Dead Bang

by Robert Bailey

  • • •

  “I’ve always wondered something,” said Pete Finney as we strolled into the fading light and growing chill of the parking lot outside the Kentwood Municipal Building. “If it is not too personal?”

  “Really?” I said. My right hand fell into Wendy’s left, our fingers indexed, and I gave her a little squeeze. She squeezed back. “Over the years you’ve asked me about my religion, my sex life, and my politics. What on earth could be too personal?”

  “That was business,” said Finney. He made a start as if he felt a chill and hauled a buzzing cell phone out of his pocket. “Finney,” he said, knitting his eyebrows. “I am sorry, but we already have a client in the matter.” His shoulders squared and turned his back to me. “I don’t bloody care. … Refer them. … Carl Norton. … Carl was with the prosecutor’s office.” He snapped the phone closed and said, “Sorry for the interruption.”

  Wendy shrugged.

  Pete showed me the telephone before he put it away. “Threw the last one in the dustbin,” he said. “Started buzzing in my pocket while I was summing up.” He stashed the phone in the pocket of his Savile Row suit coat while we took a few silent steps toward his red Miata convertible.

  “You had a personal question?” I asked.

  “Right,” he said. “I always wondered why you two ran separate detective agencies. Seems like a natural for you and Wendy to work together.”

  We laughed. I raised Wendy’s hand to my mouth and kissed it. Still holding hands, we turned to Pete and said, “No!” like a pair of two-year-olds asked to share our toys.

  Pete said, “Oh.” He made a nervous scratch at his beard with the tips of his fingers. “Well, there you have it.” He opened the door of his Miata and deposited his satchel of a briefcase behind the seat.

  “Sharp car,” said Wendy.

  “Not much on the snow,” he said. “Lincoln’s in for service, and my wife has the Explorer to take the boys to band practice.”

  “Guts it out,” I said.

  Pete slid off his suit coat, revealing red and green striped suspenders, and said, “The telephone call I just received was from my partner. They are holding Mark Behler. Something about a missing audio tape.”

  “Maybe wearing jail scrubs will refresh his memory,” I said.

  “Van Huis released you based on witness statements. That could change, depending on what the tape reveals.”

  “I told the woman to put the revolver down. She thumbed the hammer. I shot. She shot. She said something to Behler and cranked off one more. Behler screamed like a wench,” I said. “And that’s what’s on the tape.”

  “The prosecutor is mumbling about obstruction charges for Behler if the tape doesn’t turn up,” said Pete. “And if it does, and there is any indication that you knew that unfortunate soul, things will get dicey.”

  • • •

  Wendy drove and stared glumly out the windshield. I broke the silence at the corner of Breton and Forty-fourth. “I had to go talk to Behler. Really wasn’t any choice.”

  Wendy allowed me one sidelong glance before turning right onto Forty-fourth Street.

  “You’ve seen his show. Behler says, ‘Art Hardin declined our invitation to come on the show and air his side of the story. Here are the facts he didn’t want to defend,’ and then he dumps a load of manure.”

  Wendy let the steering wheel spin until the wheels straightened and then clamped her hands on at two and ten. “I want to know what happened,” she said, paying pained attention to the traffic.

  “I met Mark Behler at Sbarro’s. We sat down for lunch. A crazy woman came in and started shooting people.”

  “And that’s it?” asked Wendy, punctuating the question with a nod of her head.

  “Honest to God, hon.”

  Wendy shook her head at the traffic. “You know her family is going to sue us, whatever the prosecutor does.”

  “I guess my funeral would have been cheaper.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Wendy. She took her right hand off the steering wheel and started digging into her purse on the seat beside her.

  “I got it,” I said. I shook a menthol cigarette out of the package in her purse and lit it for her.

  Wendy lowered her window a crack and took the cigarette. “I meant Daniel is in his first year of college,” she said. “I meant Ben is a senior in high school and wants his own car.”

  “He knows he has to save money if he wants a car.”

  Wendy exhaled a stream of smoke and tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. “You promised to match what he saved?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did,” I said.

  “He saved twenty-seven hundred dollars,” said Wendy.

  “Shoot me now.”

  “Not a chance, Darlin’,” she said and smiled as she stopped for a red light at the corner of Broadmoor and Forty-fourth. She turned toward me. I leaned over and kissed her until a horn sounding behind us announced a green light.

  Wendy turned back to drive. The two spaces in front of us were vacant. The car behind us motored around to our left, and as it passed, the driver yelled, “Get a room!”

  I scooted to the center of the front seat and patted Wendy on the knee. “So, who is it we have to pick up?”

  “I told you this morning.”

  “Doesn’t mean I was paying attention.”

  “Karen,” said Wendy. “And quit playing with my leg. I pile up this heap and you’ll have two cars to buy.” She laughed.

  Karen Smith had lost her parents to a drunk driver in her early teens. Her uncle had hired me to protect her after she filed for divorce from a police officer who’d been addicted to steroids and a little too fast with his hands. The case exploded like a bucket of night soil dropped from a third floor window. When it was over, Wendy had more or less adopted Karen.

  “Maybe Karen can drive, and we can neck in the back seat.”

  “We need to set a better example than that,” said Wendy. “You know what she’s been through.”

  “I’d say a couple hundred thousand of the million or so bucks she inherited when her uncle died. She still hasn’t got a job and lives in that rented bungalow.”

  “That’s frugal,” said Wendy.

  “A trip to Nassau?”

  “The weather was awful, and she was depressed about her boyfriend.”

  “He was married and gave her a black eye,” I said.

  “And she wasn’t angry with you for turning him in.”

  “He was selling military ordnance to street gangs in Chicago,” I said.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you,” said Wendy. “You’re so judgmental.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “That’s why you love me.”

  Wendy patted my leg. “That’s not the only reason, baby doll.” She took her hand back to grasp the steering wheel so she could flip up the turn signal to make a right into the airport.

  “What time is her flight in?”

  Wendy glanced at her watch. “Five minutes ago.”

  “Maybe we can just pick her up at the curb.”

  “She has to go through customs,” said Wendy.

  We parked Wendy’s old Cadillac in the hourly lot, leaving Wendy’s purse—containing her Colt Maverick .380—in the trunk. Wendy scooped up her blue wool sweater coat and draped it over her arm. Karen’s flight turned out to be late. We wandered back outside for a smoke.

  • • •

  “Hey, guys,” said Karen from behind us. “I thought I’d find you out here.”

  If Karen hadn’t spoken, I wouldn’t have recognized her. I would have noticed her. She’d had her auburn hair done in cornrows. Her scalp had tanned to match her face and breasts, which swayed firm, unfettered, and clearly visible in a gauze bare-midriff peasant blouse, her nipples pert in the Michigan chill. A gold ring decorated her navel. Red cotton shorts hung as low as possible—with legs cut as high as possible—and tight enough to reveal that her “possible” had recently been waxe
d.

  I asked, “What the hell happened to your head, girl?”

  Wendy caught me in the ribs with an elbow as she shook out the sweater and held it out for Karen. “You must be chilly,” said Wendy. Karen turned around to shrug into the sweater. Wendy handed me a glower but in a breezy voice said, “I think your hair is very chic.”

  “It’s all the rage down in Nassau,” said Karen, “and handy if you’re in the water a lot. I was learning to windsurf.”

  “Let’s get your luggage,” I said.

  “We have to wait for Manny,” said Karen. “He has a Canadian passport. They just breezed me through.”

  They were pretty sure you weren’t concealing anything in your clothing.

  “Who’s Manny?” I asked. “You hook up with a hockey player this time?” My mind’s eye showed me a picture of Karen standing on my doorstep, showing me a board-checked face.

  “I know you worry,” said Karen, with a little glow in her smile. “But you’re going to just love Manny. He’s a comedian and wants to be an actor in Ottawa.” Karen turned her gaze to Wendy. “He’s so sweet and thoughtful.” She touched Wendy on the arm. “And funny too. He just cracks me up.”

  “I thought they were shooting all those movies in Vancouver,” I said and earned another discreet elbow.

  Wendy said, “Why don’t you go and get Karen’s bag?”

  “I don’t know what Karen’s bag looks like.”

  “It’s my black one,” said Wendy, “with the pull-out handle and wheels.”

  “And a red ribbon,” said Karen. “Manny tied it on because there are so many black bags. He’s so smart.”

  I said, “I’ll get the bag.”

  “He says I can be a model,” said Karen. “He’s going to help me get a portfolio—” The door cut off the rest.

  Well-tanned folks in light clothing crowded the still-vacant Air Avatar baggage carousel. I scanned the crowd—no lumberjack types, just some midlife-crisis couples, a group of retirees in Grand Bahamas Casino shirts, and a young man in his mid-twenties wearing tan shorts, a floral shirt, and way too much eye makeup to be out in public.

  The carousel lurched, and baggage parted the canvas strips that served as a curtain to the service area. Wendy’s bag emerged wearing the big red bow. I picked it up. It weighed a ton.

  “Excuse me, please,” said the young man with the eye makeup. He grabbed my sleeve. With the mousse in his hair, I’d taken him for Puerto Rican, but his accent was Arabic.

  I looked at his hand and then at his face. “What?”

  “I think you have the wrong bag.”

  “God, I hope so,” I said. “This one has a refrigerator in it.” I scanned the bag. The canvas piping had been chewed—the work of my Labrador retriever. “Nope, this is the right bag.”

  He let go of my arm and scooted in front of me. Standing very close—definitely in my space—he said in a low voice, “I am sorry, but I am quite sure you are mistaken.”

  “No, this bag belongs to my wife,” I said.

  He rubbernecked the baggage area and seized the handle around my hand. “You must give this bag to me,” he said, trying for stern eyes despite the mascara and eyeliner. “It belongs to my girlfriend.”

  I smiled—stifled a laugh down to a snort—which startled him. “That would be Karen,” I said. “And you would be Manny.”

  “I am most sorry,” he said, his face appalled. “I did not know Karen was married.”

  “She’s not,” I said. “I’m a friend.”

  “I must have the bag.”

  “Knock yourself out, pard.” I let go of the bag.

  Manny groaned, keeled starboard, and said, “Perhaps we could find a skycap with a cart?”

  “I suppose you could leave the bag and go look for one.”

  “I could watch the bag, if you would look,” said Manny.

  “I don’t need a skycap,” I said. “I’m going out to have a smoke with the ladies.”

  “But someone may steal the bag,” said Manny.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “The police seize unattended bags and blow them up with dynamite.”

  Manny hoisted the bag with a groan, squared his shoulders, and stepped off, his hand white and his face growing red.

  “Here, this will be easier,” I said. I took the bag, turned it on end, and unsnapped the flap that hid the trolley handle. Pulling out the handle extended the wheels with a snap. “You can push it.”

  Manny said, “Thank you”—making it sound like “tank-queue”—and strode off with the wheels growling and clacking on the tile floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I am to meet Karen to rent a car,” he said without looking back.

  “Karen’s outside.”

  “Yes, I must hurry,” said Manny. He started to run. “Excusing me, please,” he announced, the buzzing and clacking of the wheels nearly drowning him out. The wheel on the right side of the suitcase gave out with a loud crack. Manny tumbled headlong over the suitcase and skidded to a stop, piled on top of the bag like a hippo on a luge.

  A low titter of snickers rolled across the crowd. No one made a move to help until I walked over and pulled on Manny’s upper arm to help him to his feet.

  “You all right?” A trickle of blood snaked from his nostril down his lip. I gave him the hanky from my suit coat—red to match my tie, but clean, unlike the one in my hip pocket.

  Manny held the hanky to his nose and with a flourish of his free hand made the grand bow of a troubadour. The crowd erupted with laughter and a smattering of applause.

  “I am a comedian,” said Manny, talking through the hanky. “I live on the laughter because I cannot live on the money.”

  I laughed, to be polite. The metal handle had bent to a crease, so I folded it flat against the bag and grabbed the load by the handle. “C’mon,” I said. “The ladies are out here. My wife and I came down to pick up Karen. Karen owns a car. You don’t need to rent one.”

  Manny walked out a limp in a half dozen steps. “This is an interesting smell,” he said, looking at the hanky to examine his blood.

  “Old Spice,” I said. “My granddaughters gave it to me for Christmas. It leaked through the box onto the tie and hanky my sons gave me. Can’t seem to wash it out.”

  Manny studied me, head tilted and eyes narrow. “You hardly seem old enough to be a grandfather.”

  “Oldest son made me a grandfather at the rickety old age of forty-two. I also have a son in college and one who is a senior in high school.”

  We found the ladies toking away on Wendy’s menthols. I called out and waved. Karen turned. Surprise taking her face, she said, “Oh my God! Manny, what happened?” Wendy gave me the doubtful and accusing face issued to mothers for use on their children.

  “Manny fell over the suitcase,” I said. “What did you do, bring back a load of sand?”

  “Oh, Manny, baby,” said Karen, and she set to nursing his face with the hanky. “I don’t think there are any marks.” She gave Manny a peck on the cheek. Manny colored and took a step back.

  Wendy kept silent on the walk out to the car. Manny and Karen climbed in. Wendy lingered behind while I opened the trunk to deposit the bag and fish out her purse.

  “Did you hit him?” asked Wendy, just loud enough for me to hear. She took her purse.

  No, but the idea had a certain appeal for a second or two.

  “He fell over the bag, hon,” I said.

  “I don’t like the look on your face,” said Wendy.

  “Concerned?”

  “No,” said Wendy. “Satisfied.”

  We found Manny sitting on the passenger side in the front seat and Karen sitting alone and looking dejected in the back seat.

  “Manny,” I said. “You gotta get out and let me in the back or get in the back seat yourself.”

  “I thought you would drive,” said Manny.

  “This is Wendy’s car,” I said. “My driving makes her nervous.” Manny s
ettled into the backseat, sullen. Karen scooted over and took his hand, happy.

  I wished I’d brought my sunglasses. The sun appeared to be slowly submerging into the road in front of us as we drove west down Forty-fourth Street. Wendy flipped down her visor. By the time we got to Division Avenue, some of the oncoming cars had their headlights on.

  Karen lived in a rented bungalow that had been designed by Chance and built by Haphazard Weekend Construction with leftover materials. The kitchen-dinette faced the street with a small shoulder-high window flanked by opaque glass blocks that ran the length of the room. The bathroom had been located directly behind the kitchen—probably simplified the plumbing and provided a neat opportunity to use up the rest of the glass blocks with a floor-to-ceiling window. The bedroom stood last in line at the back of the house. Karen’s living room had been renovated from a car-and-a-half attached garage with the roll-up door still in place on the outside of the house.

  The house—on Montebello in Wyoming, a suburb south of Grand Rapids and a block east of Division Avenue—stood in a quiet neighborhood, close to shopping and entertainment. Karen’s white Chevy Monte Carlo filled the drive. We parked on the street. At the door, Manny grappled for the suitcase and said, “Thank you for being so kind.”

  I kept the bag, and Karen led us into the house, down a hallway formed by a waist-high wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. Dank moisture hung in the air. Manny followed me into the bedroom, where I flopped the suitcase onto the bed. We returned to find the ladies in the kitchen.

  Wendy sat at the table with her purse at her feet. Karen had abandoned Wendy’s sweater to the back of a chair and strutted her nubile body from the sink to the white enamel stove to load the teakettle onto a burner.

  I pulled up the chair next to Wendy and said, “Coffee.”

  Manny and Wendy ordered tea.

  “I got you guys the coolest T-shirts,” said Karen. “You have got to see them.”

  “Oh, no,” said Manny. “We left them on top of the television at the hotel.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Karen. “I put them in the suitcase before I went to get the bell captain—while you were packing your clothes.”