by Brad Smith
If Bug was the joker in the deck, then the Indian Taylor was the wild card. Bug wasn’t afraid of the Indian, so he might be tempted to give him up. Chino was pretty sure the Indian would talk to save his hide. He hadn’t wanted to be at the farmhouse in the first place and Chino could see him spilling everything to get himself a deal. There was no trail between him and Chino – no calls or texts – but he knew where Chino lived. And that would be enough. Of course, that was if Bug gave the Indian up. Chino guessed that Taylor was watching the news himself right now, and shitting his pants in the process.
He’d been hoping that his check would be in the mailbox. He could sell the copper in the yard, cash the check and take off somewhere for a while. Head north and rent a cabin under a false name. Wait and see if the cops fingered him. It would be all over the news if they did, and at that point he’d have to make a real run for it. He wasn’t going down on this.
It was a matter of time, he knew. He was lying to himself if he thought Bug would keep quiet forever. The reporter had said that Bug showed in court with no lawyer and the judge had told him to get one. The lawyer would be working Bug too, advising him to strike a deal. A matter of time.
Chino boiled two hot dogs for lunch and ate them between slices of white bread. As he was finishing he heard tires on the gravel outside. He jumped to his feet, his pulse racing, thinking it had to be the cops. Instead it was Vanhizen, rolling to a stop behind the wheel of his new GMC three quarter ton pickup. As Chino watched he climbed out, hitching his pants as he looked in the direction of the yard, where the burning coils still trailed smoke into the air. Chino lit a cigarette and walked out on to the sagging back porch.
‘You burning tires?’ Vanhizen demanded.
‘Nope.’
‘You’re burning something.’ The farmer was a big man, wearing navy blue overalls and a John Deere cap.
Chino gestured to the rising smoke. ‘No shit.’
‘It’s against the law,’ Vanhizen said. ‘I doubt very much you have a permit. And even if you do, it’s against the law to be burning rubber.’
‘I was cutting up an old escalator and the belt caught fire,’ Chino said by way of apology. He needed to back off a little. Vanhizen was the type to call the cops and the timing was bad on that account.
‘Must have been a big belt.’
‘It was,’ Chino said.
Vanhizen shook his head, turning to give the place the once over. ‘All this mess, I wonder you don’t have more problems like that. Just asking for trouble.’
It came to Chino in that instant. ‘What will you give me for it?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ Chino said. ‘Make an offer on the place.’
Vanhizen squinted at Chino. ‘You’re serious?’
Chino nodded. ‘I put it on real estate, you’re going to pay them too.’
The big farmer suddenly went from arrogant prick to friendly buyer albeit one looking for a bargain. He began to walk around the yard, evaluating the place. What was there to evaluate? Three acres, a knockdown bungalow, a rusted steel shed full of old tools and torches and a scrap yard in behind, scattered with corroded farm equipment and truck parts. None of it even mattered to Vanhizen, Chino knew. All that he cared about was the three acres. That, and wiping the rest of it from his line of sight. One day with a bulldozer would take care of that.
‘What were you thinking?’ Vanhizen asked.
‘What were you thinking?’
The farmer balked. He wanted Chino to name a price. He was loath to make an offer that might be too high.
‘I have to talk to the bank.’
That was bullshit, Chino knew. From what he’d heard, Vanhizen either owned or leased over four thousand acres. He didn’t need the bank’s permission to buy Chino’s patch of ground. Still, he nodded. ‘Talk to the bank. I was going to call a real estate agent this afternoon.’
‘Don’t do that until I get back to you,’ Vanhizen urged. ‘What’s the hurry anyway?’
‘I’m thinking about taking a trip,’ Chino said.
Now his mind was working. He knew that nothing could happen as quick as he needed it to happen. There would be lawyers and title searches and possibly even a survey of the property required. He had to move soon.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Get your shit together and come up with a price. If I like it, I’ll make the deal without even talking to an agent. But I’ll want twenty-five grand on the spot and I’m talking cash.’
Vanhizen was nodding his head as Chino talked. He could see a bargain in it, keeping it away from the agents and their percentages.
‘I’ll get back to you later today,’ he said.
‘How fast can you get the money?’
‘We agree on a price, you’ll have the down payment tomorrow.’
‘Get to it,’ Chino told him.
TWENTY-THREE
Pulford called Dunbar on the landline, after failing to get him on his cell. Martha answered.
‘He’s just in the shower,’ she said. ‘Should I get him?’
‘Let him dry off first,’ Pulford said.
‘So it’s not urgent?’
‘Maybe not urgent,’ Pulford replied. ‘But definitely interesting.’
Dunbar called her back fifteen minutes later. He came downstairs, dressed for work, carrying his Browning and shield, which he placed on the island counter. He’d eaten earlier and Martha had his second cup of coffee waiting. Pulford answered on the first ring.
‘The money’s moving,’ she said.
She didn’t say much more, other than that Dunbar should come to the station. He thought about the possibilities as he drove downtown. They’d been waiting for something to break. Larry Murdock didn’t have a lot of friends but the ones they had talked to were all disclaiming any knowledge of the home invasion. Dunbar did learn that Murdock used to pull break and enters with a guy named Snider. They hadn’t been very good at it, particularly at fencing the stolen goods, and had been busted a few times. Dunbar had checked Snider out, thinking he might have been involved at the farm, but it turned out he was doing time down east for breaking and entering. Obviously he’d changed his location but not his ways.
‘Murdock’s buddies would know if he was spreading money around,’ Pulford had said at one point.
Dunbar was in agreement. But maybe that just meant that Murdock wasn’t spending the money. But why the hell not? A smart crook might sit on it for a few months, or even longer, but Dunbar wouldn’t put Larry Murdock anywhere close to that category.
At the station he and Pulford walked to the desk of Burt Fisher, who was working the Ken Hubert case.
‘I’ve never been so popular,’ he smiled. ‘Everybody wants to talk about crooked Kenny.’
‘So how did this come about?’ Dunbar asked.
‘You know the background obviously,’ Fisher said. ‘The councilor got busted for taking bribes and peddling influence and all that. Well, in the ongoing investigation we served warrants on his house out by the lake. Lo and behold, we found some hundred dollar bills from your home invasion.’
‘The marked bills from the bank,’ Pulford said.
‘That’s right.’
‘How the hell did they end up in Hubert’s pocket?’ Dunbar asked. ‘You’re not going to suggest he was involved in that business at the farm?’
Fisher laughed. ‘That was about the only thing the slippery bastard wasn’t involved in.’
‘Then how did he come by the money?’ Pulford asked.
‘I can tell you,’ Fisher said. ‘But wouldn’t you rather hear it from the source?’
‘Is he singing?’ Dunbar asked.
‘Like Pavarotti. Did you ever meet a politician who could keep his mouth shut?’
A half hour later they were sitting in an interrogation room with Councilor Ken Hubert, the same room where Dunbar and Pulford had met with Larry Murdock two days earlier. Hubert was awaiting his bail hearing and he wasn’t wearing the j
ailhouse jumpsuit. He was dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, what he’d been wearing when he was arrested. His hair was neatly combed and he had shaved. He had a fleshy, round face and a big gut, straining at the shirt. He was loose and relaxed.
‘We’ve met,’ he said to Dunbar.
‘Yes,’ Dunbar said. ‘A thing at the community center.’
‘That center has been a huge success,’ Hubert said in his hearty politician’s voice. ‘A boon for the city.’ The councilor turned to Pulford. ‘You I have not met. I would have remembered.’
‘Detective Pulford,’ Fisher said.
Hubert showed his best smile. ‘About time the city got around to hiring some good-looking cops.’
Pulford ignored the compliment. ‘Would you be willing to talk about the money they found in your house? Specifically the new hundred dollar bills?’
‘Sure, I’ll talk about it. I’m yours, detective.’
Pulford stopped shy of rolling her eyes. ‘The money is of interest to us as part of a separate investigation. Nothing to do with … your situation.’
Hubert leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Somebody rob a bank?’
Pulford glanced to Dunbar for aid.
‘Where’d you get the money, Ken?’ Dunbar asked.
Hubert leaned back, smiling. ‘It came to me as partial payment for services rendered.’
‘What kind of services?’
Hubert kept his eyes on Pulford as he spoke. ‘If you have been reading the papers, you know that I am being investigated for taking money in connection with certain projects in the city. Some of those claims happen to be true. I have in the past periodically accepted payment in return for influencing bids. Keep in mind that the projects in question have helped our city a great deal. The community center you mentioned is just one example.’
Dunbar nodded. ‘Who gave you the money?’
‘Indulge me a moment longer,’ Hubert said, holding up his hand. ‘I just want you to know that I am not the mercenary evil-doer you might have heard. I may be a sinner, but I have been looking out for our city in the process. My political hero is Huey Long.’ He paused. ‘The money came from an organization called Wild Lucifer.’
‘The bike gang?’ Dunbar asked.
‘Oh, they are much more than that,’ Hubert said.
Dunbar glanced at Fisher, who cocked an eyebrow and then nodded toward Hubert as if to say, Let him talk.
‘Why is a bike gang paying you money?’ Pulford asked.
‘Do you think they just run drugs and strippers these days?’ Hubert asked. ‘That’s old school. The Wild is involved in a lot of things. For instance, they have majority ownership in Lake City Construction. Silent ownership, I might add. LCC won the contract for the downtown sewage project last year. They’ve done a lot of other work in the city over the past ten years. They built the new administration building on Main, for instance.’
‘And you’ve been involved with them getting the contracts?’ Dunbar suggested.
Hubert showed his palms. ‘Come on. This is just standard procedure. How do you think the world operates? Keep in mind these people do good work. So why wouldn’t I steer things in their direction? And if I happen to make a few bucks along the way, well, that’s the way the world operates too.’
‘Except it’s illegal,’ Pulford reminded him.
‘Don’t be judgmental, detective. That’s not your job. I was this close to asking you out for a drink.’ Hubert paused. ‘You know, as soon as I make bail.’
‘Right,’ Pulford said.
‘When did you receive the money in question?’ Dunbar asked.
‘That money,’ Hubert said, thinking about it. ‘That was last Sunday, I believe.’
‘For what project in particular?’
‘Nothing in particular,’ Hubert replied. ‘That was just … maintenance.’
‘So you’re on a retainer?’ Pulford suggested.
‘Something like that.’
‘Who gave you the money?’ Dunbar asked.
‘Wild Lucifer.’
‘Who specifically?’
‘A man named Bones.’ Hubert smiled. ‘I have a feeling that’s not his Christian name.’ He looked at Pulford again. It seemed she was his main point of interest. ‘So when are you going to tell me what this is about? What’s the mystery with the hundred dollar bills? Are they counterfeit by any chance?’
‘No,’ Pulford said.
‘That’s all you have to say?’ he persisted.
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever happened to quid pro quo?’ Hubert joked. ‘Here I am playing ball and I’m getting nothing in return.’
‘Sorry,’ Pulford told him, her tone clearly indicating that it wasn’t going to work like that.
Dunbar knew there was no point in asking the councilor where the bike gang had happened upon the marked bills. The councilor wouldn’t know. Dunbar was convinced that Hubert had nothing to do with the home invasion at the Rourke farm. After a few more questions, he decided to send him back to his cell. They called for an officer and as they waited Dunbar thought of one more question.
‘You’re being awfully cooperative, councilor. Why is that?’
‘Because I want one thing,’ Hubert said. ‘Redemption. I fucked up and I have to pay for that. But I have been one of the best civil servants Rose City has ever seen. I love this city. So I will admit to my transgressions and pay the price for same. But then I will return. Mark my words – I will be re-elected as councilor. And maybe even mayor, down the road.’ He paused. ‘People love tales of redemption, don’t you think?’
When he was gone Pulford looked at Fisher. ‘What the hell was that?’
Fisher smiled. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘But are we buying this?’ Pulford asked.
‘I think we are,’ Dunbar said. ‘He’s not going to make up a story like that. Plus, you heard him – he’s baring his soul. If he knew what the connection was, if he knew about the murder and the robbery, he might not be so free and easy with his mouth. But he doesn’t know. The guy thinks he’s in a movie or something.’
‘So you’re thinking the bikers for the home invasion?’ Fisher asked.
Dunbar shrugged. ‘Sure looks that way. It doesn’t seem to fit their business model these days but who knows who they have in their membership and what they’re into? They had the money in their possession and that’s what we’ve been waiting for.’
‘If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck,’ Fisher said.
Pulford regarded him for a moment before nodding.
‘There’s something that doesn’t fit, though,’ Dunbar realized. ‘What’s the connection between Larry Murdock and the bikers? We never came across anything like that in his background.’
‘Maybe he’s a hanger-on?’ Pulford suggested. ‘A wannabe?’
‘Or maybe your witness – the Burns character – fingered the wrong guy,’ Fisher suggested.
‘He didn’t finger the wrong guy,’ Dunbar said. ‘Besides, we have Murdock’s truck at the scene. Could be that Murdock’s tied up with the Wild on some other level. They’ve been known to use these bottom feeders to do their dirty work. We’ll see what the Wild has to say about him.’
‘We’re going to need warrants,’ Pulford said.
Dunbar turned to Fisher. ‘Where are they keeping Hubert?’
‘The cells down below,’ Fisher said. ‘We were going to ship him out to county but he’s a cinch to make bail so we didn’t bother.’
‘Can you stick him in seg for a couple of days?’ Dunbar asked. ‘In case he gets antsy and decides he needs to give the bikers a heads-up.’
Fisher nodded. ‘I’m a little surprised he rolled over on them like he did. Why would he think that’s a good idea?’
‘Redemption,’ Dunbar told him.
Tommy Jakes paid Billy a visit that afternoon. First he talked to Montreal. The coke was coming in that night. Tommy got into his Escalade and drove to Tareytown.
Billy was in the driveway alongside his house, lying underneath a twenty-year-old Mustang, just his legs sticking out from the vehicle, which was raised up on jacks. There was a large red toolbox on the ground, drawers open to the various compartments. It was a cold day. Too damn cold to be working on a car outside, Tommy thought.
‘Hey,’ he said, getting out of the Cadillac.
Billy shifted his body beneath the Mustang, trying to get a look at the visitor. Tommy crouched down in the gravel to show his face.
‘You’re Billy?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Tommy Jakes.’
The Indian didn’t say anything to that. Tommy saw now that he was removing the car’s rusted brake lines. There were lengths of new lines on the driveway, along with a quart container of brake fluid.
‘You need a garage with some heat in it, son,’ Tommy said.
The Indian grunted a reply, and continued in his work. Tommy straightened up and had a look at the house and the yard behind. There was a Pontiac parked in the driveway, ahead of the Mustang. Neither vehicle was in particularly good condition.
‘What year’s your Mustang?’
‘Not mine,’ Billy said. ‘I’m fixing it for a guy.’
‘Paying job?’
‘Yeah.’
Tommy knelt down again. ‘Hell of a way to make a living. I know Bones has made you a better offer.’
‘Fixing brakes ain’t against the law.’
‘I guess it’s not,’ Tommy said. ‘But I’m thinking it’s not all that lucrative either. What are you going to make on a job like this?’
‘Flat rate, twenty bucks an hour.’
‘Shit. So you’re going to lie on the cold ground all day and you won’t make two hundred dollars. My grandmother always warned me against lying on the cold ground. She said I’d get cold in my kidneys. You ever worry about that?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she was about half-baked anyway,’ Tommy said. ‘Started drinking rye every morning about nine o’clock, just to put up with my grandfather’s bullshit.’
