Cold Land: A Mystery Thriller

by John Oakes

SIXTEEN

  Undercover

  No amount of food or coffee could keep Jake even-keeled any more. He was seeing things and feeling woozy for lack of proper sleep. For the sake of his mission, he decided to get some midday shut eye back at the motel. He stripped to his skivvies, then got positioned on his stomach just right, but he couldn’t quite dim the inarticulate voices in his head. Worse, every time he was just about to slip into sleep, something deeply anxious inside him jerked him awake, leaving him disoriented. He had to crack an eye open to make sure where he was, or to double-check that the door was locked.

  Whenever sleep eluded Jake, he relied on an old trick where he replayed in his mind, to the best of his ability, the May 1991 Texas vs Toronto game when Nolan Ryan pitched the last no-hitter of his career. Sure enough, somewhere in the second inning, a foul ball strayed out of right field, pulling his imagination along with it, and he was finally lost to the swirling current of sleep and continued to slumber in his cheap motel bed like a rock swaying in a silk-lined hammock.

  He woke around three pm to an empty stomach and a full bladder. Once the bladder was attended to, he decided he felt rested enough to stay out of bed and get dressed. Across the hall, he found Jerry who waved him inside, white hair looking tousled as if he too had taken a nap. Thankfully, Jerry had been up long enough to fetch lunch, and had thoughtfully ordered a sandwich for Jake. He mowed through it quietly as Jerry made some notes on an inch thick clipboard that had a compartment inside for papers.

  “You ever gone undercover before?” Jerry asked.

  “Sure,” Jake said.

  “I only ever did it the one time,” Jerry said. “There were these Peruvian, or was it Panamanian — any way Spanish speaking fellas — moved into Dinkytown, which back then was shady as all get out.”

  “Dinkytown?”

  “A Saint Paul neighborhood close to the river and across the proverbial tracks. Much nicer these days, but back then… Anyway, these fellas set up a little prostitution operation, but they were pretty slick about it. You never saw an exchange of cash for ass, as they say. You paid in one building and then the girls were off in another building. We tried sending in fake Johns, hoping to get these fellas on tape selling these girls’ services. But they were too smart for that and caught on to us. Well, I was practically the only fella they hadn’t sent in there trying to buy a lady.”

  “Go figure.”

  “So since I haven’t shown my face yet, the chief tells me I gotta go in pretending to be a competing pimp.”

  Jake stopped chewing, mouth agape. “What? Did you?”

  “Well, I had to. It was orders.” Jerry set his clipboard to the side and billowed his cheeks. “So the guys and gals in the department got me a smart-looking outfit. And this was when I was young, like in the seventies, so this outfit, I’m telling ya.”

  “It was something to behold, I bet.”

  “Oh ya. The rust-colored bell bottoms, and the little matching vest, and a satiny shirt with big lapels.”

  “I’d pay to see that.”

  “Got a picture of it somewhere. Anyway, I go down there and I give them the what-for. They had themselves a front business; it was a corner store, selling cigarettes and 8-tracks and cassettes, watches and other goods that had all probably fallen off the back of a truck. I tell them we’re gonna have a renegotiation about our respective territory. And I start taking this pry bar to the glass cases.”

  “Damn. What did they do?”

  “They pulled a gun on me, told me to get out of the store. Seems reasonable in hindsight. Lucky I didn’t get myself shot right then and there.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I walked up to the guy with the gun as if I was on my way out, then I swung the pry bar hard as I could into his wrist holding the gun. The gun flew away and his hand hung limp off his arm like it was made of jelly.”

  Jerry scratched his head with his pen.

  “He was sorta screaming — you know that sort of screaming when you can’t believe what’s just happened? Like almost silent screaming, high on the back of your throat? Like that. I look at the other Spanish fella and ask him if he wants to pick up his friend’s pistol, and he declined. So we set up a meeting to negotiate like gentlemen instead.”

  “Jerry, that story is nuts.”

  Jerry sipped on the dregs of his soda. “Got them on tape the next day admitting to exactly how many girls they ran and where.”

  “Stone cold operator. Bet they threw you a parade.”

  Jerry furrowed his brow, and his mustache bunched to one side. “Actually, not anything like that. People started steering a little wider around me, and brass called me in to talk with a shrink about what happened.”

  “You weren’t supposed to break any pimp bones?”

  “Well, no. And I supposed that’s why they called me in. So, I told them what I thought they wanted to hear. I told them I was just doing my best to stay in the character of the undercover role. I made a mistake by hurting the guy. I apologized and said I’d accept any punishment. But the Spanish guys ended up taking a plea so the whole use of force issue didn’t come up.”

  Jerry’s eyes were distant and narrowed.

  “I thought that would keep the shrink off my back, but it didn’t. See what everyone was so concerned about wasn’t me giving a pimp a taste of pry bar. It was how I walked straight at the guy with the gun and then stepped in and took a swing. They showed me on tape. I coulda been shot so easy. The shrink wanted to know why I’d be so reckless with my own safety.”

  Jake set his food aside and leaned back. “I take it you lied again to your superiors and the shrink? What did you say?”

  The old cop nodded. “I said I’d been scared, and hadn’t really been thinking, yadda, yadda.” Jerry waved a hand dismissively. “Seemed better than telling them that I’d run one and a half miles that morning in eight minutes and forty-five seconds.”

  “You thought you were invincible because you did your ritual run?”

  “No one’s invincible,” Jerry said, “but to hurt you, Charlie’s gotta catch you.”

  Jake grunted as a lump rose in his throat. He didn’t know what to say.

  “My word, that pimp get-up was fun to wear, though,” Jerry laughed. “Man alive that was really something. Clothes make the man. They say that for a reason. Maybe I really coulda gotten myself shot.”

  Jerry picked up his clipboard. “Can’t honestly believe this situation here, now. Not like any murder case I’ve ever been on before, but maybe that’s something I like about the job. Surprises.”

  “It’s a different one for me, too.”

  “Perfect example. What I’m saying is you’re out of jurisdiction, so basically just a civilian here, and you’re going into harm’s way. Ha. Normally, I’d never go for this in a million bajillion years. The risks are just too high.” Jerry tipped a hand from one side to the other like balancing a scale. “But you’re no normal citizen, either, and something deep in my guts tells me you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Thanks, Jerry. I take that as a compliment.”

  “Well. There you go.” Jerry stood up, seeming uncomfortable and eager for something to do. “Unless you need anything from me, I’m gonna head down to the jail and have that little talk with Zach Vane. Make sure, should anyone come calling, he says he sent you in his place.”

  “Think he’ll go along with it?”

  “Oh, ya. He’s between a rock and a hard place as is. Plus, we’re helping his people keep their cover.” Jerry put his coat on and opened the door.

  Jake grabbed up his sandwich and stepped out into the hallway, feeling for his key card in his pocket. “Hey,” Jake said as Jerry walked to the exit. “You could always let seventies Pimp Jerry scare him straight!” But Jerry didn’t look back or respond, leaving Jake grinning as he entered his room.

  Jake’s inclination was to grab his hat before leaving, but he was conspicuous enough in Mankato as it was. He found the bathroom mirror and
worked some water into his hair, then smoothed it on his head. He didn’t bother with his increasingly scruffy facial hair, as it suited the blue collar look he was going for. After donning his coat, he realized that leaving his pistol would be much harder than leaving the hat, but was just as necessary. He felt exposed without it, but carrying it on his hip would bring unneeded attention. The thought of needing it and not having it ate at his mind, but he resolved to stick with the decision and not think more about it.

  When he got the text that Steve was outside, Jake gathered up the acetylene torch and canisters and made for the exit.

  “You ready?” Steve asked, as Jake carefully got in his truck, placing the canisters upright between his legs.

  “Tell me what I need to know.”

  “Truth is I don’t know his crew very well, except for Hunter, the pot head. I’ve known him off and on for years. All three are gajdo, not of the family, so to speak. Makes things a little easier.”

  “It easier to screw over white boys than your people?”

  “Culturally, morally, and in practice, yes.” Steve made an unapologetic, firm nod. “Now, Kenny himself is confident, but he doesn’t deserve to be. He’s never made much of himself, always just moving from one scam to another. He doesn’t mind traveling, though, so that worked for him. He’s not the most outgoing guy, but he’s managed to build up a network of lowlife buddies all over Southern Minnesota, maybe further afield.”

  “Any hair triggers I should know about? Short fuse?”

  “He’s not one to lose his cool, but he is very sensitive. Don’t make him feel undermined or like he’s not the smartest fella you ever met. Gets real pissy if his genius isn’t appreciated.”

  “Got it.”

  Steve turned off the main road onto an arterial. “So are you a real cop or not?”

  “I’m a real deal Texas lawman.” Jake looked over at Steve and smiled. “Only problem is I’m in Minnesota, so no one ought to give a damn. Anyone asks, I’m not a cop anymore than you are.”

  “It’s easier to lie about something when it’s mostly true to begin with.”

  Jake laughed, knowing he was talking to a first class liar. “That’s right.”

  “Either way,” Steve said, “I appreciate what you’re doing here. I know it’s not something you have to do.”

  “You’re welcome. Let’s just hope in the process I find David Young’s killer.”

  “About that…” Steve turned off the arterial onto a quiet side street and slowed to a crawl.

  Jake held up a hand, acknowledging where Steve was heading. “Mister Steve, if there’s a link between David Young, the money order scam he was running, and this cabal of knuckleheads, it’s very possible your cousin Kenny had a part in it.”

  “Kenny acts tough, but he’s not a killer,” Steve pleaded.

  “No one’s a killer until they are,” Jake said. “But I’ll give him a fair shake, I promise.”

  Steve pulled over to the curb and stopped in a street full of old buildings and weeds. In one of the windows nearby, a neon sign in the shape of a hand advertised “Palm Readings, Tarot, Fortunes.” Below was a phone number to call for an appointment. The next shopfront advertised, in drab signage, a Native American wellness center and art gallery.

  “Kenny and his guys’ll be here at your shops?”

  “Kenny’s not allowed in either of our places of business,” Steve chuckled. “Out of the goodness of our hearts, we let him stay in the annex behind our building. It’s secluded—he and his friends can get drunk and let off fireworks without getting seen.”

  “All righty, then.”

  “Fill me in on how it goes,” Steve said.

  “Gotcha.”

  Steve offered out a hand, and Jake shook.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Crew

  The loose hose in Jake’s arms swung as he walked, leaving the valve at the end to bang against the tanks every other step. Jake made no effort to dampen the noise. If he was going to walk up on a skittish group of conspiring pre-criminals, he felt more comfortable announcing his arrival. He walked past the window with the neon palmistry sign and back toward the annex building Steve had described. A door had been built into the hall to the annex and Jake opened this, looking both ways inside. He stepped through another door out of the annex building and into a long courtyard full of tall grass and dead leaves.

  A fire pit burned twenty feet away, and two men stood near it holding beers and smoking cigarettes. They each glanced at Jake, but neither took much interest. One was the tall, lanky fellow they’d seen walk into the shipping center that morning. Kenny himself stepped out of the annex holding a tray of brats. He set them on an old table and laid a screen over the fire pit. The tall one said something, and Kenny’s head popped up. He smiled wide, surprising Jake. “What’s up, my friend? You looking for a reading?”

  “No, sorry,” Jake said. “Zach sent me. Zach Vane.” Jake hefted the tanks he held as best he could to get the point across.

  “Oh.” Kenny stood straighter, tucking his chin into his neck so hard it made his flesh squish out to the side. “Oh, shit. The torch. You got Zach’s torch?”

  “Zach can’t make it. Got picked up by the cops.”

  Jake watched carefully as the three men exchanged glances, then made his way along the annex, keeping as far from the fire as he could.

  “The cops?” the lanky one asked, growing red in the neck and cheeks. “What… what did he get picked up for?”

  “He got in some fight I guess,” Jake said.

  “A fight. You sure?” Kenny asked.

  “He called me before the cops showed up to the motel. Told me where to find the tanks and begged me to come help you.”

  “Where is here now?”

  “He’s in the jail waiting for a bail hearing or something,” Jake said. “Can I set these down? They’re wearing on my arms. Inside, away from the fire, if we could.”

  Kenny’s gaze darted about, then he waved Jake toward the open double doors of the annex. Jake set the tanks down next to a wall and took in the room. It was a long rectangle mostly taken up with half-built shelving units. A big L-shaped work station separated the front section from the back where some suspended curtains and an open door into a bathroom suggested a makeshift living space.

  “What’s your name, man?”

  “Oh, sorry.” Jake held out a hand. “I’m Jake. You’re Kenny?”

  They shook, but Kenny titled his head to the side.

  “Zach called you to come here? Why you? I’ve never met you before.”

  “He came to me a few days ago looking for this stuff right here. He had me show him how to use it. Even after half an hour I wasn’t sure he really knew what he was doing, but that was his business.”

  “Oh,” Kenny said with a huskiness to his voice. He rotated on his hips from side-to-side, clearly thinking. “So if he got this from you, you know how to work this thing real good, right?”

  “Oh, ya, you betcha,” Jake said in his best impersonation of Jerry’s Minnesota accent.

  “And Zach, did he inform you what we were doing?”

  “No details. Just said I’d make a good bit of money if I came down and simply did as told. Opportunity like this could really help me right now, so I hopped to.”

  “You ever do any time, Jake?”

  “No sir.”

  “You ever take things that weren’t your own?”

  Jake kicked at a spot on the floor, trying to say “Awe shucks, mister” with his body language. “Everyone’s taken a pen or too many samples at Costco, but that’s not exactly what you’re asking.”

  “Nah.”

  “I ain’t never done anything, you know, like a heist.” Jake lowered his voice. “If that’s whatcha mean. Zach didn’t say, but I figured…”

  “All right, Jake.” Kenny ran a hand through his dark hair. “Just hang here a minute.” He left the annex and closed the double doors behind him, clearly off to confer with his as
sociates.

  Jake traipsed around the shelves, eyeing what appeared to be Diana’s fortune telling supplies mixed with Steve’s “Native American” remedies and talismans, some of which appeared less than natural. Jake picked up a packet of pills marked in some unidentifiable language. “Huh.”

  On a shelf below sat something resembling plant life, a bundle of dried grass mixed with broad leaves. It smelled wonderful, like some sort of minty sage. He held it up to his nose and took another sniff.

  If Steve was selling bullshit remedies, Jake figured, at least he had the decency to make them smell nice.

  Another shelf held a variety of gold bowls, gold-looking bowls at least. Many of them had a golden pestle or grinder. Jake picked one up and smelled it, then winced and pulled away. It reeked of acrid smells like burnt toast or singed hair.

  “Hey man.”

  Jake jumped and fumbled the golden bowl and pestle, and they clattered onto the floor. He picked them up, cursing himself. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t touch that stuff. My cousin will get pissed off at me.” Kenny walked up and took the bowl from Jake. He rubbed at any scuffs with the wrist of his shirt, then set it back. “Come on.”

  Kenny led Jake outside and pointed at the tall guy. “That’s Gavin.” Then at the other with a shaved head and a black hoodie. “That’s AJ.”

  “Fellas.” Jake shook both their hands.

  “One more guy in our crew, Rob. He’ll be here in a bit.” Kenny crossed his arms. “So what do you do, Jake? Where you live?”

  “I do odd jobs lately. I trained as an apprentice electrician for a while but my uncle died, and no one else would take me. I’m from Wilmar. Small town.”

  “How do you know Zach?” Kenny asked.

  “Oh, I don’t, not until recent.” Jake willfully kept from crossing his arms in the cold, as it was a subtle tell someone was being dishonest. He stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and said, “I keep an ad running on Craigslist, for my odd jobs. First thing I mention is welding and cutting skills. How he found me.”

  Kenny scratched at his cheek. “You, uh, mind showing us a bit of what you can do? Cutting wise?”