“Alright if I call you back when we find out more?” Kempas asked.
“Suit yourself.”
“Get better.”
“You too.”
Dressed in his best, Jansson crossed the hall and knocked on Huusko’s door. Huusko was still in his underwear with a towel around his neck. A half-empty bottle of vodka and a barely-touched bottle of grapefruit juice were on the table.
“Help yourself.”
“Apparently you’ve already helped yourself to a few.”
“Working on the third, all pretty weak.”
Huusko’s clothes were uniformly scattered across the floor. By his carefree organizational system, it was easy to tell he was still a bachelor.
Jansson took the clothes that were spread out on the chair, piled them on the bed and sat down.
Huusko put on a pair of tight black jeans. The scar from his heart surgery seemed to have been cut with a scythe. Despite his unhealthy eating habits, Huusko’s upper body was as muscular as any athlete’s. Huusko noticed Jansson sizing him up enviously, and he flexed his right bicep.
“Solid steel!”
“Right, right…”
Huusko did a few shadowboxing steps, parried and counter-punched, then calmed down and pulled on a dark-blue jean shirt. He stopped to appraise Jansson’s outfit.
“Skipper look? Nice try, but the cowboy look is in right now. Check out my genuine Texas boots—and don’t drool.”
“Kempas called.”
“Let’s forget work, huh?”
“He asked about Raid.”
Huusko didn’t seem to be listening. He finished off his shot of vodka, then poured the rest into a plastic flask.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
The veterans were at the table rehashing World War II. They had just gotten through the Battle of Summa and were starting into the Battle of Ihantala, the largest battle in Nordic history. There, Finnish forces had halted a Soviet advance despite being outnumbered three to one.
Jansson said hello to a few of the vets he’d gotten to know. The taxi was already waiting outside the door.
One fellow who’d been in the spa with Jansson noticed the taxi.
“You boys off to the dances?”
“We’re coming too,” said another.
“You guys stick around and hold down the fort,” said Huusko.
“I hear they’re supposed to have a live band tonight,” said Jansson’s friend.
The dance floor was open every night, but only on Wednesdays and Fridays did they have live music.
“Have fun tonight,” said Jansson.
“Not too much, though,” added Huusko.
“Don’t drink too little,” shouted one of the vets.
The Millhouse Tavern was in the heart of town, half a mile away. The low building had been built in the seventies, just as the town’s central area shifted to a new area. Next to it were the social security office, a bank, a liquor store, a supermarket and a hardware store.
The interior of the tavern was trying for a sort of earthy, cabin feel. German-style painted elves, about as charming as a painted toilet, had been hung all about.
Huusko ordered two beers at the bar and brought them to the table. The place was nearly empty.
“Why is Kempas interested in Raid?” asked Huusko, puffing at the froth at the top of his glass.
“Was it hard for you to wait till now?”
“Not at all.”
Jansson told him.
“Kempas is a good cop, but he’s no nice guy. A killjoy, you might say.”
A small red car stopped in the parking lot. Huusko sat up as a blonde-haired woman stepped out of the car wearing a grey skirt and a thin blue jacket. She was about forty years old. She pulled a flat handbag out of the car, closed the door and headed toward the restaurant in swinging strides. It was the same nurse who, in the pool that morning, had faulted Jansson’s posture.
“Some broads really know how to walk,” said Huusko.
The woman stopped at the entrance and looked around. After noticing Huusko, she came to the table. Huusko played the gentleman, took her coat and offered her a chair.
“Plenty of space for a beautiful woman. You two know each other, right? Boss, this is Anna. Anna, this is my boss, Lieutenant Jansson.”
Jansson shook her hand, but she avoided his eyes. He tried to seem friendly and carefree, not wanting her to think he’d been bothered earlier.
Huusko scuttled off to get her a drink.
“Huusko tells me you’ve lived here for quite a few years. You must enjoy it?” said Jansson.
“I’m from around here… Nothing wrong with the place, and if I get bored, Helsinki’s just over an hour away.”
She fiddled with the diamond ring on her middle finger.
“Is this your first time at a rehab center?”
“Do I look like it is?”
She laughed.
“No comment. Are you enjoying yourself?”
Jansson paused.
“If I said yes, I’d be lying. Three days in and I’m already running out of reasons to stay. At this rate I’ll end up drowning myself in the hot tub.”
She laughed again. A few wrinkles showed on her face, but her smile softened them.
“Some people come again and again…feel right at home.”
“I suppose that depends on what home is like.”
“You don’t seem to have anything to complain about in that department.”
“Could be worse.”
Huusko returned with two fresh beers and a drink for the lady.
“We figured we’d have steaks. You’re not gonna tattle, are you?”
“Depends on the bribe… I’ll have to leave at eight, unfortunately. I have a new fitness program that has to be ready by tomorrow. But you guys can stay as long as you like, I’ll drive myself…”
Jansson looked at the woman, then at Huusko. Maybe their spark wasn’t as hot as Huusko had hoped. Though Jansson always stood up for his team, he had to admit that this woman had just the kind of sensitivity and style that would go to waste on a guy like Huusko. Apparently, it went to waste on this whole little town.
Huusko looked disappointed.
“The band doesn’t start till nine. I won’t get to dance with you.”
“Another time.”
“How ’bout now.”
Huusko dug some change out of his pocket and weaved his way over to the jukebox. He scanned the list and pushed the button for a classic Finnish folk tune, “Hobo’s Rose.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. I’m a hobo and you’re a rose.”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Something slower?”
“Not today. Sorry to be a bore. Just not in the mood…maybe I shouldn’t have come…all I can think about is work…”
“Join the club,” said Jansson.
“You mind if we eat?” said Huusko.
“No.”
“I’ve got terrible table manners.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
Huusko ordered a pepper steak and cheese potatoes. Jansson chose chicken and rice.
The chicken was dry and the steak tough. The knives were dull and Huusko had to struggle to get a bite-size chunk off the steak.
“Not exactly gourmet cooking?” she said.
“I guess it’s sort of like meat.”
“I’m on a diet anyway,” said Jansson.
Huusko mangled the steak.
“Guess what W.C. Fields said to the waiter in this situation?”
“What?”
“How much for this insult?”
The woman laughed. “Guess what I say in this situation?”
“You gotta go.”
“Bingo.”
She took her jacket, stood up, shook Jansson’s hand and nodded at Huusko.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“We won’t,” Jansson promised.
“That’s that.”
3.
Nygren was wearing sunglasses. In his long, open overcoat, he resembled an Italian multimillionaire whose silken sheets had entwined the better part of the Italian Riviera’s most beautiful women.
“You wanna drive?” asked Raid.
“I’ll let you drive for now.”
Nygren opted for the back seat again, settling in diagonally with one leg draped across the seat.
“I promised to tell the tale of this car,” said Nygren, patting the front seat backrest.
It seemed to Raid that Nygren had read his thoughts.
“If you’d like to hear it.”
“Sure.”
“Well, the original owner was a popular tango singer back in the early seventies. Died by drowning in his swimming pool around 1975. He had a red brick house with a flat roof, the kind with chinchilla fur on the toilet lid and mink pelts for toilet paper.”
“I think I’ve been there before,” said Raid.
“Was there a bar made of birch burl?”
“Something like that.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about. His wife sold the house and the other belongings and moved to Greece to carouse with the local boytoys. The car was purchased by an inconspicuously wealthy farmer from Turku.”
“Inconspicuously wealthy?”
“The type that goes around in a ragged sweatshirt and rubber boots patched up with inner tubes even though his bank accounts amount to millions and he has a suitcase of stock certificates under his cot. There’s a few of these types at every auction. The more trouble someone else is in, the more likely you are to find them. Then, out of the goodness of their hearts, they offer to buy your half-a-million-euro house for a hundred and fifty grand. You know the type?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course, they’re always stingy Scrooges. They tear up old newspapers for toilet paper, unless they can get a truckload of the stuff from a bankruptcy estate. If they have a party they might take out a roll, but they always ration everyone to one sheet per wipe.”
Nygren lit his cigarette.
Raid’s own first car was a Volvo Amazon. A red two-door with a two-liter B20 engine. He had dumped over ten thousand Swedish kronor from his earnings at a chocolate factory into the purchase. Still, the car had been worth every krona.
He had driven it around on his first summer vacation in Finland after moving to Sweden. The only downside was that the car still had Swedish plates, so at every stop someone peed on the tires or shouted profanities at him.
Raid glanced in the rear-view mirror. A blue Toyota van had been on their tail for a half hour now. Some time ago, the van had slowed down and nearly vanished from view, but now it was driving the same speed as they, not quite a hundred yards behind.
“You have something against the inconspicuously wealthy?” Raid asked.
“You noticed? As a guy who’s broken every one of God’s commandments, I don’t have many qualities to brag about, but thank heaven I’m not stingy or all that greedy, though others might have a different opinion. These phony bums convince themselves and everyone else that they aren’t really stingy; they just claim to dislike spending. Truth is, they like it immensely—they just love money more than things. They’d wear gold-mesh underwear if it was a gift. Gets on my nerves when they try to squeeze diamonds out of shit. Do you have a gun handy, by the way?”
Nygren’s question was jolting, though it flowed naturally within his discourse.
“Just happened to spot one of the shitheads about a hundred yards back.”
“I doubt we’ll need a gun,” Raid said.
“They might be stupid, but they’re still dangerous. At least that Sariola. The prison doc said he’s some kind of psychopath. For once the doc might be right.”
“What was his assessment of you?”
“The prison doc’s? Manic-depressive…but otherwise a nice guy.”
Nygren craned his neck back as he peered out the rear window.
“How’d they find us?” Raid asked.
“In this car, it’s tough to go unnoticed. They probably spotted us in Turku.”
“Maybe we should stop and clear things up.”
“They don’t need any clarification. They want money.”
“There was no disagreement over their split?”
“Nope. They got more than they deserved.”
“Then let’s make it even more clear.”
A billboard on the side of the road advertised a service station about a mile up where they could get a donut and coffee for one euro.
“Let’s go for coffee and donuts. My treat,” said Raid.
Apparently, the special offer hadn’t worked, as the parking lot was vacant.
Raid stepped out of the car, stretched his arms and headed toward the station. Nygren paused to look back for a moment before following.
For lack of anything better to do, the balding fifty-something owner had arranged the donuts in a cone-shaped stack. When Raid spoiled the symmetry by buying two donuts, the owner promptly fetched two more from the kitchen to fill in the space.
Raid carried the tray to a corner table while Nygren stood in the doorway watching the parking lot. The blue van paused at the bottom of the exit ramp leading to the station, then turned onto it. Nygren came to the table and started unwrapping sugar cubes, all the while staring out the window. His fingers were as deft as a card-dealer’s.
Two men got out of the van, one short and stout, the other average in height, but lean. The skinny one hadn’t shaken off his prison look. He wore track pants, running shoes, a leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, and long hair combed straight back past the nape of his neck. The short one was dressed in black pressed pants and a brown leather jacket. In his attempt to look like a proper citizen, he ended up looking like a cross between an auto mechanic and a bouncer. The thin man spoke, but the stout one didn’t seem to be listening. With a commanding air and determined stride, he started off toward the station.
“The guy in front is the one to look out for—Sariola. Lehto just chauffeurs and packs the heat, but he doesn’t use it—he’s nothing without Sariola.”
Just inside the door, the stout one paused and let his eyes roam the room. His gaze fell on Nygren and a feigned smile spread across his face. He walked over to the table and went through some rendition of “it’s a small world.”
“Somebody told me they saw you, but I didn’t believe him. I thought, well there’s plenty of Benzes in the world. What a coincidence! We were just talking about you yesterday, wondering what you’re up to nowadays.”
He turned to his skinny partner.
“Cream and three sugar cubes…and a donut.”
The skinny guy scurried off to the counter and started clinking dishes. The division of labor between the two was plainly evident.
“So what’s new?” the stout one said.
“I’m retired.”
“Nice that you can afford that.”
“Even with a small salary, you put a little away and it starts to build up.”
“I reckon you’ve built up more than just a little.”
“Enough for me. I’m a modest man.”
“Enough to spare a little for old friends?”
“I’m not a bank.”
“And what if you just gave it…for old-time’s sake?”
“Here’s what I’ll give you: some good advice. Drink your coffee, eat your donuts and be on your way.”
Shorty dispensed with the cheerful expression.
“Shame. You oughta be thanking us for your little nest egg.”
“You should’ve saved your own cut.”
“Not everyone can be as lucky as you.”
“It’s not about luck, it’s about brains. Even if I handed you my last euro, you’d be broke within a week. It’s a law of nature. Whosoever hath, to him shall be given.”
“Fucking ha
rsh words,” the stout one hissed.
As Slim returned to the table with a tray, Shorty took Nygren’s insult as an opportunity to twist things back in his favor.
“That hurts… But we’re old friends, right? I’m willing to overlook it for a little start-up capital…so little it’s almost embarrassing.”
“We’re launching a business,” said slim. “Another guy wants to partner with us…”
The stout one shut him up with a scowl.
“Let’s just say fifteen grand,” he ventured hopefully.
“Let’s not.”
The stout one pulled his coat aside to reveal a gun in his shoulder holster.
“If I were you, I’d strike a deal. Afterwards, we can all quietly go our own ways. You remember Lehtinen? He crossed me and didn’t want to reconcile. Things didn’t go well for him—got a screwdriver in the gut.”
“A Phillips,” added slim.
The owner slipped quietly behind the cover of the bar.
Nygren patted Raid on the shoulder.
“My nephew isn’t fond of guns. If I were you, I’d leave before he gets angry.”
The stout one smiled doubtfully, drew his gun and pointed it at Raid’s forehead.
“So your nephew’s gonna get mad? If I were you, I’d be worried about me getting mad.”
Glancing over to see Nygren’s reaction was a mistake.
Raid sprang into action, and in a flash, he had the stout one’s gun in his hand. Shorty’s reflexes were sluggish and his finger grasped at the trigger, but the gun was already gone.
Raid swept out Slim’s legs from beneath him and he crashed to the ground beneath his tray of coffee and donuts. In the same instant, Raid swung his gun hand around and thumped the stout one behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. The man sank to his knees and struggled to stay upright.
Raid took a pot of coffee off the counter. The owner cowered behind the donut pile, apparently fearful that his meticulously built tower might collapse.
Raid approached Shorty, kicked him onto his back and emptied the coffee pot onto his crotch.
“You wanted it black, right?”
The man screamed, threw his hands over his crotch and tried to scramble to his feet, but his floundering halted when Raid’s knee rammed into his forehead.
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 3