They argued about this. Humphrey was sure he’d be all right, and finally he said, “That’s where we’re going, anyway. Let’s just go with the plan.”
“It’s a long ride, Slim,” Joe said. “But if you’ve got someone at the other end…. Let Roman go with you, to help. I don’t want to just drop you off.”
Humphrey consented to that. Roman helped him down into the bunks and Joe set their course. After a while, Roman came back to the wheel with a cup of coffee. He sat in the seat across the companionway and watched through the night, occasionally going below to check on Humphrey. When Joe would ask how Humphrey was doing, he would just shrug. But he seemed content.
15
Moving Day
Mulheisen was moving. Or rather, he wasn’t moving but he should have been. Instead, he sat in an old easy chair in his bedroom, gazing out at the shipping in the channel, across the field behind his mother’s house. It was very quiet, very peaceful. He wondered if he was making a mistake. He glanced at the clock radio next to his bed. It was nearly three in the afternoon on a Sunday. He was all packed. Becky would be here soon with the truck. He looked around him, relishing the quiet familiarity of this room, his boyhood bedroom. When would he sit in this room again?
Becky was a small, fast-mouthed woman in her late thirties. Mulheisen wasn’t sure of her last name. She’d lived with a man named Marvin Berg for years, until he died. Had she taken Berg’s name? Had they ever married? He was shocked at his lapse, as a detective, in not knowing this. She had helped Mulheisen on a case not long before, and given him some nice, vintage H. Upmann cigars left over from the days when Marvin had owned a great little cigar store down on Fort Street. Becky’s help had consisted in providing Mulheisen with some notebooks, left in Marvin’s care by the late and not much lamented detective Grootka, that had proved useful in the never-solved disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. It had been nice to see her again. Mulheisen thought she was … attractive. Not beautiful or cute, but nice looking. And she had been only halfheartedly insulting.
The house she had inherited from Berg was much too large for Becky. Mulheisen had mentioned that he was looking for an apartment and they had kidded about him moving in, but he had told her that it was pointless. The house was in Pleasant Ridge, one of the numerous little suburbs that ringed the city. It wouldn’t qualify as a Detroit residence.
Then, soon after he’d found the apartment downtown, Becky had called. She had discovered something interesting: the village of Pleasant Ridge had only a single police patrol, so they had contracted with the city for additional services. Could it not be construed that Pleasant Ridge was, in effect, part of the Detroit Police Department responsibility and, hence, its employees could legally reside there? It was worth an inquiry. He had pitched it to his boss, Captain Jimmy Marshall, and he’d approved.
Still, Mulheisen hadn’t been sure. What would sharing a house with Becky entail? He had decided to take a run out there and investigate.
Becky looked better than on the previous visit. She was not so pale; maybe it was makeup. Also, she was dressed better: instead of dungarees and garden boots, she wore shorts and a tank top. She was lean and muscled; evidently she worked out. Her body might be hard, but her new life since Marvin had died seemed to have softened her. She wasn’t so caustic as before, though given to occasional sarcasms.
She said he ought to pitch his beloved H. Upmann cigars— not the vintage ones she’d given him, but the new ones. They were overrated, she said, living on their past glory. Before Mulheisen could voice misgivings, however, she was quick to add, “Don’t look like that. I didn’t mean you should quit. I like a good cigar as much as the next guy. You know me, Mul. I’m just saying, as an old cigar seller, Upmanns are what we’d call a parlor pitch. You can price ’em like a virgin, but they’re more like an old slag. Here, try some of these.”
She gave him a box of LaDonna Detroit figurados. They came in a fancy wooden humidor-style box with a clasp, and the picture inside was a splendid painting of a woman on a milk-white mare, strewing flowers and cigars on the world. They claimed to be handmade in the U.S.A., in Detroit, of “highest Cubano-quality tobacco.” That was a nice touch, he thought. It didn’t actually say Cuban. He raised an eyebrow at Becky.
“Try ’em,” she said. “You’ll see. It’s as good a cigar as you can get, and only five dollars per. No, no charge for this box. I got ’em as a promotion.”
“I didn’t know you were still in the business,” he said.
“I do a little wholesale,” she said. “Why waste experience and connections? It keeps the money tap open. Try one.”
He took one out and sniffed. It wasn’t cellophaned, which he liked. They seemed handmade, all right, and well made. Tight, no large stems obtruding. The shape was terrific, a true torpedo with a double taper, thicker on the smoking end. He clipped and lit it. She was right. It drew very well, though a little tight at first. It was mild in the mouth, but had a full body. There was no disagreeable aftertaste. Kind of earthy. He liked it.
“Five bucks,” he said. “How do they do it?”
“Somebody’s underwriting it,” Becky said. “You can’t sell that for five bucks, not made in the U.S. Or anywhere else, probably. Maybe they figure on building a clientele, then raising it to ten. But you oughta take advantage of the introductory offer, as they say. I get ’em at wholesale, of course. That’d be one of the advantages of living here.”
“What are the others?” He looked at her through the smoke.
“Low rent,” she said. “No upkeep. Of the house and grounds, I mean. I’m not washing your clothes or sheets. Maybe you can run them out to your ma’s.” She laughed then, evidently envisioning him lugging an armful of sheets out to his car, stepping on the trailing edges. “Maybe I could do the sheets,” she said, grudgingly. “Throw ’em in with mine. And you could help me put up the screens and take ’em down. But no leaf raking, lawn mowing, painting, or… I don’t suppose you know anything about plumbing? Good. I do. I hate a man screwing up the plumbing with his ignorance. Rent’s five bills. That’ll pay my utilities and help with the taxes.”
He decided to look at the room. It turned out to be most of the second floor. He’d have a large bedroom that overlooked the parklike street. A private bath that she had totally remodeled, much more splendid than the one in the flat he’d looked at: this had an enormous walk-in shower with a built-in bench, plus a huge, jetted tub. Heated towel racks, infrared heat lamps in the ceiling, full-length mirrors.
He could also have a large, shelf-lined study that adjoined the bedroom. She had repaneled it herself with old cherrywood she’d found up north and had remilled. Everything was rewired, new lighting that could be adjusted with a rheostat. There was room for his stereo equipment, and she said that she’d insulated when she’d repaneled the rooms. With the insulation he could play music fairly loudly without disturbing her, in her downstairs domain.
She showed him her fabulous kitchen. All new appliances, beautiful maple countertops with inlaid marble and lovely Mexican tiles where one would need that kind of surface. Professional- quality ovens and cooking surfaces, and hearty exhaust venting. A couple of huge refrigerators. “You could have a designated reefer,” she said, “if you think you’d need it. Otherwise, help yourself from these. I don’t eat much, but I like to cook. Kind of hard to cook for one, though.”
The whole tour took quite a while. It was a huge house. They could stay out of each other’s way. He’d noticed that it was a nice place when he’d visited before, but he hadn’t seen much, just the basement, where the cigars were kept and she’d put in a lot of exercise equipment. He was glad to see that she was not a neatness freak, but liked things pretty much picked up and stowed in the obvious places. And she didn’t mind cigar smoke.
“Be pretty weird if I did,” she said. “I kinda got this joint jerked back into shape after the slob kicked. Oh, Marv was a good man. I miss him. Once or twice a month. But he was hell to pick up after
. You don’t look like a slob.”
Mulheisen said he didn’t think he was. An early stint in the armed forces had left its impact. He made his bed tight every morning. Clothes up off the floor, that kind of thing. His desk might get a little messy.
“How come you didn’t sell those vintage Upmanns?” he asked her. She had twenty boxes, stored in a walk-in humidor that was bigger than the apartment downtown—another enticing feature (or was that two?). She had offered them to him at the time and he’d had the impression that she wanted to get rid of them. Now it seemed she was still in the cigar business.
“Marvin said he kept ’em for you,” she said. “Don’t you want ’em?”
“For me? Well, sure. How much?”
“I figured it was a bequest. From Marvin.”
Mulheisen was not sure how to take this. Could it be true? Marvin had retired at least a few years before he’d died. He’d never called, never mentioned any such thing. But who could object? As far as he knew, the cigars—vintage Cuban—were perfectly legal pre-embargo goods. Perhaps Marvin had forgotten, or was just too ill to pursue it, had put it off until the right moment—which never came. Mulheisen certainly didn’t care to debate the issue, in case the offer was withdrawn.
“One big thing,” she said, when they were back in the downstairs living room. She stood there with her hands on her slim hips, engaging his eyes frankly. She looked younger than her mid-thirties. Maybe it was the sandals or the short hair. “Fucking.”
Mulheisen laughed quietly and glanced about, embarrassed. “Hey, I’m only renting a room. Rooms. Thinking about it,” he amended.
She nodded briskly. “I know. But a man and woman live in a house and fucking inevitably pops up, causes a lot of tension. I’m not agin it.”
There was a silence of perhaps ten seconds, although it seemed much longer. Mulheisen looked at her.
“I hate tension,” she said. She smiled. She had wicked little teeth. Like a baby panther. “How do you feel about it?”
Mulheisen didn’t know what to say. “It’s … ah …” He watched her for a clue, thought he had one, and finished, “It’s bad. Oh, you mean the other? I thought you meant tension. The other is good. I like it. I wasn’t thinking about it, just now.”
“You got a girlfriend?” she asked. “I didn’t think so. Me neither. I’m not a lez, I mean. No boyfriend, either, although I don’t mind going out once in a while, maybe getting laid. Used to, anyway. That’s over. AIDS and stuff. Bad times for fucking. It was fun while it lasted, though. I had the tests. I’m clean. You?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, we have to get regular checkups.”
“So that’s all right,” she said.
“Ah, well,” Mulheisen said, hoping this discussion was concluded, “that’s good.” He nodded and glanced around the room. He was about to make a comment about the nice fireplace when she sighed.
“Shit,” she said. “I guess I could have put it better. Let’s see.” She furrowed her brow in thought. She looked up. “I’m not saying we should … no, that’s not it. How about this? If you wanta fuck, we could try it. We might like it. Maybe we’d hate it. But I hate the tension, waiting for it to happen. You dig?”
“You mean … now?”
She shrugged. “If you wanta. I don’t, particularly, right at the moment. But it’s there if you wanta give it a whirl. I just don’t want it hanging in the air, screwing everything up. So to speak.” She laughed, a throaty chuckle.
“Okay,” he said, relieved. “That’s good to know. Thank you. Uh, I wouldn’t, you know, dream of bringing a woman in if that’s …”
“Well, I don’t think I’d care for that,” she said, “but it’d be none of my business, I guess. Those things happen, sometimes. I’m not likely to be partying down here, either. The thing is, two people live in a house, they want to keep their own lives, you know? Their own space, as the kids say. That’s important.”
He agreed. “But the thing is,” he said, “I’ve found an apartment, downtown.”
“Oh.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Nice place?”
“Yeah. It’s all new. Not as big as this, but … I already made a deposit, first month’s rent, that kind of stuff.”
“How much?” she asked. When he told her twelve hundred dollars, her face registered shock, then relief. “Well, hell,” she said, “I can get your deposit back for you. No big deal.”
So that was settled. They proceeded on to other things, like when he wanted to move, whether there was room in the garage for his Checker. He wondered what his mother would make of her. Fortunately, Cora Mulheisen was in Galápagos, or was it Ulan Bator? Someplace where they had cranes. She knew he was moving, of course, but she’d have to be told about Becky, some time.
Becky arrived with her pickup truck, right on time. Mulheisen’s gear would take at least two trips. When they had taken one load across town and returned for another, she came up to his room and suggested he might like to take his chair. She was pretty strong for as slim as she was; she hauled as many boxes as he did and didn’t get winded, either. And she didn’t even comment when he did.
Mulheisen was exhausted. He offered to take her to dinner, but Becky insisted on cooking a tremendous grilled flank steak with a special barbecue rub. Becky had some good wines. A rather boisterous cabernet seemed appropriate. It revived and yet relaxed them.
After that, they went to bed. It was … energetic. Becky was as lively as a trout and as hard to hold. Sometime during the night she eluded his embrace.
In the morning, he found her in the kitchen, where he’d gone in pursuit of a delicious aroma of freshly ground and brewed coffee. Becky thanked him for his efforts of the previous night in a friendly, matter-of-fact way and accepted his compliments.
“You were better than I’d hoped,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you get breakfast. I mean, you were excellent. Really. It’s just, I’ve got stuff to do. We’ll have to do it again. I’m glad we got that out of the way, though. No tension, see?” And she disappeared into the basement to work out.
Mulheisen went to work. It was a long drive to the Ninth Precinct, but he had a LaDonna figurado and thought about that slim body as he waited for lights. He felt great. He wondered what she had hoped. But she was right. No tension.
* * *
“You look like the shark that ate a whale,” Jimmy Marshall said. “You get laid, or something?”
“What do you mean? What makes you say that?” Mulheisen came back at him. But Jimmy wasn’t listening.
“We’ve got a guy here, wants to talk to you, about the Fat Man,” Jimmy said.
“Why me?” Mulheisen said. “That’s a Grosse Pointe case. Or the FBI. Why didn’t you send him to them?”
“He’s been to them,” Jimmy said. “They brushed him off. He asked to see you. Said he’d heard about you. I’ll send him in.”
A stocky, muscular man about fifty appeared in the door. He was blond, with thick blond eyebrows and pale eyelashes, an old-fashioned G.I. haircut. A tough guy, it seemed. He was Jimmy Go, he said. “Golsen, but they call me Jimmy Go.” He seemed to think that Mulheisen would know him, or know of him, but Mulheisen didn’t. Mulheisen got him to sit down. They were in the cluttered cubicle that Mulheisen called an office. He wondered, as he cleared some files off a chair for Jimmy Go, what Becky would think of the mess.
“What was the name again? Golson, with an o, like the tenor man?” he asked, scribbling in a notebook.
“E,” the man said. “I thought Golysczywzki was bad. I had to change it. Nobody could pronounce it, or spell it. ’Specially at the motor vehicle department. Now I gotta spell Golsen. I’m a trucker. Gravel, stuff like that. Got a fleet of trucks. Yeah, it’s about the Fat Man. Diablo, or whatever they call him.”
He sat foursquare, hands on his powerful thighs, looking directly at Mulheisen. The detective waited.
“He ain’t dead,” Jimmy Go said.
“FBI says he is,” Mulheisen said. “They did an autopsy, f
orensics identified him. They seem satisfied, from what I’ve heard.”
“That’s what they say,” Jimmy conceded. “But it ain’t him. It’s somebody else. It’s bullshit.”
“What do you know, Jimmy?”
“The Fat Man ain’t gonna get whacked by some security guard, a guy he hired, like the papers said. It’s a put-up job. I know the guy. I had dealings with him, for years, the prick.”
“What kind of dealings?”
Jimmy explained that for years the mob had tried to muscle in on his business, had harassed him, harassed his drivers, had tried to push him off jobs, sabotaged his trucks, and so on. It was a familiar story. Jimmy had fought back. He was tough. And finally, he made a deal with Wally Leonardo. Nardo was running that end of things in those days, when Carmine was boss.
It turned out that Nardo and Jimmy Go’s sister had been acquainted. His sister had been a whore. He said it as if she had been a waitress. She had been Nardo’s mistress for a while. And later, when his sister had fallen ill, Nardo had paid for an operation, even though they were no longer lovers. Jimmy Go’s sister had died anyway, despite the operation. But Jimmy Go had found that Nardo played pretty straight with him.
Jimmy Go had been protected, for a not unreasonable price. It was the cost of doing business, he said. And Nardo had kept up his end. They got along. They were cut from the same stone, Nardo had told him. And now DiEbola had whacked Nardo. They had tried to lay it off on Pelodian, but Jimmy Go wasn’t fooled. He’d talked to Nardo the night before he died. Nardo had told Jimmy Go he’d been to dinner at DiEbola’s. Nardo knew it was coming. He knew what that dinner was all about. He’d said that the other two guys who were there, Malateste and Soteri, were gonna get it too. And they had.
Mulheisen didn’t think that was much. What else was there?
Jimmy Go said Nardo had shown him a piece of paper. He’d given it to him. It was an address, where he could find Pelodian. It was way the hell out in the country, not far from the stone quarry where Nardo’s body had been found. It was written in DiEbola’s hand. Jimmy Go didn’t know DiEbola’s writing, but Nardo did. He knew it was a setup.
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