Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels)

by David Housewright

  I checked the load in both my guns and left the motel room.

  Steve Sykora flung open the door of his mobile home after I knocked. My impression was that he was hoping I was someone else.

  He was an inch or two shorter than I was—with light brown hair. His eyes were dark, and he was blinking at me like he wasn’t sure I was really there.

  “I’m McKenzie,” I told him.

  He lunged out of the doorway toward me, his fist leading the way.

  I managed to get under the blow and attempted to counter with a ridge hand to his solar plexus, but he was already behind me. I tried to turn, only he caught me in a headlock. I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled back hard. At the same time I stomped his knee from behind. His leg folded, and I drove his knee to the ground. He kept rolling, taking me with him. Suddenly I was on my back and he was kneeling on my biceps. My wrist was pulled backward—he could have snapped it with a thought.

  “I’m a friend of Pen’s,” I blurted. I didn’t know what else to say. “I’m here to help Pen.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I know Frank kidnapped her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I bugged your trailer.”

  “You did what?”

  “A UHF transmitter on your telephone line.”

  Sykora added pressure to my wrist. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for the excruciating pain I knew would come—only he eased up at the breaking point.

  “Talk fast.”

  All the lies I had told in the past week and a half flashed before my eyes. None of them had done me much good, so I decided to try a different strategy—the truth.

  “You’re a sonuvabitch,” I told him. “Frank and his thugs killed my friend and raped another, and you let them get away with it. I hope you all burn in hell. But Pen doesn’t deserve any of this. So I’m going to help you get her back. I only hope she leaves you when we do.”

  “Leave me for you?”

  “She doesn’t even know who I am. I only know who she is because I’ve been listening to her put up with your bullshit for the past week.”

  “You’re the one who burned me with the bureau, aren’t you?”

  “You bet your ass I am.”

  Sykora chuckled, an odd thing to do, I thought. He released my wrist and abruptly stood up. As I rubbed first my wrist and then my arm, he wandered to the trailer. He tried to slam shut the door, but it bounced back open again.

  “I’m supposed to trust you?” he asked.

  I didn’t say if he should or shouldn’t.

  “Penelope,” he moaned. “I don’t know what I’ll do if …”

  The unspoken thought hung between us.

  “Yeah, now you care,” I told him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Have you ever listened to her?”

  “Of course I listen.”

  “I mean really listened to her? Listened to what she had to say about people, about life? Have you listened to her laugh? Have you listened to her music?”

  “Not for a long time.” His voice sounded far away.

  “You and I—we deserve what happens to us. God knows Frank does. But Pen … not Pen. She doesn’t deserve this. None of it. She’s an angel come to earth. And she needs our help. So what’s it going to be?”

  “An angel come to earth,” Sykora repeated. I admit it sounded way over the top when he said it. “You love my wife.”

  “No, I don’t. But I could be talked into it real easy.”

  I was surprised by the truth of my own words. But despite what Ruth Schramm had said, Pen wasn’t Audrey Hepburn and I certainly wasn’t Humphrey Bogart.

  Sykora took hold of the door as if he wanted to slam it again.

  “What’s it going to be?” I repeated.

  He left the door open.

  “Do you know where Frank is?” he asked.

  “We can find him.”

  “How?”

  “There’s only one person in Minnesota who would help him. Guy called Brucie. I’m betting Frank’s with him.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “You can always pay him the ten thousand and hope for the best.”

  Sykora closed his eyes.

  A moment later, he opened them again and started talking. His voice was brisk and sure, his words clearly enunciated. Yet he paced like he needed to urinate and the restroom was a long way off. His forehead and upper lip glistened with sweat. He reminded me of a poor poker player pushing chips into a pot he couldn’t afford to lose.

  “I know this Brucie,” he told me. “He’s one of Frank’s boys. But I know nothing else about him. I don’t even know his whole name.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then how do you expect to find him?”

  “Do you have a couple of flashlights?”

  Sykora glanced toward his mobile home.

  “Yes.”

  “Bring ’em.”

  I told Sykora we were driving back to the quarry in Elk River. He asked why, and I told him he’d see when we got there.

  For most of the drive north Sykora stared out the passenger window of my rented Neon. He felt like talking—maybe it was nerves—and I let him.

  “These wiseguys, you stay after them long enough they come to know your name. They start to think of you as an associate, a playmate, a friend—like guys on competing basketball teams who play each other often. They send you gifts on your birthday. Frank, he once sent me a food dehydrator for making beef jerky and dried fruit. Do you believe that?

  “When his power play with Granata went south, he sought me out, tracked me down to Minnesota. He offered me a deal—no witness protection, this was supposed to be between just him and me. He said he would help me get Little Al Granata and then he would return to New York and impose his will on the Bonanno family and we could go back to the way it was, me chasing him, like it was a game, cops and robbers. I took the deal.

  “My mistake, one of many, I tried to do it on my own. I didn’t want to bring the bureau in until I was ready. I was afraid they would queer the arrangement I had with Frank. I was under strict orders to ignore organized crime and concentrate solely on terrorists, you know. But I had a plan …”

  “I know your plan,” I told him.

  “Think so? Tell me.”

  “The cigarette bazaar this morning. All those immigrants and foreign-born citizens. You bust them all for selling illegal cigarettes, sort them out. Maybe there’s a Somali or a Palestinian who’s using the profits to help fund some group with ties to al-Qaeda, whatever. Then you connect the cigarettes to Granata and accuse him of being in cahoots with terrorists. To hell with due process, you use the Patriot Act and other terrorist legislation to swoop down on him, punch his ticket to Guantánamo Bay. No charges, no lawyers, no rights, who cares? He’s a gangster. The others, they’re foreigners. No one’s going shed tears over them. And you—you’re a hero. Saving the world for democracy. They might even make a TV movie out of it.”

  Sykora turned in his seat and looked at me as if I were suddenly interesting.

  “Oh, you don’t approve? Well, too bad. We’re trying to make the United States safe. And that means safe from the Mafia as well as terrorist groups.”

  “Safe for whom? Mr. Mosley? Susan Tillman?”

  I was glad that he didn’t answer, that he turned his head and stared out the window some more. If Sykora had said something about collateral damage, about breaking eggs to make omelets or sacrificing a few to save the many, we probably never would have reached Elk River. At least not in one piece.

  Sykora was on my right, sweeping the tall grass and shrubs with his flashlight. We had been at it for five minutes before he asked, “What am I looking for?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “It’s bigger than a bread box.”

  We had driven to the top of the bluff following the same ancient road Frank ha
d used earlier. I parked many yards back from where he had because of an irrational fear that I would accidentally drive the Neon over the edge of the quarry. I blamed it on the acrophobia.

  It was slow going. Clouds hid the night sky, and the only illumination came from our flashlights and the headlamps of the Neon. After ten minutes of searching I found my binoculars. I hung them over my shoulder by the strap and pivoted to my right, trying to remember where I had moved after I dropped them that morning. Toward that tree, I told myself, and a little that way, and …

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I trained my light on Sykora. He was standing still, his flashlight holding steady on an object in front of him. I moved to his side.

  “This is what we were looking for?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Ahh, Jesus …”

  Danny seemed smaller now, more like a child than a man, curled into a ball, his limbs locked by rigor. His pale skin reminded me of cold mashed potatoes—not an appetizing sight. The blood on his body had dried, and the blood that pooled beneath it had soaked into the ground and turned a muddy color. Its odor was faint and slightly sweet, like a bad perfume. I set the binoculars on the ground and reached into my pocket for a handkerchief. I unfolded it over my hand and used it to pull Danny’s leather wallet from his pocket.

  “Did you do this?” Sykora wanted to know.

  I ignored him.

  “Did you?”

  “Jake Greene shot him,” I said.

  “Who’s Jake Greene?”

  “Some guy from South Dakota.”

  I opened Danny’s wallet. His driver’s license was easily readable in a clear plastic sheath.

  “Frank said you were here this morning,” Sykora told me.

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t reply. Instead, I asked, “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Yeah.” Sykora reached into his pocket.

  I set my flashlight on the ground next to the binoculars and took Sykora’s phone. I held it with one hand, punching the numbers on the keypad with my thumb by the light of Sykora’s flash, while holding Danny’s wallet with the other. When Bobby Dunston didn’t answer by the fourth ring, I knew he wasn’t going to. Still, I waited, and in the middle of the sixth ring I was rewarded by a voice that said, “St. Paul Police Department, Detective Shipman.”

  “Jeannie?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is McKenzie.”

  “They haven’t arrested you yet?”

  I was looking at Sykora when I said, “No, they haven’t arrested me yet.” Sykora frowned. “Is Bobby around?”

  “Checked out for the evening.”

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Can you pull up a guy for me on C-JIS, named Fuches, F-U-C-H-E-S, first names Daniel James?”

  “You know, McKenzie, the St. Paul Police Department frowns on accessing the state’s Criminal Justice Information Systems computer for personal use.”

  “Help me out, Jean.”

  There was a long pause while Jeannie considered my request. She said, “You know what I like about you, McKenzie? You’re a quid pro quo kinda guy.”

  “I am?”

  “Someone does you a favor and you’re always sure to return it.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the maxim ‘A good deed is its own reward’?”

  “I must’ve missed that one.”

  I gave it a few moments’ thought, then said, “If I’m not mistaken, you’re a Sheryl Crow fan.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I hear she’s coming to the Xcel Center in St. Paul next month.”

  “She is. Concert’s already sold out.”

  “I can get you tickets.”

  “You can?”

  “Main floor center.”

  “How?”

  “I know a guy.”

  “Of course you do. Two tickets?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And perhaps you’ll join me?”

  I hesitated. “Perhaps I will.”

  “Hang on. I need to switch to a different phone.”

  Jeannie put me on hold. Nearly two minutes passed in silence while I waited. I was thinking, it wouldn’t kill me if I took out Bobby’s “young, beautiful, smart-as-hell” partner, but Nina might. Best to not tell her. I wasn’t sure exactly what our relationship was, but I was going back to my life, and lately she had been one of the better parts of it. Best to keep it from Bobby, too. A moment later, Jeannie was back on the line.

  “Let’s see—Daniel James Fuches. Bunch of DWIs, a few dis cons, questioned for two burglaries and one armed robbery but nothing came of it, charges filed on a first-degree sexual assault, then dropped when the victim refused to testify—what do you need? Anything specific?”

  “I’m looking for any kind of reference to a guy named Bruce or Brucie.”

  “Bruce or Brucie … Bruce David Fuches, arrested and charged along with Daniel on the sexual assault.”

  “They’re brothers?” Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. Danny and Brucie looked so unlike each other.

  “Brothers, cousins, uncles, I don’t know.”

  “Let’s take a look at him.”

  Jeannie sighed like she had plans and I was keeping her from them. Thirty seconds later she said, “Looking, looking … Here we go. Bruce David Fuches. A couple of burglaries, both dismissed, armed robbery dismissed, first-degree sexual assault, same deal as Daniel … one, two … five A&B’s, four dismissed, but finally with the fifth he took a six-month jolt, year probation. These guys, both of ’em, a couple of low-level habituals.”

  “Gangster wannabes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Do you have an address?”

  “Same as Daniel’s.”

  “Thank you, Jean.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to the concert.”

  “Me, too.”

  I deactivated the cell phone and handed it back to Sykora.

  He smiled.

  I said, “Shut up.”

  The address was in Norwood Young America. It was only about five miles from where Mr. Mosley had lived, but I didn’t know that part of the area, and it took me a while to find it. Sykora didn’t mention Danny during the drive. I thought that was good of him.

  Bruce Fuches lived in a small clapboard house with worn shingles and white paint peeling from the clapboard. Even in the dark I could tell that the yard needed work. Sykora and I walked up the front walk. His Glock was out and resting on his thigh. My gun was still parked between my belt and the small of my back, but my sports coat hung open. When we reached the door, Sykora slid to the side, out of sight. I knocked. A light went on and the door opened.

  “Yeah,” a woman said.

  She swung her head, and long black hair swept from one shoulder to the other. She was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt cut off just above the navel. There wasn’t much muscle tone under the shirt. I was guessing the beer can she held in her hand had something to do with it.

  “I’m looking for Bruce Fuches,” I said.

  “I ain’t him.”

  I looked her over from top to bottom and smiled what I hoped was a charming smile. “I can see that,” I said.

  She smiled back, then wobbled a bit as if it had taken great effort. She placed a hand on the door to steady herself.

  “You’re a lot cuter than most of his friends,” she said.

  “So are you,” I said, although when you think about it, it wasn’t much of a compliment.

  “I’m Wanda,” she said.

  “Hi, Wanda.” She didn’t ask for my name and I didn’t give it.

  “What do you want with Brucie?”

  “I have some business with him and Danny.”

  “The Bobbsey Twins,” she said. “Gonna make it big any day now. Least what they say like every day now. Couple a’ losers, you a
skin’ me. Hey, you wanna come in?”

  She turned in the door frame to let me pass. Sykora concealed his gun behind his back and stepped across the threshold. Wanda saw him for the first time.

  “There’s two of you,” she said, then smiled a smile that shaded off into a leer. “’At’s okay. I can do two of you.”

  The living room was small. A table and two chairs were set in front of the window overlooking the street, and a battered sofa was shoved against the wall opposite them. All the furniture was arranged so that it had a clear view of a TV set on a metal stand with hard plastic wheels. The TV was on and tuned to a reality program in which dozens of beautiful women were chasing a homely man they thought was rich—if you call that reality.

  “Is Bruce home?”

  “Naw. Think if Brucie was home I’d be … Listen, Brucie, he and Danny ain’t coming back. Least not tonight. We’d be all alone. So whaddaya think? A threesome?”

  “I like the sound of that,” I said, feeling suddenly like the pizza delivery guy in a bad porno flick.

  “Wha’ ’bout you?” she asked Sykora.

  “Yum.”

  “Well, then …”

  “Wouldn’t Bruce be upset?” I asked.

  “You don’t look like you’d be ’fraid of Brucie.”

  Little did she know.

  “Lookit, he don’t mean nothing to me no more,” she said. “This place.” Wanda waved at the room with her beer can. “He said he was gonna take care of me, only it’s been the other way ‘round. My alimony checks and my tips that’s payin’ for all this. Him and that wimpy brother of his, they don’t do nothin’ ’cept say how they gonna be big in the Mafia. The Mafia! You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “I appreciate that, Wanda. But I really have to find Bruce.”

  “Why?”

  “Business, like I said. With him and Danny and Frank.”

  “Fat Frank,” she said. “There’s a piece of work. Think I offer to Frank he’d turn me down? C’mon, you guys gonna fuck me or what?”

  “I’m just saying right now might not be the best time.”

  Sykora moved enough to catch Wanda’s eye.

  “You said Bruce wouldn’t be back tonight. Where is he?”