Desperate Detroit and Stories of Other Dire Places

by Loren Estleman

  “Verne! Earl! You boys all right?” The voice was Luke Madden’s, shouting from behind his car parked perpendicularly across the road. The way beyond it was completely blocked by the other two vehicles.

  “We’re fine!” Thickett shouted back. “Stay down!”

  “She means business,” said Earl. “Maybe I ought to radio the state troopers.”

  “No need. If Molly had meant to hit us, she’d have hit us. I’ve seen her pick nails off a fencepost at thirty yards. She’s just trying to scare us.”

  “She’s awful good at it.”

  No more shots came, and for a long time the only sound belonged to an occasional breeze whistling through the upper branches of the towering pines that surrounded the house on three sides. The house itself appeared deserted. All but one of the tall front windows were shaded. The one to the left of the front door was wide open. Five full minutes passed before a voice like a bull’s bellow called out through the open window.

  “You boys just get back into your automobiles and drive on out of here,” it said. “I don’t want to hurt nobody, but I will if I have to!”

  Thickett cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Molly, this here’s Vernon Thickett! Put down that rifle and let us come in! You’re not a criminal! Don’t act like one!”

  There was a short silence. Then, from the house: “I’ve knowed you since you was a baby, Vernon, and you know I don’t want to harm you none! But you know I will if it means keepin’ what’s mine!”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Molly! I—” Vernon had started to rise when another shot sounded, the bullet zinging along the roof of the unmarked scout car, missing his right ear by a couple of inches. He dove to the ground. “She hasn’t lost a thing in the marksmanship department,” he said to Earl. “This is going to take more than just words.”

  “You think?”

  Six more reports came in rapid succession. Thickett turned his head as Luke Madden ran toward him in a crouch, bullets kicking up dirt at his heels. “Luke, what in hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, when the older deputy was sprawled beside him, panting like an old hound-dog. “I told you to stay put!”

  “Look!” Luke gasped for breath. “If I can get around to the other side of the hill without her seeing me, I can drop down onto the roof and climb in through one of them gabled windows. With you laying down a steady pattern of fire out here she won’t suspect a thing till I grab her and take away the rifle.”

  “No! There’s no telling what she’ll do if you startle her. Go back. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “Verne—”

  “You heard me. Get back there and help Dan keep an eye on Leroy in case he tries anything dumb.”

  The other muttered something unintelligible and sprinted back to his car as more shots barked from the house.

  “She’s got to run out of ammo sometime,” Earl said.

  “Around Easter, I expect. Old Clyde bought out the sporting goods when Khrushchev got in.”

  “Luke might be right, you know. That may be the only way to get her out of there without bloodshed.”

  “Forget it. The trouble with Luke Madden is he can’t forget he’s the one who almost got Wilbur Underhill. I’m not going to let him play hero at the expense of that frightened old woman.”

  “You got a better plan?”

  Thickett thought. Suddenly he turned to Earl. “What’s the name of that salesman from Tulsa, the one who retired and came here to live about five years ago? You know, the one Molly’s sweet on?”

  “Luther Briscoe?”

  “Right. Ever since Clyde’s death nobody’s seen ’em apart, not even when she went to court. They do everything together. There’s that telephone down by the highway; get hold of him and see if you can get him up here. If anybody can talk her out of there, it’s Briscoe.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He left town yesterday to visit his sister in Kansas. He asked me to keep an eye on his house while he was gone. Said he wouldn’t be back till Monday.”

  “Seems we can’t catch a break. Well, that just leaves Plan B.” Thickett jammed his pistol into his holster and unbuckled the belt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going in.” He laid the gunbelt on the ground.

  “Come again?”

  “Molly and I go back. I’m counting on that to keep her from shooting me.”

  “Now who’s playing hero? You can’t be sure of—”

  “Hold your fire, Molly!” Thickett shouted through cupped hands. “I’m coming in and I’m unarmed!”

  “Don’t, Vernon!” The answering bellow held a desperate edge. “I mean what I say! I’ll scatter your brains all over these hills!”

  “I don’t think you will, Molly.” Slowly he rose to his feet. A bullet spanged against the roof of the scout car.

  Thickett signaled the other deputies to hold their fire and stepped clear of the car. He could see Molly’s rifle pointing through the window. He took a step forward.

  The second shot snatched his hat off his head. He hesitated, then moved on. A third slug whined past his ear but he kept walking. The next three shots were snapped off so rapidly they might have come from a machine gun. They struck the ground at his feet and spat gravel onto his pantlegs. By this time he was almost to the door. Two more steps and he was inside. He closed the door behind him.

  It was a moment before his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light inside the house. When they had, his first thought was that the interior hadn’t changed since he was a boy. The Victorian clutter, from the overstuffed rockers shingled with doilies to the glazed china cabinets and papered walls from which hung framed and faded prints of every conceivable shape and size, was as he remembered. The only difference was the stacks and stacks of cartridge boxes on the pedestal table beside the door, and the litter of empty brass shells twinkling on the oval braided rug. Beyond it, Molly Dodd stood in the shadows at the open front window, her dark eyes glittering like the shells above the stock of the Winchester carbine she held braced against a shoulder. Thickett was looking right down its bore.

  “Say your piece and get out.” Her voice was taut. Small but wiry, she wore her black hair pulled straight back into a tight bun. Although her eyes were small above her hooked nose, they had a remarkable depth of expression. Her mouth was wide and turned down at the corners in a permanent scowl. Her print dress looked new, as did the sweater she wore buttoned at the neck like a cape. The firearm remained steady in her hands.

  “Why don’t you give me the gun, Molly?” Vernon asked quietly. “You aren’t going to shoot anyone.”

  “When it comes to protectin’ my property I’d shoot my own son if I had one,” she snapped.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  There was an almost indiscernible change in the expression of her eyes. “This place is mine,” she said. “I know what the courts said, but they was wrong. They didn’t see that record that proved Clyde paid off that loan because it don’t exist no more. Not after that slippery nephew of mine got rid of it.”

  “Why would Leroy do that?” Thickett began to breathe a little more easily. He had her talking now.

  “Why do you think? He knows there’s oil on this land just like everybody else. If he can grab it for his bank he’ll make himself a big man and maybe they’ll forget about checkin’ his books like they been threatenin’ to do.”

  “His books?”

  She nodded jerkily. Her eyes were black diamonds behind the peepsight of the rifle.

  “He’s been stealin’ money from his accounts for years. You seen that car he drives, the clothes he wears. He can’t afford them on his salary. I was in the bank once and heard a man threatenin’ to take his books to the main branch in Oklahoma City and have ’em checked out. Leroy fell all over hisself tryin’ to talk him out of it.”

  Thickett found himself growing interested in spite of the situation.
“You say he destroyed the record that proved Clyde repaid the loan? Don’t you have any proof of your own? What about a receipt?”

  “Clyde never told me what he done with it. I been all over the house. It ain’t here.”

  “What did you hope to gain by barricading yourself in the house?”

  She smiled then, a bitter upturn of her cracked and pleated lips.

  “I wanted to see that squirrel’s face when I stuck this here carbine under his nose. I never meant to drag you boys into it, Vernon.”

  “Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? Come on, Molly. We’re old friends. Give me the rifle.”

  She hesitated. Slowly the hard glitter faded from her eyes. Now she was just a tired old woman. She lowered the rifle and handed it to him.

  Now that the danger was over, the deputy felt no triumph. For a long moment he regarded Molly with compassionate eyes. “What are your plans?”

  “I sent my luggage on to Mexico this morning.”

  That was one he hadn’t seen coming. “Mexico?”

  “That’s where Clyde and me spent our honeymoon. I got a reservation on a plane leavin’ tonight from Tulsa. Don’t suppose I’ll make it now.”

  “Not if Leroy decides to press charges.”

  “That squirrel? Don’t you worry about him. He won’t do nothing that attracts attention.” Her eyes strayed from his for the first time. “I sure am sorry about what I done to your car.”

  He laughed. “It’s insured. The experience was almost worth it.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Then: “What about Luther Briscoe, Molly? What was he going to think when he got back from Kansas and found you gone?”

  “That’s his business, I expect.”

  Thickett chose not to press the point. “Well,” he drawled, “I’m faced with a decision. I can either put you in jail or drive you to Tulsa in time to catch your plane. Since my duty is to the citizens of Schuylerville, I think I’d be acting in their best interest if I saved them the expense of your room and board and took you to the airport.”

  She placed an affectionate hand on his arm. “You’re a good boy, Vernon. I always said that.”

  It was dusk when Thickett eased the scout car he’d borrowed from Luke Madden into the parking lot in front of the sheriff’s office and went in; his damaged one was in the shop. After the long drive back from Tulsa, it felt good to be using his legs again.

  Earl Briggs, on his feet behind Thickett’s desk, hung up the telephone as the chief deputy entered.

  “I’m glad you’re still here, Earl,” Thickett said. “First thing tomorrow morning I want you to get in touch with the Great Midwestern Bank and Trust Company in Oklahoma City and—what is it?” The look on the boy’s face sent a wave of electricity through his limbs.

  Earl inclined his head toward the telephone.

  “That was Leroy Cooper; in a state. He just got back to find his head cashier tied up and gagged and the rest of his employees locked in the vault. As it works out, the bank was held up for a quarter of a million dollars while we were all out at Molly’s place. You’ll never guess who he says did it.”

  Thickett felt a sinking sensation as the pieces fell into place. He tightened his grip on the doorknob. “Luther Briscoe. Molly’s sweetheart.”

  Earl stared at him. “How on earth did you know that?”

  Flash

  When I was asked to contribute a suspense story connected with the world of sports, I thought immediately of boxing. I boxed in college; I was good, but you have to be great to keep your brains in your head where they belong. The concept of a sellout who never actually sold out spurred this one.

  • • •

  Midge was glad he’d put on the electric-blue suit that day. He could use the luck.

  Mr. Wassermann didn’t approve of the suit. At the beginning of their professional relationship, he’d introduced Midge to his tailor, a small man in gold-rimmed glasses who looked and dressed like Mr. Wassermann, and who gently steered the big man away from the bolts of shimmering sharkskin the concern kept in stock for its gambler clients and taught him to appreciate the subtleties of gray worsted and fawn-colored flannel. He cut Midge’s jackets to allow for the Glock rather than obliging him to buy them a size too large, and made his face blush when he explained the difference between “dressing left” and “dressing right.” He’d never given a thought to such a thing.

  The tailoring bills came out of Midge’s salary, a fact for which he was more grateful than if the suits had been a gift. He was no one’s charity case. The distinction was important, because he knew former fighters who stood in welfare lines and on streetcorners holding signs saying they would work for food. Back when they were at the top of the bill they had made the rounds of all the clubs with yards of gold chain around their necks, blondes on both arms, and now here they were saying they would clean out your gutters for a tuna sandwich, expecting pedestrians to feel guilty enough to buy them the sandwich and skip the gutters. Mr. Wassermann never gave anyone anything for nothing—it was a saying on the street, and Midge had heard him confirm it in person—and the big ex-fighter was proud to be able to say in return that he never took anything from anyone for nothing.

  He liked the way he looked in the suits. They complemented his height without calling attention to his bulk, did not make him look poured into his clothes the way so many of his overdeveloped colleagues appeared when they dressed for the street, and if it weren’t for his jagged nose and the balloons of scar tissue around his eyes he thought he might have passed for a retired NFL running back with plenty in Wall Street. Of course, that’s when he wasn’t walking with Mr. Wassermann, when no one would mistake him for anything but personal security.

  Today, however, without giving the thing much thought, he’d decided to wear the electric-blue double-breasted he’d worn to Mr. Wassermann’s office the day they’d met. He’d had on the same shade of trunks when he KO’d Lincoln Flagg at Temple Gate Arena and again when he took the decision from Sailor Burelli at Waterworks Park. He’d liked plenty of flash in those days, in and out of the ring: gold crowns, red velvet robes with Italian silk linings, crocodile luggage, yellow convertibles. Make ’em notice you, he’d thought, and you just naturally have to do your best.

  But then his run had finished. He lost two key fights, his business manager decamped to Ecuador with his portfolio, the IRS attached his beach house. The last of the convertibles went back to the finance company. In a final burst of humiliation, an Internet billionaire with pimples on his forehead bought Midge’s robes at auction for his weekend guests to wear around the swimming pool. When Midge had asked Mr. Wassermann for the bodyguard job, he’d been living for some time in a furnished room on Magellan Street and the electric-blue was the only suit he owned.

  It had brought him luck, just as the matching trunks had. He’d gotten the job, and right away his fortunes had turned around. Because Mr. Wassermann preferred to keep his protection close, even when it was off duty, he had moved Midge into a comfortable three-room suite in the East Wing, paid for his security training, and opened an expense account for him at Rinehart’s, where well-dressed salesmen advised him upon which accessories to wear with his new suits and supplied him with turtle-backed hairbrushes and the same aftershave used by the Duke of Windsor. On the rare occasions when his reclusive employer visited a restaurant (too many of his colleagues had been photographed in such establishments with their faces in their plates and bulletholes in their heads), he always asked the chef to prepare a takeout meal for Midge to eat when they returned home. These little courtesies were offered as if they were part of the terms of employment.

  Because there were other bodyguards, Midge had Saturday off, and with money in the pocket of a finely tailored suit, he rarely spent them alone. The women who were drawn to the aura of sinister power that surrounded Mr. Wassermann belonged to a class Midge could not have approached when he was a mere pug. While waiting for his employer, he would see a picture of a st
unning model in Celebrity and remember how she looked naked in his bed at the Embassy. That’s when he learned about retouching.

  There had been a long dry spell in that department after his last fight. True, his face had been stitched and swollen and hard to look at, but that wasn’t an impediment after the Burelli decision, when eighteen inches of 4-0 thread and a patch of gauze were the only things holding his right ear to his head; he’d made the cover of Turnbuckle that week and signed a contract to endorse a national brand of athlete’s-foot powder. He’d even considered hiring his own bodyguard to fight off the bottle-blonde waitresses. But that was when he was winning. The two big losses and particularly the stench that had clung to the twelve rounds he’d dropped to Sonny Rodriguez at the Palace Garden might as well have been a well-advertised case of the clap.

  The fans had catcalled and crumpled their programs and beer cups and hurled them at the contestants. The Palace management had been forced to call the police to escort them to their dressing rooms. Three weeks later, the state boxing commission had reviewed the videotape and yanked Midge’s license.

  The irony was, he hadn’t gone into the tank. He’d taken the money when it was offered, and since he considered himself an ethical person he’d fully intended to fake a couple of falls and force a decision against him, but he hadn’t gone three rounds before he realized he was no match for the untried youngster from Nicaragua. He was out of shape and slow, and Rodriguez was graceless for all the fact that any one of his blows would have knocked down a young tree. Even the fellow who had approached Midge and ought to have known a fix from a legitimate loss called him afterward to tell him he was a rotten actor; he feared a congressional investigation.

  He’d lost the fight, fair and square, so he’d felt bad about the money. He’d considered returning it, but integrity had proven to be a more complicated thing altogether than taking an honest dive. He was both a fighter who’d sold out and a fighter who’d never thrown a fight. Just trying to think where that placed him in the scheme of things made his head ache. It hurt worse than the one he’d suffered for two weeks after he went down to Ricky Shapiro.