“Mine.”
That was plainer still.
It had stopped raining by the time I left Lido’s, but the way the clouds gathered on the horizon, it didn’t look as though it was through for the evening. I found my Neon in the back row and rested against the door. Maybe I should insist on taking Pen home, I told myself. Yeah, and tuck her into bed, too.
I glanced back at the front doors of the restaurant.
“You’ve done enough damage,” I said aloud.
I climbed inside the car, started it up, and maneuvered it across the parking lot. I was approaching the street when I felt a cold prickling on the back of my neck, a familiar friend announcing his presence—fear. I sensed it even before my conscious mind could determine the cause. Parked near the entrance to the parking lot was a gray 1988 Ford Ranger 4x4 with rust on all four sides. Two men were sitting in the cab. The one behind the steering wheel looked exactly like the man who had attempted to grab Pen in Hilltop three days earlier.
There was no indication that Pen’s attacker made me, but then I wasn’t looking for one. Instead, I forced myself to stare straight ahead when I drove past, pretending the pickup didn’t even exist. I headed up the street, hung a U-turn the moment I was out of sight, and parked next to the used car lot across the street from Lido’s. The lot was closed for the evening, and no one challenged me as I weaved past the rows of cars. I came out of the lot behind and to the right of the Ranger. I walked in a straight line toward it while trying to stay in the driver’s blind spot should he glance at his mirrors.
The windows to the truck were rolled down, and I could hear music as I approached. Rachmaninov’s Russian Rhapsody. The sound startled me. Heavy metal I could understand. Or country-western. But how many thugs do you know who listen to classical music?
I crouched low and circled the truck until I reached the driver’s window. I popped up and said, “Hi, fellas.”
Pen’s attacker—the driver—leapt back in his seat like I had caught him dozing. His hands were empty. The second man recovered more quickly and reached for something on the floor of the cab.
“Hey, dummy!”
My shout froze him in midreach. I rapped on the door frame with the business end of my Beretta. He looked at me. I pointed the Beretta at his head.
“Do you want to die?”
Unlike Danny’s single-action Browning, my Beretta was a double-action semiautomatic. I didn’t need to thumb back the hammer before I fired it. But I did so just the same—for dramatic effect. The second man leaned back against his seat.
“Hands up, guys. Palms against the ceiling. Do it now.”
Both men pressed their hands against the roof of the cab. The driver looked at me like I was one of those big cats at the Minnesota Zoo and he was wondering how I had managed to slip through the bars. I liked the look. The second man stared straight ahead. His eyes had the unfocused quality of someone wandering through an art museum and not seeing anything that interested him. That expression changed when the driver said, “I’m going to kill you for this.” The second man smiled, and suddenly he reminded me of the kind of dog that fetches dead animals and drops them at his master’s feet.
I jabbed the muzzle of the Beretta into the driver’s ear.
“What did you say?”
He just looked at me.
“Go ’head. Repeat what you just said.”
“He said …”
The driver’s head swiveled toward the man sitting next to him as if he were terrified his most intimate secret was about to be revealed.
“Shut up, Michael.”
“I was just saying—”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, Lawrence.”
Michael and Lawrence. I needed this. I really did.
“Guys, guys—both of you quiet down.” I felt like a mother separating a pair of bickering children on a long road trip. “You.” I gestured at Lawrence with the Beretta. “Do you remember me?”
Lawrence’s hand came off the roof of the cab and touched the back of his head where it had slammed against the asphalt.
“Yeah, I remember you.”
“Put your hand back up.”
He pressed his palm against the ceiling again.
“You’re here to snatch the girl,” I told him.
“You can’t prove that.”
“Why would I want to? I’m not a cop. I’m not FBI, DEA, ATF, BCA, state police, county deputy, or Boy Scout. I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off unless you answer my questions.”
I wondered if he believed me. I wondered if I believed me. I poked him in the ear again with the muzzle of the gun to strengthen my argument.
“You’re here to snatch the girl. Right?”
“Nah, man,” said Michael. “We’re here for her husband.”
“Shut up,” said Lawrence.
“Huh?” grunted Michael.
“You remember what he said, doncha?”
“Oh yeah, like I’m gonna be more afraid of fucking Andrew Jackson than I am this asshole”—Michael gestured at me with his chin—“who’s pointing a gun at me.”
“Who’s Andrew Jackson?” I asked.
“Man we’re workin’ for,” said Lawrence.
“He didn’t give us a name,” said Michael. “But he paid us in twentydollar bills.”
“That’s why we call him Andrew Jackson,” said Lawrence.
“What did he look like?”
“I dunno,” Michael answered. “Tall.”
“How tall?”
“’Bout six feet.”
“With black hair,” added Lawrence.
“Was he fat?”
“He could afford to lose a few pounds.”
“Uh-huh. What was the job?”
Lawrence glanced at Michael and sighed. “He’s going to be pissed, man.”
“Yeah, but think how happy you’re going to make me,” I said.
“He said snatch Sykora,” said Michael.
“But not the girl,” added Lawrence.
“He said not to hurt the girl,” said Michael. “He was pretty serious about that.”
“You tried to hit the girl before,” I reminded Lawrence.
“No, man. That was just a message. We were just sending a message, you know, to her old man.”
“I wasn’t there,” Michael said.
“I know you weren’t there,” Lawrence told him.
“I’m just sayin’.”
As if on cue, both men turned their gazes forward and stared out the windshield. Lawrence shook his head sadly. Michael smiled. “Damn,” he said.
I moved so I could watch them and see what they were looking at at the same time. It was a pretty sight. Pen leaving the restaurant and striding purposely toward a yellow cab, looking splendid in her rose-colored silk. The cabbie held the back door open for her. She lifted her skirt slightly and slid inside. The cabbie closed the door. A moment later, the vehicle eased out of the lot and down the street.
“Damn,” Michael repeated.
“We was told to snatch her old man, but he ain’t even here.” Lawrence looked me in the eye. “You’re here, though. What’s up with that?”
“Who told you her husband would be here?” I asked.
“Andrew Jackson.”
“How did he know?”
“What? Do I look psychic?”
“What did he tell you?”
“I told ya. He said to grab Sykora.”
“Then what?”
“Then we were supposed to take him to this place,” Michael said.
“What place?”
“A motel. On I-35.”
“Which one?” I asked, thinking, God, I’m getting tired of motels.
“Well, here. I have the—” Michael had taken his hands off the roof and was reaching for his pants pocket. He stopped when I turned the gun on him.
“I got a key,” he said cautiously. “In my pocket.”
“Fuck, Michael,” said Law
rence. “Why don’t you give ’im directions while you’re at it?”
“Slowly,” I told Michael.
The key had the name of a motel and a room number on it. I had Michael pass it to Lawrence and Lawrence pass it to me, always keeping the gun trained on them, yet just out of reach. I slipped the key into my jacket pocket.
“Then what?” I asked.
“He said he’d call with instructions,” Michael said.
“Just sit in the room and wait for his call. Is that it?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Do you know why you were supposed to grab Sykora?”
The two partners glanced at each other like each was expecting the other to answer.
“Do you even know who he is?”
No reply.
“He’s FBI.”
“A fed?” said Lawrence.
“No fucking way,” Michael insisted.
“We don’t like feds,” said Lawrence.
“We don’t mess with ’em, neither,” Michael added.
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Look at it this way, then,” I told them. “I’m doing you both a favor. Have you got any idea what kind of shitstorm would drop on your heads if you kidnapped an FBI agent?”
“Gee, mister. Thanks a lot,” Lawrence said, but I doubt he was being sincere.
I gestured toward the radio.
“I like your tunes.”
“Public radio,” said Michael. “It kinda soothes us.”
“Would you please shut up,” Lawrence told him.
I stepped away from the pickup.
“Gentlemen, you’ve been very helpful. But here’s the thing. I never want to see either of you again. If I see you again, I’ll figure it’s because you’re after me, and I’ll kill you. Do we understand each other?”
Both men smiled.
Yeah, right.
I took another step backward and fired two shots.
The first shot exploded the front tire. The second shot destroyed the rear.
The pickup truck listed hard to the left like a ship that was sinking.
I wasn’t afraid the noise would attract attention. Whoever heard the shots would listen for more. Only there would be no more, and after a few moments they’d stop listening. Meanwhile, I walked backward swiftly about fifteen paces, watching Lawrence and Michael watch me, until I hit the curb. I turned and ran across the street, hiding myself among the used cars until I was sure they weren’t chasing me.
Even criminals prefer easy commutes and safe neighborhoods. That’s why the twenty-two motels stretching along Interstate 35 from Lakeville to Burnsville and Eagan are so desirable. They’re peaceful, quiet, and safe, offer quick access to the southern Twin Cities freeway system, and are conveniently located a mere twenty or thirty minutes from the biggest drug market in the Upper Midwest: Minneapolis and St. Paul. Plus, it’s easy for drug runners coming up from Mexico and the southwestern states to hide among all those out-of-state license plates bound for the Mall of America.
The day was fading fast and rain threatened when I reached the motel identified on the key Michael had given me. The sign out front claimed that it had the lowest rates of any national chain in America, and from the look of the place, I believed it. The fort Victoria and Katie Dunston built out of cardboard boxes in their backyard had greater architectural integrity.
There were two levels to the motel. The doors of the rooms located on the bottom level opened to the gravel parking lot. The doors on the top opened to a landing that ran the length of the motel. There were two metal staircases, one on each side of the landing. The first was tucked next to the office; the second emptied into the parking lot. I parked at the bottom of the far staircase. The room I sought was in the center of the second-floor landing.
I climbed the metal stairs and slowly made my way to the room. The drapes were drawn over the only window. I rested my ear against the glass and listened. Nothing. My Beretta was in my hand, the safety off, as I edged to the door. This time I rested my ear against the cheap wood. Again, I heard nothing. I slipped the key into the lock and turned it cautiously. Satisfied that the door was unlocked, I turned the knob and swung it open. I entered the room in a crouch, the nine millimeter leading the way. A quick glance over and under the beds—there were two doubles—and a more careful examination of the bathroom proved the room was empty.
I returned to the door and closed it. The room looked gloomy in the gathering dusk. The overhead light didn’t improve matters much, either. I locked the door and slipped the chain on. I nudged the drapes out of the way and glanced out of the window. There was no movement in the parking lot. It had begun to rain again—not hard, but steady.
The telephone was located on the table between the two double beds, but it had a long cord. I dragged the phone across the far bed, setting it on the floor between the bed and the wall. I turned off the light and sat on the floor in the corner next to the phone, the bed between me and the door. I activated the nine and set it within easy reach.
“Anytime now,” I said to the phone.
I had to wait only a half hour, but it seemed longer. When the phone began to ring, I picked up the Beretta and held it steady on the door. I gave it a few beats before answering the phone.
“Yes,” I said.
“Like the room?”
“I’ve been in better.”
“Uh-huh. You’re McKenzie, right?”
“Yeah. Is this Frank?”
“Fuck, are you kidding me?”
Nuts. The voice wasn’t the same as the one I heard over Pen’s phone. I was sure Michael and Lawrence had been working for Frank.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Call me Ishmael.”
“I bet you have a whale of a tale to tell, too.”
“Hey, that’s funny.”
I took a chance. “Mr. Granata?” I asked.
After a slight pause, Ishmael said, “You think I’m Granata, huh?”
“The thought had crossed my mind, yeah.”
“Little Al’s too busy these days for wet work.”
“So he sends his flunky.”
“That’s what flunkies are for.” Ishmael chuckled. If he was insulted, I didn’t hear it in his voice. “Speaking of which, my boys are mighty put out with you. Do you know how much new truck tires cost these days?”
“Probably more than their truck is worth.”
“Probably you’re right.” Ishmael sighed dramatically. “You want to tell me, McKenzie, what the fuck you’re doing messing in our business?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you the exact same question.”
“I’ll bite—what’s your business?”
“Frank.”
“Frank, huh?”
“Calls himself Frank Crosetti these days.”
“After the Yankee shortstop. Yeah, Frank always was a baseball fan. So what do you want him for?”
“He murdered a friend and raped another.”
“And you want payback for ’em.”
“Something like that.”
“Can’t say I blame you. I’d probably want to whack ’im, too. Only the boss won’t like it.”
“No?”
“Boss has somethin’ special planned for Frank.”
“Is that right?”
“After we chat with him a bit first.”
“They say Granata is the last of the godfathers.”
“Not to his face, they don’t.”
“Why is Granata looking for Frank?”
“It’s business.”
“What business?”
“Family business.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I called dibs.”
“Dibs? What’s this dibs shit?”
“It means—”
“I know what it means. And you can forgetaboutit. Dibs. We’ll fucking take care of Frank.”
“Meaning the Bonanno family.”
“How come you know so much?”
“I pay attention.”
“You one of those nerd types always had his hand raised in school?”
“Pretty much.”
A deep sigh. “Whoever we are, McKenzie, you don’t have to worry about it. Not even a little bit. Russo’s gonna get what’s coming to him. I personally guarantee it.”
“Russo is his real name? Frank Russo?”
“You’re starting to annoy me, McKenzie.”
“We can’t have that, can we?”
“No, we can’t. What are you interfering for? Aren’t you listening to me? I promise, we’ll take care of Frank for ya. If it wasn’t for you, we’d probably have him already.”
“By kidnapping Sykora and doing what? Torturing him until he gives Frank up? What, are you kidding? An FBI agent?”
“A dirty FBI agent. Anyway, what do you give a fuck about Sykora?”
“I don’t. But I don’t want the girl hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“I like the girl.”
“She is likable.”
“You need to come up with another plan.”
“Another plan to do what?”
“To find Frank Russo.”
“What, are people stupid out here? You get past the Hudson and people just go fucking brain dead? It’s none of your fucking business how we get Frank. You stay out of it and maybe you don’t get fucked up, too.”
“You have a bad attitude, do you know that?”
Ishmael thought that was funny.
“McKenzie, you’re just gonna fuck up everything, aren’t you?”
“I might.”
“Ahh, man. I was gonna cut you some slack cuz you have balls, but you’re just too big a pain in the ass to live. Go look outside your window.”
“My window?”
“Go ’head.”
I crossed the room, dragging the telephone with me. When I reached the window, I used the muzzle of the Beretta to push the drape out of the way. It had become dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t recognize Michael and Lawrence. They were standing in the rain in the parking lot just below my room, the Ford Ranger between them. Michael waved at me.
“Hey, McKenzie,” Ishmael said.
“I’m here.”
“You see ’em?”
“I see them.”
“One last time—you gonna back off or what?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you to get Frank. It’s just that my dear old dad taught me, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”
Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 17
