Bite Me (Devlin Haskell 3)

by Faricy, Mike

“Not kidding.”

  “Really?”

  She got up, went to the refrigerator for another wine bottle. It was sometime after midnight when we staggered into bed.

  “Gotta run, meeting,” Heidi whispered in my ear the following morning. “Help yourself to breakfast and lock the door on your way out.”

  She was dressed, just putting on earrings and then she was gone. I drifted back to sleep for a few more hours When I woke I lounged in bed for a long moment smacking my teeth and assessing the extent of my hangover. I got dressed, wandered into the kitchen, I should have known better than to look for food. There was a half package of cream cheese in the back corner of the refrigerator. On the bottom shelf something in a white Styrofoam container was growing a fuzzy science experiment. I wasn’t hungry enough to risk it. I took four aspirin from the bottle she’d left on the counter, then locked up on my way out.

  I phoned Louie’s cell and amazingly he answered, actually he coughed a number of times.

  “Louie?”

  “Hello.”

  “Louie?”

  “Dev?”

  “Yeah, listen can we meet?”

  “I think we better. I got a call from your close personal friend Detective Manning, he’s looking for you, along with the rest of the department.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Oh you know, the usual first thing in the morning sort of phone call. You’re missing and in violation of your release agreement.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He casually mentioned since you’ve disappeared and aren’t wearing the ankle bracelet anymore there’s a warrant issued for your arrest. They’ve posted a BOLO, Be On The Lookout for you. He sort of wondered if maybe I knew anything. Since apparently as your attorney, I’m the last guy to know anything, I really couldn’t help him out. Care to enlighten me?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve got some suspicions…” I went on to tell Louie about my damaged car, the cops at the office.

  “So let me get this straight. You wake up and discover your car has been in an accident. And you have no recollection?”

  “I know it doesn’t sound too good.”

  “Possibly the understatement of the year. Does the term absolutely horseshit have any connotation?” Louie said.

  “That a legal term?”

  “I think we better meet, but probably not at my office and definitely not at yours.”

  “You name the place, I’ll be there,” I said.

  “There’s a bar, the Coal Bin, over on…’

  “I know the place.”

  “I got a motion in court late this morning I gotta deal with. Can you be at the Coal Bin about one-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And Dev, keep that car out of sight. They’ll be looking for it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I knew one of the dumbest things I could do right now would be to go to the KRAZ parking lot. At least that’s what I told myself as I sat parked in the far corner. Farrell’s BMW was in its usual place. Kiki’s Audi was parked two spaces away.

  I climbed out of my car, walked over to Farrell’s BMW. I didn’t touch the thing, but I did notice sand collected beneath the wheels, I’m guessing washed up there after the rain the other morning. Lodged on the grill was a round plastic lid, a small hole in the middle like it might have been from a soft drink cup. The BMW hadn’t been moved in a couple of days.

  I left the parking lot, tuned in seven-forty on the dial to listen to the KRAZ broadcast. Farrell, sounding as dull as ever, appealed for cash donations, followed by the cautionary reminder not to send checks lest the Communists and Anarchists in Washington monitor your active support of freedom. He stammered over the word anarchists, he seemed to do that a lot, the stammering.

  The Coal Bin was a dismal little neighborhood joint that sat on a bleak corner of a back street, in sight of the old Northern States Power plant and the river. It had been pouring drinks since at least the beginning of prohibition. The sign above the corner door, illuminated in the middle of this muggy summer day, proclaimed Rusty and Marge as the proprietors. Rusty’s name had been spray painted over so long ago that you could read it again.

  I pulled into the small rear parking lot a half hour early, parked on the far side of a large green dumpster. In order to see my car, you’d have to drive in the lot and somehow hit it.

  Inside, the Coal Bin was what you’d expect, four guys sitting down the length of the bar on red vinyl and chrome stools, three stools apart, all staring at their beers. There wasn’t a hint of conversation. I felt like asking if the glass was half empty or half full?

  A large woman, north of sixty, nodded, then wiped the bar, sort of directing me where to stand when I ordered. She had glow-in-the-dark red hair and didn’t smile. I guessed she probably doubled as the bouncer.

  “A Summit,” I said

  She grabbed a mug, pulled the tap, set the beer in front of me. Not a wasted motion.

  I retreated to a dark booth in back and sat facing the door. I was on my third mug when Louie finally arrived.

  “Louie,” the red headed bartender/bouncer squealed as he walked in.

  “Marge, my beauty, how’s it going?”

  They exchanged insults, and then she pushed a mug and a shot he’d never ordered in front of him.

  “Gotta meet with this guy,” he said, and waddled over in my direction, sloshing beer.

  “Been here long?” he asked, then drained a third of his beer before he sat down. It was close to two-thirty.

  “Not to worry. She seems a fan,” I glanced toward the bar.

  “I’m in here once in a while, kind of off the beaten path, allows me to sit in here and sort of think uninterrupted and shit, you know.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, Dev, tell me what’s going on,” he took another healthy sip, dropped the level of beer to about the halfway mark.

  “Well, I came home the other night, found a thong on my doorknob…”

  Louie listened as if he heard this sort of thing everyday, nodded occasionally, sipped the bottom half of his beer. I told him everything, seeing Kiki at the U. The newspapers stacked up at Doctor Deaths house. I described Doctor Death dead and taped to the chair. Told him how I spotted the dents in my car, my suspicions about Kiki. I finished up with, “So, once I saw the cops at my office, I figured my chances were slim to none and kept on going. I cut the monitor bracelet off, dumped it and called you.”

  Louie nodded for a moment before he tossed his shot back. He didn’t so much as blink when it went down.

  “Well, let me tell you, you’re Mister Popular, seems everyone wants to talk with you. I already told you about the BOLO. Manning issued an arrest warrant for you, although that seems kind of fast if you just dumped the bracelet late yesterday. I’ll check it out, I’ve got to pick up the autopsy report on Barkwell later this afternoon, anyway. They’ll do an autopsy on that guy from the U, what’d you say his name was, Kevork?”

  I nodded.

  “They’ll do an autopsy on Kevork, when they find him. To my knowledge they haven’t, yet.” He looked at Marge, signaled another round with just a slight nod. “Gotta tell you, Dev, you could use some help in the girlfriend department. Man, I thought I was screwed up.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  “Talk to me about the car. You washed the thing, found hair and threads, you said?”

  “And blood,” I nodded.

  “Not good, man, not good. Probably a smart guy would disassociate himself from that vehicle. I’m not suggesting get rid of it or hide it, that would be illegal, but you catch my drift. With the sort of testing they can do today, you could wash that thing a thousand times, they’d still be able to find something.”

  I nodded, message delivered.

  Marge arrived with a tray, two beers, and another shot, Louie handed her a ten.

  “What is that shit?” I nodded at the shot glass.

  “Sambuca, calms the tummy,�
� he said, then drained close to half his mug.

  “The key is Kiki,” I said.

  “Well, yeah, and the husband, her first one, that Farrell guy. It’s just not adding up, why go through all this bullshit? And then of course, if we ever figure out why, the question is how to get them? They seem to have been way ahead of everyone thus far.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “You mean on Barkwell? Nelson checked, the guy didn’t have any. Probably thought insurance was some sort of pinko plot.” Louie shook his head, suddenly snatched his beer and drained it, then eyed the shot of Sambuca.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  I’d bought a couple of ice cream trucks a while back, a no questions asked, cash transaction, which was how Walter handled all his transactions. I walked into his office, actually The Trend bar late that afternoon. A nicely dressed gentleman was seated on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping coffee and reading the paper. As I entered the conversation level dropped, as I began to move toward the back of the bar things really got quiet.

  “Hey, Walter,” I called and waved from between the shoulders of two very large, very solid black guys who had just stepped in front of me to block my progress. Both of them were looking down at me from a distance of about six and a half feet.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Me, Dev Haskell, friend of Dog’s,” I said, then half waved my hand.

  “Fool with them ice cream trucks?”

  “That’d be me,” I waved again.

  “Come on back here, shit, you waving like that, thought it was Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

  People started talking again, the two stone pillars who’d blocked my way moved just enough so I could squeeze between them. “Excuse me,” I said, feeling like an idiot as I spoke.

  “What can I do for you?” Walter said as he looked me up and down.

  He was dressed in an off white suit, a beige sort of tie with a matching silk stuffed into the front coat pocket, matching beige shoes. Understated.

  “I need some wheels, Walter. Mine’s, well sort of high profile right now.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, shook his head, “So I heard it would appear you’ve got just about everyone after your ass right now.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know. Out on bail for murder, rape, was there a kidnapping in there, and a sexual assault? You were black they’d have already locked your ass up for life. Sounds like you’re having a hell of a fun time. Guessing you violated your release stipulations, most likely a restraining order on top of that. That about sum it up.”

  It did.

  “I need a vehicle, something understated, you know something that blends.”

  “Not the usual market I’m in. S’pose you’d be needing this pretty damn soon?”

  “Like yesterday,” I said.

  “I got something might do the trick, I think.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Not so fast, man. You know the gig, cash. Be six large.”

  “Walter, you know where I’m at, I can’t get that to you right now, they’ll have everything frozen. I can do half, maybe.”

  “Problem is, you went and did the respectable thing and trusted a bank, now look what it got you.”

  “Yeah, I know, look can you help me?”

  “I’m not in the help business.”

  “I know that, but I could sure use your help right now, Walter. You can have my vehicle, the one I’m driving now.”

  “Your vehicle? A DeVille right, red, with a blue door on the passenger side?”

  I nodded.

  “Hell, that damn thing wouldn’t be able to go a city block before it was pulled over. You think you’re doing some sort of favor dumping that thing on me?”

  “I don’t really want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Tell you what, you get me four, large, you owe me another six. Which I’ll need to see in a week.”

  “Six? In a week?”

  “Take it or leave it,” Walter said and then returned to his newspaper.

  I was out of options and running out of time.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Be back here nine tonight, I’ll have something,” he said, never looking up from the paper.

  I kept a ‘Go to Hell’ fund in an empty gallon paint can out in my garage. I wasn’t sure if my place was being watched so I parked over on Dayton Avenue, cut through the backyard and in through the side garage door. If they came for me now I was cornered. I waited for a couple of minutes, but the only thing I heard was traffic out on the street. I let my eyes adjust, went to the shelf of paint cans, pried open the one labeled ceiling paint and counted out four large for Walter. I shoved the lid back on, walked quickly back to my car and left.

  I parked in the lot at University and Snelling. There’s a strip mall there, Rainbow Foods, the Dollar Store, Office Max, it was almost six, and plenty of cars were in the lot. I had three hours to kill before I went across the street to The Trend and paid Walter.

  I did a quick check of the trunk, made sure there was nothing in there that could be linked to me. I opened the blue passenger door, checked the glove compartment. There was a wallet in there, not mine. I opened it and Farrell’s driver’s license stared back at me. Another set up, probably Kiki and Farrell adding burglary or armed robbery to my growing list of offenses. I transferred twelve bucks cash to my wallet, then stuffed Farrell’s wallet in my back pocket.

  A ’95, red, Cadillac DeVille with a blue door on the passenger side isn’t exactly subtle. Even in the crowded parking lot it looked like an aircraft carrier docked there. I debated removing the license plates, but thought that might attract even more attention, so I just left the thing there with the keys under the floor mat.

  I entered The Trend at nine on the dot, no one tried to stop me as I walked to the far end of the bar. Walter looked to be in some semblance of discussion with two twenty-something’s, both attractive white girls. He held his hand out to halt me maybe ten feet away, and continued to talk to the girls. Then, just like in the movies he dispatched them with a nod of his chin, signaled me forward by wiggling a couple of fingers.

  “How’s it going, Mister Dev?”

  “Guess I’m about to find out, I’m still here.”

  “Fortunately, I was able to find something understated that I think will fit your needs,” he said.

  “Understated is good.”

  “Terrance will show you to the sales room,” Walter said, then flashed a mouth full of white teeth as he grinned.

  I was aware of a massive presence suddenly looming alongside me. Terrance, I presumed. I looked over and then up into a large, unsmiling face, plastered onto a massive head all of it supported by a muscular neck about the size of my waist. Terrance had been one of the pillars that blocked my way earlier in the afternoon. He indicated with a nod of his shaved head that I follow.

  We walked across the street to the parking lot and over a couple of rows we weren’t twenty yards from where I’d left my car. The DeVille stuck out like a sore thumb. Terrance stopped next to a tiny, faded blue, Ford Fiesta.

  “This is it, a, a Ford Fiesta? You gotta be kidding me, right?” I said.

  Terrance didn’t seem like the kidding type. In fact he didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor at all.

  “Four large,” he said.

  “Look Terrance, I don’t know…”

  “Four large, asshole.”

  Who was I kidding, I handed him the cash. He stuffed the wad in his pocket, pulled out a set of keys attached to a ring that said “Jesus Saves” and placed the keys in my hand.

  “Walter said you guys would take my old car.”

  Terrance nodded.

  “That’s it over there, that red DeVille. Keys are under the floor mat.”

  “A DeVille? Shit.” He looked down at me and shook his head, then turned and walked back to The Trend.

  I walked around the little Fiesta, it
had Tennessee plates, across the bottom they read ‘State of American Music’. On the rear bumper, next to the license plate was a sticker, black letters on a white background. The bumper sticker almost looked homemade, except it was spelled correctly. “What Would Jesus Do?” followed by a big cross with wiggles or sunlight coming from behind. I figured a smart guy like Jesus probably wouldn’t be caught dead in this thing.

  I attempted to climb into the Fiesta, but the seat was set so close to the steering wheel I had to pull myself out and push the seat back. It did start, eventually, which was about the only positive thing you could say. The odometer read a-hundred-and-forty-three-thousand. I reminded myself I still owed another six-grand on this dog, payable in a week. I immediately became depressed.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Just for the fun of it I drove past the KRAZ building. The parking lot was empty, with the exception of Farrell’s car. The BMW apparently hadn’t moved since I checked it out earlier in the morning.

  I drove past Kiki’s house. All the lights were off. She was probably out looking for some innocent guy to slice up. If she was home, her car was in the garage and she was wandering around the house in the dark. I saw absolutely no benefit in hanging around.

  I drove out to a highway rest area just south of Saint Paul and pulled into the parking lot. I settled down to make myself comfortable, if that was even possible in the Fiesta. I figured the Tennessee plates would make sense to any State Trooper if he saw me sleeping in the car. I dozed fitfully for the next few hours. Finally, stiff and cramped, I drove to a Denny’s just as the sun came up, in search of a greasy fried breakfast and a reasonably clean restroom. I was sitting in a booth reading the menu. There were maybe a half dozen customers scattered around the place.

  One couple looked to be pretty drunk, the woman suddenly sat up straight, raised her voice and slurred, “Don’t you tell me what to do.”

  The guy she was with ran a hand through his hair and looked like he was incapable of telling anyone anything.

  “Coffee, sir,” a waitress said, she was in her mid-fifties with a voice that had a two-pack-a-day-rasp. She sort of wrinkled her nose as she stood over me, then took a slight step back. She poured my coffee and I heard her exhale after she turned to walk away.