Violet Darger (Book 4): Bad Blood

by Vargus, L. T.

  Graffiti etched profanity onto vinyl siding and concrete. Various shades of paint marked the empty homes and buildings. From the crudest scrawls of “fuck you, bitch” to the gang markings written in ornate lettering and symbols, drawing territorial lines.

  They looked like cave drawings rendered with aerosol cans, Jaworski thought. Everything here seemed primeval. Or maybe like some apocalyptic alternate universe he was watching on TV. A place where life stopped, where time stopped, where all was lost.

  The dream had flourished here for a time, but all of that was over. The manufacturing jobs were shipped overseas. Cheap labor in second and third world countries replacing all of it. Sweat shop labor. NAFTA remained a dirty word in Detroit more than 25 years after it was introduced.

  And the machine felt nothing. As far as it was concerned, the whole world was a math problem. A formula pitting revenue vs. costs. It plugged the numbers in for the variables and went with the cost-effective plan. If it were more profitable to dump toxic sludge into the ground and pay the EPA fines later, so be it. If it were a better deal to spend $3 million to lobby congress so they could bend the law in the company’s favor, the machine paid up. If it cost too much to recall the faulty accelerators, it left them and settled with the families of the dead out of court. The costs to the environment, the human costs, these things did not compute, did not matter. Just the raw dollars, please, the only things that possessed real value in our society.

  This was business. This was America.

  It really wasn’t much different than the mafia, Jaworski thought. Basic economics. If the cost of someone being alive outweighed the benefits, whatever the reason, the bosses paid to have that person taken care of. That was the demand. Jaworski merely supplied the service, gave the market, the machine, what it wanted. The ruthlessness was more visceral, more direct, of course, but not altogether different at the core from the business practices of the straight world.

  And now Detroit had happened everywhere. All over the country, people seemed to matter less these days. Have less value. They were just another global commodity for the businesses to use, to grind up, to abandon.

  Just the way Jaworski’s dreams seemed closed off to him, so did those of most Americans. The paths to a better life, to hope, turned to dead ends one by one.

  He could feel that when he drove around the city. The fatalism that seemed to ooze out of the concrete and shimmer in the air around them. A doomed feeling. Hopelessness.

  He drove down a craggy street, car tires bumping over ragged asphalt, nearing one of the abandoned sections of the city. The traffic, both auto and pedestrian, thinned as he got toward the empty part of town. The streets and sidewalks emptied, slowly but surely, and the cars and people remaining seemed rougher around the edges. Haggard, really. Rusted fenders and scowling faces.

  A beat up Trans Am zoomed around him, weaving over the yellow line as it tore past. There were no radar guns to fear out here, so the driving got aggressive quickly once you crossed that borderline into the dead part of the city.

  There were no rules out here. No police working these streets. The idea reminded him of the old west, the outlaw cities on the edge of the frontier, but in reality, it was more pathetic and quirky. Oddities to be spotted everywhere.

  Bums huddled around a burning barrel on one of the corners, either poking sticks into the flames or cooking something on them. Gaunt faces. Knobby cheekbones. Stick-like limbs visible through tattered places in their t-shirts and jeans. Phone books and newspapers were their main sources of fire fuel, from what everyone said, though Jaworski had seen some of the more resourceful homeless collecting and piling bundles of sticks in strategic locations.

  In the winter, they burned for heat, of course. On hot days like today, maybe it was for entertainment.

  Watch it burn. This was culture.

  Too many people. That’s what Jaworski thought. Even with a third of the buildings empty, there were too many damn people in this place, in this world.

  Detroit was made of more brick than most major cities, he thought. There were the big concrete skyscrapers towering over the downtown section. Bank buildings composed of glass and steel and the like. But weaving around the rest of town, dark brick structures squatted everywhere, their redness muted to something blacker now as though coated in soot.

  Now even the brick receded. Empty lots filled the bulk of the blocks here. Grass peppered with periodic houses. The places where all those people used to live.

  The city invested in demolishing packs of the abandoned houses from time to time. Trying to erase this history, clear out the dilapidated duplexes and crumbling homes to start fresh.

  Fleets of yellow construction vehicles swept through the streets, scratching neighborhoods off of the earth, collapsing wood frames and cinder block foundations, wiping out any evidence that these dreams ever existed.

  Leaving only the dirt.

  All that progress and prosperity had been undone. And the future generations in the area felt the pain of Detroit’s collapse as well.

  That opportunity to save for college, advance entire families up the social ladder a rung? Also gone. In recent years, reports claimed that the graduation rate in the Detroit public school system hovered in ranges as low as 24%. Their test scores ranked dead last in the country. Five percent of fourth graders in Detroit schools tested as proficient in reading. Four percent graded out as competent in math.

  Crime took the place of hope for many. The murder count spiked, often leading the country in per capita homicides.

  So this was Detroit. The Motor City turned to the Murder City.

  Jaworski took a pair of left turns, twisting back from the vacant blocks of buildings. Moving back toward the traffic, toward what life remained in this place. Back toward the light.

  And still that hopeless shimmer blurred up from the asphalt, faintly visible like heat distortion. A wave in the air. And the sirens warbled on in the distance as they always did, moaning voices out of time and out of key.

  Detroit. The city where the American Dream became the American Nightmare.

  Chapter 35

  Darger and Luck continued to follow Jaworski for the next several hours as he drove a seemingly aimless path around town, and the clear lack of a destination was starting to make Luck anxious.

  “You think he figured us out?”

  “I don’t think so,” Darger said.

  “Why else meander all over like this?”

  “If he was trying to catch us out, he would have done something obvious. Like driving really slow to see if we followed suit. Or taking four rapid right turns in a row. He hasn’t done that. He’s just kind of cruising around. I think maybe he’s the type of guy who likes being out for a drive.”

  As she spoke, Darger thought of a shark who could never stop swimming, never stop moving forward.

  Finally, around 7 PM, Jaworski’s vehicle finally came to a stop in front of a 24-hour fitness center.

  “I don’t get this guy,” Luck said. “Now he’s stopping off at the gym?”

  Darger wondered if the driving had been a way to let out the stress of dealing with his girlfriend’s family. Now he was going to sweat it out.

  Luck slid into an open space several buildings back with a good view of the front of the place. He turned off the ignition but immediately had to start the car up again. Jaworski’s large frame was already striding out of the gym.

  “That was possibly the fastest workout I’ve ever seen.”

  Jaworski’s directionless jaunt had definitely come to an end. His next stop was Louie’s Liquor Shop. Again, he was in and out in only a few minutes and returned to his vehicle seemingly empty-handed.

  After the liquor store, he visited a pawn shop. It was an odd assortment of businesses to the average eye, but anyone with a knowledge of organized crime activity would have picked up on a clear pattern. Each place he visited was a type of business favored for laundering dirty money.

  She thoug
ht of something Cherie Howard had said about Constantine’s. That suddenly in the last year or so, the place had started to make good money. Maybe there was another connection there. Maybe Dan Howard, in addition to the building contract schemes, had also started laundering money for the Partnership.

  They watched Jaworski duck inside a funky-looking laundromat. A moment later, he was back, and this time he had a fat envelope in one hand that he quickly tucked into his jacket.

  Luck frowned.

  “He’s not a made guy.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “So he must be running errands for someone else.”

  Luck turned his gaze on Darger, and she saw the spark of excitement there. He was finally starting to see that her plan might pay off after all.

  “You think he’s making pickups for Vinny Battaglia?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Even in hiding, Battaglia’s gotta earn somehow, right?”

  When Jaworski drove into Hamtramck, they speculated that maybe he was headed to Constantine's. Instead, they followed him into the parking lot of a seedy-looking diner. It was one of Luck’s ubiquitous Coney Island joints.

  Jaworski chose a table next to the window. A lucky break for the agents, who could easily continue watching from the car.

  Luck’s eyes focused like laser beams, and Darger thought she knew what he was thinking: that perhaps Jaworski was meeting someone here. Whoever’s money he’d been collecting, for example. She couldn’t help getting her own hopes up a little that it would be Vinny the Bull.

  A waitress sauntered over to Jaworski’s table, and he ordered. She returned a short time later with a beverage of some kind and then with a plate piled high with fries and a sandwich.

  He began to eat, and Darger started to face the fact that Jaworski was maybe just grabbing a lonely dinner after all. She glanced at Luck and saw that the intensity in his face was gone. He must have come to the same conclusion himself.

  The next few minutes passed in silence until Luck broke it to ask, “What kind of sandwich do you think he got?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re the profiler.”

  “And that makes me a sandwich psychic?”

  Luck shrugged. “I think it’s a turkey club. With ham and bacon.”

  “No way,” Darger said with a scoff. “Too American. He’d go more European. Something with pastrami or corned beef.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Polish background.”

  “Maybe a Reuben. With extra Thousand Island on the side.”

  “What’s that based on?”

  “Nothing. Just looks like a guy that would want some extra sauce to dip into.”

  Saliva pooled in Darger’s mouth with all the food talk. She nudged Luck with her elbow.

  “You hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “There’s a chicken place across the street. One of us can run over and grab some food while the other keeps watch.”

  “I’ll go,” he said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “If he starts moving, give me a call, and I’ll abandon Operation Chicken Hut. What do you want?”

  “Anything fried,” Darger said.

  In the side mirror, she watched Luck wait on the sidewalk for traffic to clear before jogging to the other side of the street. As he disappeared inside the restaurant, her eyes floated back over to the tableau in the diner: Jaworski bringing the triangle-shaped wedge of sandwich to his mouth, his lips curling back to expose his teeth. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, wiped his hand on a napkin, sipped at his drink to wash it all down.

  Bite, chew, rinse, repeat.

  He lingered for some time after finishing his meal, ordering a coffee that he drank slowly while staring into space. Luck had returned by then, and they dug into the fried chicken and potato wedges.

  By the time Jaworski asked for the check and paid his bill, they were finished with their own meal. Luck had his technique down by then, waiting until Jaworski pulled out of the lot before following after him.

  Darger kept her hopes up that he’d lead them to something significant until she recognized his neighborhood from earlier in the day. He was heading home.

  Indeed, they watched him park his car in the driveway and disappear inside.

  “What do you say we call this off until morning?” Luck suggested.

  “No way. He made those pickups for somebody. What if it’s Vinny the Bull? What if two minutes after we leave, Jaworski gets back in his car to make a late night house call for the boss?”

  Luck sighed. “I get it. But my nanny can only stay until 8.”

  Try as she might, Darger couldn’t argue with the fact that Luck needed to get home to his daughter. But she hated that’d she’d be leaving Jaworski without a pair of eyeballs on him.

  “Fine. I’ll drop you off and come back myself.”

  “You’re gonna pull an all-nighter alone? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Part of her agreed. She was tired and her body ached from sitting in the car all day. Just being able to stand and stretch out her lower back would be heavenly. She didn’t have a headache yet, but she could feel the tenseness in her shoulders and neck. It was only a matter of time.

  She imagined the bathtub in her hotel room filled with steaming hot water. And after, a large pizza with mushrooms and green peppers. Creature comforts, she told herself.

  “Someone has to do it.”

  Her phone rang then, preventing Luck from arguing further.

  “Agent Darger? It’s Kyle Huettemann.”

  “Oh, hey Deputy.”

  “I was just calling in, you know, to see if you found anything on our… uh… friend?”

  Darger stifled a yawn.

  “I’m sitting outside his house as we speak. We didn’t get anything solid yet, but I think we’re onto something. He was definitely running errands for someone today. Agent Luck and I are hoping that someone is Vinny Battaglia.”

  “Geez. You think so? That would really be… I mean, that would blow the whole case wide open, right? I mean, he’s the big enchilada.”

  The yawn came back with a vengeance and Darger couldn’t stop it this time.

  “Sorry about that. The long day is starting to catch up with me. But yes. If our theory is correct, and we manage to track Jaworski to Vinny the Bull, it would be game over.”

  She had an idea then.

  “Actually, it’s kind of lucky that you called just now, Deputy. Are you still in town?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Great. I need a favor. I’m planning to sit on Jaworski overnight, but I have to drop Agent Luck off first. Could you come relieve us for maybe an hour or so? Just until I get back.”

  There was a long pause. She imagined Huettemann picturing his own home: the refrigerator filled with snacks and beer, his couch and his TV. He’d be weighing all of that with the idea of sitting in his car alone for an hour, bored out of his mind. She certainly wasn’t the only one who’d been working a long day and was relishing the chance to unwind.

  “How about I do you one better? Why don’t I take over for the night? You shouldn’t have to take on this entire burden yourself, Agent Darger.”

  Darger sat up a little straighter. She hadn’t expected Huettemann to offer that, and it was a generous proposal.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to do my part. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Twenty if you don’t mind giving me a few minutes to grab some supplies.”

  “Whatever you need,” Darger said.

  True to his word, Deputy Huettemann slid into the space behind them twenty-two minutes later. Darger turned and waved, then gave him a call.

  “You all set?” she asked.

  “I am, indeed. Got me some coffee, some snacks, and one of those silly sudoku puzzle books. I’m not any good at it, but I figured, what the hell?”

  “Thanks again for doing this. And please call me if you need anything.”

  “I’ll do tha
t, but I imagine I’ll be just fine.”

  With a final wave, she and Luck pulled onto the street. When they turned at the next cross street, she glanced back toward Jaworski’s house and tried to pick out Heuttemann’s sedan amongst the rest of the vehicles parked along the curb. She hoped the night would be uneventful for his sake as well as hers. She wouldn’t want to miss any of the action.

  Chapter 36

  Huettemann drifted in and out of sleep for a time, head and chin tilting toward slumber and snapping awake over and over. Each time he awoke alarmed. Confused. Eyes darting to Jaworski’s dark SUV. Verifying that it was still there.

  So far, it hadn’t moved from the driveway. He deduced that the hitman was still inside. Still asleep. Good.

  The deputy took a slug of lukewarm coffee from his thermal mug. It had stayed hot for a good long while, but now it was fading fast. Going sludgy as it cooled.

  He checked the time. 5:06 AM now. Only a couple more hours to go. Chances were the big hitman will sleep straight through it. So Huettemann just needed to stay awake. That was all. Just needed to keep his damn eyes open for two more hours. He could do that.

  Yeah, he could do that.

  He was dozing again when he heard it. The knock at the window on the passenger side.

  What.

  In the.

  Hell.

  His heart broke into a full-bore gallop.

  But he recognized the smiling face on the other side of the glass. The man gave a little wave.

  And even so, Huettemann’s hand fumbled for his gun, unsnapped the holster out of instinct. He stopped himself just shy of unsheathing the weapon.

  Wait. What the hell was he thinking? Drawing his gun on a member of the task force? Lunacy.

  He chuckled a little. Weird what sleep could do to your brain, scrambling up your instincts like eggs.

  He re-snapped the holster.

  Leaned across to unlock the back door.

  Warm greetings. Hand shakings.

  The men talked.

  Darger must have chatted with him, Huettemann assumed. Must have told him about their secret mission out here at Jaworski’s house.