Like to Die

by David Housewright

  “You were convinced that you had control of him, but Randy thought, because he knew some of your secrets, that he had control of you.”

  “I realize that now. It’s what convinced the soulless prick that he could use my business to move his heroin, which impelled me to seek help from you, which brought me to this sorry state. Damn. So close to the finish line. But McKenzie, you need to know, everything that I did—this was all before I met Ian. He doesn’t know anything about it. I don’t want you to think that he was somehow involved. You can’t let him be involved.”

  Me? my inner voice said.

  “You told a convincing story about selling your salsa at farmers markets,” I said aloud. “Everyone believed it, including Ian.”

  “Remember what I said about branding? What’s funny, I’ll meet people today who will tell me that they remember buying jars of my product on the Nicollet Mall. One woman told me that as much as she liked my salsa now, she claimed it tasted better when I was selling it in Madison. She said it was because I was using Wisconsin tomatoes back then instead of tomatoes grown in Minnesota.

  “McKenzie, I don’t want to give all this up. I love being Salsa Girl. I love … from the day I said good-bye to Christine Olson until now, I have tried to live a life that would make up for the life I lived before. I don’t mean just giving money to charity. I mean trying to be kind, trying to be—I don’t know how to say it. The statute of limitations ran out a long time ago on all of my past crimes, my sins. I was hoping that meant now I could be the person I’ve always wanted to be, the person my parents raised me to be. If you can help me, please help me. If you can’t—I have everything I need to disappear again in my trunk. I can drop you off and … before, I was running toward something, though. I didn’t know what exactly, but I know now. I was trying to reclaim my humanity. But if I take off again I wouldn’t be running toward anything. I’d just be running from, with nowhere to go.”

  “Is that what you think we’re doing?” I asked. “Running away?”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Position analysis. It’s a chess term. Right now we’re studying the board. We’re comparing our material to theirs, noting the position of the kings and the activity of the pieces, determining who controls the diagonals and the center, clarifying how much space we have to move in, who has the stronger pawn structure—all of which goes into determining not only what’s the best play for us but also for our competitors.”

  Erin stared at me for a few beats as if I were speaking gibberish, which, let’s face it, I mostly was.

  “You’re having fun, aren’t you?” she said. “This is some sort of game you’re playing.”

  “Erin…”

  “You like this. You like danger. It’s what you do instead of drugs.”

  “If that’s what you think, you misjudge me.”

  “What should I think?”

  “You should be thinking about what our next move is going to be.”

  Erin stared some more.

  “Please tell me that you play chess better than you play poker,” she said.

  * * *

  The Anderson House in Wabasha, Minnesota, was built in 1850, so of course it was supposed to be haunted. Its most famous spirit was named Sarah. It was said that she committed suicide in the hotel because of her despair when she was told that her husband had been killed in a steamboat accident on the Mississippi River—which turned out not to be true, by the way. Apparently she didn’t hold that mistake against the living, though. The proprietor of the hotel says that she has remained quite friendly over the decades, often leaving the staff dime tips to express her appreciation for how well the hotel is being run.

  I stopped the Solara on West Main Street in front of the hotel.

  “Do you have something in mind?” Erin asked.

  “Our opening move.”

  “Is this going to be a thing—you talking in chess terms?”

  “Come along, Mrs. Dyson.”

  “Do you want me to get the suitcases?”

  “Just the gym bag.”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “No, Erin. We’re not staying.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Hell, no. The place is crawling with ghosts.”

  * * *

  I used my fake ID to register. The woman at the desk put us in the Queen Suite, which gave us a nice view of the river as well as the Wabasha-Nelson Bridge that spanned it, connecting Minnesota with Wisconsin. I sat on the bed. Erin removed her black fleece jacket, sat in a rocking chair, and watched me.

  “Who’s Nick Dyson?” she asked.

  “A real jerk.”

  “So I’m married to a jerk, then?”

  I retrieved my cell and its battery from my pocket and put them together again. Erin didn’t say a word when I made a production out of activating the GPS function. I called Nina.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Herzy’s here. We’ve been talking about old movies.”

  “Ask him if he’s seen The Magnificent Seven.”

  “Herzy, McKenzie wants to know if you’ve seen The Magnificent Seven.”

  Nina must have raised her phone to catch his voice, because Herzog sounded a long way off.

  “Fuck ’im,” he said.

  “Did you catch that?” Nina asked.

  “I did. What about Levi Chandler?”

  “He left a long time ago. Actually, he took off a minute after Herzy walked through the door. I watched him drive away.”

  “Good.”

  “You have that sound in your voice again.”

  “Yeah, about that. I don’t want you going anywhere near the condo tonight. Stay with Bobby and Shelby instead.”

  “All right.”

  “And don’t leave Rickie’s until Greg Schroeder and his people get there.”

  “It is serious, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “All right.”

  “Nina, you’re amazing. How can you just say ‘all right’? How can you not ask me where I am or what’s going on?”

  “Herzy has already told me some of it. I believe if you had the time, you would tell me the rest. This isn’t—what is it you guys like to say? This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “I’ll explain it all the first chance I get.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Tell me one thing, though. Is Salsa Girl with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Nina hesitated before she said, “Be careful. Both of you.”

  I ended the call and pressed the icon for another number. While it rang, I said, “Nina wants us to be careful.”

  Erin chuckled.

  “She didn’t mean it that way,” I added.

  “Then she truly is amazing. McKenzie, you can’t put her in danger because of me.”

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  Erin looked as if she believed me.

  Shelby Dunston answered the phone.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I said. “Is Bobby around?”

  “What? You can’t talk to me?”

  “I’m sending Nina to stay with you tonight. She’ll be accompanied by a battalion of armed guards.”

  “See? Was that so hard? Hang on a sec.”

  A moment later, Bobby Dunston was on the phone. Unlike Nina, he asked, “What’s going on?”

  I gave him a much-abbreviated version of the story.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Nothing yet, but with a little luck I’m going to help you cure your heroin epidemic.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Is Erin Peterson with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell her to be careful, too.”

  I ended the call and started another.

  “Bobby also wants us to be careful,” I said.

  E
rin nodded.

  The cell rang three times before it was answered.

  “Greg Schroeder,” a voice said.

  “This is McKenzie. I’m sorry to bother you at home.”

  “What do you need?”

  I would never take on a bodyguard gig, I told myself. It required that you set aside the idea that your life was more important than someone else’s; that you made yourself willing to get hurt, perhaps even killed, to protect a client. I could see myself doing it for Nina without hesitation. And Erica. And Victoria and Katie and Shelby Dunston. I would even do it for Bobby, although it would piss him off immensely. But no one else. Greg Schroeder, on the other hand, was the consummate professional. He would do it on principle alone.

  I told Greg what I wanted. I told him why. He asked me where Nina was. I told him.

  “I’ll take care of her,” he said.

  “Greg—”

  “Nothing will happen to her that doesn’t happen to me first.”

  “I like the way you think, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that Herzog is watching over her now.”

  “The bruiser that hangs with Chopper Coleman? Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll have my people approach him with caution.”

  “Thank you, Greg. I appreciate this.”

  “Yeah, well, wait until you get my bill.”

  I ended the call, turned off the phone, and removed the battery yet again. I put both in my pocket. Erin was still watching me from the rocking chair.

  “You realize, of course, that Carson Brazill is not a stupid man,” she said. “You could argue that he taught me everything I know. What’s more, he has multiple resources at his disposal.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he and his people should be here in roughly ninety minutes.”

  “What time is it now?”

  Erin answered without looking at her watch. “Nearly four.”

  “Plenty of time.”

  “For what?”

  “To grab something to eat and do a little shopping.” I gestured at my clothes. “This is all I have.”

  “And then what?”

  “In chess, they call this a silent move, a move that has a dramatic tactical effect but doesn’t actually attack or capture an enemy piece.”

  “God help me.”

  Erin closed her eyes and began rocking more aggressively in her chair.

  “This is all on me,” she said. “I suppose I need to take whatever happens.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said.

  “If you say so. McKenzie, ever since giving up Christine Olson I’ve worked very hard at trying to be a good person. I try not to lose my temper. I try not to swear. I try not to raise my voice, even. Only after everything that’s happened today…”

  “Go ’head.”

  “Goddamn motherfuck sonuvabitch!”

  I waited for more, but that was all Erin gave me.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Not really, no.”

  * * *

  Wabasha had been the setting for the film Grumpy Old Men, starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. Several scenes took place in Slippery’s near the river. Except when we entered the place, we discovered that while the movie retained its name, actually filming took place in the Half Time Rec, a bar in St. Paul. Oh, well. Slippery’s served a decent walleye sandwich, anyway.

  It was while we were eating that I explained my strategy.

  “I’d argue with you,” Erin said, “but at the moment I don’t have a viable alternative.”

  “All we need to do is convince them that they’re smarter than we are.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Actually, we need them to think that they’re smarter than I am. They already know you would never make a mistake like the one I made, using a GPS-activated cell phone to make a call from what they probably already know is a hotel in Wabasha. They’ll think I’m the weak link. That’ll be important later.”

  “Why do we need to let them chase us around, though? And I’m begging you, McKenzie, don’t answer in a chess term.”

  “We’re working a short con here. That’s more your business than mine; at least it was your business. Erin, what was the most important thing you looked for in a victim?”

  “The men who were easiest to con were those whose emotional needs were closest to the surface, the ones who weren’t afraid to tell you how much they loved their wives and kids and grandkids and”—she was looking at me now—“their girlfriends. Those men weren’t thinking about whether or not they were being scammed. They were thinking, Here’s a fix for my problems.”

  “Why men?”

  “Despite what you might have heard, men are more emotional than women. They’re grandiose and full of ego. Most are driven by insecurity and a general feeling of inferiority.”

  “And if I was frightened as well? If I had just escaped the bad men by the proverbial skin of my teeth?”

  “Carson would think that you’ll be easy to crush or kill—those are the terms con men use for closing the deal, by the way. Although in this case, they could be literal.”

  “So Brazill needs to see me being frightened.”

  “I get it, McKenzie. I just don’t like it. I’m hoping we’re not making a blunder.”

  “Ahh, good one.”

  “What?”

  “Blunder—in chess, that’s what they call a very bad move.”

  * * *

  At five thirty we were sitting in the Solara parked on the opposite side of West Main Street and facing the Anderson House. The sun was still high in the sky but did not reach us where we sat beneath the Wabasha-Nelson Bridge. It was cold, yet I didn’t start the car or its heater. Salsa Girl moved restlessly against the passenger seat, clinging to herself in an effort to keep warm. Either that or she was nervous. I leaned against the door and stared straight ahead.

  Unnecessary complexity as well as inattention to detail has ruined many a good plan. So I was careful to keep mine both simple and straightforward. First, I slowly drove the downtown Wabasha streets, taking note of high-traffic areas, pedestrians, the location of stoplights and how they were timed. I was particularly intrigued by the bridge that connected Wabasha, Minnesota, with Nelson, Wisconsin. It did not end at the river’s shore as expected but instead continued for several blocks, spanning the downtown area until it finally reached 4th Grant Boulevard and the sports fields beyond. What’s more, its entrance and exit ramps were flanked by high concrete walls, so it was not only impossible to view traffic on the bridge unless you were actually crossing it, you couldn’t see beyond the bridge while you were driving next to it. If I could lure Brazill and his boys onto the bridge, they wouldn’t be able to stop or turn around. They’d be trapped until they reached the far bank.

  Highway 61 was on the other side of the sports fields. It was easy to see cars heading in that direction. If they didn’t see me, if they were sure I wasn’t headed that way, they might assume I was trying to escape to Wisconsin. Meanwhile, I could continue to follow 4th Grant to Allegheny Avenue, hang a left, and head back toward downtown. Allegheny was more like an alley than a street. A quick right, though, would put me in an actual alley that ended at the back of a Catholic church complete with steeple. There were plenty of places to hide a car back there.

  If that didn’t work—Plan B. A couple of quick turns would put me on Hiawatha Drive that led directly to City Hall and the Wabasha Police Department. I figured if the boys were reluctant to shoot at us in Prospect Park, they’d be even less inclined to resort to violence in a cop-shop parking lot.

  And then what? my inner voice asked.

  Geezus, do I have to think of everything?

  Finally, a black Nissan Maxima pulled to a stop directly in front of the hotel. I gave Erin a nudge, but she had already spotted it.

  “You were right,” she said. “They must have plowed the Acura into another car when they were chasing us in Prospect Park, or they wo
uldn’t be driving something else now.”

  Brazill and Chandler emerged through the front doors of the Maxima, and the two henchmen slipped out of the back doors. Brazill stretched. Chandler examined the street. There were plenty of cars parked there but none that interested him, including ours. He gestured at one of the henchmen to watch the hotel doors. Afterward, he, Brazill, and the second henchman entered the hotel.

  “They’ll go to the front desk,” I said. “They’ll ask for my room. The woman will say that no one by the name of Rushmore McKenzie has checked in. They’ll try Christine Olson. No, the clerk will say, not her, either. How about Erin Peterson? By now the clerk will become anxious. She’ll start wondering who these guys are. She’ll ask them what they want. The boys might give her a convincing answer, but I doubt it. More likely they’ll resort to describing us, describing me and an attractive blonde who’s five-six and weighs about a hundred and thirty pounds…”

  “One-twenty,” Erin said.

  “Forgive me. There’s a small chance that the clerk might give us up—that she might say something about a man and woman checking in earlier, except that the woman had red hair instead of blond. I doubt it, though. Instead, she’ll probably point out that the hotel guarantees privacy to its guests and ask Brazill and the boys to leave. They’ll think about going over the desk, grabbing the clerk, grabbing the registration information off the computer. But Chandler has already proven himself to be a cool customer. He’ll thank the clerk for her courtesy and make the others back off, thinking he can stake out the hotel and wait for us to appear. They’ll leave the hotel—wait. Here they come. Get down.”

  Erin slipped off the seat and sat on the floor of the Solara, her head well below the windows. I started the car and drove down the street. I slowed when I reached the hotel, an expression of astonishment on my face. Brazill was the first one to see me. He pointed.

  Astonishment gave way to an expression of fear; at least I hoped it did. I dropped the transmission into first gear and stomped on the accelerator. Tires spun as I launched the Solara down West Main Street. I tried to make them squeal as I turned the corner onto Bridge Avenue.

  I shot down the street, driving the two long blocks until I reached 4th Grant. I forced myself to slow down so that the Nissan had time to fall in behind me. I needed the driver to see me turning left onto the boulevard. I punched it again, driving another two long blocks past the bridge entrance ramp to Allegheny Avenue. I hung another left and then a right into the alley that led to the church.