Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  Stepping into the wintry evening, dark as a boxer’s punch, knocked me back into my personal reality. Nansi’s earlier dismissal slammed into my chest. My heart ached. I tucked myself into the cold Chrysler and drove to the dealership.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Loyalties Gone By

  The lights were on, but I didn’t see sign of Renée or the other two. Since the office door was unlocked, I guessed Renée would be in the bathroom, or out securing the shop for closing.

  A good time to answer some unanswerable questions.

  It took me a minute to find the employee files. Another two minutes to find Akira’s folder. I cursed the short-sightedness of forgetting his surname.

  Dixon had kept every worker’s file since the day this place opened. My guess was that Renée had sorted it all into an obsessively organized presentation. I silently thanked her.

  Lifting Akira’s file half out of the cabinet, I scanned for the unusual. Having spent hours pouring over my airplane’s jacket file during its transfer to me in ’93, noting every anomaly that might bring grief later, I made quick work of the spying. Especially since his file was so thin. It looked like he’d worked a warehouse in Wyoming, and drove truck for a custom combiner out of Texas. That summed up his employment history. Another official looking sheet had been attached with a paperclip. I was peeling it back for a look when I heard the door.

  “Hey,” Renée said. “What’re you doing here?”

  I turned my head to find her cruising at me with an unpredictable smile.

  My heartbeat jumped to at least ninety-five. I dropped the folder and shoved the drawer closed, grinning. The lack of blood in my lips made them feel flat. “Thought I’d come by and see what this place is made of.” I indicated the file cabinet. “You guys must have saved every folder since Adam.”

  Renée twisted her mouth. “Dixon didn’t want to get rid of anything. I did my best to straighten it into a recognizable mess.”

  My heart rate slowed. “It occurred to me that Dixon might have had something on me when I worked here. See what he thought of my service.” My smile was becoming more comfortable.

  “Did you find it?”

  Would it offend her if I didn’t? “Uh, no.”

  Renée pushed me aside and grabbed a middle drawer. “It’s under Family.” She jerked a manila folder out of the center.

  “I should have thought of that,” I said, feeling shame tingle the back of my neck. I grabbed the folder.

  She grimaced. “Right. Everybody has a system like Dixon’s.”

  “I’m blood, remember? We probably think alike.”

  “That’s frightening.” Renée sat and scooted her chair forward to work on some papers.

  Ask about Mother’s mobility. The impulse passed quickly. My head was still reeling from getting caught snooping. What would it mean if Renée knew Mother was walking?

  “You came too late,” Renée said.

  “Too late?” I stepped around to the front of the desk, and looked down at her.

  “I finished locking the doors. The rest is paperwork for tomorrow morning. Can’t get much financing work done on a Sunday night.” She never looked up.

  “I’ll see what I can do about coming back, Renée.”

  That registered with her and she lifted her head. Soft tears formed around the rim of her eyelids.

  “Akira. He had a good idea. Maybe I can get a special release from Uncle Sam.” My index finger tapped the edge of the folder in my hands. I turned my attention to it. “If you want.”

  I waited thirty seconds before glancing up.

  She dropped her dumbfounded stare, preventing me from evaluating her. “Whatever you think you need to do, Connor.”

  I decided not to press her. “I’ll see you later,” I said. And then I moved out the door.

  Driving across the Tongue River Bridge on the way home, a surge of guilt rose from my belly. What was I doing, snooping around behind my family’s back? I cursed and slapped the steering wheel. A police cruiser passed me going the other direction. I watched the rearview mirror intently to see if he would turn to follow me.

  “You are absolutely losing your mind, Connor Pierce,” I said to the windshield. “You’ve even started chastising yourself.” I took a quick right at the first corner, just to be safe, and hoped I could still find the back way home.

  I found Akira bent into the trunk of a Honda Civic Coupe at 8 a.m. Monday morning. He didn’t hear my intrusion into the warm, grease-tainted odor of the shop, but the breath of icy outdoor air quickly announced me.

  He pulled himself upright, ducking to keep his head from hitting the trunk’s edge. “Ohayōgozaimasu, Konā-san!” he said, bowing deeply toward me. Something about his stature, the lack of gray in his oil-black hair, or maybe his happiness at seeing me, made him appear younger than I knew he was.

  I returned his bow, though less profoundly. Straightening, I said, “The engine’s on the other end, you know?”

  Akira laughed in hearty American fashion. “Your sense of humor. Just like Dixon. I think he may have even told the same joke once.” He seemed so happy to see me, the joy nearly made him glow.

  I tried responding. My father’s memory stuck in my mouth. Going through my employee file had revealed only two evaluative statements: Good worker. Learns quickly. Akira blurred at the edges. Looking around the bay to avoid embarrassment, I saw Dixon’s battered toolbox in the corner of the bench. The sentimental flood stirred what might have been my earliest memory. I had reached inside that treasure chest with my tiny hand, dragged out a shiny tool, and offered it like a jewell to Dixon. The perfection of that moment rushed over me. I snorted an attempt to detain the overflow.

  Akira saved me. “Still planning to visit tonight?”

  I nodded, inhaling the fragrance of automobile repair, of oil and grease and rubber, and blinked back tears.

  “I have a few recipes I picked up from the motherland,” Akira said, stooping back into the car trunk. “Anything in particular you like? Kobe beef steak? Vegetable stir fry?”

  Emotion settled in my stomach. “I’m easy to please. I’ll even eat tofu in a pinch.”

  He made a grunting, chuckling sound.

  “Only people in the world that make edible soy products,” I said.

  Akira jerked out of the trunk holding a large chunk of carpet. “Oosh!”

  I moved closer to investigate.

  Fine black particles floated around Akira’s head and shoulders. He turned the charcoal gray material in his hands.

  “Upholstery?” I asked, peering into the trunk to avoid the way the dark cloth emphasized his missing pinky. A bare metal spot matched the shape Akira held in his hand. “You trying to remove this carpet?”

  “I’m trying to undo a mistake.” He reached in and toyed with the torn edge that remained. “This baby is supposed to come up so you can get to the spare.”

  “Someone glued it in?”

  “We had this car in last week for a cracked rim on the mini spare. Zach worked on it.” He ran his index finger along the edge of the rip.

  “Zachary Polson? The kid that works with you?”

  “Yeah. Renée raised hell because he put the carpet in wrong.”

  “You’re saying he glued it on purpose? To spite her? Reminds me of my last assistant crew chief.”

  “I’m not saying anything for sure. But Zach has a way of responding to the exercise of authority.” Akira tossed the damaged piece into the trunk. “This is going to take a little more planning than I thought.”

  “He must not be too concerned about getting fired.”

  “Youth. As youngsters we think the consequences of our actions will blow away like chaff at harvest.”

  “Has anyone seen him since the funeral?”

  “I haven’t. Renée’s been asking. So I guess not.” He let out a long exhale. “Some employers would not allow for a stunt like this.” His thumb made an almost imperceptible touch to the pinky stub.


  I inhaled sharply, and quickly slapped my personnel file against my thigh to cover the sound. “I best get going. Tonight at seven, right?”

  “Seven is perfect.”

  Akira walked with me toward the office. I veered off for Mother’s New Yorker. “My condolences,” I offered with one foot in the car.

  He grimaced.

  “For having to tell Renée about Zachary’s stunt.”

  He gave me a big smile.

  I waved and drove off.

  After a stop to fill the gas tank, I headed for Signal Butte.

  The ascent was slowed by bumps and scrapes. Most of the ruts and rocks were now hidden under a layer of snow. They felt the same as my last trip more than twelve years earlier.

  I cringed with each thump, and gritted my teeth at every grating drag. Mother’s car took a beating to the undercarriage, but I couldn’t go home. And I didn’t feel like hanging around the dealership. I gunned the huge luxury car over the last of the eroded ruts, and skidded to a halt on top. I left the engine idling for warmth.

  Wind gusts buffeted the vehicle.

  Miles City’s growth over the past twelve years became more obvious from the summit. Most of the change came with the construction of a K-Mart at the southern access to I-94. Renée had bitterly harangued WalMart’s plan to destroy those jobs in the upcoming months over Saturday’s dinner.

  I didn’t argue. It wasn’t my town. But maybe she had a point.

  With business flowing south, a batch of recent subdivisions had cropped up on the far side of the freeway. Employees could roll out of bed and right into the morning retail hours. They could do their shopping before shoveling the walk or cutting the grass, and never have a reason to go downtown.

  My home had outgrown me. The coarse witticism only increased emotional distance. Stepping from the airplane and into my past had been an illusion. This was not the home I grew up in.

  I spent the last two hours before lunch absorbing the harsh beauty of Eastern Montana chaparral— the part that men couldn’t change.

  Cute blonde Sheila had topped off my coffee for the third time when Tony walked in.

  “Good book?”

  I laid the library loaner on the table. “Keeps me interested,” I said and shook his hand.

  Tony twisted his neck to read the title. “Japanese Mob in America. You’re taking this seriously.” He slipped free of his coat and slid into the booth.

  “Just making sure I’m not crazy.”

  “Oh, you’re crazy.” Perusing the menu didn’t hide the gleam of mischief. “Unless you’ve changed considerably.”

  “You might as well put that down. You’ll just confuse the waitress.”

  He laid the menu aside. “I’m a creature of habit. It’s a bad thing?”

  “Only for the hunter. Find anything on Akira?”

  He looked at his hands. “No.”

  “So I’m blowing smoke? He’s just a guy like any other from Idaho?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t find anything.”

  Sheila came over with a cup. “Need a minute, lawman?” She poured his coffee.

  He beamed at her. “Funny, Sheila.”

  “The usual, then?”

  “Would anything else bring you the security you’ve come to expect from local law enforcement?”

  Her expression suggested she’d heard the joke before.

  “I’ll have a Reuben with fries. And,” I lifted my cup. “More coffee.”

  She nodded and left us.

  “Seriously. You didn’t check him out?”

  Tony frowned. “I couldn’t check him out, Connor.”

  “It’s a small thing, right? Am I asking too much?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that it’s a big deal. It’s just Frieze. I had almost half the question out of my mouth and here he comes into the room, bellowing his disappointment in the department’s overemphasis on one suicide.” He slid lower in his seat. “This case is touchy for him.”

  I jiggled my coffee and counted the ripples. “Tony, did you ever notice Akira’s right hand?”

  “What about it?”

  I flipped pages in the book between us and found a passage. “He’s missing a pinky.” I slid the book over and indicated a line.

  He peered at the words.

  “Yakuza require proof of loyalty from someone who has breached confidence, or,” I paused. “If an outsider wants in.”

  Tony straightened an inch, giving me a look of skepticism. “You think Akira joined the Yakuza. That he....” Tony followed the text with his own pinky finger. “Offered a sacrifice of honor.” He sat back and gaped at me. “No way! He let somebody whack of his finger? So he could join their gang?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see who was behind us. “Yeah,” I said in a low voice.

  “Come on, Connor. That’s nuts.” Tony tipped his head to the side. “This is Montana. Not New York or Chicago or LA. We don’t get that kind of nonsense around here. We have bar fights. We have lover’s spats with lead. Not gangs.”

  “Why not?” I yanked toward me.

  “Don’t get mad. I’m on your side. But—”

  “But what? You think I’m loony because my dad just died. I’ve got to find someone to blame.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Come on, Tony. You know me better than that.”

  “I did. You’ve been gone a long time.” He leaned elbows on the table. His face became oversized.

  “I’m not a whole lot different.” Saying it out loud made it sound false. I’d recently done things I swore I’d never do.

  He relaxed his posture, leaning back into the cushion. “Some really normal guys came apart in El Salvador. Good guys I’d have put my life up for.”

  “Say it is nuts. I don’t know. But can I just let it slide?”

  “Maybe not.” His gaze fell to the table. “Only I can’t check for you. Frieze is knotted into a ball about the Freeman. We’re going to be moving another prisoner for the FBI soon. Everybody’s a little jacked up about it.”

  I wanted to press him. Wasn’t I a friend? Didn’t my concerns warrant a look? Couldn’t he stretch the rules a bit? Even if I was crazy? It chaffed me, the way Frieze pulled his strings. I’d always felt like Tony was his own man. “I’m going by his place tonight.”

  His scrunched his brow. “You’re going to his house?” His words came faster. “After all you’ve told me about machete justice? You sure you want to do that?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. Growing up, I’d always uncovered trouble. Tony got into more misfortune trying to keep me happy than he could have ever managed on his own. “He invited me. To look at a map of his father’s Okinawan haunts.”

  “You are not kind, my friend.” He pouted his lips. “There is a deep hurt within me.”

  My grin melted. He was still my brother, blood or no. Making trouble for him was just selfish.

  Sheila appeared with two steaming plates.

  We dug in, forgetting opposing viewpoints for the moment.

  Neither of us spoke until Tony wiped his plate with a slice of bread. “All I can say is be careful, pard.”

  He left me to read about criminals while he went out to obstruct them. I focused on the Yakuza story to hide from the tangle of guilt I felt, both for disrespecting my friend and testing my family’s loyalty.

  I was deeply involved in the machinations of the Yakuza hierarchy when a shadow covered my book. My hand automatically pushed the coffee cup toward the table edge. In the same instant, a scent of sweet melons filled me with lust. Jasmine perfume.

  I sat up straight, just as she perched on the opposite cushion.

  “Howdy, Cowboy,” Jasia said, her eyes lingering on my lips for an imperceptible moment.

  “Hello to you.” I glanced down at the page number, and then closed the book slowly. “I’m surprised.”

  “I saw your mother’s car.” She tugged at her white fur coat collar with one hand. Then she placed her purse carefully nex
t to her. She was stalling.

  I took the time to visually trace the line of her finely sculpted jaw as it swooped into the hollow of her graceful neck.

  “I thought your mother or Renée might be in here.”

  “Business is slow, I guess?”

  “It’ll pick up.” Her eyes tugged at me. “I’m relieved. Actually. Holidays are taxing.”

  “Why were you looking for Mother?”

  She stopped shifting around, giving full attention to me. “I thought I’d offer my condolences. In a less formal setting than the funeral. It’s more genuine, don’t you think? To take time out for others.”

  A stutter occurred in my chest. “True. More intimate.”

  “Can you pass this on?” She dipped into her purse. “I’d forgotten it at home.”

  I took the envelope she offered. Its texture reminded me of cloth. “Nice card.”

  Jasia raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t even looked.”

  “The quality. I can feel it. Hefty.”

  “I’ve always felt close to your folks. Since....”

  I lifted the book cover a half-inch, dropped it and repeated the movement several times.

  Jasia stared at my insignificant action.

  She’d spent time with us. When her mother remarried. She had cried for days. The first seeds of my love for her sprouted soon after.

  A clatter of pans sounded from the industrial kitchen.

  She swore to return to North Carolina. Find her dad. Make amends. Back then, I couldn’t relate. Now it made sense.

  Sheila puttered behind the counter, almost ignoring Jasia. Once she started toward us, I watched the heel-to-toe roll of her flat shoes.

  “Can I get you anything, Jasia?” She asked in tone so devoid of inflection it oozed disdain.

  “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  If my eyes had been closed I would have assumed the two women were addressing each other. Instead, they both focused on me.

  “I’m fine, as well. Any more coffee and I’ll be awake until next Tuesday.”