by Mark Schorr
“Well, it’s a favor, but I’d be happy to do it,” Dorsey said, speaking slowly, with long pauses. “If I felt we were on the same team.”
“Which means?”
Dorsey’s tone changed, his voice lowered. “Cut the crap on the sewage plant. We both know the city needs it. You stop grandstanding, the mayor will say he’s consulting with you on it. Maybe form a blue ribbon panel, study it, bless it. Then this picture gets shitcanned.”
The councilman glanced up and down the aisles like a trapped animal. “Okay,” he said.
“Good. Do you want your book?”
“No. I better go.” The councilman hurried off.
Dorsey glanced at his watch and decided he had time to kill. He wandered over to the spy novels and found an old Charles McCarry thriller. That was what he loved about the store, finding what he was looking for and often even more.
Hanson tested the flimsy door to Vic’s rear office, and was pleased to find it unlocked. He turned the doorknob slowly, then eased the door open. Not that it mattered, since “Life in the Fast Lane” was echoing down the hall.
Vic was bent over a mirror, snorting up a thick line of coke. Hanson watched him shift the thin brass tube to his other nostril and vacuum up a second line. He had three more to go.
“We need to talk,” Hanson said.
Startled, Vic exhaled, blowing cocaine over his desk.
“Shit!” the bar owner bellowed.
Vic yanked open a drawer, and Hanson knew he wasn’t reaching for his business card. It happened in the peculiar mix of slow-motion perception and high-speed movement. “Who the fuck are you?” Vic demanded.
“We need to talk,” Hanson said calmly. He envisioned his right hand moving quickly to slap the weapon away while the left did a palm heel strike to Vic’s forehead. Was he close enough? Did he still have the ability?
“I’m a friend of Tammy’s,” Hanson lied.
“Bullshit! She woulda taught you better than to barge in on me like that.” Vic’s hand holding the gun was trembling from a mix of coke and adrenaline aftershock. His finger was tight on the trigger, and the Browning Hi Power 9 mm was centered on Hanson’s chest. “You’re not a fucking cop or you woulda been here with a SWAT team. You’re not a rip-off artist or you woulda made your move.”
Hanson silently raised his hands in an “I surrender” gesture. The gun wavered but stayed on the counselor’s torso.
"I’m a friend of Tammy’s,” Hanson repeated.
“Like I’m supposed to give a fuck? You made me waste a couple hundred worth of coke.” He raised the gun, aiming at Hanson’s face. “How much you got on you?”
Hanson slowly took out his wallet and lifted two twenties. He handed them over.
As Vic grabbed the money, Hanson noted another opportunity to disarm him. A slight lunge, grab the outstretched hand, pull him across the desk with a spin so his own arm would be blocking the gun.
Hanson had been one of the best at unarmed combat. Not very practical in a world of AK-47s, Ml6s, claymores, and Hueys. Where the enemies’ presence was seldom seen. Where booby traps, snipers, and mortar attacks occurred far more than mano a mano confrontations. Only Spike had understood. He was the one they called whenever a sentry had to be silenced.
Spike was a psycho. Hanson didn’t like how much he understood about what Spike said. Twice he had killed an enemy with his hands—one time by strangulation, another by snapping the neck. He could still hear the death gurgle, and the loud pop. Spike had been killed outside of Pleiku, which was tough for him, but probably best for the civilian American population.
“Old man, are you stoned or what?” It was Vic. His hand was a little less trembly, the angle of the gun lower.
How long had Hanson been dissociating? “Just thinking.”
“Think about your fucking last will and testament.”
Hanson was in the zone, every moment potentially his last, and not really caring. “She told me about your Harley and how much you enjoyed the monster-truck rallies,” Hanson said, trying to sound like they shared common interests.
“Big fucking deal.” But his finger was not quite as taut on the trigger. Would bringing up more emotional areas, like his kids, establish Hanson’s bona fides or agitate the bartender?
“She told me how much she cared about you, how much she trusted you,” Hanson said.
“That shows what a dumb bitch she was.”
“She told me to check in with you, that you knew what was going on. That you could help out.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Who the fuck are you anyway?”
“A friend of hers trying to find out what happened.”
Vic squinted at him. “Cops said she killed herself.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Cops are either too corrupt or too stupid to know the truth if it bit them on the ass.”
Hanson sensed that despite his bravado, Vic had cared about LaFleur.
“That’s what I think. But who would’ve killed her?”
Vic held the gun loosely. “Start with Aaron Aardvark and go to Zippy Zyzmanko. She pissed a lot of people off.”
“You know anything about her family?”
“She told me about them. Cops.”
“You think they were involved?”
Vic shrugged. “If they were, I wouldn’t know. The last thing I need is to piss them off. This place would be closed in a New York minute.”
“You have a theory?”
“What the fuck am I doing talking to you? Get outta here.” He waved the gun from Hanson to the door.
Hanson didn’t move.
“You crazy fucker, get out of here.”
“I really would like to know what you think,” Hanson said calmly.
Vic came closer, almost nose to nose. Hanson saw broken blood vessels and bloodshot hazel eyes. There were tiny flakes of dandruff in his eyebrows and beard. The Browning was up again and he shoved it against Hanson’s cheek. “I could kill you and claim self-defense.”
“I don’t have a weapon or a record. It’s easier to let me live.”
Vic waved the gun again. “You are one crazy motherfucker.” He pointed to the door. “Get out.”
“Not before you tell me what you think.”
“I got the gun and you’re interrogating me?”
“I want to find out what happened to Tammy.”
“You got more balls than brains,” Vic said, shoving the gun into his belt. “I don’t know about Tammy, but I know about some screwy things. She’s not the first woman like that who turned up dead in a way that stinks. There’s rumors among the girls about a serial killer. I don’t know whether to believe it or not. The cops don’t believe it, it ain’t been on TV, but it makes sense.”
“Do you have names of other women he might have killed?”
“Tiffany, Amber, Tasha.”
“Last names?”
Vic shrugged again. “And those were trick names. You got to understand, these women are expendable.” He said it like he was proud to know the word. “What’re you going to do if you find out?”
It was Hanson’s turn to shrug. “Damned if I know.”
As Hanson walked out, he glanced back. Vic was trying to gather the cocaine dust that had scattered on his desk.
SEVEN
“They’re undercapitalized,” Jeanie Hanson said into the hands-free microphone connected to her cell phone. “You call for an audit now, they’ll be begging for a deal before you can say ‘foreclosure.’ ” She listened, smoothly sped up, and then eased into the two-car-length space between two trucks on the freeway. One of the truckers blasted his horn as he had to hit his brakes. She flipped him the finger and continued her conversation. “I know, I know. Their venture to date has been expense neutral. But their budget is unrealistic. You think about it. I’ve got six more voice mails to return.”
The clock on her dashboard read 7 p.m. She was cruising on the four low-fat double lattes she had consumed durin
g the day. “Hey, how’s it going on the project?” She switched the radio to the all-news station while going “uh-huh, uh-huh” to the contractor at the other end of the line.
“They’re shortsighted,” she said. “This city is on a roll. Look at how our property values have gone up twenty-eight percent in the past two years. You tell me one other city that’s done as well? I know, I know I don’t have to sell you on it. Fools don’t recognize an incredible value when they see it. A year from now, they’ll be begging for you to call back.” She listened a while more, bolstered his ego, reassured him about financing, then hung up.
Development of the mall project consumed much of Jeanie’s time. But her hopes, and the city’s, were in the development of inner southeast. The previous two administrations had tried to get the plan approved: to move the freeway into a man-made ravine as Seattle had, then create a thriving commercial district around it. And she had a personal reason for needing the project to go through.
A previous administration had promoted the building of the 1.5-mile east side promenade along the Willamette River from the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry to the Steel Bridge. Initially criticized as a $40 million boondoggle, it had become a popular attraction for tourists and residents alike. Bicyclists, Rollerbladers, and joggers made it appealing for sports businesses, while boat-rental businesses and eateries wanting a waterfront view added interest. But the 1-5 freeway paralleling the walkway cut it off from the rest of the city and provided noise and fumes.
With the freeway moved, the factory area near the river would quadruple in value. Jeanie’s firm was providing financing to the large landlords who were quickly buying land as discreetly as possible. If word got out that the major players were speculating in the area, existing property owners would bargain harder.
But Jeanie knew that the small fry who often held property that had been in their families since the Lewis and Clark Exposition land boom in the early twentieth century lacked the vision. It took big firms to produce big results. She was a true believer as she called, cajoled, and charmed the unwary. With the mayor’s support, and Dorsey’s willingness to apply pressure, it was as sure a thing as any real estate deal could be.
After a couple more calls, she pulled into her own driveway. Entering the house, she heard an unusual thumping noise in the rec room.
“Brian?”
“I’m here.”
Curious, she went down the short flight of stairs. He had set up equipment that had long lay dormant in the closet. There was a heavy sandbag that looked like a duffel bag hung from a steel frame. At the other end of the frame was an Everlast leather speed bag the size of a small basketball, suspended from a two-foot-round wooden disk. It was the speed bag rhythmically bouncing off the disk she had heard. She watched as her husband’s fists pounded the bag, a blur of motion. He wore lightweight black leather gloves that hadn’t been used in more than a decade.
One of her guilty pleasures was that she was turned on by boxing; hard-muscled, sweaty men brutalizing each other in a twenty-by-twenty canvas ring. Whenever she was out of town, if she could pick it up on the hotel’s cable TV, she would watch, fascinated. If there was fight news in the paper, she would go to that even before checking the business section. She maintained her facade by scoffing at all sports; the truth was that no other sport was as primal, without excuses.
Brian Hanson, stripped down to boxer shorts, hair matted with sweat, bobbed lightly on his feet, switching from the speed bag to heavy sandbag, pounding so hard that the thump echoed through the house. He grunted with each powerful blow.
After several minutes, he looked at her, smiled, and peeled off the gloves.
“Looks like you had a tough day,” she said.
“Kinda.”
He went to the Wing Chun wooden dummy, a thick ironwood vertical pole with a half dozen thinner rods sticking out at various angles, like a surrealist model of a coat rack. He began slapping the rods, mimicking blocks and strikes. Not a classic Western boxing exercise, it lacked the emotional jolt for her.
She went to the bedroom and stripped off her work clothes, sliding into one of his shirts. As she returned, she could hear the bouncing boom as he worked the sandbag.
“Want me to hold that for you?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She struggled to hold the bag as he pounded, rocked back with the force of each blow. After about five minutes, she wasn’t quite braced right and his punch jolted her backward. She fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” he said, extending his hand and pulling her to her feet. She naturally came into his arms.
Within moments they were on the couch making love with a ferocity they hadn’t experienced in years.
“Wow,” they said simultaneously.
“I haven’t seen you with so much passion in quite a while,” she said, instantly regretting it.
He untangled from her. “I could say the same thing.”
“Touché. And sorry.”
They kissed, put their limited clothing back on, and cuddled on the couch for a few minutes.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
In the kitchen, he chopped vegetables while she rolled the low-fat ground beef into meatballs and started the water boiling for spaghetti. A basic meal, but one of their favorites. Starting with a jar of Newman’s Own marinara sauce, they added Parmesan cheese, garlic, onion, cilantro, tomatoes, and red peppers. As the big pot simmered on the stove, she asked, “What did you do today?”
Not much.
“You looking into that dead client?”
“A little.”
“Find anything?”
“Not much.” The dismissive tone reminded her of Jeff’s early teenage years, when any inquiry into what he was doing garnered monosyllabic responses.
She squeezed his butt. “Whatever it was you did today, maybe you should do more of it. I liked watching you work out on the bags.”
“I noticed.”
They hugged, and he told her, “We finished the investigation around my client’s supposed suicide today. The state decided she killed herself. The papers can be shuffled into their little folders and the bureaucracy moves on.”
“I take it you’re still not satisfied?”
“She did not kill herself. There may be a serial killer operating.”
“Really? Did you find proof?” she asked.
“Nothing I could go to the DA with.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, it’s a serious allegation. Could be bad for the whole city to have a story like that get out.”
“And that’s what’s most important, the city’s image?”
“If it’s true, then it is important to get out. If it’s a rumor or wild speculation …”
“I’m going to shower. Can you handle finishing up the meal?”
“Sure.”
She turned her attention to the stove, since once again her attempts at connecting had failed. But she also knew her queries were more than curiosity; she was hoping for something to tell Tony Dorsey.
And that evening when they were making love it had been Dorsey who was in her mind.
As the warm shower washed him clean, Hanson thought about why he had been reluctant to tell Jeanie. She would think he was crazy. Maybe he was.
He adjusted the water until it was colder, and thought back to Vietnam, and the precious times when he could rinse off the sweaty, fungal feelings of fear. Hanson realized he had dissociated at least twice after being threatened by Vic, but was surprised at how calm being in the zone was. A familiar, friendly place where he was in control, ironically, while facing a gun.
Could he have disarmed Vic? Yes. Could he have killed him? Possibly. Did he want to? Not now.
Under the spray of the cold shower, he knew that if he continued on this path, violence was inevitable. He decided he would call Parker’s niece, just to talk. If he could get a federal law enforcement pers
on interested, he could back away.
KBAI disc jockey Juan Palomo had the largest listening audience during prime morning drive time, and Mayor Robinson agreed to go on his show to announce the latest crime statistics. At the same time, a press release was delivered to the Associated Press, the Oregonian, the Portland Tribune, the TV stations, and other radio stations.
Palomo had dark circles under his eyes, a perpetual scowl, and a smug tone. He was a onetime liberal Democrat who had become an archconservative when he learned what it could do for his ratings. Mayor Robinson faced him with a neutral smile.
“Once again, the numbers for major crime are down,” Palomo said suspiciously.
“That’s right, Juan. The trend continues. Compared with any American city the same size as ours, we’re at least fifty percent safer.”
“Well, that’s safer when it comes to major crimes. Petty crimes run about the same as elsewhere.”
“A good point, but I think most citizens if given a choice between reducing murder, robbery, rape, kidnapping, and arson, versus cutting back on graffiti, car theft, and other nuisances, would choose the former.
“What about the so-called victimless crimes, like prostitution and gambling. We’re higher than other comparable cities,” Palomo said.
“Again, it is a matter of priorities. I’ve worked closely with Chief Forester to be sure that resources are allocated most effectively. This may mean that a bookie gets off, while an armed robber receives the full force of our legal system. Frankly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“How do we know these numbers are accurate?” Palomo asked accusingly.
“You can send anyone you want over to study the records. But the truth is evident in our city. In how many places can a woman walk the streets after dark and feel safe? I want this trend to continue. When I was growing up, and I suspect you as well, I could play in the street unsupervised. I want our city to be that kind of place, where a kid can play hide-and-seek outside without parents being nervous about perverts and murderers.”
The mayor spoke with well-modulated volume and cadence, monitoring his distance from the padded Sennheiser mike. He preferred radio to TV, enjoying the calm of the studio, the deadened acoustics, the engineer signaling through the glass window as he performed in a fishbowl. He had done enough talk shows that he could visualize the tens of thousands of people listening in on his conversation with Palomo and wouldn’t get lulled into a false sense of intimacy.
