Dead Folks

by Jon A. Jackson

  “Joe, are you a criminal?” she asked suddenly.

  What an extraordinary question! Who on earth goes around saying such things? But there it was. That was what she wanted to know. Were they doing something wrong? Was Joe a bad guy? “How can you ask such a thing?” he replied, with a show of indignation.

  “Joe,” she pleaded, “you were found on the highway, shot. The paper says the guy who shot you was a professional killer, and his body was found on your property. You were living with a woman who the cops think killed a gangster in Detroit.” Cateyo recounted these things as calmly as she could, but finally she turned to him with tears in her eyes, near despair at his maddening nonchalance. “That detective from Detroit, he told me that you were not what I thought, that you were a criminal, that your friends were drug dealers and killers.

  “Joe, I never really believed in professional killers,” she said. “I thought they were something that was made up for movies. It's hard to believe in things like the Mafia, gangsters, when you live in Montana. Oh, I suppose there are such things . . . “

  “In the Butte paper this morning,” Joe retorted, “there was an item about a seventy-five-year-old farmer up on the Hi-Line who gave two punks from Great Falls two thousand dollars to kill his forty-nine-year-old second wife. He thought she was ripping him off and having an affair with the hired man. The punks were supposed to make it look like the hired man did it, but the hired man spotted them sneaking around the property and called the sheriff.”

  “Well, they must not have been professional killers,” Cateyo said, derisively.

  “No doubt,” Joe said, drily, “but what about the woman in the Salt Lake paper? From Spokane? She hired a guy from Seattle to kill her estranged husband? He was almost beaten to death—for five hundred dollars!”

  “Okay, there are hired killers. My point is, Joe, that I didn't know about such things and now I find out that you're involved. I mean, you're the victim, but you were also living with a woman who was involved. Six gangsters were in your cabin. That woman Heather—you said she was a killer. Why was she hanging around me? What am I supposed to think? If I'm going to be with you I need to know why you . . . well, why you know such people.”

  It was at that moment that Joe saw the Tongans.

  Joe took her arm almost casually and turned her aside onto another path that disappeared behind some aviaries. “I'm not a gangster,” he said, laughing. He felt inspired, suddenly. “I'm just a guy who has—or had—a lot of money. Crooks are always interested in money, regardless of the source. It's a fact of life; all rich people understand this. Regardless of how they came by their wealth, they're constantly besieged and harassed by thieves and hustlers and con men.” He uttered these words as he hurried her along a path around other aviaries. Some disconsolate mallards poked along muddy little pseudocreeks. They quacked softly, or rather grunted, oppressed by the cold.

  “Are you rich, Joe? I thought you were broke.”

  “I've got money, I just don't have it, on hand. It's not readily available. I earned my money and I want to put it to good use, but the law doesn't seem to understand what I'm doing. They want to talk to me, and . . . “ He glanced over his shoulder as he turned Cateyo down another path, catching a glimpse of a hulking body and a large head, stopped at a junction of paths, craning around—he didn't think they'd seen him, but where were the others? “I'd like to talk to the cops and I plan to, but right now they would interfere with my plans and it would mean hardship for many innocent people.”

  What on earth he was talking about he didn't know. But he babbled on as he swiftly but without panic guided Cateyo onto another path, around another building, casually eyeballing the area. There were some Tongans over there, big heads looming near the park entry, a young couple, hand in hand. Maybe these Tongans weren't after him? Maybe they were just incidental Tongans, young lovers in the park. Joe Service wasn't prepared to believe this; it wasn't the season for young lovers in parks.

  “What innocent people?” Cateyo wanted to know.

  “Poor folks who are dying,” Joe said. “I have access, or had access, to a lot of funds that I've gathered over a period of time, to aid people with terminal illnesses. But, thanks to Helen, I've temporarily lost contact with my funds. This,” he said, gesturing at his head again, hunched down in the collar of his coat, “has upset my plans. I've got to get back to my work.”

  Cateyo was astounded. It was the first she'd heard of Joe's altruistic purposes. In fact, it was the first time he'd ever spoken of his work, his plans. She was eager to know more, but he was hustling her now, moving with surprising speed along the rim of a little rise that blocked any view of them from the other side of the park, toward where her car was parked. He opened the door of the driver's side and pushed her in behind the wheel.

  “Go,” he said. “Trust me, please. Go back to the hotel and pack your stuff. Don't bother to check out—I'll take care of it. Meet me at the Market Street Grill in about an hour. Go.” He slammed the door and walked rapidly on, disappearing over the ridge of the little rise. She was tempted to get out and follow him, but his urgency had infected her. She started the car and drove out of the lot, passing two large, dark men, who were plodding heavily along in what for them may have been a jogging gait.

  Joe cut directly across the park and now he could see two more pairs of Tongans headed his way. He grinned. The sun had disappeared and the air was cold, but he felt good. His head was light and almost empty. He glanced back and, for the first time, noticed that both the Tongans he could see were carrying hand-held phones of some kind. One of them was talking on the phone. That was ominous, but he wasn't too alarmed. For one thing, he was practically out of the park. Once into the streets he felt that he would be like Brer Rabbit in his briar patch.

  He made it to a one-way street and was slipping across the slowly moving spotty traffic when a car pulled past him and a door opened. A large hand reached out and hauled him in. It was done very smoothly, very simply, and he was almost admiring of the maneuver, except that he found himself jammed between two very large men with large heads in the back seat of the car. It struck him that he'd been herded out of the park like a rabbit and that he'd practically dived into this back seat as into a falsely welcoming burrow. Not the briar patch—more like Wonderland.

  A much smaller man in the passenger seat up front turned and said, “Hello. You must be Bongo Billy.” The man extended a hand over the back of the seat. It was a thin, papery hand. “I'm Cap'n Lite,” he said. His voice was weak and whispery.

  He had a small head, bony, with bright blue eyes and a sharp nose. He had small brownish teeth. Joe shook the hand briefly and let it drop back onto the top of the seat. The man wore a green felt hat, sort of Tyrolean looking, but it seemed large for his head. Joe had the impression that the man was ill. He didn't seem to have much hair. Perhaps he was undergoing chemotherapy.

  “Hi,” Joe said. He swiveled his head to look at the two men on either side of him. They were massive, filling up the otherwise wide back seat of the big car. Another similar sort was behind the wheel. The car turned and started smoothly up a long boulevard toward the mountains.

  “I heard you were looking for me,” Cap'n Lite said. “But then it seems like you changed your mind.”

  Joe shrugged. “I didn't like the look of those guys in the park. I've never really gotten along with giants. Well, that's not exactly true . . . I don't mind the odd giant, it's when they come in clumps, if you know what I mean.”

  The man laughed. It was a wheezy laugh and ended in a little cough. “Sorry,” Cap'n Lite said, then: “I know what you mean. But what can I do for you?”

  Joe looked at him carefully. He was trying to think, but then he shook his head irritably, as if dislodging a fly that was bothering him. It didn't do to think, he reminded himself. Just wing it. That was his only chance. “Aagh,” he gasped as a huge hand thudded none too gently into his right rib cage. “Well, yeah,” he wheezed, “I need a lit
tle help. I lost something and I thought the, uh . . . “ He hesitated, then recalled the phrase of last night: “The head Tonk might be the guy who could help me find what I lost.” The man on the left lifted his arm slightly and powered a dull thumping fist into Joe's left rib cage, just over Joe's heart. Joe thought this might be dangerous. He wished he could think of some way to get them to stop. They could kill him accidentally.

  Now it was Cap'n Lite's turn to study Joe. “You lost some money,” he said at last, barely breathing the words.

  Joe smiled weakly. “That's it! Amazing! Well, we're headed in the right direction, anyway.”

  “We are?” Cap'n Lite said. “Pull over, Tutu,” he said to the driver. They parked on the street. They were facing uphill, not a steep incline, but definitely a hill. There were a lot of largish, modern houses around. Not really fancy, but the homes of the modestly well-off. “How much did you lose?”

  “I'm not sure,” Joe said. “I'd have to count it when I find it. But a sizable amount. Say, a couple hundred thousand?”

  “Don't ask me,” Cap'n Lite said. “I didn't take it.”

  “I know who took it,” Joe said, “I just don't know how much she got away with. Could be . . . oh, three hundred thousand. If you could help me find it there would be a generous reward.”

  Cap'n Lite pondered this. “The blond, you mean?” he said finally, nodding down the hill.

  Joe shook his head. “No, this one was dark. Small. She had a silver streak in her hair.”

  The blue eyes were paler than Joe's. They weren't in any way expressive. Just pale blue eyes. The man had little or no expression, except for an occasional small smile alternated with a grimace of pain. “You hurt some of our people,” he said, with a faint tone of reproach.

  “I did? I wasn't sure. It was dar— ooogh!” A fist the size of a baby's head slammed into his ribs. It didn't seem to have broken anything. Joe was grateful for the down lining in his ski jacket. He slumped passively between the two men, both of whom gazed straight ahead. He looked up at the little head on the seat back.

  Cap'n Lite rested his bony chin on the seat and when he spoke his head moved up and down, a childish gesture. “What's your regular name? No Bongo Billys now. Hunh?”

  “They call me Joe. Little Joe, from Kokomo.” He smiled at the man hopefully, then added: “Joe Service, at your service.” When he finally got the man to crack a smile, Joe tipped his head left and right at the two pillars of flesh on either side and said, with a very sincere expression: “Can we talk, Cap'n?”

  Cap'n Lite was still bouncing his head off his jaw as he replied, equally sincerely, “I've heard of Joe Service. I think. Okay, we can talk. These are my friends. You can talk in front of them.”

  “Obviously, you're free to relay to these gentlemen anything I tell you,” Joe said, “but I'd rather you decided, after you've heard me out. And I'd prefer to just talk to one man than blat it all over town.”

  Cap'n Lite considered this for a moment, then he lifted his chin from the seat back and addressed the three Tongans as one: “You heard him, my friends. Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?” He was quite polite about it, genuinely asking their forbearance, rather than making a conventional request for them to beat it. They shrugged and got out of the car, causing it to rock violently in their leaving. The driver took with him a telephone. They gathered by the trunk, hands in pockets and staring around at the white-bread neighborhood, two of them talking in low tones to each other in their rumbling language, while the driver spoke into the phone.

  “Who are these guys?” Joe asked. “Where the hell did you pick them up? I mean, they're nice and hefty, a regular wall around you, but . . . “

  “They picked me up,” Cap'n Lite said. “They're Tongans. The Mormons run a big mission effort in the islands. The Tongans come here to see Jerusalem, or Rome, or Mecca, whatever. They're good people, most of them, but . . . “ He shrugged philosophically. “You don't know about Tongans? They got a reputation out there.” He gestured with his head, presumably at the distant Pacific Ocean. “What's the phrase? ‘Tonga-heart.’ I think it means not very caring, maybe. The thing is, they don't give a shit about us, about the U.S., maybe not even about the angel Moroni. Tonga is all they care about.” He sighed. He seemed tired. But he went on: “They hang out here for a while, just to make a pile, or what they figure will be a pile back in Tonga, then they go home and as far as they're concerned we can all blow ourselves to kingdom come with A-bombs, or whatever. They picked me ‘cause they figure I know the ropes and I can help them take care of business. Street business. Also, they're some kinda comedians—the idea of a little boss tickles them. But there's some other boss, a Big Boss. I don't know who he is. They weren't amused by what you did to their pals, though.”

  “It's their own fault,” Joe said. “I didn't pick on them. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business. The others, they shot first.”

  The little man looked at Joe sadly, as if to say, Get serious. He said, “Their business was you, but it don't matter. They'd like to take you for a drive up the canyons.” He looked thoughtful, then said, “Joe Service is a name. You get around. You have connections. Mitch in New York, the Fat Man in Detroit. You were in Vancouver not too long ago, weren't you? Something about the Chinese? Something like that?”

  Joe didn't answer, just looked at him. After a moment the man sighed and said, “I'll do what I can, Joe, but I don't know if they'll let you off with just a beating.”

  "Just a beating? That doesn't sound very nice,” Joe said. “I don't know if I could handle a beating, right now,” he added, with only a seasoning of irony. “Uh, just what did I do to their pals? I'm not kidding, it was kind of dark in the bar.”

  “Shootin’ guns off in people's faces. You could have hurt somebody, Joe. Nobody dead, anyway,” Cap'n Lite said. “That's one thing in your favor. These boys are literal minded—maybe it's the religion, I don't know—but an eye for an eye is pretty much the rate of exchange.”

  Joe winced. “Did any of them lose an eye?”

  Cap'n Lite shook his head. “Tell me more about this lady who lost your money for you. Money is sometimes a satisfactory exchange medium, in part at least.”

  “She didn't lose it. She's got it, but she's not in town. I think the money's in town, though, if I could find out where she was holed up.”

  “Tell me about it,” Cap'n Lite said. He rested his chin on his arm and listened while Joe told him as much and no more than he figured was needful. “Is that it?” he said, when Joe stopped talking. “Maybe three big ones? And this is Big Sid's daughter?” He shook his head. “Chip off the block.”

  “If you help me find it, ten percent is yours,” Joe said. “That'd

  be—”

  “I know how much that'd be,” Cap'n Lite said. “It's shit. I'm thinkin’ more like fifty-fifty.”

  A sense of release flooded through Joe. The man wanted to deal. Joe liked people who would deal. “Twenty-five,” he countered.

  Cap'n Lite stared at him dreamily. The man seemed quite tired. The driver came over to the front door and rapped. He pointed at the phone and nodded. “Okay, okay,” Cap'n Lite said, nodding. The driver walked back to join the other men. Cap'n Lite turned to Joe. “Thirty percent,” he said.

  “You got it,” Joe said. He held out his hand. Cap'n Lite shook it limply.

  “Okay, Mr. Joe Kokomo. I'm gonna get out now and I'll talk to the boys. When a bus comes down the hill, you get out and walk across the street to where that lady is waiting and you get on the bus. I hope the boys don't stop you. You call me every six hours.” He gave Joe a phone number. “Maybe we can work this out. For old times’ sake, being as you know the Fat Man.”

  “I'd appreciate anything you can do,” Joe said. “Us wee folk have to stick together. It's a big world out there.”

  The little man grimaced and got out. He really was little, smaller and much slighter than Joe; the top of his hat didn't quite reach t
o the Tongans’ armpits. He took the two back-seat heavies by their hands and walked them down the sidewalk about twenty feet, like Sabu leading elephants, his jaw jacking away. The driver followed, holding out the telephone.

  A bus came into view. Joe opened the back door quietly and got out. The men turned to look at him, but Joe avoided eye contact. He set off across the wide street, hoping not to hear their elephantine trumpets bugle or the ponderous thumping of their feet. There was a pretty nice view of the city from here, the capitol over there, a university over here, the Great Salt Lake a distant haze. Joe didn't linger to enjoy it. He made it to the bus stop safely and got on. As the bus pulled away he could see the Tongans pointedly turning their backs on him while Cap'n Lite spoke into the phone.

  Minutes later he got off the bus downtown. He went immediately to a phone booth and called the hotel, in case Cateyo had not left yet. There was no answer in the room. While he stood listening to the rings, he looked out of the telephone booth absently at the Zion National Bank. He felt a strange twinge of memory, but that was immediately vanquished when he saw Detective Sergeant Mulheisen of the Detroit police exit from the glass doors.

  5

  Cold Trail

  Mulheisen was a man who felt comfortable with himself. He believed himself to be a man who took things easy, who didn't get too excited. It was true that he gave that appearance, generally, but it was also true that when exercised he was apt to depart from ordinary routes and tracks. He wasn't wedded to the comfortable. For instance, when he'd gotten off the Butte flight at Salt Lake City, he hadn't meant to do anything more than catch the Detroit flight. But now that he'd picked up a whiff of a trail, he didn't hesitate to risk missing his flight connection to spend a little time in the Mormon capital, even though it might cause some disruption, some trouble, mostly for himself.