“Hey, Archie, this is Art Hardin. I should have given this to my attorney but it would take a couple of days for you to get the message. The uniformed officer on the desk at Hamtramck when I dropped off the Vincenti pictures was named Dryer, Officer Dryer, which I thought was odd because my wife and I were shopping for a washer and dryer at the time. The detective was Helen Kopinski. Kopinski with an ‘i’,” I said. “That’s what Officer Dryer told me.”
I left Mr. Grant on the dresser in the guest room. Wendy never carried a bill larger than a Jackson. With all the Washingtons Karen and Wendy were going to use, Karen would be pleased to see her bearded buddy when she got back.
Ben fired up some popcorn in the microwave, and Daniel loaded the DVD. I fell asleep before we got to the “boomstick.” They woke me up for the news film of me carrying Lily out the door of the Waters Building. The news anchor finished with, “Reliable sources have reported that charred body parts were found on the roof of the Waters Building and that the person who placed the bomb may have perished in the explosion.”
“Sorry you missed the movie,” said Daniel.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “We can run the movie again tomorrow, and this time I get to do the Ash lines.”
• • •
I dreamed of Wendy. She wasn’t angry with me. I liked that part. She left and said she’d be back, but when I went to look for her, she was gone. That’s when the bright morning sun on my face woke me.
I opened the window. The first warm sigh of spring rubbed past me like a kitten. A heron strutted along the waterline, in syncopated steps, jerking his head and staring like a grocery clerk taking inventory.
The boys had moved Karen’s white Monte Carlo out to the lawn near the lake for a wash-and-wax job. They had the T-tops off and the radio tuned to the hard rock station in Grand Rapids. I pulled on a sleeveless sweatshirt and shorts and stepped into some sneakers.
Rusty lay sphinxlike in the shade of the willow at the beach until I rounded the corner of the house with my coffee in hand. He galloped up and circled me twice. I told him, “Chill, dog! We aren’t going until I’ve had my coffee.”
Daniel turned down the music and said, “Hey, Pop, we could use some help buffing up the wax.”
“Looks like you’re doing a good job without me. Finding any Bondo?”
“Just some chips and dings,” said Ben.
“No big deal,” I said. “White always looks straight. How come you brought it out here?”
“You wouldn’t believe the traffic on the road this morning,” said Daniel, refolding the ragged T-shirt he used as a buffing rag. “Cars up and down, and raising a cloud of dust.”
I looked at Ben and said, “Why don’t you reach in there and pull the hood release? Let’s have a look at this doggie.”
Ben made a sheepish face. “Karen wasn’t very good at basic maintenance.”
“Let’s have a look,” I said. “Maybe we can buy it in time to save it.”
Ben pulled the hood release, and the three of us strolled up to inspect the engine bay. “What do you see?” I asked.
“The insulation on the plug wires is cracked,” said Ben. “They need to be replaced and probably the rotor and cap as well.”
I nodded. “Let’s have a look at the air filter.”
Ben removed the air cleaner cover and pulled out a filter choked with dust and brown with age. “If we change that, we can double the gas mileage,” said Daniel.
“Ordinarily, I’d say no, but in this case you might not be far off.” We laughed. “Put it back, and let’s pull the oil stick.”
Daniel pulled the dipstick while Ben replaced the air filter. The oil on the stick looked like tar.
I asked, “What do you think?”
“I don’t think she ever changed it,” said Ben.
“On the other hand,” said Daniel, “I don’t see any water beads.”
“Oil and filter change is cheap,” I said. “Ben, get the transmission stick.” Daniel replaced the oil dipstick. Ben pulled out the long silver rod. “What color is the fluid?”
“Brown.”
“What color is it supposed to be?”
“Red.”
“What does it smell like?”
Ben wiped some on his fingers and held it up to his nose. “Burnt,” he said, visibly deflated.
“You drove it up here. How’d it shift?”
“Crisp,” said Ben, perking up.
“Did it roll after you put it in park and took your foot off the brake?”
“No,” said Ben, finding a smile again.
“Fluid and filter,” said Daniel. “A hundred bucks.”
“What do you think of the tires?” I asked.
“Raised white letters,” said Ben as he replaced the transmission stick. “I like ‘em but you can see wear bars on the back tires and some toe-in wear on the front. The car needs new tires and the front end aligned.”
“Basic maintenance,” I said, “part of the cost of driving a car. You’ll need some new hoses and belts too. Let’s have a look in the trunk.”
“Can’t,” said Ben. “Karen said she never had a trunk key, and her husband’s car keys weren’t in the stuff the police returned to her after he was killed.”
“Worst case,” I said, “we go to a locksmith, but if we take the title to the dealer, they might be able to snap out a key for us. Hard to believe she hasn’t done that already. How many miles on this beast?”
“Sixty-seven thousand,” said Daniel.
“If it turns out to be a hundred and sixty-seven thousand, we’ll have to discuss the price with Karen. But as it sits, what she’s asking seems fair enough. If I match your twenty-seven hundred you should have enough for parts, insurance, and maybe a decent sound system—less idiot-sized woofers, which I will not tolerate, and you can’t afford.”
“The big ones are subwoofers, Pop,” said Ben, his face deadpan.
“Right,” I said. “There you go.”
Ben leapt into the air, both fists raised above his head. “Yes!”
I retrieved Rusty’s Frisbee from the house and took the dog for our morning trot. We headed east out the driveway to avoid neighborhood dogs. Rusty made frequent stops, only to rocket ahead to the next mailbox pole or fence post.
Just short of Ashley Road, a long black Lincoln with enough dust on it to look tan passed me close enough that I could have reached out and touched it. At Ashley, it made a U-turn, roared back, and slid to a stop in front of me. The man in the passenger seat was my friend from the Meijer’s parking lot, the one with the plastic gun. Today, his face, swollen and purple, spilled over a gleaming white neck brace. I’d never seen the driver. He stepped out of the car wearing mirrored sunglasses and a mostly blue aloha shirt that featured hula girls and brown outrigger canoes. I did, however, recognize the gun he pointed at me—a bright chrome Dan Wesson .357. I could see the hollow points in the cylinder.
15
THE CHROME REVOLVER QUIVERED in Aloha Man’s hand like a posy clenched in the fist of an adolescent marching to his first date. He waved the muzzle at me and said, “You will go to the window.”
The man who failed the Pepsi Challenge sat in the passenger seat of the dusty black Lincoln Town Car with his bruised and swollen features testing the strength of a gleaming white neck brace. Rusty pranced and danced, happy that we had new playmates. I tucked the Frisbee under my arm, snapped the lead on his collar, and said, “Since you’re not going to shoot me just now, why don’t you point that at the ground before you shake a round off and scare the shit out of both of us?”
“I am not frightened of you,” he said, taking a step back.
Good, then you’ll be easy.
I said, “It’s enough I know you have the revolver. I’m going over to the window to talk to your pal here. I’m sure you don’t want to wing him by accident. He looks pretty banged up already.”
At the window I told the man seated in the car, “That’s got to hurt like the ve
ry devil.”
“Please excuse me if I do not look at you while we speak. I cannot turn my head.”
“Oh!” I said. “You have a man standing here holding a gun on me but excuse you if you don’t look at me?”
“I am not so rude as you, to make clever comments after you pummeled me with your packages. You thought I would not remember.”
“Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought. That stunt you pulled last night could have gotten you five to nine years in the house of many slamming doors.”
“Your laws are of little consequence to the faithful.”
Rusty reared up and hooked his front paws in the open window. He nuzzled the man’s neck brace with his nose.
“Awk!” said the man as he leaned away from the opening. “Filthy beast!”
“He’s a big lollipop,” I said. “He loves everybody. He’s just never seen a man wearing a neck brace.” I eased Rusty off the door and told him to sit, then straddled him while I held him by the collar. “Last year he tied into a raccoon. The vet stitched up his eyelid and put one of those big plastic funnels around his neck.”
“We could kill you,” he said. “You would be just one more kaffir, blessedly dead and sooner in hell.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’m standing here making nice. What’s this ‘kaffir’ stuff?”
“Not a Muslim.”
I knelt onto one knee and rested my hand on the window opening. “We have words like that, too,” I said. “I don’t use them. I don’t let my kids use ‘em.”
“Oh yes, you talk nice. But your nice talk makes lies about what you think.”
“I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life not thinking about you,” I said.
“Your wish to be ignorant does not make you innocent. The blood is on your hands. Americans trade decadence for our valuable resources and meddle in Arab affairs.”
“What are you? An al-Qaeda doll? Pull your string, and you rattle off some bullshit? How many different things do you say?”
His walrus moustache twitched, and he angled his head and shoulders to look at me from the corner of his eyes. “Yes, you would like to have just one enemy. But we are many,” he said. “Call us what you like, but we are as many as your crimes. All Americans who benefit from the abuse of Arab people shall feel the sharp edge of our knife.”
“Personally, I don’t care about Arab affairs. And I think we oughta drill for our own oil. We done now?”
“You, personally, have taken money that was raised for Palestinian relief.” Leaning back on the seat, he stared out the windshield and said, “This money must be returned.”
“Whoa, dude,” I said. “I don’t have your money. Manny and his pals took that money after they shot up the house.”
“This money is collected for charity. Not for you.”
“When I was younger, I used to hang around the Irish bars and someone always came around to take the change off the table for ‘Irish Relief.’ Of course, it really went to buy weapons for the IRA, and I quit leaving money on the table. The odd thing is that the IRA never smuggled money into this country.”
“I care nothing about crusader politics.” He mopped his forehead with a hanky. “You may murder each other to your heart’s content, and I wish you well. This money is not Irish money. It is Palestinian money.”
“You’re a Palestinian?”
“You will give me the money.”
Rusty started to struggle, and I rubbed his ears to calm him down. “Manny has the money.”
“This woman stole the money. Manny, as you call him, came here only to take it back. This woman dishonored him, but he is a martyr now and has his reward in Allah. This woman will not dishonor me. You are the man. You are responsible. It does not matter about this woman. You will return the money. You will make a donation to replace the money that the police seized.”
“One last time,” I said. “We, all three of us, ran out the back of the house. We wanted to run very fast. We didn’t drag sixty or seventy pounds of cash. We left it. We left it so Manny would take the money and go away.”
I heard a vehicle approaching. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a yellow compact car pull up and stop, nearly nose to nose with the Lincoln. Manny’s pal with the single eyebrow was at the wheel. He’d shaved his beard. A large smile decorated his face.
“Hey, the gang’s all here,” I said. The man’s eyes went large, and he began scooting across the seat toward the steering wheel. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”
Aloha Man ran past me to crouch at the rear of the Lincoln. The man in the car grimaced as he scooted for the driver’s seat. The first shot pecked a hole in the windshield of the Lincoln. My friend in the neck brace jerked the shift lever into reverse and nailed the gas, raising a cloud of dust and spraying my legs with rocks. I let go of the leash and sailed the Frisbee into the trees on the north side of the road. Rusty and I leapt the ditch and bolted after it. Behind me, I could hear two handguns banging away. I made my steps a little longer and a lot faster.
The firing stopped. I zigged behind a tree large enough to provide cover and stole a glance at the road. A cloud of dust hung over Aloha Man as he stood clicking away on empty cylinders. Manny’s friend walked up on him holding a fat nine and laughing.
Rusty bounded up and dropped the Frisbee at my feet. I crouched and patted the ground. Rusty flopped down, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and twisted his head to study me with bright eyes.
The men on the road exchanged angry words, I couldn’t understand the language. I could hear the Lincoln Town Car roaring up Ashley Road toward M-44. The yellow compact turned out to be a Dodge Neon. Mr. Unibrow twisted the revolver out of Aloha Man’s hand and prodded him back to the Dodge with the barrel of his pistol.
Rusty pushed himself back up to a sitting position. I looped an arm around him. The men argued and halted next to the car. Mr. Unibrow shoved Aloha Man and slapped him with the pistol, which caused the weapon to discharge.
Aloha Man fell against the side of the yellow Neon clutching the side of his face with both hands. Mr. Unibrow gave Aloha Man a kick toward the back of the car. Aloha Man’s complaints turned to screaming and begging.
Mr. Unibrow sneered and kicked until they arrived at the back of the Neon. He opened the trunk. Aloha Man climbed in, still begging, and Mr. Unibrow shot him until the fat nine ran dry. He spat on Aloha Man, threw in the empty handguns, and slammed the trunk lid. As he walked back to the driver’s door, he gave me a friendly wave. He drove away without looking back.
• • •
Back at the house, I dialed up Matty Svenson. She wanted to know if I had reported the incident to the local police.
“I just got back to the house,” I said. “This is the first call I’ve made.”
“Why did you call me first?”
“I didn’t want to spend a couple of hours explaining the story to a police detective who’d give it to you second hand.”
“You get any license plate numbers?”
“No,” I said, “too much dust, but I can tell you the yellow Dodge isn’t going far. It left a trail of gasoline on the road.”
“I’ll get back to you,” said Matty, her tone urgent.
“You got the card I left on your windshield?”
“This morning.”
“Was that Manny they found—”
Matty hung up.
“—on the roof?”
16
I KNEW I WAS IN TROUBLE when I walked into my office and found Marg and Lily Vincenti chatting like long-lost sisters. Lily wore dark glasses covering a white gauze bandage taped over her left eye.
“Hi, Art,” said Marg. “I think you know Lily Warner.”
“Thought it was Vincenti.” I took the straight-back chair that Marg kept for her accounting clients and turned it backwards so I could straddle it and rest my forearms on the seat back.
“Vincenti is my maiden name,” said Lily. “Mr. Behler said it would be simpler for the
audience.”
“I hope your injuries aren’t serious.”
“I shouldn’t have rubbed my eye. I have to see the doctor again in a week.”
“Mark doing another show about your father?” I asked.
“He says they’re going to close the show with telephone calls from viewers from now on, so there’ll be no time.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you have to travel far?”
“Seattle.”
“Goodness,” I said, trying for a breezy tone. “What made you contact Mark Behler here in Grand Rapids?”
“The producer, Chet Harkness, called me at my shop. I have a coffee bar. He said he had information about my father and asked me to be on the show.”
“I need to hire Chet do some work for us,” I said with a wink at Marg.
“He said a policeman friend helped him find me through my Social Security number.”
“Lily would like us to finish the work Mark Behler was doing on her father,” said Marg.
“The case is over thirty years cold,” I said.
“Mark said you had pictures,” said Lily.
“I took some pictures while I was working on a matter unrelated to your father. I turned the pictures and a license plate number over to the Hamtramck Police.”
“Do you have copies? Negatives?” asked Lily.
“I gave everything I had to the police.”
“What was in the pictures?”
“An automobile, your father, and the men he was with.”
“Was my father alive?”
“I’m not a doctor, Lily. But I’m sorry. I don’t think so.”
Lily stared into her lap. Marg produced some tissues from her desk drawer. Lily took them and removed her glasses. She dabbed under her eyes as if the tissues were sandpaper.
“My father was much older than my mother. They met in Okinawa when he went back to visit where he’d been stationed as a Marine during the Vietnam War. I was born after they came to Detroit. When I was six months old, he gave my mother an airline ticket to take me home to visit her family. He never sent a return ticket,” she sobbed and went to work on her eyes again.
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