I hugged her hard and glanced up at Daryl, who stepped inside the house and closed the front door.
“Are we going to eat pizza?” she said.
“You bet we are. What do you want to get on it?”
“Macaroni.”
“You mean, pepperoni?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you, kiddo.”
Her eyes grew big. “What surprise?”
“Grandpa’s coming to dinner with us.”
“Really?”
“He’s waiting in the car. Let’s go.”
My father climbed out of the passenger seat, dropped to one knee on the grass and hugged Becca. He tossed the penguin into the rear, buckled Becca into her booster seat and then climbed into the back seat next to her.
I pulled away from the curb as I felt my father kick something under my seat.
A HALF HOUR LATER WE slurped lemonade and burned the roof of our mouths on the best pepperoni pizza in Cincinnati. Brooke mentioned earlier that Becca didn’t seem like herself, but tonight she was full of smiles and giggles.
“How you feeling, sweetheart?” I said. “From your tummy ache the other day. Is that all better?”
“Yes. I didn’t throw up again after Miss Daniel’s room.”
“Good, because I don’t think this pizza would help a sick belly.”
Becca picked up her slice, pulled the remaining cheese off the top in one sheet and plopped it in her mouth. “I could eat pizza every single day.”
“You and me both, kid,” said Albert. He looked at my plate and then to the silver pizza tray perched atop a metal stand. “What about you, Finn? You’re not eating much. You can’t let your daughter eat more than you.”
There was a half-eaten slice on my plate. Rollo wasn’t completely out of my system.
“Don’t have my usual appetite, I guess.”
“More for me,” said Albert, grabbing another slice.
I reached for my plate as my phone vibrated on the table. I snatched it up, almost knocking over what remained of my lemonade.
“Hi, this is Jennifer ... The nurse from Becca’s school ... Jennifer Reynolds.” She paused and took a breath. “I didn’t want to bother you. I just wanted to see how Becca was feeling.”
“Thanks for calling, Jennifer. She’s feeling much better.” I cracked a grin, but didn’t know if I smiled at the call or at the sight of my daughter fighting to pull another slice from the pie on the tray. “Must have been a twenty-four hour thing,” I said. “We’re scarfing down pizza right now, so we’re putting her stomach to the test. If she’s not at school on Monday, then assume she suffered a pizza-induced relapse.”
She laughed. “Well, I hope all goes smoothly. I’m sorry to bother you during dinner. Just wanted to follow up.”
“No bother at all. You’re very kind to check up on her. I appreciate that.”
“Of course. Take care, and tell her I said hello.”
“I’ll do that.” I slipped the phone into my pocket.
“That was your nurse from school, honey.”
“Nurse Jenny?” said Becca.
“Yes, I told her you were feeling better.”
Albert cracked a wide grin. “I haven’t seen you smile like that since I moved onto your boat,” he said.
“When I was in her office, I told her you and Mommy don’t live together anymore,” said Becca.
The smile on my face disappeared. My mind went back to the conversation Brooke and I had with Becca two years ago, when we decided to split. Becca was too young to comprehend it then, and she’s probably still too young to fully get it now, but she mentioned it often enough for me to be concerned. I started to rethink the stomach bug. Maybe there was more to it. There wasn’t much that could ruin my appetite for Dewey’s Pizza, but Rollo and my daughter bringing up the split did the trick.
“Do you want to talk about that, sweetie? About your mom and me?” I said.
Albert looked away and flipped through the container of sweetener on the table.
“I want to know why you don’t want to live with us anymore,” she said.
My shirt shrunk against my chest, and my breaths weren’t coming as easy as they did a moment ago. I felt the same way when I fielded questions at the Ohio Department of Public Safety office. The questions about Cobb, Harris and Masterson Medical. I wiped my fingers on my napkin. Part sweat, part pizza sauce. I gulped my lemonade to open my throat.
“I want you to know, sweetheart, that your mom and I love you more than anything else in this world. You know that, right?”
“Then, why don’t you come live with us again? And why is Daryl my new dad?”
“Who’s Daryl?” said Albert, reaching the end of the sugar packets.
“Daryl isn’t your new dad,” I said. “I’ll always be your dad. Always. Got that?” I flagged the waitress across the room and held up my nearly empty cup of lemonade. “But sometimes two people get married and it doesn’t work, so they decide not to be married anymore.”
Becca picked a piece of pepperoni off her slice and popped it into her mouth. “Kind of like Monica and me?” she said. “She used to be my friend, but now I don’t play with her anymore because she’s mean.”
“It’s kinda like that, but your mom and I aren’t mean to each other. We just decided it’s better to be friends than to be married. I know it’s tough on you, and I’m really sorry about that. Spending some nights at your mom’s house and some nights with me has to be hard on you, but we both want to spend time with you, and for now this is how it has to be.”
“I don’t think Daryl likes you very much,” said Becca.
“Hello? Why don’t I know about Daryl?” said Albert.
I peered through my father. “We’ll talk about it later,” I said and turned back to Becca. “What makes you think Daryl doesn’t like me, sweetheart?” The lemonade couldn’t come quickly enough.
“He’s always asking mom about you, and sometimes they start talking about you and then yell at each other. Kind of like you and Mom used to do.”
“I’m sorry that you have to hear that.” My stomach wanted nothing to do with the pizza slice on my plate, but I crammed it down my throat anyway, so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
“Are you going to marry Nurse Jenny?” said Becca.
“I’m not sure anyone’s going to want to marry a guy like me.”
“I’ll marry you, Daddy.”
I pointed to her plate. “Maybe you should finish that pizza first.”
Becca laughed. She scooted out of the booth next to Albert and walked around the table to hug me. I hugged her back. Harder than ever before.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, sweethear
t. More than anything else in this world. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Becca climbed under the table and popped up next to Albert. “I love you too, Grandpa.”
The waitress returned with the bill and my lemonade. I paid in cash and asked to get the drink to go.
LITTLE FREDDIE’S VOLVO SLOWED AS he pulled off IN-46 West onto Snyder Road near Bloomington, Indiana. His driver’s window was down and he listened for the sounds from the trunk. Thumping from inside a trunk isn’t always detectable from the driver’s seat, but it might make its way to the ears of anyone standing on a rural Indiana street corner on a quiet night.
Hickman wasn’t a concern on I-74 or IN-46, where the screaming highway traffic drowned out any sounds from the trunk, but the highway was two miles behind them, and an intersection with a stale-green traffic light stood twenty yards ahead. The stale-green light turned yellow and then red. Little Freddie stopped. And listened. The music blaring into the street from a small bar was the only sound. The building’s bright neon sign introduced it as “Nancy’s Bar and Grill.” Inside, some local band crucified John Mellencamp’s “Rumble Seat.”
Little Freddie glanced back at the light. Still red. He scanned the front of the bar and then the adjacent parking lot. A sheriff’s cruiser idled in the first parking spot. Had it not been for the cruiser’s amber parking lights, Little Freddie might have overlooked it. The officer inside had probably noted the Volvo’s Ohio plates. Had they been Kentucky plates, it might have generated more interest, but Ohio plates, while not common in Bloomington, weren’t exactly suspicious. The light turned green and Little Freddie eased his foot off the brake, tipping two fingers to the parked cruiser as he rolled forward.
FOUR MILES NORTH HE TAPPED the brake again and turned onto an unmarked dirt road that surrounded a cornfield. A quarter mile later he parked next to a familiar faded red barn.
Little Freddie clicked on the car’s CD player. It began playing mid-song. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and listened as Barry Louis Polisar’s “All I Want Is You” leapt from his speakers and filled the Indiana night.
He kissed the pink ballet slipper that dangled from his rearview mirror, yanked the key from the ignition and picked up the tire iron from the passenger seat. He opened the door and stepped out into the humid Indiana night.
The only thing a man thinks about during a two-and-a-half-hour trunk ride is what he’s going to do when the trunk opens. Hickman would have a plan. He’d be waiting for the car to stop and the door to open. He’d be waiting for the footsteps. He’d be waiting for the sounds of fingers searching for the trunk release. And he’d be waiting for the sliver of moonlight to enter as the trunk lid rose into the night sky.
Little Freddie gripped the tire iron in his right hand and popped the trunk with his left. Before the moonlight could hit Hickman’s face, the tire iron found his ribs, hip and knee. Little Freddie avoided the head.
Any plan Hickman conjured up slipped away as he covered his face with his forearms and took the blows to his midsection. Once Hickman started coughing up blood, Little Freddie eased up.
“Let’s go,” said Little Freddie. “Time to take a walk.”
Little Freddie pulled Hickman from the trunk, letting him fall onto the country dirt with a thud.
“Come on. Get up.”
Hickman hugged the ground. Little Freddie drove his black wingtips into Hickman’s exposed knee and then kicked a heel into the back of his head.
“I’m going to keep kicking until you stand up.”
Hickman got a hand on the Volvo’s bumper and pulled himself to his knees. He struggled to his feet and braced himself against the car. A blood-and-saliva mix dripped from his lower lip.
“Stay there,” said Little Freddie. “Don’t even think about running, or I swear to God I’ll make this so much worse than it has to be.”
Little Freddie walked to the passenger side of the car and glanced back at Hickman. He opened the passenger door, leaned in, flicked the ballet slipper with his index finger and swapped the tire iron for the maroon duffle bag. Hickman slowly swayed from side to side, trying to keep his feet under him.
Little Freddie pointed to the cornfield. “Walk,” he said.
“What are we doing here?”
“You’re bleeding on the ground and I’m sweating my ass off on what should be a crisp fall day. That’s what we’re doing here.” Little Freddie pointed again. “There’s a path up ahead. Go.”
Hickman found the path cut into the eight-foot-high cornstalks. Little Freddie followed close behind. His hand gripped a 9mm he’d pulled from the duffle.
“If you’re going to kill me, why did you have to drag me all the way out here to do it?” said Hickman. “It’s a pain in the ass for both of us.”
“Got that right,” said Little Freddie. “It’s some extra work, but I can’t risk anyone finding you in Cincinnati. You have to disappear.”
“You think Rollo won’t find out?”
“Rollo’s dead.”
Hickman spit blood into the corn. “That right? So Bishop’s moving on Cincinnati? If that’s the case, you’re going to need someone to manage the transition. Rollo’s men won’t fall in line and pick up for you. You’re going to need me.”
“What I need, Sunshine, is for you to shut the fuck up. This isn’t about taking over Rollo’s shit. It’s about putting you both out of business.”
“If that’s true ...” Hickman wiped blood from his lip and smeared it down his slacks. “Then, you’re going to have to answer to Detroit.”
Little Freddie shifted the duffle under his arm. “We’ll handle Detroit.”
“You won’t handle shit. You’ve got no clue what you’ve stepped into.”
“I said we’ll handle Detroit.”
“Sure you will,” said Hickman. “I hope you remember that when you’re strapped to a fucking chair with a bag over your head and a razor to your nutsack. You’re crossing a line here, and there’s no way back.”
The dirt path led to a twenty-foot circular clearing in the cornfield.
“That’s good,” said Little Freddie, stopping.
“This is your last chance, you stupid fuck. Kill me and you’re a dead man.”
“I think I’m good.” Little Freddie slammed the 9mm into the back of Hickman’s head, dropping him to the ground. He stepped back, unzipped his duffle bag and removed a propane torch and sparker. He turned the knob on the propane canister, but before he could light the flame, Hickman climbed to his feet and started toward the edge of the circular clearing, moving faster than a man in his condition should run. Little Freddie dropped the torch, grabbed his 9mm and squeezed two bullets into Hickman’s back. Hickman fell forward onto the ground.
“Goddamnit.” Little Freddie walked over, slipped his shoe under Hickman’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Dead. “You stupid shit.” He looked up into the night sky and sighed.
Then, he walked back and slipped the 9mm and the propane into the duffle and pulled out a pair of blue vinyl gloves and a folded pruning saw. He slipped on the gloves and unfolded the tree saw. The serrated blade locked into place with a click. Little Freddie rolled Hickman onto his stomach again and straddled him from behind. With a clump of hair in his hand, he tilted Hickman’s head off the ground, placed the saw blade against the side of his neck and drew it hard and deep to the right and back again.
After he’d finished his work, Little Freddie collapsed the saw and hurled it deep into the cornfield. He pulled a small flashlight from the duffle and inspected his clothes for any splatter. He smiled and tossed the flashlight and his blue gloves into the duffle. He zipped it, slipped it under his arm and returned to his car, leaving both pieces of Hickman in the cornfield.
Little Freddie climbed into the Volvo. He winked at the ballet slipper. “Sorry we didn’t have more time tonight, sweetheart. I couldn’t let him get out of the clearing.”
He fired the car’s engine, and once again Barry Louis Polisar s
ang to him. Little Freddie checked his watch. 10:28 p.m.
TEN MINUTES LATER, LITTLE FREDDIE pulled into the lot next to Nancy’s Bar and Grill and parked where the sheriff’s cruiser had been. He examined his clothes again in front of the neon sign and walked inside the square white building.
“You guys still serving dinner?”
THE NEXT DAY, FAT SAM escorted Little Freddie into Bishop’s office. Bishop entered a moment later and poured himself and Little Freddie a glass of Dewar’s Scotch on the rocks as Fat Sam slurped a biggie-sized something from Wendy’s.
Bishop handed Little Freddie a glass. “How’s Hickman?” he said.
“He’s not having the best day,” said Little Freddie.
“Any hitches?”
“Nope. Kept bitching about Detroit and the shitstorm that’s going to rain down on us. Assuming you’ve thought that through.”
“It’ll be handled,” said Bishop.
“Good, because he said something about my nutsack and a razor and that don’t sit well with me.”
Bishop sipped his glass. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Kind of hard not to worry about it. I’d like to keep my nutsack the way it is.”
Fat Sam bit down hard on his straw, struggling to hold back a smile.
“I said it’s handled.” Bishop dropped a bag on the coffee table in front of Little Freddie. “Your payment.” He motioned to the couch. “Now we have to talk about another problem. Have a seat.”
Little Freddie sat on the couch and swirled his ice with his finger. “What’s the problem this time?” said Little Freddie.
“Mr. Finn.”
THE PHONE RANG ON A desk at DTC Woodworking in Detroit. A tall, lean man with three fingers on his right hand answered it on the fourth ring. He listened to the man on the other end of the line and then placed the receiver tightly against his denim shop apron.
“Dunbar,” he said looking at the back room. “We’ve got a problem.”
A moment later, a much larger man in denim overalls, his white T-shirt visible underneath, walked through the office doorway. He slouched his shoulders, allowing his head to clear the top of the doorframe. He walked across the concrete floor, past the industrial table saw and around stockpiles of domestic and exotic lumber, pulled off a plastic face shield, and snatched the phone from the lean man’s hand.
