Dead Bang

by Robert Bailey

  Matty said, “FBI! You’re under arrest!”

  Heaving for air again, I went with, “The guys,” and pointed to the northbound entrance ramp to 131. “The van!”

  “Art?” said Matty. “Jesus Christ! Get in the back.”

  Matty had the Olds moving by the time I got the door open. I dove for the seat. The door closed itself.

  I can remember when the back seat of an Oldsmobile offered more room to wrestle. I couldn’t sit up because of the rifle slung over my shoulder. The sleeve of my suit coat, wet from the spill in the parking lot, clung to my skin and didn’t want to slide off my arm. I don’t know how Matty crossed Forty-fourth—I was pulling my suit coat over my head like a T-shirt—but the jolt bounced me onto the floor.

  “What van?” Matty yelled.

  “Dark green Ford Windstar,” I said.

  “Plate?”

  “Eight, three, five is all I’ve got. The first letter is a “C” or a “G.” I heard a chorus of horn honks. The Olds Rocket Eight growled, and inertia rolled me against the seat.

  “Is that all you got?”

  I got my head back in the light and pulled the suit coat off my arms. We charged up the shoulder of the entrance ramp, passing cars on the right. “I got interrupted.”

  I climbed onto the seat and dropped the AKR onto the floor.

  “Get up here,” said Matty. “Get the blue-flasher out of the glove box.”

  Matty’s gun, badge, and belt littered the front seat along with a rainbow of plastic hair rollers. I brushed them toward the middle and stepped over the seat back. The blue-flasher had suction cups to hold it onto the dash and a cigarette lighter plug. I plugged it in, and blue light strobed across the white expanse of the Oldsmobile front deck.

  Matty careened off the shoulder and gunned the Olds into the left lane behind a county salt truck. Rock salt peppered the undercarriage and pecked at the windshield. The salt truck moved half into the center lane, and Matty rolled down her window and waved “go ahead” to the driver. The county truck eased back into the left lane and picked up the pace.

  “Damn minivans all look alike,” said Matty.

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” I said.

  “How many guys in this van?” asked Matty.

  “At least four. Two guys in blue coveralls and beards, one guy in a long-sleeved white shirt with one eyebrow that goes all the way across his forehead, and Manny. Tan shorts, aloha shirt, and a burn on the right side of his face.”

  “Burn?”

  “Teakettle,” I said.

  “How are they armed?”

  “Kalashnikovs like the one in the back seat. At least one more, maybe two.”

  “Unplug the light,” said Matty. She took her foot off the gas. “How’d you get the rifle?”

  “Wendy whacked one of them in the face with a folding chair, and I took it. We ain’t looking for these guys?”

  “I don’t want to start a rifle match on the expressway,” said Matty. “If we can follow them to where they hole up, we can call for backup.”

  We spotted several dark-colored minivans, but not Manny’s. Wealthy Avenue exits the 131 expressway from the left. Matty took the exit and turned right toward Division Avenue. “I think they got off,” she said. “Where’s Wendy and the woman you picked up at the airport?”

  “St. Michael’s,” I said. “Across the street from where you ran me down.”

  Matty turned right onto Division, and we headed south, checking parking lots as we eased along the slick pavement. Matty stayed silent until we got to Burton Avenue. Finally, she said, “I didn’t run you down.”

  “I have ‘Oldsmobile’ branded on my ass,” I said.

  “You stopped,” said Matty.

  “I was getting the plate number.”

  Matty said nothing.

  I said, “My suit needs to be dry-cleaned.”

  We looped through the parking lot south of Burton. No joy. Matty said, “I thought all Pi’s wore shiny suits.”

  “Yeah, but I have to get the Oldsmobile logo pressed out of the seat of my pants.”

  Matty laughed.

  “Am I still under arrest?”

  “Any more derriere jokes, and I read you your rights,” said Matty.

  “Okay, no more butt cracks.”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” said Matty. She pulled the rollers out of her hair, one at a time, and added them to the pile on the seat between us. The traffic light at Twenty-eighth flipped red. We stopped. Matty fluffed her hair in the rearview mirror, inspected her teeth, and then burnished them with her finger. As she adjusted the mirror, she said, “You’re lucky it was me and not the locals that caught you running around the neighborhood with a rifle under your coat.”

  “You didn’t know it was me, did you?”

  “I saw a man with a rifle stalking the street. Didn’t matter who it was,” she said.

  “I had it under my coat.”

  “Don’t try to shoplift one that way,” said Matty. “Besides, I didn’t expect to find you running around the streets. I told you to leave the money and get out of the house. Wyoming requested assistance from all available Kentwood and Grand Rapids patrol cars. Something about a pitched gun battle. I take it that was you.”

  “Mostly they shot up windows, a door, and murdered a sofa.”

  “You shoot back?” asked Matty.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “Not a round. Heavy caliber. God knows where they’re going.”

  “Why did you take it with you?”

  “So they couldn’t shoot it at us,” I said. “They had enough guns. And if we got cornered, all bets were off.”

  “But you didn’t shoot it.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Load it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Clear it?” asked Matty.

  “I snapped the safety on and slung it under my coat.”

  At Forty-fourth Street a Wyoming police cruiser barricaded Division Avenue. Matty flashed her tin. The patrol officer said, “There’s some wacko PI running around here with an assault rifle. We’ve got damage and injuries over a six-block area.”

  “I’m going down to St. Michael’s,” said Matty.

  “The chief is down there talking to some witnesses.”

  “Good,” said Matty.

  As we drove off, we heard the officer report to his dispatcher, “The feds are here.”

  The church van aside, only two vehicles remained in St. Michael’s parking lot, a marked Wyoming police cruiser and a black Ford sedan with municipal plates. Matty parked behind the cruiser and stood in the open door of her Oldsmobile while she buckled on her gun belt and holstered her weapon. I snatched my suit coat out of the back seat and stepped out of the car to shrug it on.

  “How come you wear the badge on the right side of your belt?” I asked. “In the movies, I think they put the pistol on one side and the badge on the other.”

  “You want the badge to flash when you sweep your coat back to reach for your weapon,” said Matty. “Didn’t think I’d have to explain that to you.”

  “It’s just you don’t have a coat in the back there,” I said. “Just a ratty green bathrobe.”

  “Shit,” said Matty.

  “I think it makes a nice counterpoint to the sweatpants and slip-on tennies.”

  “Not funny,” said Matty as she walked back and unlocked the trunk.

  “Really,” I said. “No socks. Definitely the way to go. Gives your ensemble a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  “Art?” said Matty.

  “Yes.”

  “Get the rifle and bring it back here.”

  I snagged the rifle off the floor and walked around to drop it in the trunk. Matty pulled a blue blazer out of a laundry bag and held it up to her nose. She made a face, shook out the coat, and pulled it on.

  “When we get inside,” said Matty, “stay close to me. They’ll think the stink is you.” She handed me a set of handcuffs from the trunk and said, “P
ut ‘em on.”

  7

  RYAN KOPE AND I SHARED a mutual dislike. He didn’t like me, and I returned the favor. Unfortunately for me, Kope was the chief of police for the City of Wyoming. Rumor had it he’d be a candidate for mayor in the next election. He certainly had the teeth for political office—he showed them all to me when I walked into the rectory. Maybe it was the handcuffs.

  Trim and athletic, his three-score-plus years hung on him as straight and stylish as his tailored suits. He’d started his professional life as a caterer, supplying sandwiches to vending machines all over the county, including the one in the squad room of the Wyoming Police Department. One hot summer day in the late sixties some very uncivil unrest in Grand Rapids curtailed his catering route. Policemen working endless shifts were glad of his daily visit with a box of sandwiches. On the third day, they also noted that he’d fit an available Wyoming Police uniform.

  Kope proved adept at negotiating the minefield that is small town law enforcement and became Wyoming’s first plainclothes detective. Shortly after that, we locked horns.

  I’d taken him a stolen-check case from a local bakery—victim statements, picture-drop affidavits, and a handwriting analysis from a local, but nationally recognized, handwriting expert. He said what I had didn’t amount to “a hill of shit” and that he’d take care of the matter. I’d have left it all in his hands but for his parting advice: “You can stick to your keyhole peeping as long as I don’t catch you skulking around Wyoming.”

  I took the case to the Kent County prosecutor, who issued a warrant. Uniformed Wyoming police officers made the arrest, and a local fire official’s son took a five-to-nine fall for passing stolen payroll checks.

  Kope telephoned my office with some additional charming advice concerning my detective license and a portion of my anatomy. I suggested that since he still owned the catering business, he apply the same advice to his egg salad sandwiches.

  “I see you got him,” said Kope, all ivory and good cheer.

  Wendy launched to her feet from a wing chair in the corner of the office. “Just a minute,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “A Wyoming police officer gave me the impression that Art shot up a six-block area of the city with an assault rifle.”

  “That’s bullshit,” said Wendy. “Art never fired a shot.”

  “The investigation is ongoing,” said Kope, with a nod. “These witnesses place an assault rifle in his hands.”

  “Did they say he fired the weapon?” asked Matty.

  “Mr. Hardin was trying to defuse the situation when I saw him,” said Reverend Rhinehardt, seated at his desk.

  “That may be,” said Kope, “but none of these witnesses know what he did after he ran out of here chasing a van.”

  “I picked Mr. Hardin up across the street from the church,” said Matty. “He was with me, and he wasn’t doing any shooting.” She shook the handcuff key loose on her key ring. While she removed my cuffs, she asked, “You apprehend the men in the van?”

  The curtain fell on his ivory show. “The investigation is ongoing,” said Kope. He stood up, pumped the pastor’s hand, and marched his Irish wool suit out the door.

  “He was all sweetness and light until you guys walked in,” said Wendy.

  “Had a few questions, did he?” I asked.

  Reverend Rhinehardt remained on his feet after shaking hands with Chief Kope. A large wooden rendering of Christ on the cross hung on the wall behind his desk and constituted the room’s single nod to the concept of decor. Karen sat next to his desk in the straight-backed chair, wrapped like an Indian in the kaleidoscope colors of a homemade quilt.

  I said, “I am sorry I brought this trouble to your congregation.”

  “People forget that the church is a refuge,” he said and forgave me with a nod.

  From a van load of armed men?

  “All the same,” I said, searching my mind. All I could find was, “Thank you.”

  “I’m very happy to see Karen again,” said Rev. Rhinehardt. He passed her a fond glance. “Her parents were married in our congregation and I officiated at her baptism.” He settled into his chair, pinching up his trouser legs to save the crease. “It doesn’t seem possible that so many years have passed.”

  Matty glowered at Karen. “I have a few questions of my own,” she said. “First, what part of ‘stay out of trouble’ do you find confusing?”

  Karen made cow eyes. She said, “I just went on vacation.”

  “Your testimony concerning your late uncle’s racketeering activities is the only reason you weren’t prosecuted. Lots of people in my office thought they could have made the case without you and they’re going to find all of this very interesting.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Karen, dragging out the “oh” part to a musical whine.

  “If your fingerprints are on that money you can pack a toothbrush,” said Matty, one fist now on her hip.

  “Matty,” I said, “Karen handled the money after we opened the suitcase.”

  “You know better than that, Art,” said Matty.

  “We threw money around the house,” I said.

  Matty said nothing but gave me an incredulous face, letting her fist slip off her hip.

  “We hoped they would gather up the money instead of chasing us,” said Wendy.

  “Well, that seems reasonable,” said Reverend Rhinehardt, folding his hands on the desk.

  Matty glanced from the reverend to Karen without moving her head. “I want you in my office tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay? Or do I need to take you into custody?”

  “She can stay with us,” said Wendy.

  Matty drove us back to Karen’s house, which we found cordoned off with yellow tape and surrounded by news vans. Matty conducted a growling match with Chief Kope while we waited in the car. Finally, Matty came over and said they would have to search Wendy’s car or impound it until they got a warrant. I told them to call a tow truck. Wendy said, “It’s my car. Just search the damn thing. I want to go home.”

  They brought a golden retriever drug dog out of the house. On the second lap around the car, he answered a missive my Labrador retriever had posted on the right front tire. Thankfully, the dog’s trip through the front and back seats proved less eventful. He showed no interest in the collected oddments in the trunk. A couple of TV newsies filmed the affair from across the street.

  A uniformed officer picked through the contents of the glove box and trunk with a flashlight. After he scrounged under the seats, we left. The drive over to the Woodland Mall, where my car was still parked, passed in silence. My Buick Sport Coupe stood lonesome on acres of tarmac. I walked around the Cadillac for a peck from Wendy, but she only let the window down a crack.

  “I’m too tired to cook,” she said. “Pick something up on the way. And we need milk.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, not looking at me. She left.

  The sage advice of my old first sergeant came to mind. He told me, “Don’t worry, Cap’n, things are always darkest just before they go completely fucking black.”

  • • •

  The chicken joints had already closed, so we ended up with tacos. We live on Slayton Lake, forty-five minutes north and east of Grand Rapids. Ben met me in the yard with Rusty, the Frisbee getter. “Jeez, Pop, what happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know where to start. Some crazy lady shot up the place where I had lunch and then—”

  “No,” said Ben. He sailed the Frisbee, which lit up as it spun and looked like a coil of yellow light skimming across the lawn. Rusty launched. “Not that. That was on the news. They said some security guard shot her.”

  “Um, a whole bunch of crazy people shot up Karen’s house?”

  “Not that,” said Ben. “Ma’s grousing at Karen. You know, about what she was wearing.”

  “Oh,” I said. Out in the dark Rusty’s jaws clamped loudly and the light on the Frisbee went out. “I did
notice that.”

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “She was hot. Like she was doing a music video. Ma sent me out here to play with the dog.”

  “She just got in from Nassau,” I said. “You’re not supposed to stare.”

  “But in Nassau you get to wear sunglasses,” said Ben.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. I walked around the car to get the food out of the passenger door.

  “I wouldn’t go in there yet,” said Ben. “They’re back in your bedroom, and if you listen close, you can still hear Ma.”

  Rusty dropped the Frisbee on my shoes and sat, panting, to watch me with eager eyes. I picked up the Frisbee and sailed it across the lawn.

  “Besides,” he said, “we can talk about my car. I’m a senior this year, and the worst part of the winter is over.”

  “Your mom told me,” I said.

  “Danny will be home from college this weekend,” said Ben. “He said he’d drive me around to shop.”

  “Any idea what you want?”

  “Something Chevy with eight cylinders.”

  Rusty dropped the Frisbee at my feet and managed to wipe his muzzle on my leg, leaving a swipe of doggie drool. “Hey, thanks,” I said.

  “Just for you, Dad,” said Ben. “He made you another present.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “It’s out there in the yard.”

  “He’s very generous that way,” I said. “I’m going in the house. Food’s getting cold.”

  “What’d ya bring?”

  “Tacos,” I said.

  “Cool,” said Ben. “I had tacos for lunch.”

  Karen came to the table wearing a set of Wendy’s brown sweats, top and bottom. I snatched the taco bags off the counter and deposited them on the table. Ben pulled up a chair. I heard the shower turn on and went to knock on the bathroom door.