EQMM, July 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

"That's right. He might not notice a stranger."

  "So you fired him and he took the compass as protection against a pair of your special concrete shoes. Is that about it?"

  Callahan didn't respond. He just gave me that saintly preacher smile, something like pleasant indifference. It was his way of saying that that was about it.

  "Had you hired him for his mind or his muscle?"

  "Mind. He worked in the County Recorder's office. I had some real-estate transactions and I wanted to make sure the deeds were recorded properly."

  I nodded. “Nice to have direct access to what—or what is not—of record."

  I got the preacher smile again. After doing time in law school, I'd done a stretch as an examiner for a title company, so I knew there were things Bormann could do to sneak Callahan into “fee title” to properties he wanted, say in order to squeeze a competitor. A competitor whose warranty deed could be surreptitiously replaced by one in favor of Callahan. Bormann would be just the man for the job. It wouldn't work for long, but it could be effective for a while.

  I stood up and took the money—$250 in tens and twenties—from his lily-white hand. “I'll see what I can find."

  "This needs to be done quickly. Within twenty-four hours. I suspect he may be preparing to leave town, if he hasn't already done so."

  "What if I take longer than that? I suppose you'll want a refund."

  "At minimum."

  He smiled, but I didn't. I rarely smile at a threat.

  * * * *

  Pinstripe led me back through the tunnel maze to the Greystone building. I'd been through the tailraces twice now but still had no idea how anyone kept track of where they were going.

  "How the hell do you find your way around down there?” I said once we'd reached the sidewalk in front of Industrial Supplies, Inc.

  Pinstripe shrugged. “From doing it."

  "But how about when you started?"

  "I kept a note inside my hat that I eventually memorized. You know, twenty steps forward, then turn right, ten steps forward, then turn left. Like that."

  He gave me my gun and the directions I needed for my first stop. Then he took ten steps forward, turned right, and walked back inside the dead mill.

  I turned left and started on my first hundred steps down the sweltering sidewalk. I'd gone half a block when Lana pulled up next to me in a new red Lincoln Cosmopolitan with the top down.

  "Need a ride?"

  I opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  She tapped her red fingernails on the steering wheel and gave me a silky smile. “I owe you for the one you gave me last night."

  I normally don't care for women—or men, for that matter—who talk dirty, but with Lana it seemed natural, almost necessary. “You should tell people you're a moll before you let them give you a ride."

  She accelerated away from the curb. “Haven't had to until now."

  "Why did you tell Callahan's goons to stake me out at the Minnesotan? I wasn't staying there."

  She gave me a long look for someone driving in city traffic. “I was hoping you'd come back to see me."

  Then she did something that made me think she was telling the truth. Once we were out of sight of Industrial Supplies, she pulled back over to the curb, set the parking brake, threw her arms around me, and gave me a kiss. The best kind of kiss, the one that always means the most. The one for no reason.

  Once we'd finished reacquainting ourselves, she slid back behind the wheel. “Who has he got you looking for?"

  "Sorry, but I can't tell you."

  She sat back in stunned indignation. “Why not? I'm the one who gave him your name."

  "I know, but you also told him I'd be discreet."

  "That doesn't mean you can't tell me."

  "I'm afraid it does."

  She stared at me with her beautiful indignant mouth still open as her beautiful indignant eyes showed me just how fast a wall can be built between two people who had just kissed.

  "I'd tell you if I could."

  She clamped her mouth shut and turned her head to stare at the world beyond the steering wheel. It was that cold Lana look-away that not even John Garfield in The Postman Always Rings Twice was strong enough to overcome. I didn't even try. I opened the door and climbed out.

  She never looked my way, not even when she said, “Why do men have so many secrets?"

  I placed my hands on the open door. “This isn't a secret. It's a job."

  "You're all alike. You'll let a girl into your pants but you won't let her into your head, let alone your heart."

  I hated being compared to other men, but I couldn't bring myself to lie to her. “Once you saw what was in my head, Lana, you wouldn't want to get close to any other part of me."

  She let out a growl of frustration. “Shut the door."

  I did. And by driving away so did she.

  * * * *

  The Recorder's office, located in Room 110 of the Hennepin County Courthouse, smelled of musty paper, cigarette smoke, and floor wax. The man behind the counter resembled one of those typical government clerks who sprout up like mushrooms where real-estate documents are buried. The wrinkles in his blousy white shirt and baggy brown pants looked like rivers on a road map, while the dime-sized birthmark on his forehead looked like a pond on an aerial map. The rest of him tended toward the cardinal points: the thin strands of white hair attempting to cover his scalp ran from east to west while his jowls ran north and south.

  When he saw me come through the door, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled around his desk toward the counter, wiping his hands on the sides of his pants. “Good morning.” His jowls shook. His half-moon cheaters clung to the end of his nose.

  "Morning,” I said with a perky smile that couldn't have been further from the truth. “I need to look someone up in the grantor/grantee index."

  He shuffled toward a rack of oversized books. “What's the name?"

  "Mind if I look myself?"

  He stopped shuffling and looked back at me. He removed the glasses from his nose and began absently polishing the lenses with the front of his shirt. A strand of hair hung down over his forehead like a loose wire. “I suppose. It's just faster if I do it."

  "I'm in no hurry,” I lied.

  "Suit yourself. Initial of the last name?"

  "B."

  He pulled down a book the size of a pillowcase and laid it open on the counter in front of me. I started leafing through the giant pages while he chaperoned.

  "I'd be there by now,” he said.

  I pointed toward his desk. “You could be there by now too."

  He put his hands up. “Just trying to help."

  I found “Bormann, Terence” and dragged my finger along the miles of entries looking for recent deeds that would have put him in title. He might not be in the phone book, but there were other ways to find out where he lived.

  The clerk made a noise that mimicked spitting. “What do you want with him?"

  I looked up. Of course. Bormann had worked here. “You don't care for Terry Bormann?"

  "Wouldn't trust him to take out the trash."

  "Why not?"

  "You a cop?"

  I played a hunch and nodded. “I'm an investigator."

  "It's about time. I've been trying to fix all the messes he left behind. Missing deeds, deleted entries, altered photostats. It's been a nightmare. What took you so long?"

  "Did you report this to the police?"

  "Twice, but no one ever got back to me."

  Callahan wouldn't have been the first mob boss to have someone inside the police department protecting him. “Well, I'm on it now. Do you know where Bormann can be found?"

  He tapped the grantor/grantee index book. “You won't find him in there. He's too smart to leave a trail. Or at least he thinks he is.” A smirk gave his jowls a lift.

  "Let me guess: He's smart, but not as smart as you."

  The smirk swelled into a grin. “I've been waiting for you to get here
.” He pulled a folder off his desk and spread it out on the counter. “He used aliases but I knew it was him."

  He showed me a series of deeds and reveled in his storytelling. All I cared about was how it ended. Finally, I asked him, “So where is he now?"

  He stabbed his finger on the last warranty deed in his pile. Bormann had bought the house using the name Tony Baxter. The legal description was in metes and bounds, the method of identifying real property that describes each boundary line with a direction, an angle by degrees, and a distance. It seemed to describe the parcel well enough, but not the address. “Where is this?"

  His eyes glimmered. “3010 Holmes Avenue South."

  * * * *

  The 3000 block of Holmes Avenue South was a tree-lined street of four-squares in South Minneapolis. A streetcar dropped me off on 31st. As I walked down the sidewalk, I thought I saw Lana's red Lincoln Cosmopolitan convertible cross over at the far end of the block. I wasn't sure, but it made me wary enough to take a quick look around for tails. None was in sight.

  I popped up the three steps at 3010 to Terry Bormann's porch and buzzed the front door. After a moment, Bormann peaked through a side window, then opened the door a crack. “Yeah?"

  He was an American, but had the sharp, angled features of every young German I'd fought against in the war. His hair was short and brown, neatly trimmed and oiled. His eyes were an impenetrable blue. Smart but suspicious.

  "Is Max in?” I was being perky again. It took everything I had.

  "Max who?"

  "Max Rethwisch.” That had been the seller's name on the deed transferring the property to Tony Baxter a.k.a. Terry Bormann.

  "He doesn't live here anymore."

  "Are you kidding me?” I acted crushed. “When did he move?"

  "A week ago.” Bormann started to shut the door.

  "Do you happen to have his new address? We were in the Third Battalion together and he told me to look him up whenever I was in town."

  "Sounds like the wrong guy. The guy who lived here was in his eighties."

  "Max Junior. That's who I'm talking about. The son. Have you at least got Senior's address? Maybe he can tell me where to find Junior."

  Bormann hesitated. “You really from out of town?"

  I showed him my California driver's license. He hesitated, then opened the door.

  "I've got it here somewhere,” he said as I stepped into the foyer. A pair of suitcases stood patiently by the stairs.

  The house was nicely furnished and the extensive woodwork was nicely polished. All I could see from the foyer was the open living room to the left and the bright kitchen through a door down the hall past the stairs. But everything, including Bormann with his snappy powder-blue sport shirt and light gray slacks, looked like it belonged. Everything, that is, but me. I was the only unpolished thing in sight.

  "Can I trouble you for a drink of water?” I said. “It's a steam room out there."

  "Sure,” he said over his shoulder as he strolled toward the kitchen. “Is lemonade okay?"

  "Perfect."

  While he disappeared into the kitchen, I moved into the living room and started searching. It didn't take long. The brass compass was hiding out in the open on the red brick mantel over the red brick fireplace. I picked it up. It was the size and shape of a pocket watch and had “U.S.” engraved on its protective cover.

  Its condition was immediately recognizable to me. It was scratched and dented, its brass sheen worn off by time and miles spent bouncing around in a duffel bag or a bomber jacket. The scars of war.

  "What are you looking at?” Bormann stood near the hallway with a tall lemonade in each hand, his blue eyes still impenetrable.

  "You an airman?” I said, holding up the compass for him to see.

  He nodded and started toward me. “Twenty-five missions. That compass was my good-luck charm. I carry it with me wherever I go.” He gave a short laugh. “I can't seem to give up the habit."

  "Mind if I open it?"

  "Not at all.” He set my drink on the mantel. I'd expected suspicion but was getting guarded amiability.

  I opened the cover. Beneath the glass was a dial marked with 360 degrees in five-degree increments and a blue, jeweled arrow pointer. On the inside of the cover, tiny etchings of letters and numbers surrounded an engraved name: “Capt. Bormann.” I looked at him like there had to be some mistake. It should have read “Callahan,” after the mob boss's son. Bormann mistook my confusion for a question.

  "Those little marks? Directions. It's a long story."

  I looked at the little marks. Letters and numbers. N90W12N15E20 and on and on. It looked vaguely familiar. Almost like ... metes and bounds. Directions. North 90 degrees West 12 feet, thence North 15 degrees East 20 feet. Pinstripe had put a note in his hat. Bormann had put them in his compass. That's why Callahan wanted it. It wasn't his kid's compass. That story was probably bullshit. He wanted it so that Bormann wouldn't let the directions to his hideout get into the wrong hands.

  "It's a beautiful piece,” I said as I closed the lid and set the compass back on the mantel.

  "I owe my life to it,” he said with no trace of a smile.

  "It was a dangerous place."

  He gave me an odd look, as if he wasn't sure which place I was talking about. I'd meant Europe, but the same applied to the tailraces.

  I kept on. “I guess all that matters is getting out alive."

  He nodded.

  I glanced at the luggage by the stairs. “Leaving town?"

  He nodded again and gave a sad smile. “If I get out alive."

  I cocked my head.

  "Bad choices,” he said, “for the wrong reasons."

  We didn't say much else while I finished my drink. I set the empty glass on the mantel in front of the compass. “Well, I won't take up any more of your time. You said you have Max's new address?"

  "Oh, yeah.” He turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  I met him by the front door, where he handed me a piece of paper. Then we shook hands. “Good luck,” I said. “Wherever you're going."

  He squeezed my hand a bit tighter. “Thank you.” Then he opened the door and let me out.

  I took my time moving down the front walk. I had the feeling I'd forgotten something. It wasn't the compass. I'd grabbed that while Bormann had left the room to get Max Rethwisch's address.

  It came to me when I reached the sidewalk. Something wasn't adding up. Why had Callahan lied about the compass? Why hadn't he simply told me that Bormann owned a compass that contained information Callahan didn't want to get out?

  I walked up Holmes toward the streetcar stop fingering the brass compass in my pocket. I was starting to doubt my decision to take it. I stopped walking and pulled the compass out of my pocket and stared at the “U.S.” etched into its cover.

  Bormann seemed like a decent enough guy. He'd made some bad choices, but who hadn't? Wasn't working for a mob boss—even for a day—a bad choice? Sure, Callahan had hired me to do a job and had two hundred and fifty bucks waiting for me upon delivery, but the compass had carried Bormann through twenty-five missions. It was his good-luck charm. I'd been through Anzio. I knew from experience that when there was nothing left but fear, the simplest item could supply a man with the courage he was sure he didn't have. If Bormann thought a brass compass was the only thing that had kept him safe during that godforsaken war, that was his business. Because the truth was that whatever got a man through the hell of the war was something sacred. Even if he was the only one who knew it.

  I hesitated.

  That's when I heard the shot. The answers followed it like an echo.

  Who had pulled the trigger.

  Who was dead.

  Why I had blood on my hands.

  * * * *

  I burst through the front door with my gun drawn. Bormann was on his back on the floor of the hallway, halfway to the kitchen. A spreading stain of black blood oozed through the powder-blue threads covering his chest. Red
spots stippled his light gray pants.

  Pinstripe had his thumb to the man's jugular. He stood up straight. “Nice job, Nash. You work fast."

  "So do you."

  He stuck his gun back in his coat. His nose looked more mottled than it had before. “Callahan told me to follow you, but he thought it would take you until tonight to find this bastard."

  "You followed me so you could kill him."

  He shrugged. “What else? Can't let a guy like this talk to the wrong people. He knows too much."

  "And I led you straight to him."

  "Not a bad plan, was it?"

  I raised my gun and fired. His right hand erupted in a burst of red. Pinstripe screamed and clutched at what fingers were left. I put another shot in his foot. He'd have trouble getting away before the cops arrived. I left Pinstripe squirming on the floor next to Bormann, their blood pooling together on the floor into a deep, angry red that made no distinctions as to whose blood was whose. Or who had sacrificed more.

  Outside, I knew I had to run. The shots would bring the police in short order. As I raced down the sidewalk, I heard a car horn behind me. I turned my head but kept my feet moving. It was Lana in the convertible. She was waving for me to get in.

  I thought about taking my chances on my own, but only for a second. I jumped in the passenger side without opening the door.

  Neither of us said anything until we were almost downtown. I spoke first.

  "You knew."

  "No, I didn't. I swear. Not until I saw Perry waiting in the alley after you'd gone inside."

  Perry. Pinstripe's real name.

  "Why were you following me?"

  "Curiosity. I wanted to know what you were up to."

  "I don't believe you."

  "And I wanted to see you again. I didn't want you to leave town without...” She started to say something more, but decided to leave it at that.

  I acted like I didn't care. “Did Bormann quit or was he fired?"

  "He quit. He said he was getting tired of his conscience nagging him."

  "He must have bought the house for later, once Callahan stopped looking for him."

  Lana didn't answer. She wasn't supposed to.

  I couldn't bring myself to look at her, though I knew she wanted me to. I stared straight ahead as I told her where to drop me off.