A Killing Fair

by Glenn Ickler

  “So you knew about the project even before Vinnie’s big show at the fairgrounds?” I said.

  “That’s what I said. He talked about it so much I was ready to kill him. Oh, hey, don’t put that in the paper. Those dumb-ass cops in Falcon Heights might take it the wrong way.”

  “You think the Falcon Heights cops are dumb?”

  “They ain’t turned up even a suspect much less caught the killer. What else are they but dumb?”

  I wanted to agree, but I also wanted to stay on the main subject. “Did you know when and where the ceremony was going to be held?” I asked.

  “Christ, yes. He thought that doin’ it on the Heritage Square stage with a bunch of square dancers was the slickest sales gimmick since that pill maker started puttin’ horny people into twin bathtubs. He tried to get me to come and watch, but like I said, I don’t go near the fairgrounds while it’s full of dumb-ass people.”

  “So you knew what time the show was starting?”

  Another major cloud of smoke went up. “Of course I did. Why do you keep askin’ about the goddamn program anyway? I thought this story was about the last time I saw Vinnie alive.”

  Oops. Better get on to the announced topic. “It is about that. Sorry. I got sidetracked on what happened that day. It’s still pretty fresh in my mind.”

  “Lucky you. I’m just damn glad I wasn’t there. The shots I saw on TV were enough to make you puke.”

  “So, getting back to the main story,” I said. “You seem to have been spending quite a bit of time with Vinnie this summer.”

  “We were gettin’ to be like cousins again, the way we used to be,” Vito said. “We started gettin’ together after he called me and said he was changin’ his will because he was afraid of Louie. Looks like he had a good reason to be.”

  “You think it was Louie that had him killed?”

  “That’s who my money is on. Can’t convince that dumb-ass detective, though.”

  “You’ve told her you think it was Louie?”

  “Hell, yes. He didn’t know the will had been changed, and he was so hot to get that restaurant that his ass was on fire. He’s been out of work since last January when he got canned for grabbin’ his boss by the throat.” Another piece of information to put in my file on Louie.

  “So, what did you and Vinnie do as cousins, besides changing the will?” I said.

  “Oh, we did this and that,” Vito said. “A little golf. Some card games. We went to the casino down at Prairie Island one time. Vinnie won a few bucks playin’ blackjack and I lost my ass at the roulette wheel.”

  “Ever go to the races at Canterbury Park?”

  I wanted this to sound innocent but it drew a blast of cigar smoke. “No, we didn’t. If you’d been readin’ your own paper a few years back you’d know I can’t go there no more.”

  “Sorry. I forgot about that. Now I remember the story: you and a chemist friend got into some kind of trouble out there.”

  “They claimed we was dopin’ the horses, but they couldn’t get us indicted. The chicken-shit bastards at Canterbury banned us anyway.”

  “Are you still buddies with the chemist?”

  A quick puff of smoke. “Haven’t seen him since the grand jury hearings,” Vito said. “Why are you askin’ about him anyway? He’s got nothing to do with me and Vinnie.”

  “Sorry. I tend to wander off the beaten path sometimes. So tell me about the last time you saw Vinnie. What were you doing?”

  “We played golf and had a couple drinks the day before he died. He beat me by ten strokes but that was no reason to kill him, in case you’re thinkin’ I might have had something to do with it.”

  “I’m not thinking anything like that,” I said.

  “Bullshit you’re not,” Vito said. “You’re suspicious as hell because I got the restaurant. Well, go ask Louie what he was doin’ the day of the murder and see what you think then. Now I got work to do so I’ll say goodbye to you gentlemen and wish you a good day.”

  “And a good day to you,” Al and I said in unison, and we headed for the car.

  “So what do you think?” Al asked as we drove out of the parking lot.

  “He’s still high on my list,” I said. “The way he hesitated before he said he hasn’t seen the chemist since the grand jury proceedings made me think he was blowing more than pure cigar smoke.”

  * * *

  Thursday was my day off. I spent the morning packing stuff for our move and wondering if Corinne Ramey drew the short straw for calling KGB. I could barely resist calling Corinne and asking, but I had promised myself to stay completely away from the Luciano murder case for at least one day.

  To my surprise, the Luciano murder case came to me. Early in the afternoon I received a call from Louie Luciano, who asked in an angry voice why I was pestering his mother about his father’s death.

  I explained my cover story to Louie, and added that I was intending to call him the next day.

  “Why not do it now?” he said. “I want to hear what you’re asking.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Hang on a minute while I get my notebook.”

  As usual I started working backward from the time of Vinnie’s death. “Where were you while your father was introducing his new product?” I asked.

  “Where I usually am during the week,” he said. “At work.”

  Vito had said he was unemployed. “Where do you work?” I asked.

  “I’m working for Swenson’s Lawn and Garden Service on Payne Avenue. That morning I was cutting the grass at a big house in North Oaks.” North Oaks is a suburban collection of big houses owned by a collection of people with big bucks.

  “Kind of a hot day for cutting grass,” I said.

  “You do it when the customer wants you to,” Louie said. “I was on a riding mower so it wasn’t so bad.”

  “So you weren’t able to get to your father’s show at the fairgrounds?”

  “No way. And after what happened, I’m glad I wasn’t there. It looked like shit on TV.”

  “It looked even worse close up.”

  “My mom said that you said he wasn’t in no pain when he was flopping around on the floor. Is that really what you think?”

  “I really don’t know whether he was in pain or not,” I said. “His eyes were closed so he might have been unconscious.”

  “But he might have been in pain?” Louie asked. He almost sounded hopeful.

  “I’d like your mom to think he wasn’t.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. So now what?”

  “So, did you see your dad the day he died or the night before?”

  “No. Last time I stopped by was Sunday morning for Mom’s sourdough pancakes. She makes them for breakfast every Sunday, and I eat ’em by the dozen. That morning Pop was like a little kid bragging about that crap on a stick. Wanted me to take off work and be there for the program, but I said only if he gave me a day’s pay. He just laughed at that.”

  “That was your last conversation?”

  “Pretty much. He didn’t want to talk about anything else.”

  “What did you want to talk about?” The restaurant maybe?

  “Nothing special. Just not about a stupid thing he was selling at the fair.”

  “Were you doing anything special with your dad in the days before he died?

  “We didn’t see each other that much. He was always busy at the restaurant, like usual.”

  “Are you saying he wasn’t there for you very much?”

  “I’m saying he was always busy with the goddamn restau­rant.”

  “How about when you were in trouble? Was he there for you then?”

  “What are you talking about? Who said I was in trouble”

  “Weren’t you arrested for choking your next d
oor neighbor?”

  There was a moment of silence before he said, “Who told you that?”

  “A person who called me.”

  “Fuckin’ Eddie. Did Eddie call you?”

  “No, I swear to you that Edward Palmer did not call me, and I’m not going to tell you who did.”

  “Little rat fink. I’ll bet it was Eddie.”

  “It was not Eddie. But obviously what I heard is true.”

  “We had an argument and he pushed me and I pushed him and I got the blame,” Louie said. “He started it by yelling at me about his poor little treezies. He should’ve been busted, too.”

  “Did your dad stand up for you then?”

  “Pop was taking care of the restaurant like he always was. Mom bailed me out and came to court with me.”

  It was time to squeeze him a bit. “What did you say when your dad told you he’d changed the will?” I asked.

  “I told you, he never said boo about changing it,” Louie said. “I found out about it after he was dead.”

  “So you thought King Vinnie’s was still willed to you and your siblings.”

  “My siblings? Oh, yeah, my brother and sister. We all thought that.”

  Time to try a quick switch. “When was the last time you were at the State Fair?”

  “What? What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just wondering how often you went to the fair.”

  “I went the first Saturday—the weekend after Pop got killed. The Back Alley Bumper Cars were playing at the grandstand. They’re one of my favorite bands.”

  “So you’re not like your Uncle Vito, who says he never goes to the fair.”

  “I hope to hell I’m not like my Uncle Vito in anything I do,” Louie said. “Are we done yet?”

  “Almost,” I said. “I heard that you poisoned your neighbor’s dog. Is that true?”

  “You did talk to Eddie. No, that’s not true. I’ve kicked the little bastard’s ass when he shit on my lawn, but I never poisoned him. Eddie’s a lying son of a bitch if he says I did.”

  Interesting choice of expletives while we’re talking about a dog. “So you had nothing to do with the dog being poisoned?”

  “How could I? I wouldn’t even know where to get the stuff.”

  “Okay, forget I asked about that. What I really want to know is did you love your father.”

  “What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I loved my father. Every kid loves his father.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I guess now we’re done.”

  “Good. Be goddamn careful what you write about me and my mother.”

  “I’m always careful what I write about people.”

  “You better be extra careful or I’ll come down to the paper and kick your ass.”

  “Can I quote you on that, Mr. Luciano?”

  “You do and I guarantee I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Have a nice day,” I said as I put down the phone.

  Okay, Vito might be right about Louie. Louie had thought he was still inheriting one-third share in the restaurant, and he’d had part of Sunday and all of Monday and Tuesday to find the strychnine left over from poisoning the dog and hire someone to take it to the fair. But where would he find a hit man? Did one of his fellow workers at the lawn service make some extra money that day? I wondered if Swenson’s Lawn and Garden Service would tell me if anyone was absent on Wednesday, August 24th.

  I looked up Swenson’s number and made the call. A real person answered the phone and identified himself as Arne Swenson. He said yes when I asked if he was the owner of Swenson’s Lawn and Garden Service, but he thought for a moment before he answered my query about absenteeism. “I don’t see how it’s any business of the press,” he said.

  “Just a routine bit of information for a follow-up story on Mr. Luciano’s murder,” I said.

  “I don’t generally talk to the press about my employees, and I don’t think it’s right for me to discuss who wasn’t at work on any specific day. So, I’ll say goodbye then, and you have a nice day.”

  I stared at the silent phone for a moment, cursed lightly and put it down. A moment later I smiled and picked up the phone again. I thought I knew who Arne Swenson would talk to about his employees’ work records.

  “Homicidebrown,” said the person I’d called.

  “Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Detective Curtis Brown. The minute dragged by for 360 seconds while I listened to some unidentifiable music before he said, “What’s up?”

  I told Brownie about my conversation with Louie Luciano and asked if he would do me a favor.

  “Depends on what it is, but I think I can guess,” Brownie said.

  “Would you call Swenson’s Lawn and Garden and request absentee records for August 24th? You could say you were investigating a case. Something about immigration maybe. Those places hire a lot of immigrants during the summer.”

  He thought for a moment. “It’s not really kosher, but it’s not really out of order either. Have you asked your pal at Falcon Heights to do it?”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time calling her because I already know what the answer would be.”

  “Okay. I’ll make up some story about looking for an illegal immigrant wanted for something or other. I’ll call you back.”

  Ten minutes later I had my answer. Two employees were absent from Swenson’s Lawn and Garden Service that day. The names of the two workers who had called in sick were Louie Luciano and Francisco Garcia, otherwise known as Frankie.

  Chapter 20: A Fair Day

  Was it time to tell Detective K.G. Barnes about what I’d discovered? Or should I talk to Frankie Garcia first? No-brainer—it had to be Frankie.

  I told Don O’Rourke what I had and what I wanted to do. Consequently, Friday morning found me parked on Payne Avenue, half a block from Swenson’s Lawn and Garden Service at 6:45 a.m. I knew lawn service people started working early because I’d seen them on the job as I drove to the Daily Dispatch office, where I routinely checked in at 8:00 a.m.

  Swenson’s headquarters consisted of a small white office building surrounded by a parking lot filled with pickup trucks hitched to flatbed trailers full of yard work equipment. The trucks were all painted bright red and white, like the Norwegian flag, and bore a company logo on each door.

  My problem would be identifying Frankie Garcia. I knew it would be useless to ask Arne Swenson to point out an employee, so I was playing it by ear—or I should say by eye—as the men arrived.

  The first two workers showed up five minutes after I’d settled back in my seat behind the morning Daily Dispatch. Both were Hispanic. So were the next five to arrive. Number eight was Louie Luciano. He was followed by a Hispanic woman, who in turn was followed by two black men and a 300-pound redheaded white guy. Soon the men began emerging from the office and heading for the trucks. Now I had to guess which truck to follow in hopes of talking to Frankie Garcia.

  Louie, bless his heart, helped me to decide. When he emerged from the office, accompanied by the monster redhead and two Hispanics, Louie was talking and laughing with one of the Hispanics. A guy this chummy with Louie would seem to be the best bet to follow. What’s more, he was short and slender, about the right size to fit into Fairchild’s costume. Of course if he teamed up with Louie I’d have another problem.

  Again Louie helped me. He and the redhead got into one truck and the two Hispanics got into another. I ducked very low behind the newspaper as Louie drove past me, and popped up in time to see Frankie—if it was Frankie—drive out of the yard and head south. Damn. I was facing north.

  By the time I’d turned around in the nearest parking lot and worked my way into the beginning of rush hour traffic, the Swenson truck was out of sight.
I’d be the wrong private eye to send on a stakeout.

  After risking my fenders by running two yellow lights, I caught a glimpse of bright red a block ahead of me. I managed to keep the truck in sight as it turned onto a side street, and I followed almost a block behind it as the driver wound through the East Side neighborhood. I said thank you to Arne Swenson for painting his vehicles red.

  The truck finally stopped at a two-story brick house sur­rounded by green shrubbery, several flowerbeds and a spacious yard. I drove past, went two blocks beyond the truck, parked and walked back. By the time I reached the men, they had unloaded a riding mower and an electric hedge trimmer.

  “Hi,” I said. “Who do you work for?” Like I couldn’t tell from the logo on the truck.

  The man with the hedge trimmer shook his head. Apparently his English was as poor as my eyesight.

  The man seated on the mower pointed to the truck. “Swenson,” he said. “Payne Avenue. Telephone on door.”

  “What if I wanted to hire you for a job without paying the company?” I said. “Would you work freelance that way?”

  “Work six days a week at Swenson,” the man said. “No time for extra.”

  “Couldn’t you take a sick day from Swenson? I’d pay you a little more than he does per hour. My name is Warren, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “Frankie,” said the man. “Swenson don’t like sick days.”

  “But you must take one now and then,” I said. “You can’t work all the time.”

  Frankie laughed. “Yeah, but I already take one this month. Better not take no more.”

  “What did you do? Take a day and go to the State Fair?”

  “Hey, how you guess it?”

  The guy with the hedge trimmer started the motor and began clipping, so I had to yell over the buzz. “Just lucky I guess. Did you take your kids?”

  “Got no kids. Me and a buddy go out to the fairgrounds. Fair ain’t really started that day but we watch the guys set up rides. Watchin’ them put up that double Ferris wheel is better than grandstand show.”

  “Your buddy work for Swenson, too?” I said.