Ransom's palms actually began to sweat when he turned the Camry off Center Street and approached his old neighborhood. Heart stuttering faster. He thought of his days in Iraq. He thought about the rifles, pistols, explosives he was comfortable with. I'm a fucking veteran of combat, Ransom reflected angrily, and my hands are shaking like a kid's.
Then he was unexpectedly passing the two-story, pale green colonial and had to brake fast. The trees--and there were a lot of them--had grown significantly in the twenty years since he'd been away (no Dutch elm here), so he hadn't recognized the place. Though he supposed the truth was that he simply had chained out so many memories of his birthplace that he couldn't really recall what it looked like.
He backed up, pulled to the curb and parked. The house was set back about thirty feet from the street across a leaf-strewn grass yard. The residences in this block dated to the 1930s and though the neighborhood would qualify as a subdivision or development, the structures were not made from cookie cutters. Each was significantly different. The Fells family home had a number of distinctive elements, including one that Ransom now recalled very well: a small round window, pied by perpendicular strips of wood--like a telescopic gun sight.
An unwanted memory from earlier returned: His father going hunting. Alone. Stan had told his son, "Pretty dangerous, guns. When you're older."
Even though Jimmy and Todd and even Ellen went hunting with their fathers all the time.
Oh, and, by the way, older never made it onto the schedule.
How dangerous would a hunting expedition have been anyway? Stan never came back with a deer or pheasant; he couldn't have fired more than a dozen shots.
Ransom continued to examine the house, which was smaller than he remembered, though he knew that always happened when seeing something--or someone--from the past that you've been thinking about for some time.
He noted the sliver of kitchen window. He remembered Stan sitting at the uneven Formica table before he left for work, always wearing the same: boots, jeans and a blue denim shirt over his wife-beater T-shirt (description only; like the boys, their mother never received more than a gruff glance or sharp word from Stan). He would sip coffee and read, never making conversation. Occasionally stepping into the den and closing the door after him to make or take a call. Ransom and his brother left for school with Stan still sitting at the table over his book or magazine and coffee.
Ransom was startled by his buzzing phone. It was Annie. He let it go to voice mail then turned his attention back to the side yard where he and his brother played.
Back to the front porch, where his mother would sit outside with a glass of wine disguised as juice in a red plastic cup. A big cup.
Back to the lawn he would mow every Saturday for the allowance that he was never given but had to earn.
Waiting, waiting, waiting to feel something.
But no.
Numb.
Then a curtain moved, yellow and brown.
The time was 10 a.m., a little after, and the owner--wife, probably--or a cleaning lady might be wondering what a sedan was doing parked in front of the house, with the driver in sunglasses on an overcast day no less. Not smart. Ransom slipped the Toyota into gear and rolled up the street, turning at the corner. He stopped at an intersection and pulled out his cell phone, did some research, made a few calls. Five minutes later he continued on, toward downtown Marshall.
*
THE IRONWORKS TAVERN was still in existence, about a mile from the house. It was on the edge of downtown, beside a river the color of dried mustard, and near what had been an unenclosed train station, where commuters would board one of the infrequent trains to Gary or to change to a different line for Chicago.
Ransom's father never took the train but he came to the Ironworks frequently, after he got home from work and wolfed down supper, often standing in the fluorescent-lit kitchen, and then changed into a clean shirt and headed to the Ironworks.
Ransom now parked on the diagonal in front of the tavern, twenty empty spaces surrounding an occupied three. Inside, the large room was similar to what he recalled from the one or two times he'd been here with his mother, looking for Stan when they "happened" to be shopping nearby (though there was an IGA that was closer to home). The place would have been painted, of course, and the sports posters were of mostly existing teams. Jagermeister was for sale, as was Red Bull, according to the promotional signage. And, heaven help us, Hefeweizen was on tap. Stan, a beer drinker exclusively, wouldn't have approved.
Ransom was amused that breakfast was being served, which also would have been unheard of twenty or thirty years ago. Four saggy people at three tables forked eggs, sausage and bacon into their mouths. Cigarette packs bulged in several shirt pockets. Ransom bet that at least one or two were wondering what the consequences would be if they lit up after they finished.
Ransom picked a shaky stool at the bar and told the elderly man behind it he'd like a coffee. The stooped guy gave Ransom a careful scan. "Just regular," Ransom told him, eyeing a steaming glass pot. Behind the bar was an espresso machine but it looked like it had never been used. He didn't like fancy drinks anyway.
"Yessir."
"You're Bud Upshaw?" Ransom asked when the man brought a mug and two Mini-Moo's creamers. An old-fashioned sugar shaker eased forward as cautiously as the man's eyes. "Yessir," he repeated. He was about seventy-five, with a face aggressively wrinkled. His complexion was an odd shade--not tan, not ethnic, but some curious tone of dark. Ransom thought of the unfortunate river out back. He was sinewy and where his hair had been now clustered a dozen age spots.
Ransom hadn't wanted to waste the time of coming to this part of town if the Ironworks wasn't here any longer or if there was no one on staff from twenty years ago. His call earlier had been to the Shady Grove, where the desk clerk told him that the Ironworks was still a "Marshall landmark" and Upshaw, the owner for three decades, was still "chief cook and bottle washer," which happened to be one of Stan's favorite expressions.
The man was definitely uncomfortable and at first Ransom thought it was because he was dressed in a business suit and tie and had a lawyer look about him. Reason enough to be cautious in Marshall, where credit problems carried off as much peace of mind as lung cancer did lives. But, no, it was Ransom's face that drew most of Upshaw's attention.
"You know me?"
Ransom might have seen a much younger version of the man but couldn't recall. He said, "I don't. My father might have. My family used to live here years ago. I'm in the area on business and thought I'd stop by."
"Father..." Upshaw was whispering. And some troubled thought was clearly volleying around in his mind. Then: "When was it? That you lived here?"
"Oh, I left over twenty years ago. I was a kid." Finally he couldn't let it go any longer: "Something wrong?"
"Nosir. How'd you know my name? Just curious."
"Fellow at the Shady Grove. Clerk."
"Sure, sure, sure." Though this didn't make Upshaw feel any better. He scanned the breakfasters uneasily and scribbled out a check for one table, then scurried to deliver it.
Then, returning to his roost behind the bar, Upshaw froze. The old man whispered, "Stan Fells."
"That's right. I'm Ransom, his son."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Uh-huh." His eyes scanned the room and it seemed to Ransom that he was looking for help.
"There a problem?"
"I...No."
Though there was. Clearly. And this intrigued Ransom a great deal.
Upshaw aggressively dunked a dishcloth and wrung it out several times. Dunked again. He continued, "So. Your dad in the area? You going to meet him here, by any chance?"
"My father? Oh, he died nine years ago."
"He died, what happened?" the man asked. Not an unusual question, under the circumstances, but the speedy velocity of the words was curious.
"Car crash. Sorry to have to tell you."
Only Upshaw himself didn't seem troubled about the news. In fact,
he looked positively relieved.
Upshaw nodded thoughtfully and ignored another man waving for a check. "So, dead. He was the last."
"The last?"
"Of the Round Table." He gestured to a dim corner, where a booth--which was square--now sat. "Stan, Murphy, Shep, Mr. Kale. The regulars." He fell silent as the diner approached with some irritation. He now paid, leaving coins for a tip. Upshaw didn't pay any attention.
"Car crash. Round here?"
Stan had skidded off the road into a river in Michigan, returning from a trip to Detroit. He told Upshaw this.
"Detroit," the man whispered, as if this, too, was significant.
Intrigue hummed at a higher pitch in Ransom Fells's heart.
The dishrag went for another swim and wringing and Upshaw mopped a part of the scabby bar that needed varnish, not soapy water. The man's face revealed an odd milkshake of emotions: He was wary of Ransom, he was curious, he was relieved. It didn't make any sense. And the mystery continued as Upshaw asked, "Your father ever mention me or the place?"
"What?" Ransom asked, amused. "He died nearly ten years ago."
"Just wondering."
"And I didn't talk to him for a few years before that."
"Oh. That must've been tough."
Not really. Ransom was silent.
Upshaw looked up, caught the gray eyes and then down again at dishwater that was pretty much the same shade. "Means you didn't much happen to cross paths with any of the other boys he worked with?"
This was laughable. "No, I didn't know anybody at the company."
"Company?"
"Bud, what's this all about?"
"Oh, nothing, sir. Just curious. You were talking about old times and I was thinking the same. Walk down memory lane," he said with a big phony smile on his face. "So."
But Ransom wasn't going to put up with any crap. He was enduring this hard pilgrimage to find out about his father, and this man obviously knew something. He fired a glance the man's way and touched his arm, gentle but insistent. "Tell me what's going on."
Though Ransom believed he had a pretty good idea and it made perfect sense.
A woman.
Stan had been having an affair and Upshaw knew about it. Dad had probably brought the slut here dozens of times. Maybe the bar owner was worried about shattering Ransom's memories of his dad. But to judge from the wariness in his face, he guessed that it was more likely his father had threatened him to shut up about it.
Ransom understood something else; he guessed his mother knew, too. There had to be some reason she graduated from beer to wine to vodka.
"Really, please, sir." Voice quivering.
"You don't tell me, I'll just go through my father's address book from back then and start calling people. They'll give me some answers." There was no address book--Ransom hadn't inherited anything but a few thousand from an insurance policy--but for his job he'd learned to bluff. He was good at it. But he hadn't meant his words as a threat, simply a prod to get the man to spill.
So he didn't understand the alarmed reaction. "No, no, you don't want to do that!" Now, Upshaw's hybrid complexion paled. The resulting color was eerie. "Look, let's forget it. Please." He was begging. "You want some breakfast? It'll be on the house, for old times' sake."
Ransom tightened the grip on Upshaw's arm then flattened his hands on the bar, as if planting himself, never to leave until he had some answers.
Upshaw swallowed and went to get himself some coffee he didn't seem to want. He returned and fiddled with the sugar shaker, poured in what seemed like a half cup. He didn't stir it. "You're not...you're not law, are you?"
"Law?"
"Police, or whatever?"
Confused, Ransom muttered, "I'm a salesman, computer products."
Now Upshaw's own gaze grew tight, as if he were a truth detector.
Instinct told Ransom to relent. "Look, Bud, my dad was a mystery to me. This was his favorite hangout after he'd get home from his company. I thought you could tell me a little about who he was, what he talked about, what he did. That's all."
Now, lapsing back to his whisper, Upshaw looked around the tavern. "Okay, sir. Well, first of all, this wasn't a place he'd stop in after work. This was his office. And as for who he was, please, I'm sorry. Your father was an enforcer."
"A what?"
"He killed people for a living."
*
BUD UPSHAW WAS LEANING BACK, now clutching the coffee as if he was going to fling it Ransom's way and flee in the event of an attack.
But Ransom Fells simply laughed. "You're crazy. You're out of your fucking mind." Maybe the old guy was senile.
"No, no. I wish I was. It's true, sir."
Not smiling any longer. "Bullshit." Still, though, Ransom remembered the look of relief on Upshaw's face when he learned that his father was dead. Maybe, for some reason, Upshaw had lived in fear of his father. And the old man now said with complete sincerity, "No, it's not."
"Tell me."
"Mr. Kale I mentioned?"
At the ghost table.
"He was Stephan Kale."
Ransom had no clue.
"Kale was a lieutenant for Doyle back in the seventies and eighties."
"Wait. Bobby Doyle?"
"You heard of him?"
"Something on A&E or the Discovery Channel." Head of a largely Irish gang on the South Side of Chicago and in Cicero. Here, too, northern Indiana. Doyle was dead or in prison but the outfit was still around, Ransom believed.
"Stephan Kale ran their Gary operation from here." Upshaw waved his arms, indicating the Ironworks. "This was sort of their unofficial office. Your dad was one of the first ones Mr. Kale recruited. It was, I guess, forty years ago, maybe more. Mr. Kale had him kidnap Vince Giacomo's wife, in River Forest."
"The Mafia guy?"
"Yeah, who'd been moving into Chicago Heights, Doyle's territory. Giacomo backed off--and paid a half million to get his wife returned. Was your dad's first job and it went so smooth he was in like Flynn after that. He and the rest of the crew would come in during the day, hang out, get their assignments. Protection money here, bombing a competitor's restaurant there, more kidnappings, drugs and money laundering. Sopranos stuff. They'd come back at night and hand off the money or report about what'd happened on the job."
"That's not killing people," Ransom whispered firmly.
Even more quietly: "But he did that, too. I know it. Oh, hell, yeah, I know."
"Impossible."
The drippy rag was gone and Upshaw was sipping his coffee, hunched over and leaning close to Ransom. "Swear to God. Sure, they never talked about it out in the open. They weren't stupid, none of the Round Table crew was. But one day, I found out. See, there was this pipe started leaking in the utility room. I went in to fix it and I was behind the water heater, working away. And your dad and Mr. Kale come in and they must've thought the room was empty because he says to your dad, 'Good job with Krazinski. The DA suspects but my contact tells me they can't make a case. The coroner's gonna go with accidental. Doyle's happy about that, real happy.' And your father didn't say anything. Course, he was always pretty quiet."
So it wasn't just me, Ransom reflected. Despite the horrific nature of the conversation, Ransom was oddly pleased.
Upshaw continued, glancing cautiously around. "Two days before, this star witness in a union embezzlement case, Leo Krazinski, died in a boating accident on Lake Michigan."
"Jesus."
"And then Mr. Kale goes, 'There's this numbers guy in Gary who's been skimming. He told Ig to go fuck himself. He needs to be gone.' And then they got all quiet and they must've heard me breathing, even though I was trying not to, 'cause next thing I know I look up and there they are staring down at me. I started to cry, I'll admit it. I was blubbering like a kid. And your dad bends down and helps me up. And reaches into his pocket and takes out some Kleenex. And hands me one."
"Yeah, he always carried that packet." Ransom now realized they maybe weren'
t to wipe his nose but were to take care of fingerprints.
"And he looks at Mr. Kale and he nods and I'm sure I'm dead. You know, this was it. Then Stan bends down and picks up the wrench I was using. And, what the fuck, he unscrews the L-joint I was working on. He looks at it and goes, "Your water's too hard." And he looks at me in this way, I can't describe it, just looks and hands me back the pipe. That's all he says. I got the message. Just that look, and I got the message."
"And the numbers guy?"
"Ended up in a bad car crash two days later. Both him and his wife burned up."
"His wife, too?" Ransom asked.
"Yeah, I guess because it looked more real, or something. So the cops wouldn't think it was murder."
Ransom Fells closed his eyes and exhaled long.
"That's why I was so freaked out, sir, when I seen you. I didn't know why at first, I just felt somebody stepped on my grave. 'Cause you look like him, you know."
This had always irritated Ransom.
"And, hell, when you told me who you were, I thought maybe the law was after your dad, and you and him were going around taking out witnesses. Or he'd been caught and you were here to settle the score."
Though his thoughts were reeling, Ransom actually smiled at this. He felt a curious need to reassure the poor old guy. "No, I just wanted to find out a little about him."
"And, man, I sure told you more than you'd ever wanna know. I'm sorry."
Ransom now wondered if the car crash in Pennsylvania had in fact been an accident. From the few times he'd driven with the man, Ransom knew his father was a good driver. Maybe back then, car crashes were a popular way for hit men to cover up their crimes.
Upshaw added, "Maybe he got out of the business, I don't know. Probably did. He was a decent guy."
"Decent?"
"Well, I mean, he never caused no trouble here. Tipped good. Never saw him drunk." Upshaw shrugged. "Wish I could tell you more, sir."
Ransom pushed off the stool and asked for a coffee to go. When the old man gave it to him and Ransom had doctored it with cream just right, he laid a couple of dollars on the bar but Upshaw handed him back the money. "Naw, don't worry about it."
As he walked to the door Ransom debated furiously. Yes, no?
Do it, don't.
He turned. "Hey, Bud, did he ever mention me?"
Upshaw squinted, as if trying to wring out memories like water from the dishrag. "Family stuff, things about home, it wasn't right to talk about them here. This was business. It was like it would disrespect the wives and kids to do that."
Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories - 3 Page 33