The manager walked off with my credit card. The desk clerk said, “You muss be crazy, fool.” She walked away, her arms still folded. As she left she said, “You best be.”
I leaned around the corner and yelled, “We have a room.” The guard snapped his head to look at me. “We’re checked in.” He started back toward me. Wendy climbed back into the car.
The metal drawer slid through to my side, and I found my credit card, the fax Agent Azzara had sent, and a paper folder with plastic room keys.
“You have a copier?” I asked. The manager nodded without looking up from his notations. “Can I get about ten copies of this fax?”
“Dollar a copy,” he said. “Your room key will open the door. Take the elevator to the second floor. Turn left.”
The guard rounded the corner. “You gots to move that car, man.”
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I carry my luggage in first?”
“Man, they ain’t no place to park.”
“Are we going to have a problem?” I asked.
“Believe me, ole man,” he said and pushed his face up to mine until we were nose to nose. “You ain’t gonna be no problem.”
“How much does a parking place cost?”
The guard turned his back to the window and looked around the lot. “Mos’ times ten dollar. For you, twenty. ’Cause your bitch ho diss me.”
“You know,” I said, and peeled him off a fifty. “I was born in this town.” He turned back and took the fifty with happy eyes glowing like jewels in a smug face. “Fuck with me again, and I’ll kick your ass up so high you’ll have to tip your hat to take a dump.”
It’s in the eyes. I always watch the eyes. Some people will tell you to watch the hands. If you wait for the hands to move, you’ll be stepping into the fight one punch late. His eyelids tensed as he unloaded a right-handed bitch slap, which I caught with my left forearm. With a knuckle of my right hand, I knocked up the bill of his hat and gave him a toothy smile.
His eyes went wide and his right shoulder rose as he dropped his hand for the Desert Eagle on his hip. The Desert Eagle is a long weapon, and unless it’s worn very low, the shooter has to bend his arm double at the elbow to get it out. I let the muzzle clear his holster and grabbed the slide, palm out, just above the muzzle with my left hand. With a snap twist of my wrist and forearm, I pulled the weapon up and tucked the muzzle into the soft part of his chin behind the line of his jaw, my right index finger jammed in the trigger guard over his. “Oops,” I said.
He curled his upper lip to show me a line of white teeth and tried to jerk away, but his jaw trapped the muzzle in place.
“Carry one in the spout, do ya?” I said, trying to sound breezy.
He twisted his finger to get it out of the trigger guard, causing the hammer to flex back.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“You gonna hafta kill me, mutha fucka,” he said.
He eased up on his finger. Sweat trickled from his hatband onto his cheek.
“I don’t think you want to die,” I said. “Mostly, you don’t want to die like a dufus, capped by some ‘ole man’ with your own shiny new Magnum. Folks in the funeral home would have to hold their faces so they didn’t laugh their asses off.”
He said, “Pul-eeze don’t kill me!”
“We have a problem,” I said. “I’m going to be here for several days, and I’m not sure we can be friends.”
“You and me, man. All the way.”
“Great,” I said. “But I don’t like that mean face you’re making. I’m thinking you might be just a fair-weather friend.”
He showed me a smile so big I could see his molars.
“What’s your name?”
“Jamal.”
“Okay, Jamal, sir! Now that we’re best buds, I want you to let go of this weapon and turn around. When you get turned around, you fold your arms, and I put this eagle back in the nest.”
Jamal relaxed his hand and let it fall off the Desert Eagle.
“Easy on the turn,” I said.
Jamal turned and folded his arms. I took a step back. “You need to know that I have a .45 on my hip. If you drop your hand on the Desert Eagle, you’re going to wish it was your dick because it’s the last thing you’ll ever pull.”
I slid his pistol into his holster. “You walk in front of me. We’re going over to the car. And when we get there, that’s when you apologize to my wife.”
“That your wife, man? I’m sorry. Mostly guys don’t bring wives here.”
“I’m sure that’s right. Nice of you to be conciliatory. Except it means you’re thinking. Thinking maybe I’m going to take my eyes off you, or I’m going to get my suitcase in my hand. Could be I’m going to unlock my trunk with my right hand. You thinking something like that? Jamal? Sir?”
“No, man. I ain’t thinking like that. I’m thinking that at fifty bucks a day, I ain’t killin’ you till you check out.”
“My man!” I said. “Let’s go.”
Jamal strode around the corner. I stayed a couple of steps behind. Wendy bolted out of the car ready to rock and roll, her forehead wrinkled and her index digit at the ready.
Jamal touched the bill of his cap. With a nod of his head he said, “Ma’am, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have been hassling you, seeing as you were checking in and all.”
Wendy glanced past Jamal at me, her nose and eyebrows wrinkled into a question mark. I gave her a shrug.
She said, “Ah, sure. Well, then, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Jamal said, “Thank you, ma’am. Probably best if we leave the car parked right here. It’ll be just fine.”
“Hon,” I said, “how about popping the trunk?”
Wendy ducked into the car, and the trunk lid sprung upright. Jamal said, “Let me get your bags.”
Jamal lifted the suitcases out of the trunk. Wendy took the folder, found the key card, and opened the lobby door. I grabbed the two-suiter with my left hand, set it on the ground, and closed the trunk.
At the desk, the clerk looked past me and said, “What on earth you doin’, Jamal?”
“Just helping these fine folks here, Shawna,” he said.
Shawna flopped my copies on the desk. “Ten dollars.”
“Put it on the room,” I said.
“We don’t put nothin’ on the room,” she said, making her eyes slits.
“That’ll be fine,” the manager announced from the office.
In the elevator, I stood at the back, and Jamal held a suitcase in each hand. Wendy said, “You could set those down.”
“Load’s balanced just right, ma’am,” said Jamal.
The “suite” turned out to be two ordinary motel rooms with an adjoining door. One room had been set up with a bar, refrigerator, and living room furniture—the other remained generic. Wendy tipped Jamal, and he left.
“What about the FBI detail on our house?” asked Wendy.
“Matty said she’d ask. Either way, she’ll call.”
“If she doesn’t call, we aren’t staying here,” said Wendy.
“Give Matty a couple of minutes. If she doesn’t call, I’ll call her. What did you give him?” I asked.
“Ten,” said Wendy. “Was that too much?”
“Nope, I think we’re going to be his favorite guests. We just got off to a poor start.”
“He seems nice enough,” said Wendy. She cracked out the laptop and fired it up. “The package is on Ouellette south of Wyandotte in Windsor.”
“I’ve got a McDougall address on this bank statement.”
Wendy extended her hand, and I gave her a copy. “Four hundred and ten thousand dollars! There wasn’t nearly that much money in that suitcase.”
“Canadian dollars,” I said. “Worth about seventy cents American. Maybe he already had some money in the account.”
Matty called. “We can cover your house until you get home,” she said. “You better be on the way.”
“I’ve got a GPS location on Ma
nny,” I said, hoping it was true.
“Shoot.”
“What for?” I asked. “So you can read it to your boss with your next list of shit, so he can read it to his boss? The address is good now.”
“I’m coming down to the Detroit office,” said Matty. “I’ll look at it myself.”
“It’s in Canada.”
“Don’t even think about it,” said Matty.
A male voice came on the line. “This is Special Agent in Charge Perry Haster, Mr. Hardin. I think we’ll be able to cover your home until late tomorrow. Should you take some pictures on your visit, I’m sure Agent Svenson would like to see them.”
“That’ll work,” I said.
“Just pictures, Mr. Hardin.”
“You want the address?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “You may take pictures of whatever you like. Specifically, we don’t know why you’re in Detroit. We will never have a revelation. Even after days of reflection, Mr. Hardin, nothing will come to mind.”
• • •
We found a safe in the closet of our living room, locked up our firearms, and went back down to the car. For grins, we took the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. The pleasure-boat traffic on the Detroit River looked like class change in a junior high school hallway.
On the Canadian side of the bridge we worked our way up to a sign that read “Arret” and some other things in French that meant, “Wait here until the car in front of you has been released.” I knew that because the signs were in English, too. The border guard, a young woman, wore a blue uniform and a scowl.
“Citizenship?”
“U.S.,” I said.
She reached her hand out of the booth. “Identification?”
I gave her our driver’s licenses.
“When was your last visit to Canada?”
“It’s been years,” I said. “We moved out to western Michigan.”
“What’s your destination?”
“Casino.”
“How long did you plan to visit?”
“Two hundred dollars,” I said. “However long that is.”
“You have any tobacco products?”
“I have three or four cigarillos. My wife has a couple packs of cigarettes.”
“You have any firearms or ammunition?”
“No, ma’am.”
She handed back our licenses and a piece of paper with a number scrolled on it with a black felt marker. “Park under the portico, leave your keys in the ignition, and take this to the immigration office.”
Wendy and I frowned at each other and drove to the covered parking area. Through the immigration door, we met ladies in tan uniforms behind a counter with a Plexiglas shield. One took my numbered slip of paper and directed us to a glassed-in seating area with a cement floor. We shared the space with a young couple and their three-year-old boy wearing a shirt, a diaper, and a pair of bare feet. He padded up to us and showed us a green sucker on a white stick from his mouth.
Wendy smiled. I said, “How ya doin’, partner?” He laughed, popped it back into his mouth, and padded off.
A woman’s voice announced from a speaker in the ceiling, “Get some shoes on that child or get him off the floor. People piss, shit, and vomit all over in there.”
Wendy and I scoped the joint out. It seemed pretty clean to me. Wendy glanced at me and shrugged. Through the window, I could see a pair of young men in blue uniform coveralls searching and admiring Daniel’s Camaro.
“Oh dear, Mawtha,” I said, doing my best English aristocrat impression. “I do hope that Jeeves has remembered to take the bazooka from the trunk.”
Wendy smiled and gave me an elbow. “Just doing their job, Art. Besides, they’re probably listening.”
The young couple was struggling to keep the child in their laps—to his loud complaint—when we received our summons from the speaker in the ceiling. “Mr. and Mrs. Hardin, please come to the counter.”
A woman in a tan uniform and a brunette ponytail said, “Things have changed in the last few years. When you come to Canada, you should bring your passport or a birth certificate.”
“Never needed that before,” said Wendy.
“Still don’t,” she said. “You need it to get back into the United States. Enjoy your visit.” We stepped away. “Mr. Hardin.” She beckoned with a finger, allowing one eyebrow to raise. “Just you.”
I turned back. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned forward and said quietly, “About that bazooka, Mr. Hardin. If it’s up your arse, I can arrange to have someone look for it.”
“Oh, I do hope that’s not necessary.”
She showed me all her teeth and narrow eyes. “Enjoy your visit.”
We breezed out the door. “What was that about?” asked Wendy.
“She said they were, in fact, listening.”
We headed for the McDougall address on the bank statement. I turned right off Wyandotte, and all of the storefront signs morphed to Arabic with English subtitles. “Sweet Jesus,” I said. “We’re in Canuckistan.”
“Looks just like Dearborn,” said Wendy, snapping away with the disposable camera she plumbed from the depths of her purse.
“Yeah,” I said. “Help me watch the numbers.”
The address on the bank statement turned out to be a video rental shop, painted bright yellow and featuring decorative wrought iron covering the window and the door glass. Windows on the second floor suggested the possibility of flats or apartments above the storefronts. We checked the alley, creeping along in first gear. No white Escalade, but outside stairwells provided access to second-floor flats. Clotheslines strung between the stairwells drooped with laundry. Women in flowing dresses and head scarves loitered on the stairs watching children skitter in the alley and parking lot. Wendy snapped a few shots.
“Kinda crappy digs for a guy with half a million bucks,” I said.
“Canadian dollars,” said Wendy. She opened the computer.
“This is Canada,” I said and kept moving. The sudden weight of all the eyes on us exceeded safety limits.
“The package is still on Ouellette north of Wyandotte,” said Wendy. She fingered the turns using the map on the computer. We found the Escalade parked in front of the Buck Shop, “All Items One Dollar.”
I slid into a parking space in a strip mall across the street. From our spot, I counted three immigration law offices, all offering American and Canadian immigration services, visas, and certified Arabic-English translations.
“I think we should keep our distance from the Escalade,” said Wendy.
“No argument from me,” I said. “There’s a soft ice cream shop over here. What say we get a cone, maybe with a chocolate dip, and sit at the tables in plain view where no one will see us?”
“Banana split,” said Wendy.
We took our time. Cool springtime air preserved our ice cream, and as the dimming sun gave way to the buzzing of neon signs, Manny and Mr. Unibrow strolled out of the Buck Shop.
Manny wore a tan suit and a stubble beard. He clutched a flat brown bag under his arm. Mr. Unibrow locked the shop door. Wendy snapped away until they both climbed into the Escalade. We dumped our refuse in a trash can, returned to the Camaro, and followed the Escalade to a comedy club on Wyandotte, The Brass Ball—“Open Mike Tonight.” The cover charge came to eight bucks American. “So anybody can get on the stage tonight?” I asked.
The doorman, taller than me, with a scarred face, broken nose, and a buzz cut, handed me a clipboard with a ballpoint pen on a chain. The heading on the roster clipped to the board had been printed in French and English. The English part explained that open mike participants had up to five minutes onstage at the management’s discretion. The first hour had been booked solid. Half the names were Middle Eastern. None of them was Rashid Erekat.
The doorman said, “Think you’re funny, eh?”
I handed him back the clipboard. “Maybe I’ll just watch tonight.” He nodded.
“Boxer?” I ask
ed.
“Hockey, eh?” he said. “Who’s your team?”
“Maple Leafs, no doubt about it.”
He laughed. “Maybe you are funny, eh?”
A draft beer cost three bucks, but the overwhelming aroma in the club was burning hemp. “My guess is they don’t mind if we smoke,” I said.
The tables near the stage had been crowded full. People gave up their seats to make room for Manny and Mr. Unibrow. We claimed a table at the rear of the room near the door so that we could sit with our backs to the wall. Wendy ordered iced tea. I couldn’t pass on a Molson’s draft.
“What do we do now?” asked Wendy.
“Let him come to us.”
24
“PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER,” said the emcee, a cigarette levering in his mouth and a draft beer sloshing onto his hand, “and give up some love for a Brass Ball favorite.” He clenched an eye against smoke from the cigarette. “The Martyr of Madcap—the Sultan of Satire—Mahmud Salim!” The audience answered with a clatter of applause and a couple of whistles. The emcee turned his head to look at Manny as he mounted the stairs. “Give it up.” He only pretended to applaud, but still managed to dribble beer onto the stage. “Mahmud, Saaa-liiim, everybody!”
The emcee made his exit, and Manny walked up to the mike, the left side of his face looking very red in the klieg lights. He opened his brown bag, looked inside, and raised his face to show the audience a devilish grin. The crowd rewarded him with a snicker. He snatched a folded bed sheet out of the bag and held it aloft as if he were displaying the head of a vanquished enemy. The crowd chanted, “Ouna! Ouna! Ouna!”
Wendy poked me and whispered, “What’s Ouna?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” I said.
Manny snapped out the sheet and draped it over his head. Holding it out from his face, he opened a slash with a box knife. Peering through the slit—only his eyes and a bit of his nose visible—he leaned into the mike and whispered in sly falsetto, “Hello, infidels.” The crowd roared. Manny adjusted the microphone down to the level of his chest.
Manny shot a pointed finger at the audience, but at no one in particular, and yelled, “No! I don’t drive. Could you drive a car with a sheet over your head?” Leaning over the mike he whispered a falsetto, “Silly infidel.”
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