by Faricy, Mike
“Lola and Ponytail run away. Benton hobbles away. Do they stuff the body in the car?”
“Maybe. Sounds stupid, but they could have panicked. The had maybe sixty seconds tops to get out of there before the cops arrived. I don’t know, that body will probably turn up somewhere, they always do. No sweat, nothing can tie us to it.”
“So, if you’re Lola and Ponytail, do you run? Stay? The cops are looking so a credit card at a hotel might get you nailed. She doesn’t strike me as the type to sleep in the back seat of a car anymore. But what if there’s somewhere available? Some safe place where you could lay low?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maybe they went to Benton’s, just to keep out of sight.”
“Maybe.”
“If only we knew where that was?”
“Hey, you’re the P.I. You’re supposed to be able to figure all this shit out.”
“Yeah, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Where’s your computer?”
“Do I look like I have a computer?’
“Good point.”
I phoned Sunnie Einer, my computer-wiz lady.
“Dev, long time no talk. Gee, let me guess, you’re not calling to ask me out to dinner or the Guthrie or anything, but you need help with something?”
“See, that’s why you make the big bucks, Sunnie, you’re so smart.”
“If I wanted to make big bucks I wouldn’t stay in education. What’s up?”
I explained my situation, sort of. I left out the part about the two or three murders, the threat on Jill’s life, the threat on mine. As a matter of fact I left out Jill all together. I skipped the part about taking the cash from the ice-cream truck and just touched on Mr. Softee.
“No offense, but once again I feel like I’m not getting the complete story, Dev.”
“See what I mean about being so smart?” I charmed.
“God, why don’t you just Google this Benton person for starters?”
“Well, I’m sort of in a remote location and don’t have a computer, right now.”
“Oh god, no excuse, even you may have heard they have all these phones with apps now, call them smart phones. You could be sitting in your car somewhere and have access to all of this. Did you ever think of joining the twenty-first century and investing in an iPad or an iPhone?”
“I’m undercover right now,” I said.
“Really? Doing what, pretending to be productive?”
“Sunnie, can you find out where this guy lives?”
“Oh I suppose. Give me his name.”
“Harold Benton,” I said, then spelled the last name. “Look, I’ll call you back…”
“Oh please for god’s sake, hold on, I’ve got it up now.”
“Really?” I was genuinely surprised.
Sunnie ignored my remark.
“There’s three of them in St. Paul, one is eighty-one, on Seminary Avenue, that’s with the middle initial E. One is twenty-six, no middle initial, on Bragg Avenue. One is thirty-seven, middle initial J, on Ravoux Avenue. Any of those help?”
“Better give me all three again.”
I wrote the addresses down, along with the phone numbers.
“We should get together, Dev, soon. I always feel so good about my life once I hear whatever nonsense you’ve been up to.”
“Thanks, Sunnie. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got this project wrapped up.”
“She got you the info that fast?” Dog asked between coffee slurps.
“Yeah, computer shit. You want to come along and check these out, see if we can find our friends?”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The first place we checked was Harold Benton, aged eighty-one, on Seminary Avenue. The Benton that had broken my nose, slapped Jill around, and Dog had knee capped didn’t strike me as a rose gardener or eighty-one. He could have been a son but that just didn’t seem likely.
The second Harold Benton, on Bragg Avenue, age twenty-six, came with a pretty, young wife and two toddlers on a swing set in the side yard. That didn’t seem to work either.
The third Harold Benton, age thirty-seven, middle initial J, on Ravoux Avenue in Frogtown came with a house in need of paint and an overgrown lawn with dandelions. Neither of those facts was as convincing as Lola’s black Mercedes parked almost, but not quite behind the house in the driveway.
“How ‘bout we nail the doors shut, set the place on fire and then shoot them when they jump out the windows?” Dog was only half joking.
“Why don’t we just call the cops?”
“I don’t know about your ponytail pal but there’s a pretty good chance the woman can get lawyered up and released. How long you expect Jill to hide? Or, what if that bitch finds some other hot button, like going after your mom, or sister, or that computer chick? Or what if she’s got some other goon running around she can...”
“Okay, I get it. Any ideas?”
“I told you, we nail…”
“Come on.”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I think it would be a lot easier if we got them out of the house. We call tonight, set up an exchange, disable the car, when they come out we nail them. Pretty straightforward.”
“Pretty cold.”
“You’ve seen what they’re like. You think this woman is gonna back off?”
“You’re giving me another idea,” I said.
“I don’t want to hear we’re going to convince her to turn herself in and confess for the good of society. That’s going nowhere.”
“No. Remember the warehouse deal. The guy goes out the window and lands on the sidewalk?”
“The one where you got two shots off, you mean the dead guy, Pinky Ackerman?”
“Think those folks might be interested to know where she is?”
“They just might be the ones putting pressure on her to come up with the money.”
“Even better. Let’s eliminate us as the middleman and just turn everything over to Pinky’s family.”
“It might work, but hold my idea as plan B, just in case.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
It took a number of phone calls, but eventually I was sitting in the office of Brian Ackerman. Pinky’s son.
“I’m still not clear why you contacted us,” Brian said.
There were three other guys in the office with us, each outweighed me by about fifty pounds, they were clearly armed, and exhibited no sympathy for either Mr. Softee or Lola.
“It’s like I told you. I’ve been to the police, they’re investigating. Meanwhile, this woman kidnapped my girlfriend, assaulted both of us, threatens to kill us if we don’t give her money. Even if she’s arrested, she’ll have her lawyers get her released. At that point it really is in her best interest to kill both of us.”
This seemed a perfectly normal course of business to two of the guys sitting on a couch and they nodded slightly, understanding the logic of what I had just explained.
“And you want me to do what? Put a contract on her like this is some sort of Hollywood movie?”
“No sir. I just want you to be aware of what I saw that afternoon. I want you to know I explained all this to the police. And, I want you to know what I, actually my girlfriend and I, have been going through as a result.”
“And you think they’re at this address?” he glanced at the address I’d written down.
“I’m pretty sure. The guy, Harold Benton, worked for her and Softee. Like I said he did the nose job on me. Softee’s car, a Mercedes 600, is parked in back, I saw it. I wrote the license number below the address there. Benton’s already locked up.” I didn’t feel any pressing need to mention Benton had been knee-capped.
Brian Ackerman stood and held out his hand.
“Mister Haskell, I appreciate you calling and relaying this information. I think it would probably be in everyone’s best interest if we let the authorities proceed and allow justice to take its course.”
I shook his hand, looked him in the eye, and s
aid,
“My condolences to you and your family on your father’s passing,” then followed one of the heavies out of the office to a block of elevators where he left me.
I met Dog down at The Spot.
“So how’d it go?”
“I don’t know. I guess I sort of expected him to slap me on the back and say thanks, we’ll take it from here. Instead, he told me it would be best for the authorities to proceed and let justice takes its course.”
“He actually said that, the justice part?”
“Yep.”
“You know, I just think it might be a good idea if a lot of people see you in a public place tonight.”
“What?”
“Alibi.”
“God, I just want this whole thing to be over.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
I couldn’t tell you if it was the phone ringing or my pounding headache caused by the phone ringing that woke me up the next morning.
“Mister Haskell, good afternoon.”
I really wasn’t in the mood for a cheerful Detective Manning at the ungodly hour of, I checked, almost one thirty in the afternoon. I smacked some of the Jameson off my teeth, then groaned,
“What?”
“I said good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I grumbled.
“You know, you seem to be developing an incredible knack of associating with people who fall prey to violent deaths.”
If something happened to Jill, I’d never forgive myself.
“I’m not sure what or who you’re talking about,” I swallowed down the lump in my throat.
“Reasonably attractive woman, she spent some time with you just the other night, Lola Lentz.”
Thank god, I thought.
“Lola Len… You mean Softee’s squeeze?”
“Well, yes, and apparently his niece, among other things. Of course, I once again find myself suggesting it might be a good idea if you stopped by to chat. You do know where we’re located?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think I can find the way,” I said struggling off the couch.
“Say about an hour from now?” Another police question that was not really a question.
“Sure, will I need a lawyer?”
“That’s up to you,” he said and hung up.
I made it down to the police station in an hour and fifteen minutes. Pretty good considering I had to shower, shave, dress, then spend twenty precious minutes looking for my car keys.
We were in my favorite sterile interview room. I sat across from Detective Manning; the grey Formica table scarred with brown, wormy looking cigarette burns between us.
“And you have chosen not to have counsel present at this time, is that correct, Mister Haskell?”
Manning was speaking into a recorder. He had just finished making me aware that we were being filmed as well.
“Please state for the record where you were last night between the hours of midnight and one-fifteen this morning.”
“I was in The Spot bar. Having several drinks with friends.”
“And did you leave the premises at any time?”
“I did not.”
“And do you have proof of this?”
“I do,” I answered, then reached in my wallet and produced five receipts and pushed them across the table toward Manning.
“Would you please state for the record what you have just given me.”
“Those are five receipts from the ATM inside The Spot bar. They’re a record of cash withdrawals from my checking account, each in the amount of twenty dollars, each marked with a date and a time. The first one is from about eleven-forty last night, then approximately every thirty minutes after that.”
“Do you have any witnesses to the fact you remained at The Spot for the entire time?”
“Yes, the bartender, Jimmy. Then of course everyone I bought a drink for.”
“And their names?”
“I only have first names, and some of that is a little foggy, but they’re probably at The Spot right now, or they certainly will be later today.”
For the next two to three hours Manning reviewed the questions he’d asked the day before. Eventually the interview concluded.
“Do you have anything you wish to add, Mister Haskell?”
“Only that I wish I had never been hired by Weldon Sofmann, Mister Softee, in the first place,” I answered.
“Thank you, Mister Haskell.”
Aaron was waiting for us outside in the hallway.
“Mister Haskell, thanks for your time. If you two will excuse me, I have a mountain of paperwork on this,” Manning said, then walked away without another word.
Aaron watched him for a moment, then shook his head and without looking at me said,
“You’re buying dinner.
Chapter Seventy
Over dinner Aaron explained some things to me.
“Look, Manning has a really full plate. You can start with Bernie Sneen, then Mister Softee. He’s got Pinky Ackerman…”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
He shot me a suspicious glance.
“Pinky Ackerman, a player, sort of like Tony Soprano only for real and a lot more vicious.”
“Oh, that Pinky Ackerman.”
“Yeah. So he gets tossed out a window and shot…”
“No kidding?”
He ignored me.
“Then there’s three dead in some apparent ice cream truck robbery we still can’t get a handle on what that was about.” Aaron eyed me for a long moment.
“The car accident with the ice-cream truck?”
“Yeah, amazingly your buddy Softee, again. Then last night, this Lola broad and some other guy, in the house of a known associate.”
I waited, but Aaron had stopped talking. A minute or two later he asked,
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“About what?”
“About what happened to her.”
“Did you guys arrest her?”
“She was shot,” Aaron said.
“How?”
He stared at me again for a long moment, clearly not sure.
“She was shot, along with some two-bit low life named Monty Norling. Looks like they may have been hiding out over in Frogtown, in some dive house. That Benton guy’s as a matter of fact. Anyway, someone blocked the doors, then set the place on fire, both of them were shot as they came out a window.”
It was my turn to look unsure.
“Then someone seems to have calmly walked up and put another round right between their eyes.”
“Professional?” I was still searching my foggy, drunken recollection of the previous night. Dog had been with me, I think.
“Professional? No, whoever it was just got lucky. Yes professional. Head shots look to have been fired from a distance of about six inches, pretty hard to miss at that range.”
“Any suspects?”
“One, but he just eliminated himself with a stack of ATM receipts and a bar full of witnesses.”
Chapter Seventy-One
I met Dog outside The Trend bar. It was the first time I’d seen him in almost a month.
When we stepped inside there was a noticeable drop in the conversational hum. Although there had been a statewide smoking ban for years, I immediately smelled cigarettes and maybe smoke from another source, completely illegal.
We walked to the back of the bar toward a neatly dressed black gentleman. This time he was wearing a dark green polo shirt, matching trousers, and highly polished shoes. The same expensive watch. He looked like a prosperous business man, just stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee as if waiting for his tee time.
“Thank you for seeing us, Walter,” I said.
He gave a friendly nod and the conversational hum immediately rose four notches. He stared at my nose for a long moment.
“You look different, somehow,” he said.
“No, it’s still me.”
“I don’t mind telling you this has been
one of my more unique transactions,” he chuckled.
I palmed the roll of cash as we shook hands. Walter gave us the usual directions to our new vehicles.
“I don’t know, man,” Dog said, shaking his head as we crossed the street to the Rainbow Food parking lot.
“What?”
“Well, let’s just say you’ve done some pretty stupid things in your life, but this has to be up there, maybe the top one or two. It just ain’t necessary.”
“I think it’s the least I can do.”
“Seems pretty goddamn extreme to me, but what do I know?”
“Exactly. Besides I feel like I owe it for some reason.”
The keys were under the floor mats, just like before. We started the two vehicles, Dog signaled with a thumbs up and then followed when I drove off. Not that I’d want to do it for a living, but it was a fun fifteen-minute drive racing through the streets and across the High Bridge.
We swung onto Ohio Street, the contractor’s trailer was parked in front of the Giant Scoop Office. We pulled into the parking bay. I honked the horn, and Dog rang the bell on his truck a couple of times.
Jill stepped out of the office area. She was splattered with paint and held a roller in her hand.
“What in the hell is this?” she asked wide eyed.
“Little something to help you get restarted,” I said.
“But, but, where? God, they look brand new. I, I holy shit!” she said walking around the two ice-cream trucks.
Fortunately Walter’s team had painted over the pink and blue Mister Softee logos, removed the Softee hood ornament. Switched over the dreadful “Little Dog Gone” chime to a simple bell sound, then installed new coolers and the twelve treats menu on the back.
“I really don’t know what to tell you. Except, oh god I’ve been such a…”
“Don’t,” I said.
Chapter Seventy-Two
We were sitting at my kitchen counter, sipping chilled, cheap white wine. Heidi and me.
“You know, in a weird way having the head cut off sort of improves the look of that fish. Now if you’d just take it down all together, it would really spruce the place up.”
“Yeah, whatever.”