Snowjob

by Ted Wood

  We went in. Roger, the cop who had driven the chief, was in the front office waiting for us. “The chief says to go right in, Detective.”

  “Thanks.” Doug nodded to him and the cop looked grateful for the recognition. I guessed he’d felt the rough side of the chief’s tongue on the way back, had heard the same speech as the morgue attendant.

  The chief was standing at the window. He turned and went to his chair. “Siddown,” he said. We sat and he looked at me. “I don’t see how you can help us here, Mr. Bennett.”

  “With all respect, I think I can, Chief. If you’re keeping the information confidential, you can use me instead of spreading the news any further.”

  He thought about it in silence for a moment, then said, “Yeah. You’re right.” He opened his desk drawer and rummaged, then came out with a badge. “I don’t have a Bible here. You a religious man?”

  “No. But I mean it when I swear an oath.”

  “Good. Do you swear to uphold the laws of the United States and the State of Vermont during your tenure as a special officer with the Chambers Police Department?”

  “I do.” I raised my right hand for him and he passed me the badge.

  “You’re in,” he said. “It’s confidential but until this thing is wrapped up, you’re a member of the department. I’ll see what I can do about pay an’ all when this is over.”

  “Good.” I didn’t waste time. “Let me tell you what I saw last night. At around ten-thirty Manatelli’s bodyguard visited Walter Huckmeyer in Brewskis. They went into Huckmeyer’s office. Then I followed the guy and saw that he went to the mobile home of Mike Kelly, the biker who deals grass, the guy who came after Doug and me two nights back. You know about him.”

  The chief waved one hand. “Of course. Right, Get over there and find out what you can. Do you have a weapon?”

  “Just my dog.”

  “That’s a start. But take this.” He dug into his drawer again and came up with a police .38 in a shoulder holster. He broke protocol by passing it to me without opening the cylinder but I took it and checked the load. Six shots. I took my coat off and slipped the holster on. “You want the guy in here?”

  “I want the truth,” the chief said ominously. “If you have to charge him with the murder of the guy in the morgue that’s fine. But find out what Manatelli’s doing and where the sonofabitch is.”

  “Will do.” I turned to Doug. “Can I get a house key? I want to take Sam.” To the chief I added, “It’s on my way, won’t take more than a minute.”

  “Under the window box at the left side,” Doug said. “Good luck.”

  I picked up Sam and pushed my car to the limit out to Kelly’s shack. The car we’d followed the night before was still there and there was a light on inside. I went up to the door and banged on it. Sam was at my heel, silent and ominous. Kelly came to the door in long Johns. He was just out of bed, eyes gritty. He didn’t even have the moxie to reach up for his gun. I shoved him aside. “Where’s your buddy?”

  He was still blustering and I took a moment to grab his shotgun and turn and fling it away by the barrel, sending it cartwheeling over the driveway, into the snow on the other side. I knew he’d never go out that far, dressed as he was.

  “You can’t do that,” he roared but Sam and I went by to the back room of the shack. The bodyguard was sitting up in bed, feeling under his pillow. I told Sam, “Fight,” and he jumped on the bed, snarling in the man’s face.

  “Get him offa me,” the man screamed but he didn’t reach any farther.

  “Hands on your head,” I said, then to Sam, “Easy, boy.”

  The guy put his hands on his head and I felt under his pillow and took out his gun, a Walther. I stuck it in my coat pocket. “Where’s Manatelli?”

  “He’s dead. Where you bin? It was on the news last night.”

  “That’s my second question. Who’s the guy in the morgue and who shot him? You or Manatelli? But first I want the truth. Where’s Manatelli?”

  “He’s dead,” he said again. I reached for his hand and folded his fingers backward. The pressure was too much and he sprawled face first on the covers, his hand up behind him. “You’re breakin’ my hand.”

  “I know,” I said. It wouldn’t break until I cranked the pressure way up above where I had it, but he didn’t know. He had soft hands with no real strength in them.

  “Fer Crissakes! I don’ know,” he said and I turned up his fingers a little farther. He screamed. I ignored him, glancing around to check on Kelly. He was dressed how in denims and a work shirt.

  “Sit,” I told him. “On the floor, where I can see you. Move and the dog’ll have your face off.”

  He sat. I pointed to him with my free hand and told Sam, “Keep.” Sam ran over to him, making him cower back, covering his face, then stood in front of him, his big head a few inches from Kelly’s face. Scratch Kelly as a threat. I turned my attention back to the man on the bed. “I couldn’t hear you,” I said softly. “Remember. I asked where your boss is.”

  “He’s with the kid from the ski lodge,” he hissed. “Please. Please leggo o’ my hand.”

  I threw his hand away. “Get dressed.”

  He lay for a moment, nursing his fingers, breathing in a low sob. “I’ll kill you,” he said softly. “I’ll shoot your goddamn balls off.”

  “Forget it. You’re inside for life,” I told him. “Get dressed and hurry.”

  He sat up, sullenly. He was wearing a blue silk undershirt and boxer shorts. “You look sweet,” I told him. “You’ll be a big hit in the joint in those shorts. Get dressed.”

  He didn’t move immediately and I slapped him hard across the face. It’s not my style but there was no time to play games. I wanted him at the station and I had no handcuffs. I had to cow him completely.

  The slap broke his machismo. He scrambled into his clothes and I ushered him out into the main room of the tiny shack. Kelly’s topcoat lay on the couch, added to the blanket he had used to cover himself through the night. I checked the pockets for a weapon. There was nothing there and I tossed the coat to Kelly. “You too. You’re coming in. Now, where’s your phone?”

  “I ain’t got one.” A sneer. That’s how tough he was. No phone! Wow!

  “Get your boots on.”

  He swore and protested but I hissed at Sam who went into a savage bark that instantly had him scrambling into his coat and cowboy boots. Then I took both guys out and put them in the back seat of my car, setting Sam facing them from the front seat with the instruction to keep. “One move out of either of you and you’re gone,” I warned.

  They didn’t move. I backed quickly out of the drive and howled back down to the station. A uniformed man was coming down the steps, heading for his car. I called out to him. “I have the man the chief is looking for, here in my car. Help me bring him in, please.”

  I’d seen the cop around, so I guessed he knew who I was. He didn’t ask questions, just came to the car door and opened it. I told Sam, “Easy,” and he relaxed while the two men got out. “Inside, please, officer,” I said and followed them in.

  The chief was out of his office, standing at the telephone. He held up one finger when he saw me, then quickly finished his conversation and hung up. “This the guy?”

  “Yes. He says the guy we’re looking for is with young Huckmeyer.”

  “Get over there,” he said. “Ford’s upstairs. Take him with you. He knows where to go.” He lifted the counter flap. “You two, this way.”

  I left him and ran up the stairs. Doug was sitting with Pat Hinton and they looked up. “Manatelli’s staying with young Huckmeyer. The chief says to pick him up.”

  They both sprang up. Doug said, “Take the detective car, Pat. I’ll go with Reid.”

  We sprinted downstairs and out to my car. I opened the door and told Sam, “In the back,” and he hopped over the seat so that Doug could get in.

  “He’s on Maple. Go up Water Street, that’s three blocks up on the left,” he t
old me and I backed out and raced away up the street. It was eight-fifteen now, just light. Traffic was moving, mostly cars with ski racks. I saw the drivers glancing at me nervously as I roared by and turned onto Water Street.

  “Right on Maple. It’s a big white house,” Doug said. His voice was soft and excited. “We’ve got him,” he said. “We’ve got the bastard.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Not until he’s got handcuffs on his wrists.”

  “Huckmeyer. Huckmeyer. Be there, you smooth-talkin’, smooth-skiin’ devil, you,” Doug crooned. Then he said, “In there.”

  I whisked into the driveway. It was empty.

  “He’s gone,” Doug said. “He always drives a Blazer, leaves it in the drive, summer an’ winter.”

  Pat Hinton pulled in behind us. “He’s gone,” he said as he got out. “I bet he’s at work, Cat’s Cradle.”

  “Let’s check the house,” Doug said. “Maybe he’s left Manatelli at home.”

  “Cover the back,” Hinton said. “I’ll bang on the front door.”

  “Come on, Sam.” I clambered over the snowbank beside the walk to the front door and plowed through the knee-high snow to the back of the house. There were no tracks back there. Nobody had made a run for the fence when we arrived, and there was no sign of life in the house.

  I stood there, with Sam, until Doug appeared at the side. “No answer,” he said. “Don’t mean Manatelli’s not there, but he’s not answering if he is.”

  “Let me check these windows,” I said and I made the rounds. It was no good. All of them were covered by aluminum storm windows with screens, all shut tight. It meant breaking two panes of glass and the screen to get in.

  “Maybe he’s got a slip lock on the front,” Doug said.

  We trudged back through the snow, which was filtering down over the top of my boots and chilling my legs to the bone. When I got to the porch I took the boots off and shook out the snow.

  Doug checked the lock. “Dead bolt,” he said. “We can’t get in without a key or a wrecking bar.”

  “Check around for a key,” Hinton suggested. He lifted the mat and Doug and I checked under anything else movable but we found nothing.

  “You better stay, Pat,” Doug said. “Get on the horn and tell the chief what’s happening. Me an’ Reid’ll head out to the Cat’s Cradle.”

  “I’d like to be there,” Hinton said longingly.

  “Manatelli’s the guy we’re after,” Doug said. “We have to cover this place.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Hinton slumped a little but went back to the police car and sat inside. We saw him talking on the radio as I backed out around him and headed for the ski hills.

  Traffic was stopped on the road out of town and it took twenty minutes to get to the cause of the problem. A car with New York plates had slid off the road into the snowbank and a bunch of hearty ski types were trying to push it out. We slowed long enough for Doug to check that none of the people looked like anything but skiers, then spurted on to Cat’s Cradle.

  It was already busy. The hills were dotted with the brightly colored outfits of skiers carving their way down the slopes and the parking lot was still filling up with carloads of newcomers, fit-looking people, a few children, carrying skis over their shoulders, making for the tows.

  “Let’s hustle,” Doug said. “If he gets on the slopes we’ll never find him.”

  The office staff was just arriving and Doug paused only for directions to Huckmeyer’s office. It was empty and there was no coat hanging there. We ducked back to the front and asked the receptionist where he was.

  “I haven’t seen him. If he’s in, he may be on the slopes. Are his skis in there?”

  “Didn’t see them,” Doug said. “Is there a phone in the lift shacks?”

  The girl frowned. “No. Why?”

  “Never mind,” Doug said. “Which one would he use?”

  “The gondola lift. It goes to the top of Devil’s Fingers. Those are the hard runs, the ones he likes.”

  “Thanks,” Doug said. “Let’s go.”

  We ran out and up the slope to the gondola lift. There were skiers in the line, fit and full of fun. They laughed when we plowed past them into the lift house. “Has Walter Huckmeyer gone up here?” Doug demanded.

  The kid in charge was around nineteen, young and efficient and insolent.” Who wants him?”

  Doug reached out and pulled the big lever next to the kid. “The police, son. Now tell me, is he on this lift?”

  “Hey. You can’t stop the lift. We on’y stop it for emergencies,” the kid blustered.

  “P’lice emergency.” Doug pulled out his badge case and flopped it open. “Now. Tell me. Is Huckmeyer on the lift?”

  “Wen’ up around five minutes ago,” the kid said. “He could be at the top by now.”

  “Do you have a line to the guy at the top?”

  “No, off’cer.” The boy was finally getting the message. “We can start and stop it from either end if somethin’ goes wrong, or to let people on and off, that’s all. And we’ve got a signal bell.”

  “Leave it shut and use the signal to tell the top guy to leave it off until I tell you to turn it back on. Understand?” Doug said.

  “Shit. I guess so.” He was lost now, his authority stripped away. Doug turned to me. “How do we get up there?”

  “There’s a couple of skidoos in the ski patrol chalet. I’ll take one up there.”

  “Are they hard to ride?”

  “Like a motorbike, kind of. But you’re needed down here. Get some more guys out to cover the foot of the slopes in case he’s on his way down. And go and immobilize his car. The staff’ll know which it is.”

  “Good thinking,” Doug said. “Take these.” He flicked out his handcuffs and I slipped them into my pocket and told him, “You’d better take Sam. You know his commands. I’ll turn him over to you.”

  “Right. Good.” Doug stood still while I ran through the handover procedure. Then Doug ran back down to the office with Sam at his heel.

  I clumped up to the ski patrol office and showed them my badge. The woman in charge was bright and sensible. She gave me a skidoo without question and pointed out the easiest way to get up the slope. It was steep, the kind of grade you see in the Winter Olympics, and there was a section of moguls about a hundred yards long close to the top. The few skiers who were taking them were shocked to see me, but none of them fell. I drove around the area, hugging the edge of the trees where the ground was fairly even, although still steep. And then, above it, I came to a ten-foot precipice.

  A skier came over it, above me, like a bird, to land on the short, smooth section that led to the moguls. Like the kid had said in the office, one hell of a challenging run.

  The ground sloped up to the trees on either side of the ski slope and the precipice bowed at the ends to meet it so I was able to pick my way through the trees and find a grade I could climb. I covered the last fifty yards to the top of the gondola lift and got off the machine, leaving it facing back toward the slope.

  The boy in charge was waiting for me, and beyond him, hovering above the treetops, was the closest gondola with a bouquet of faces peering at the glass toward me.

  “What’s goin’ on? I got people stranded,” he said.

  “Has Walter Huckmeyer got here yet?”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Okay. Start up and bring the car to within six feet of the dock.”

  “You mean in, don’t ya?”

  “No. I mean where the people can’t get out until I’ve checked them.”

  “Now, listen, Mac,” he started. He was cut from the same cloth as his buddy at the other end.

  I took off my glove and flashed the badge the chief had given me. “Chambers police,” I said. “Do like I said, please.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.” He started the car and I saw relief in the trapped faces, then exasperation as the car stopped short of the pad.

  I studied all the faces, making sure Huckm
eyer wasn’t among them, then stood where the door would come and waved the kid to finish bringing it in. He did and the people poured off, angry and questioning. The delay had wiped out their skiing spirit and turned them back into city people, frustrated and argumentative.

  I stood there, ignoring their questions, until they moved away, snapping on their skis. Then I signaled the operator again and he brought up the next car in the same two stages.

  Three cars came up before I detected the one that Huckmeyer was in. I couldn’t see him, but I could tell from the way some of the faces were turned away from me, looking down, that he was crouching there, hiding from me.

  I called to the operator to bring it right in. The stopping point I’d chosen, six feet out, was only twelve feet above the snow and I figured a fit young skier like Huckmeyer might drop out and head down the slope, leaving me with my face hanging out.

  I’d guessed right. I heard shrieks from the women in the car and two skis flopped out to land heel down and stick in the snow. Then Huckmeyer sat on the edge of the doorway, turned and gripped the floor, looked down once and dropped as the car kept moving.

  He landed, rolling like a paratrooper and reaching for his skis, and I turned and ran for the snowmobile.

  The machine started first pop and I headed back down the hill, forty yards behind him, with him gaining on me as he headed for the precipice. I’d scouted it before I climbed through the trees and knew where it was only four feet high. I turned the machine and headed straight down at the shallowest point. It was a risk but I was hunting mad and I leaned as far back as I could on the machine and wound it up. He went over the edge, twenty yards to my right and fifty yards in front of me. I lined up straight to cut the risk as far as I could, then braced myself up off the seat, arms and legs slightly bent, clutching the saddle with my knees.

  The machine hung in the air for hours, it seemed, but my speed kept the nose from dipping and I landed flat with a jolt that crunched my stiffened spine and made my head sing. But I was still up and I could see Huckmeyer hammering away at the moguls, doing his best to keep his lead.

  I had him. The machine whisked around the edge of the mogul field and I was level with him within ten feet of the end. He gave a convulsive pump with his arms, trying to lift himself into maximum speed, but I was there, five yards to one side and outrunning him.