Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

  “There wasn’t any tape on the apartment.”

  “And didn’t you learn any self-defense moves at the academy?”

  “It wasn’t a fair fight, Ellen. He got me from behind, and from then on, I was just a fucking punching bag. Until he tried to saw my hand in half . . . that was enough to clear the cobwebs out.”

  “So other than an obvious interest in carpentry techniques, what do you know about this guy?” She looked out the small window with a view of Jefferson when she asked—an interrogation technique perhaps? Or was she honestly bored with me?

  I shook my head. “Nothing. He had on a mask. He smashed me on the head right away, and after that, everything was kind of dark.”

  “Rough size?”

  “Probably around six feet or an inch or two over it. Solid, but not a huge guy.”

  She nodded, not bothering to write any of it down. This was all off the record.

  “It changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

  Her phone rang, and she looked at me. Meeting over.

  “So I’m going to keep working on it, okay?”

  She went back to her desk and reached for the phone. Ordinarily a sister might suggest that her brother be careful or offer words of encouragement.

  Ellen shrugged her shoulders.

  “Do what you gotta do,” she said.

  12

  The Rockne residence is a brick colonial on Balfour Road in the Park. When we bought it four years ago, it was a fixer-upper in the classic sense. Bad carpet, a grungy kitchen, horrid paint colors, and pink tile. It took a few years for us to fix it up, but we got it done. Of course, the marriage almost went with it, but we got it done.

  My wife’s name is Anna. Imagine the stereotypical Italian beauty, and you’ve got my wife. Big dark eyes, black hair, full features, and a temper that could roast meat. She’s tough, sensitive, argumentative, emotional, loving, giving, quick to anger, slow to forgive, frugal with compliments, and sometimes she’s just downright nasty. Naturally I love her like the fool I am and wouldn’t have her any other way. I tell her I love her more times than she tells me. That’s how we are. But she’s tougher than I am, so there you go. We have two girls, Isabel and Nina. Isabel’s five, Nina’s three. They both look just like their Mom, thank God, and naturally I worship them like the miracles they are.

  I parked the Taurus in the garage and went inside. Instantly, I wished I hadn’t. I could never have an affair because my wife knows exactly what’s going on with me in an instant. Because as best as I’d tried to keep my hand hidden from her, Anna spun me around and held my bandage up to the light.

  She was definitely not happy. And when she’s not happy, no one else in the family is either. It’s a scientific impossibility.

  “The doctor said it was one of the worst paper cuts he’s ever seen,” I said.

  “A paper cut?” Anna said, repeating my lame improv. The girls were in bed. I was starting to laugh at my wife’s expression, but she was clearly failing to find any humor in the situation.

  “Yeah, it was that heavy construction paper. You know . . .”

  “John . . .”

  “. . . the kind you used in school with all the colors? It’s so thick! It’s practically a Bowie knife. You could cut a T-bone—”

  Anna glared at me and I stopped talking. There was no getting around it. I was going to have to tell the truth.

  “Okay, I was in a bit of a . . . tussle.”

  “A tussle?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a cross between a tumble and a wrestle. A tussle. From the Latin word tussilius. Meaning to—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  She tapped her feet and drummed her fingers. She was very coordinated.

  “A tussle with who?” she said.

  “Some guy.”

  “Some guy as in some guy you don’t know? Or some guy as in some guy you didn’t get a good look at?”

  “I would say the latter.”

  “And how did your hand get hurt?”

  “Well, we were—”

  “Tussling.”

  “Right. And a woodworking machine got turned on, and we crashed into it, and it went right between my fingers. A freak shop accident. Happens all the time. You ever have a shop teacher? Ever notice how they all have part of a finger missing? In high school my shop teacher was the baseball coach, and one time we asked when practice was, and he held up three fingers but one of the fingers was half gone, so somebody yelled out ‘two forty-five?’”

  I chuckled, but as Anna wasn’t laughing, I quickly stopped.

  By now, we were in the living room. Anna sat on the couch, propped her feet up on the ottoman, grabbed a throw pillow, and hugged it to her chest. I gave her a brief overview of the case.

  “Did you talk to your sister?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And?”

  “She said I should do what I gotta do.”

  This brought an eye roll.

  “Look, it was a freak accident,” I said. “ I’m sure it had very little to do with the case.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe right now. I have to keep at it and try to figure out what’s going on.”

  I recognized the look on Anna’s face. It was the expression she wears when she wants to tell me to drop this whole PI thing, that I got out of law enforcement for a reason. That what the world really needs is another fucking accountant. She opened her mouth, and I knew she was going to launch into the speech I’d heard quite a few times.

  Instead she just shrugged her shoulders, indifferent.

  Holy Christ, that was even worse.

  •

  The next morning I was back in my office, a fresh pot of Peet’s coffee (I was on the mailing program—a fresh bag every month straight from Portland, Oregon) and the telephone. I looked up the number for St. Clair Salvage and dialed the number.

  There was no answer. I left a message, letting him know that I was a private investigator working for Clarence Barre and that I would like to talk to him about Jesse.

  By lunchtime I had finished all of the filing and paperwork I could find around the office and Hornsby still hadn’t called me. I left another message, this time alerting Nevada Hornsby to the fact that he had just won a year’s supply of a new product called Turkey Jerky—all the great taste of jerky with half the fat and calories. Now available in three flavors: ranch, jalapeño and lemon lime! I left my number and urged him to hurry, hurry, hurry!

  By mid-afternoon I had searched the ’net for as much information as I could find on Hornsby. There wasn’t much. Just a very short human-interest story in the Free Press about St. Clair Salvage. Nothing useful that shed any light on Clarence Barre’s enemy number one.

  I looked at the clock. It was now dinnertime, and Hornsby still hadn’t called me. My next message informed him that a distant relative living in Hawaii had died and left him a forty-eight-acre estate on Maui, complete with three swimming pools, a cabana, and a small population of native island girls who ran the property’s private nude beach. All he had to do was call the number (coincidentally, the same one offering a year of Turkey Jerky.)

  I used the other phone, my private line, to call Clarence Barre. He answered on the third ring.

  “Tell me everything you know about Nevada Hornsby.”

  I listened while Clarence laid out what he had. It wasn’t much. Apparently the guy didn’t talk about his past. He was most likely from Michigan. Didn’t have family to speak of. Ran St. Clair Salvage and had been in love with his daughter. Like I said, not much.

  “I think he’s bad. Just a bad, evil person,” Clarence said.

  There Clarence went again with his intuition. Weren’t women supposed to have that? Clarence had more than his share. Maybe he had the stuff I didn’t get.

  I finished with Clarence and checked the clock. Quittin’ time.

 
I went home, had dinner, played with the kids, and then just before going to bed, called in to my answering machine. There still wasn’t an answer from the elusive Mr. Hornsby.

  I guess I would have to deliver the jerky in person.

  13

  The Spook stood before the full-length mirror in his suite at the Royalton Hotel in New York City. His Fender Telecaster was slung over his shoulder, its cable trailing out behind him to the small Pignose amplifier propped up on the bed. He had the guitar’s distortion on a medium setting, the juice turned to the first pickup. The settings were designed to create a dense, fuzzy sound that was tight enough to sound like a raucous bouncing romp when he pounded down a blues shuffle.

  The Spook put an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looked at himself in the mirror again. He had just flown in from London via Mexico the night before and looked like an exhausted traveler. He saw a pale man in his late thirties, early forties with scraggly black hair and a thin, pinched, slightly pockmarked face. He had on dirty blue jeans, cowboy boots, a short-sleeved black T-shirt, and a bone necklace.

  On his right ring finger was a large skull ring.

  The Spook had two loves in the world: the first was the ecstasy of a perfectly executed hit. There was really nothing like it in the world. Scoping things out, identifying the target, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Selecting the absolutely most pristine time and place. And then delivering the knockout blow with strength, speed, and deadly aim.

  It was like a beautiful melody to him that ended in a blazing crescendo of blood and violence, capped off by the silent applause of a roaring crowd inside his head.

  His second love was Keith Alvin Richards, lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones. The Human Riff, they called him. The man who constantly carried around five or six new songs in his head. If you stopped him in the street, he’d be in the middle of constructing a new song at that very moment.

  He was the heart and soul of the Stones.

  Granted, Mick had something to do with it. But common wisdom held that Mick was a cold fish.

  They said that while Mick thought it, Keith felt it.

  For the Spook, whose own profession required a detached frostiness, he longed to be like Keith, for his job required him to be Mick. Keith’s riffs spoke to the Spook. The sexy wail of “Honky Tonk Women,” the anthemic call of “Satisfaction.” They all kindled a flame in the Spook’s soul. He could relate to those riffs. To those sudden bursts of inspiration.

  Now, in his hotel room, he slid the fingertips of his left hand slowly up the fretboard of his Fender. The little Pignose amp responded smoothly and quietly. As much as the Spook would have loved to crank it up, it wasn’t the time nor the place.

  In his apartment in London, he had a soundproof studio in which he would sit for hours and play Keith’s riffs, his riffs, over and over again, until he had a welt on his chest from the Fender digging in.

  The thought of his London flat brought back wonderful memories for the Spook. When he had first gone to London almost fifteen years ago, after quietly leaving the CIA and going freelance, he’d immediately set out for Keith’s childhood neighborhood. He was supposed to have been scouting out his target, some ambassador from Libya who his client had deemed it was necessary to terminate.

  Instead, the Spook had gone sightseeing. He had gone down to Corningwall Road. Found the ramshackle little house where Keith had spent his first ten years.

  The Spook had soaked it up. Had imagined young Keith running around, his wicked smile and nasty vibrations welling up inside him. It had been a truly glorious, happy time for the Spook. On his own, free of the rules and regulations the CIA had imposed upon him. A free agent. Gun for hire.

  Now, back in his hotel room, The Spook bowed his head and slipped into the rhythmic chords of “Beast of Burden.”

  As he played, his boots tapped the thick carpet of his hotel room. He lost himself in the beauty of the evocation. In his mind, he was on stage at Wembley. Mick was in front, strutting across the stage. Ronnie was to his right, smiling, strolling. Wyman was in the back, trying not to be noticed. And Charlie was playing with intensity, his face a mask of indifference.

  The Spook’s fingers slid carelessly along the strings. His right hand tamped the strings, creating a playful syncopation.

  What a thing, the Spook thought. To be born to do something. That was the ticket. Keith had been born to write and play music. God had opened his brain and poured in all the ability he could handle.

  The Spook had a born talent. Killing people was his reason for existence. Each and every one had been a virtuoso performance. He knew this instinctively. It wasn’t arrogance or boastfulness. He was the best there was. He knew it. And those who were in the know knew it too.

  In the middle of the song’s bridge, the phone rang, but the Spook kept playing. If it was important, they’d call back.

  Besides, he had an inkling what the phone call was about.

  Or, more accurately, who it was all about.

  He smiled at the thought.

  I’m just waitin’ on a friend.

  The Spook closed his eyes and felt the music in him while his mind raced ahead to the thought of who he would most likely kill next.

  His old friend.

  John Rockne.

  14

  My plan was to be like a desperate prostitute: loud, aggressive, and unwilling to take no for an answer. How’s that for a positive self-image?

  Nevada Hornsby clearly wasn’t interested in talking to me. After all, what kind of guy would have no interest in nude native island girls and a year’s supply of Turkey Jerky?

  I pulled up in front of St. Clair Salvage. A quick visual survey showed that Nevada Hornsby’s business was made up of three parts: the factory, the office, and probably out back, the boat.

  I got out of the Taurus and walked over to what I assumed was the factory or the main shop area. It was a relatively narrow, but long, aluminum shed. I peeked in the windows and saw power equipment inside, as well as stacked logs. There were giant fans on each side of the long room, I imagined for sucking sawdust out of the building and blowing it into the air like one long, constant sneeze.

  I walked over to the office area, which looked even less impressive. It was a weather-beaten structure made of old wood—appropriate, at least—with a cedar shake roof, dirty windows, and a beat-up door. You could pay top dollar at Pottery Barn for that distressed wood look. But here, you just wanted to slap a coat of paint on it.

  The door rattled under my knock, but when I listened for an answer, all I heard was the howling of the wind off the lake.

  The soot on the windows smeared under my rubbing, but soon I’d cleared a space small enough for a small glimpse into the place. It looked pretty much vacant. A couple chairs here and there, some cardboard boxes, and pieces of wood. There was a doorway that led somewhere, but I couldn’t see far enough. Maybe the real office was back there.

  I walked around to the rear of the building and saw a long pier that branched off into a T. At the end I saw perhaps the ugliest boat of my life. It was a rusty tub, maybe thirty or forty feet long, with an enclosed cabin and a thin stream of black smoke coming out the back.

  Two men were on the pier, untying the thick ropes, and preparing to cast off.

  I jogged over, jumped onto the dock, and hustled down to the end of the pier. Looking at the water on either side of me, I saw that it was dark brown. Not exactly snorkeling territory here.

  I got the attention of one of the men, a reddish-haired guy with a red flannel shirt, jeans, and a wad of chewing tobacco that distended the entire right side of his face.

  “Nevada Hornsby?” I asked.

  He motioned with his thumb toward the cabin of the boat. It was like a little cubicle that someone had placed in the middle of the boat. It had a little door and little windows that were black with grime.

  In the back of the boat was a giant hook-and-pulley system, I assumed to help haul logs out of t
he lake. There was other equipment scattered around the deck: blocks and pulleys, hooks, big, odd-shaped pieces of steel. Most of it looked entirely unfamiliar to me. Then again, I majored in criminology not mechanical engineering.

  The man to whom I’d spoken made no move to get Hornsby for me, but merely went to a different part of the ship and began fiddling with some levers.

  I hesitated. The water next to the dock looked cold and unforgiving. I thought briefly of my car, still warm from the heater, a stainless steel coffee mug still half full, nestled in the driver’s side cup holder.

  Life is full of tough decisions.

  I jumped on board.

  I made way across the deck and peeked inside the ship’s cabin. Nevada Hornsby sat at the small Formica table that jutted out from the side of the cabin’s wall.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick black sweater, blue jeans, and black boots. His thick, dark hair and beard were neat and smooth. The only sign of age and a hard life were the wrinkles around his eyes.

  There was a knife in his hand, a long, crude thing that he was using to cut an apple. He looked up at me, the deep blue of his eyes seeming to leap from the weathered face and dark hair.

  “Nevada Hornsby?” I asked.

  He looked me up and down, and the look in his eye wasn’t flattering. He seemed to contemplate the knife in hand for a moment. I got the feeling the knife had gutted a lot of fish and that it could do the job on a private investigator just fine. But his expression didn’t come across as anger or violence. It seemed more like . . . weariness.

  “My name is John Rockne,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jesse Barre.”

  He got to his feet smoothly, and I quickly saw that he was bigger than I’d imagined. At least six feet four inches. His shoulders seemed bigger too. Fuck, he was just plain big.

  I pictured the man who had attacked me at Jesse Barre’s apartment. I suddenly had doubts that it could have been Nevada Hornsby. The guy in front of me was too damn big. If he’d wanted to saw my hand in two, he could have done it. Easily.