The System - A Detroit Story -

by John Silver

  Vlad tapped Martin in the head with the bat. It had been awhile. He was going to enjoy himself. The bouncer pulled up in a non-descript black Ford Taurus and popped open the trunk. Vlad hit Martin in the head hard enough to knock him out, but not do any severe damage. He wanted him awake and alert when the time was right.

  * *

  Martin came to, arms and legs tied to a wooden chair, his mouth gagged with a filthy strip of cotton bed sheet. He blinked and tried to hold his hands to his head but they wouldn't move. Martin pulled at the ropes, but every exertion caused his head to throb.

  Vlad circled him. Martin looked up and followed him slowly with his eyes.

  "You try to come in my club when you are told to leave," said Vlad, circling slowly. "Then, you try to rob my customers. In my parking lot. At my club."

  Vlad stopped in front of Martin's face.

  "Very bad for business," said Vlad. "And for you." He pulled a pair of wire cutters from his back pocket. "You know, in some countries they cut off a thief's hands." Vlad held the cutters in front of Martin's face and snapped them open and shut. "I think you will learn a better lesson this way."

  Martin's eyes widened and he shook his head from side to side, jumping in the chair. Vlad held down Martin's left hand and cut off his thumb, hearing the gristle pop and the bone snap. Martin screamed through the gag, then let out a succession of long sobs. Vlad quickly held down Martin's other hand and cut off Martin's right thumb.

  Vlad held up the thumb so Martin could see it.

  "Now, you can no longer hold a gun," said Vlad.

  Martin moaned through the gag.

  "But still," said Vlad. "Maybe a knife?" Vlad held down Martin's right hand. Martin looked down at his mangled hand, looked at Vlad, made noise and shook his head.

  "Do you have something to say?"

  Martin shook his head up and down.

  Vlad pulled the dirty rag from Martin's mouth. Martin's head dropped, spittle running down his chin. "Please," he whispered.

  "Have you learned your lesson?" said Vlad.

  "Please…yes," said Martin.

  "Will you ever try to steal from my customers again?" said Vlad.

  "No," said Martin. "Never. Please…."

  Vlad looked down at him, and held down Martin's right hand. "I want to make sure" he said. Vlad quickly cut off the four fingers on Martin's right hand, starting with the index finger. Martin screamed. Vlad was amused at the power behind the outcry, coming from such a little man. The fingers dropped to the floor, one by one. Martin moaned, on the shore of unconsciousness, his head hanging.

  Vlad leaned down in front of Martin and held Martin's head up by the chin.

  "Will you ever come near my club again?" said Vlad

  "No," whispered Martin, weeping. "Never. Never. I swear."

  Vlad pulled back his hand and Martin's head dropped. He walked behind Martin.

  "I don't believe you," he said.

  Vlad picked up a plastic two liter pop bottle filled with gasoline and poured half of it on Martin and the rest on the dry wooden floor around him. Martin's head popped up. He choked on the gasoline and flailed his head. The gasoline brought the burning, electric pain back in his hands.

  Vlad opened a book of matches, lit them, and threw them at Martin's feet. The gas instantly ignited, covering Martin in an orange fireball. Martin screamed, struggled in the chair, bubbled, then blackened and went still. The old floorboards caught fire and quickly spread. Vlad walked down the stairs, crushing broken hypodermic needles under his boots and strolled out the door. He got in the passenger's seat of the Taurus and nodded to the bouncer at the wheel. Great car for these little projects. So many on the road, and they all look alike. The bouncer and Vlad drove away, smoke now pouring from the windowless house.

  Over eighty thousand abandoned houses in this city. Pick one, do your work, burn it down. No one snitches.

  Chapter 11

  Chris Picks Up a Fare

  Chris sat in the limo in the parking lot by the RiverWalk, in view of the carousel, Ceasar's Casino on the Windsor side and the Renaissance Center on the right. It wasn't really a limo, but a bubbly black Lincoln Town Car. Chris loosened his tie. He didn't mind wearing the chauffer's suit, simple and black, but he hated the hat that the limo company made him wear. And he also had to shave.

  The parking lot was empty and there wasn't much business this time of morning, which Chris didn't mind. He looked at the idle carousel and saw a solitary black guy fishing, right where the RiverWalk ended and the State Park began. Die hard. Some guys fish no matter what time of year or weather. Probably fishing for Muskie. Chris saw the guy set his jig and deftly cast it in the water. He obviously knew how to fish.

  A freighter slipped by going upstream toward Lake St. Claire. A couple more months and the river would be filled with giant ice floes, jammed together like giant blue-green pieces of mismatched linoleum.

  A siren sounded in the distance. Chris half smiled. One thing about Detroit, there were always sirens, as constant as the river current. He got out of the Town Car, leaned against the front left fender and lit a cigarette. Against the rules, but fuck it.

  He took a drag off the cigarette and saw a large, white yacht emerge from the Belle Isle shipping channel. Just like the TradeWind, a Hatteras Convertible. White and sleek, but in a classic way. Flying bridge, easily rigged for fishing or cruising. Chris figured it to be a fifty two- same length as the TradeWind. He stared at the boat as it passed and thought he better call the marina this week to see if anyone inquired about the TradeWind. Sure, there were a lot of boats available, but this one stuck to him. Perfect spot, the little Key Cove Marina, small and personal. Chris felt lucky the guy that owned the boat liked him and said that he would hold off selling it and give Chris first shot. He said Chris could take over his steady Marlin charter, too. Introduce him to his steady clients. It was perfect.

  He could live on the boat, in the smaller state room and leave the main quarters for the clients if they stayed out overnight. A great little galley, too. He'd be done with this life, the limo, Eddie's chop shop, and Detroit. Problem was, the guy who owned the TradeWind was getting ready to retire, six months maybe, and as Chris figured it, he needed at least another year to come up with the rest of the cash. He watched the Hatteras motor downriver with the current, passing in front of the RenCen toward the bend in the river under the Ambassador Bridge. He had to call the guy, tell him things were going good. Reassure him that he'd come up with the cash, soon.

  Chris's pager lit up, displaying a code. A pickup in front of the Wintergarden. An airport run. He stamped out his cigarette and got in the limo. Chris straightened his tie and put on his cap, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

  Chris pulled out of the lot onto Atwater and headed toward the RenCen. He passed by the near empty parking structure on Beaubien and slowed as he approached the Wintergarden doors. An attendant flagged him down. Next to him stood a large man in a royal blue tracksuit.

  Vlad's head reared back when he recognized Chris. The attendant put Vlad's suitcase in the Town Car's trunk and held open the rear door. Vlad got in and sat back, amused, looking at Chris in the rearview mirror. Chris waited for a pedestrian to cross, then pulled onto Atwater.

  "I did not know you were a taxi driver," said Vlad.

  Chris kept his eyes on the road. "This is a limo. Not a taxi."

  "So it is," said Vlad. "So, mister limo driver, why do you do this?"

  Chris shrugged. "Day gig, part time. Gotta have some kind of job, for taxes. And cover."

  Vlad considered this. "Maybe you could come work for me."

  Chris looked at Vlad in the rear view mirror. "And do what?"

  "I can think of many things," said Vlad. He looked out the window. "You know, your friend Eddie comes into my club. Quite often. He's told me a lot about you."

  Chris frowned. Fuckin' Eddie. "And what did he say?" said Chris.

  "How you came to him. How he likes you. How
you work," said Vlad.

  Chris nodded, wondering where this was leading, getting more pissed off at Eddie by the minute.

  "He also says he never saw you with a girl," said Vlad.

  "So?"

  "Don't you like girls?"

  "Sure I do."

  "So why no women? No girlfriend?"

  "What's with the personal questions?"

  Vlad stared out the window. Chris pulled onto I-375 toward I-94 and the airport.

  "Why don't I have a girlfriend?" said Chris. "Too much baggage. Don't have the time. There's certain things I want. End of story."

  Vlad leaned forward. "And what is it you want?"

  Chris smiled. "That's my business."

  Vlad leaned back. "You know, my father was a fisherman," he said. "Worked on a trawler. Baltic Sea. A healthy life. It would have been much better for him if he had owned his own boat, don't you think?"

  Chris's face turned red. Eddie the asshole, can't keep his mouth shut.

  "Florida is very nice," said Vlad, looking out the window at the big Goodyear tire on I-94.

  Chris gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes. "Yes it is," he said. He drove smoothly through traffic, got off on Merriman road and cruised up to the International Terminal. He got out of the car and pulled Vlad's bag from the trunk. Vlad didn't wait for Chris to come around and open the door.

  "What do I owe you?" asked Vlad.

  Chris looked up at him. Man, this dude was big. "Seventy five," he said.

  Vlad handed Chris two hundred dollar bills. "You come with Eddie to my club when I return. Meet some girls, maybe talk some business." Vlad waved off a porter and picked up his bag. He leaned down and said, "You could be in that boat sooner than you think." Not waiting for a response Vlad turned and walked toward the terminal doors.

  Chapter 12

  Washington and Peabody Case Tiger's Den

  Ann Peabody sat at the small conference room table in the Bunker, waiting for Washington. She was swiping her tablet computer, examining a street level view of the Tiger's Den. Cement gray with a pink awning and an orange neon sign that said Tiger's Den over an orange and black tigress, ready to pounce. Washington walked in carrying a cup of coffee. Peabody looked up at him.

  "You're late," she said.

  Washington looked at her squarely in the eyes and said, "Look, I've been assigned to help you, and I'll do that." He leaned over the table. "But if you think I'm going to take any shit from you, you're sadly mistaken." Washington stood straight. "Now," he said. "Would you like to start over?"

  Peabody looked up at Washington and smiled.

  "You're still late. Come around and take a look," she said, swiping at the tablet. She brought up a report with Vlad's picture in the upper right corner. "Looks like our guy's flown to Athens," said Peabody, conjuring an image of a boarding pass. "My guess is that he'll pick up a flight to Tirana. Cheap. Costs about eighty eight euros," she said.

  Washington looked down at the tablet while Peabody swiped back to the Tiger's Den.

  "Let's go for a ride," she said.

  * *

  Washington drove north on Woodward toward Eight Mile, the dividing line between Detroit and the suburbs.

  "You know there's a wall here, divides Detroit from the suburbs," said Washington. "Along Eight Mile. Black folk try and move in, every white person would sell and head farther away. All directions, but especially north. White folks finally had enough and put up a wall." He looked at Peabody. "It's a half mile long, intersection at Wyoming. Our own little Berlin wall, right here in Detroit." Washington looked at the road. "Insurance companies wouldn't cover houses in mixed neighborhoods."

  "I didn't know that," said Peabody.

  "So how did you wind up in Detroit?" said Washington.

  Peabody shrugged. "They move us around a lot," she said. "Standard rotation."

  Washington stopped at a red light just north of I-94. He stopped with enough distance between them and the car ahead so he could see the bottom of the rear tires. That way if he had to make a quick run for it there was plenty of room to maneuver. He'd been jacked once, and once was enough. Shot and killed the unarmed dude and got suspended for eight weeks pending the outcome of the investigation. Earned the rep as being trigger happy, and it cost him and the city. Now stopping short was SOP, Standard Operating Procedure.

  "I've been working on this case for awhile," said Peabody.

  "How long have you been DEA?" asked Washington.

  "Seven years," said Peabody. "Went to law school. Worked on Wall Street for awhile. Hated it, but it paid off my student loan."

  "Law school," said Washington. "Where at?"

  "Cornell," said Peabody. "Ithaca, New York. Hometown."

  Washington nodded. Cornell. The light turned green and Washington moved forward.

  "What about you?"

  "Long story," said Washington. "Went to Wayne State, right here in Detroit. Political science, pre-law. Wanted to go to law school."

  "What happened?" said Peabody.

  Washington shrugged. "Got married, had a kid. Had a buddy who joined the DPD." He looked at Peabody. "Just followed him in and never looked back. We became partners after a couple years."

  Washington changed lanes. Peabody looked out the window at the large, once stately houses with large lots and ancient trees. "These must have been beautiful once," she said.

  "They were back in the day, I imagine," said Washington. "Detroit in the early twentieth century was the manufacturing equivalent of Silicon Valley. Innovation everywhere. Henry Ford, five dollars a day, all that."

  Washington braked for a stray dog crossing the street. "People came from all over the country to work," he said. "The world, for that matter. My father came up from Alabama."

  Peabody looked at a windowless, burned out home. "And the rest is history?"

  "Who knows?" said Washington. "Maybe this city is a victim of itself. The world changed, and we turned a blind eye to it," he said. "People started buying Japanese cars, 'cause they were better. We didn't wake up until it was too late."

  They passed the adult bookstores on the corner of Six Mile and Woodward, where the road expanded from two lanes to six.

  "A lot of hard working people here, though," said Washington. "My old man worked at the Rouge Plant. Thirty six years. Could have gone thirty and out, but stayed on another six to put us through school," he said. He looked at Peabody. "Never wanted us to work there. Anywhere but on the line."

  Peabody nodded.

  Washington cleared his throat. "One thing bothers me, I gottta say," he said.

  "What's that?" said Peabody.

  "I don't like it when you people let things walk," said Washington. "Especially guns."

  Peabody looked at him, surprised at the rapid change of subject. "You people?" she said.

  "You know what I mean," said Washington.

  "That's ATF," she said. "Occasionally DEA. Same with informants. SOP, just like you." Peabody glanced at the road. "Let a little fish go, maybe lead to a bigger one. Let ten guns go, maybe capture a hundred." Peabody's voice trailed off.

  Washington shook his head. "I'll go for the bust," he said. "A bird in hand…"

  "If it's anything to you," said Peabody. "Someone close to me was killed by a gun that walked. A border patrol agent. Picked off just like that. In Mexico. Juarez, across from El Paso."

  "Man," said Washington. "I'm sorry to hear that."

  They cruised past Seven Mile Road and turned right onto Eight Mile, driving past the abandoned State Fair Grounds. Washington drove for a mile or so then slowed.

  "There it is," said Peabody, looking at the neon sign with the painted tiger below. "Have you ever been inside?"

  "In there?" said Washington. He pulled onto a side street and stopped in view of the club. "No. I'm not Vice and I'm not a strip club kind of guy."

  "You are now," said Peabody.

  They sat and watched the club, scanning the parking lot, dumpster and alley i
n the rear.

  "We need to get inside," said Peabody. "Look around. A lot of places have amateur night."

  Washington looked at her.

  "Surprised?" said Peabody. She looked at the club. "I can handle myself on one of those poles."

  They watched the club for another fifteen minutes. Four cars in the parking lot, one large Dodge van with a handicapped plate. Washington started the car and as they pulled onto Eight Mile Peabody saw a diminutive, graying man in a wheelchair roll out the front door, held open by a bouncer.

  Chapter 13

  Concrete Mushrooms

  The money, hidden in a crate full of spark plugs, left the Port of Detroit and arrived in Toulon, France eight days later. From there the box was driven to Milan and uncrated at a social club. The money was placed in two canvass duffel bags and driven down the coast to Bari. The bags were handed off to two men who boarded a daily ferry that went across the Adriatic to Durres, Albania. The money was on shore and hidden as Vlad looked down at Athens from a first class window seat.

  He cleared customs and boarded a flight from Athens to Tirana. After less than an hour the small jet touched down at Rinas International. He walked out of the customs booth looking as fresh as when he left Detroit, twelve hours earlier.

  Vlad slung his leather travel bag over his shoulder and spotted a thin, dark man near a coffee stand, smoking a cigarette. They made eye contact. The man butted out his cigarette, turned and started walking toward the terminal exit. Vlad slowed and followed, leaving a gap of at least twenty feet between them.

  They boarded a bus that headed north, passed through the empty traffic circle and were dropped off in an open air parking lot. The bus lumbered away and Vlad and the man hugged and kissed each other on the cheek.

  "Gregor, my old friend," said Vlad. "Good to see you."

  "The pleasure is mine."

  They walked to a small sedan. Vlad was amused.