Dead Folks

by Jon A. Jackson

Helen shrugged. “Who is this guy you know?” she asked.

  “Just a guy. An old friend. I tried to get hold of him a little while ago, but no luck. He'll call back.” Humphrey sat and looked at her. She was draped in a silk dragon kimono. She looked like the child he had never had. Tiny, pretty . . . her black hair shining.

  Humphrey got up and rummaged through some CDs, finally selecting one, which he put on the stereo system. “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” spewed forth, sung by a choir. He returned to his seat to sip at a cup of English Breakfast tea.

  “Do you think you could find him?” he said. “You've spent some time in Salt Lake, haven't you?”

  “I've been there,” she said. “But I don't know too much about the place. It's kind of bland.”

  “Were you there with Joe? Do you have any idea where he might hang out?”

  “Maybe,” she said, sucking up the last of the Bloody Mary.

  “Do you want another?”

  “Not so peppery,” she said. She went to the hearth and knelt down, hugging herself. Within a minute another Bloody Mary was brought, although she hadn't seen Humphrey order it. It was less peppery.

  “Joe screwed us over,” Humphrey said. “Some people want him dead. Well, you know that.” He sipped his tea and gazed at Helen. “I hate to tell you this, honey, but some people want you dead.”

  She looked over her shoulder, calmly. “But you don't, Unca Umby.”

  “No, no, of course not, baby. But some guys . . . “

  “But I have to find Joe,” she said. Her eyes were piercing, blue-black, nearly obsidian.

  “We gotta find him,” Humphrey said.

  “And the money,” Helen said.

  “The money would be good,” Humphrey agreed.

  She stood up. “The money is mine,” she said.

  Humphrey smiled and shook his head fondly, as at a child's silliness. “The money isn't yours, baby. The money belongs to the organization.”

  “Dad's money,” she said. “It belongs to me.”

  Humphrey gazed at her fondly. “Big Sid stole that money from me, us. But I don't give a shit about the money, baby. I got plenty of money. The organization, they care about it. You know how this is. The organization can't ever let someone rip them off. Maybe I could get you a deal.”

  “Joe for the money,” she said. She bit her full lower lip provocatively.

  “Not for all the money,” Humphrey said.

  “Half the money,” she said.

  Humphrey shrugged, then said, “Who knows how much money there is, even? Half the money, a third of the money, a million, anyway?”

  “And the rest is yours?” she said.

  “Belongs to the organization,” Humphrey said.

  Helen slumped onto the couch. “What about Joe?”

  Humphrey picked a cigar out of the humidor. He clipped it and lit it. The rich odor of tobacco floated in the air. The music had changed to a Bach cantata, “Sheep may safely graze.”

  “I like Joe,” he said, after a while. “He's resourceful. If Joe can survive this, I want him on my side. But if Joe has to go, why Joe has to go. You get me?”

  Helen picked up the jade necklace and let it run through her fingers. She said, “Joe is too good. He'd kill me.”

  “It's not your job,” Humphrey said. “I have people. You just have to find him.”

  Helen sat and fingered the jade. “I can't do it,” she said, finally.

  “Well, yes,” Humphrey said. “You can do it.”

  She didn't look up. She heard the tone. She could do it, or she could die. She loved the necklace. “Put this on me,” she said. She knelt by Humphrey. He fumbled with the clasp, but he got it on her neck. She was like a little girl, with her slight neck. Or a girlish boy. He was aroused.

  “I think I better go to Salt Lake,” Helen said, pirouetting away to cast herself dramatically on the couch.

  “Is it necessary?” Humphrey said. “Can't you just give us a lead? I got people there. They'll deal with Joe.”

  “No, I better go.”

  Humphrey blew out air through pursed lips. “All right,” he said. “You can take the jet. Only one thing: don't try to take him yourself. You're right: he's too good. Besides, I want to talk to him, first.”

  Helen laughed, looking him full in the eyes. “You love this dick! You love him!”

  Humphrey was affronted. “Joe's clever. He might be able to figure something out. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “He's your boy,” she accused. “You love him.” She eyed him carefully, then said, “Do you love him more than me?”

  “Honey, honey,” he crooned. He came to the couch, dropping to his knees. “It's not true. I always liked Joe, but—”

  “You love him more than me,” she said, stubbornly. Tears started from her eyes.

  Humphrey was appalled. “No, no, honey. I love you.” She let him take her into his embrace.

  Humphrey patted her on the back. “It's all right, s'okay,” he said, over and over. After a while, she snuffed and sat up. He crept back to his chair.

  “Okay,” she said, in a little child's voice. “I'll go find him for you. But you can't hurt him.”

  “Oh, honey,” he said, “I don't want to hurt Joe. It's up to him. Maybe he can come up with something.”

  “And I can have Dad's money?” she said, pouting.

  “Well, honey, we'll have to see how it goes,” Humphrey said, “but I don't see why you can't have some of it, anyway. A finder's fee, maybe.” He figured something could be worked out. Something could always be worked out.

  11

  Kill or Be

  When Mulheisen awoke he was still sitting in the easy chair by the telephone. In fact, it was the phone that woke him. It was Jacky Lee. Apparently, nothing had happened concerning Sally and her ex-husband. As far as Jacky knew, her kids had gotten off to school—the last day before Christmas vacation—on time. The ex-husband was not in evidence, according to the Tinstar deputy; at least, there were no other vehicles at the mobile home. Carrie Conlin had cruised by there but had not attempted to contact Sally, on the premise that it would be seen as unwarranted meddling. If Sally had been abused she was enough of a woman to complain. It was reasonable to assume that there was no cause to interfere.

  Mulheisen had a feeling that the deputy was right. He'd worried needlessly. If Sally wanted to sleep with her ex-husband it was none of his business. He felt a little sad, that's all. But then he felt sour. Her life struck him as tacky, suddenly. What the hell did he have to do with this crap? It wasn't his style. He thanked Jacky Lee and apologized for making a fuss.

  Jacky was easy. He said he understood. Mulheisen could practically see his impassive face. Jacky moved on to other things. He asked if Mulheisen had heard anything about this new heroin, “China White.” It was supposed to be much purer than the traditional stuff that came out of Turkey. You could snort this stuff, or drink it in solution. That it was easier to use made it potentially much more dangerous: middle-class and upscale people, to say nothing of kids, didn't like to inject needles. This was more like cocaine. But it could be deadly. Very high-quality stuff. If you did inject, you could overdose. Apparently, it came out of Hong Kong.

  Mulheisen had never been very interested in the narcotics trade, except as a source of income for the mob. In some ways he saw it as a victimless vice—not quite victimless, to be sure, since it caused a lot of human grief, and then there was the aspect of people getting hooked before they realized what they were about. But using drugs was something that people chose to do, at least initially. He chose to drink whiskey, knowing that it was bad for him. It was very bad for him. Maybe it was worse than heroin. He knew heroin addicts who had gotten over their addiction. He knew alcoholics who had gotten over theirs, although they often said that you never really got over the booze, you just held out against it as long as you could. He knew one so-called “abstaining alcoholic” who said he was just waiting until he found out that he was dying a
nd then he would go on one last great bender. It sounded like he was looking forward to it. In the long run, the bottle got you back. That's what they said.

  Another aspect of this new strain of heroin that bothered Mulheisen was the casual racist hint: China White, a replay of America's historical fear of the Asian hordes? A thin whitewash of the Golden Horde? He asked Jacky if Johnny Antoni, the Silver Bow County attorney, was on to this new threat.

  “Like an eagle on a spawning salmon,” Jacky said. “It's Yellow Peril time. Or maybe this is White Peril.” He laughed, a short, humorless bark. “He already called a meeting of the Task Force. He's sure this stuff will be showing up in Butte, soon. You'll be getting a call.”

  “Forget it,” Mulheisen said. “I'm not on the Task Force, remember? I'm a Detroit cop. With all due respect, Jacky, I don't think you guys know what real crime is.”

  Jacky snorted. “Crime is crime, Mul, wherever it is. But maybe you're right. Hey, don't let me keep you. I know you're busy, up to your neck in real crime.”

  “Jacky, I don't mean that you don't have crime. Sure, you've got crime. Serious crime. Okay? It's just that what we've got here is a world of crime. If you haven't been here it isn't easy to imagine. We've got a situation here where a lot of people have to break the law in order to survive. Look, I'm sorry. It's just that I can't be dashing off to Butte every time Johnny changes his mind and decides that he can make some political hay out of crime. The last time I saw him he just wanted me gone, because I was an emblem of crime. You remember. It was ‘Take your thugs and get out of my county.’”

  Jacky laughed. He understood. No hard feelings. He rang off.

  Mulheisen felt like hell. It wasn't just sleeping in a chair, worrying about a woman who was none of his business, telling Jacky that he didn't understand the true nature of crime; it was . . . well, what was it? It was jet lag, a feeling of disconnectedness, annoyance at the changed situation in the precinct, frustration at not getting further with the Joe Service investigation. The Christmas season. He hated Christmas, he decided. The American way of Christmas was so crass, so vile, so obvious a violation of genuine feelings of humanity and, and. . . . Ah, to hell with it. And yesterday he had been so up. So intense. Standing on a cold street corner in Salt Lake City, he'd felt good. The scent was up, he could almost taste it. He'd felt that he was getting close, at last, to his nemesis. But then Jimmy Marshall had brought him down to earth. And Christmas. The damned lights, the incessant caroling, the buying, the senseless giving just to be giving, the pressure to give something, anything, instead of giving because you cared for someone and had found something that you thought they might like. He felt that the culture had taken something good and run it into the ground. He was sick of it. Christmas had become a plague, something to survive rather than enjoy.

  He decided to rest today, to read a book, catch up on the mail. He called the precinct and told Jimmy that he wasn't coming in, he was too exhausted. Jimmy said it was fine, not to worry. Take a day off. Take the whole weekend. They had made an arrest in the shooting case.

  Mulheisen showered and shaved, had coffee, then went for a long walk down by the river. Although it was December he saw a great blue heron. Well, it wasn't very cold for December, just the usual gray overcast. It was weather that he liked, in fact: a good gray day. He hiked along the river path until, without thinking about it, he ended up at Ozzie's marina, a hangout since his youth, no more than a mile from the house. It was run by Gary Oswald, a burly man with a huge, drooping mustache. His mother used to call Ozzie's an “attractive nuisance,” since Mul and so many of his pals would spend endless days there, summer through winter, puttering about the boats, pestering Oz. For most of them it was where they had gotten their first paying jobs, hauling out boats, putting them in, fueling them, painting them, minding the store. In some ways, the winters were better than the summers, because there were fewer boaters around, fewer summer people: one could think of oneself as an old salt, a wharf rat, an insider.

  To Mulheisen's delight several of his old pals were present. They were messing about with boats, that pleasurable pastime mentioned fondly by Ratty in The Wind in the Willows. They were still putting up boats for the winter. It was very nice in the marina. The guys helping each other, speculating on what should be properly done, drinking coffee with “a little something” in it. Before he knew it, he was having a shot of whiskey in his coffee and chatting with Vito Belk, who was taking a break from his job to get his gaff-rigged catboat put securely away. They talked about the baseball strike, the hockey strike, about the Tigers, the Red Wings, the Lions, the Pistons. All the Detroit teams were doing poorly—it bothered the guys, but it was the kind of bother that you didn't mind too much. Mulheisen had long opined that this was the essential value of big-time sports: it provided an inexhaustible topic for idle conversation.

  They looked over Fred and Jim's Searay, which had a bad bash in the bow from something, maybe a floating bottle. A bottle could bang you up if you were hauling ass like Jim always did. “Another example of the dangers of hitting the bottle,” Mulheisen observed and found himself foolishly pleased by the guys’ laughter. He even overheard one of them telling it to another, later.

  And somehow the subject of satellites came up. Vito knew something about this. He said it was true—sort of—what they wrote about in spy novels, about the Russian peasant taking a piss in the snow, unaware that an American satellite was watching him. But, in fact, it was more likely that a satellite would observe an American taking a piss in the woods. More satellites here than over Russia. Mulheisen was fascinated. He'd had no idea that there were so many satellites.

  Later, when he got home and had made lunch, he shuffled through his mail, tossing aside anything that looked even remotely like a Christmas card. The rest of it was quickly dealt with: a few bills, a few catalogs, some new books from the History Book Club that he didn't remember ordering. He had never been very interested in the American Civil War, although he had read Bruce Catton, which seemed enough. Why would he have ordered a book on the Golden Horde, and one on Patagonia? Well, perhaps. He looked about his shelves for something more familiar, like Plutarch, or Caesar's Gallic Wars, perhaps even old Parkman on Pontiac's Conspiracy. It conjured up the prospect of a pleasant afternoon indoors, quiet, reading, pondering something remote from himself, but still somehow relevant. He happened upon Morison's Maritime History of Masssachusetts, a book he didn't so much remember as recall its pleasures. He sat down to it with gratitude and he read at least twenty pages before his mind began to wander to Vito's satellites. It was something in the text about spies.

  There was a romance about spies. Auden, one of the few modern poets for whom Mulheisen had any regard, had a notion of the spy, the loner parachuting into a strange land. And there was the romance of the so-called “Indian princess” who had betrayed Pontiac's conspiracy to the British at Detroit. From his own youth there was the thrilling episode of the so-called Nazi sympathizers in Detroit helping an escaped Luftwaffe pilot. In the press of the time it had been darkly hinted that these people were spies; even the pilot was sometimes said to be a spy. These stories almost always turned out to be fiction, he thought. Real spies were different. Real spies, perhaps more like Graham Greene's or John le Carre's inventions, were less romantic—troubled men and women with conflicting loyalties, or ideologically obsessed. Today, the real spies turned out to be satellites.

  And thinking of that, he called Vito at home. Was it really possible, he asked, that a satellite might routinely record an event that would certainly otherwise not have been witnessed? That something one might have thought was lost to history could be miraculously recovered in some archive? Such as a murder on a lonely highway? A killing by a remote hot springs? Vito said it was certainly possible. The problem was that there was so much data, an absolute blizzard of data, that one had to know where to look. Computers were essential, but even with the help of a computer, if one were to look only at possibilities . . . i
f the time frame was not precise, the geographical area too broad or not accurately located . . . it would take a long time. But sure, it was possible. Vito himself was pretty good at finding data.

  Mulheisen suggested some times, some places. Vito said he would take a look. He agreed to let Mulheisen know if he turned up anything interesting. It seemed like an amusing thing to try. Mulheisen went happily back to his book.

  The day after Christmas Vito called back. He'd been lucky, he said. He thought Mulheisen owed him lunch. Pinky's seemed like a good place.

  Mulheisen was feeling much better after Christmas. It was such a relief to have this annoying holiday behind one. Months and months of non-Yulishness stretched pleasantly ahead—he fleetingly wondered what a winter would be like in some non-Christian country: a pagan peace, he supposed, celebrations of the solstice. At the Ninth Precinct he went over the shooting case with Jimmy Marshall and cautioned him about the suspect: she was the victim's husband's lover, it seemed, but she legally owned the gun, she lived in the neighborhood, and she had a reasonable excuse for being in the supermarket. He didn't think it was as open and shut as it looked.

  He also coordinated all his Salt Lake City plans with Lieutenant Marshall. He talked to detectives in Salt Lake City, explained his needs, promised reciprocity, faxed pictures and fingerprints of Joe Service, made inquiries about Helen Sedlacek's current whereabouts. She was in Detroit, apparently, but not at home, not at her mother's home, although she had visited on Christmas Day. Not the Serbian Orthodox Christmas, however, which came a few days later. Mulheisen shuddered. Another Christmas Day! One yet to come.

  He went to lunch at Pinky's. When he returned to the precinct he was pensive, not sure how to proceed. It appeared that he had sufficient reason to interview Helen again, but there was still no word on where she was.

  There was a message from Jacky Lee. He was calling from a number that Mulheisen didn't recognize. It wasn't a Butte number. It had the same three-digit prefix as Sally McIntyre's number, in Tinstar.