I wish I felt as cool as he acts. I’ve got a prickly little animal running around in my gut that says the day is going to get very ugly before it’s finally over.
The crowd gets closer and larger, and Jerp steers the big Merc’ over the curb and through a trash-strewn parking lot as some rocks and bricks start to hit the car and a lot of guys are swinging big sticks and surging toward us. Behind us, a Molotov cocktail goes up with a dull “whoof,” maybe meant for us, maybe not.
Jerp is picking up speed now, despite people swarming in on all sides. Wire grocery carts and trash cans go flying off the front bumper and into the crowd, as he tries to get enough momentum up to crash through the cyclone fence at the back of the lot.
A metallic screech, a lot of jolts and tearing noises, and we’re through, heading down a wide industrial alley. All around us, black men are grabbing sticks or metal bars, pounding on the car as we plow through them. Occasionally we bounce a sweaty black body off the grille.
“Lock your door, lad.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
More gunfire. Loud, hoarse barks that I recognize as shotgun blasts, and other higher-pitched popping that must be pistol fire. A few bodies down on the pavement now, some of them in spreading pools of blood. We sure as hell didn’t shoot them. I wonder who did.
If all that weren’t enough, now we have machine gun fire. Tracer rounds are stitching a line across the second story fire escapes of a clapboard tenement down the street. The neon line of bullets comes first, the brrt-brrt noise a second or two later, sounding muffled. The shooter is a long way away, maybe as much as a mile. He’s shooting at something else altogether, something we will never see, or at nothing at all. But what goes up must come down, and unfortunately, it’s still lethal.
“Herman, lad, do you know how to drive?”
“Yeah, sure.” The car has an automatic transmission. How hard could it be? I look over at him and I see blood coming out of his mouth and the big, meaty hands white on the steering wheel.
“Jesus, Jerp—”
“Just grab the wheel, will you? You don’t have to worry about the brake, because we’re not stopping. Head for downtown. The old Michigan Central train depot. The place has been next thing to abandoned for years. We ought to be able to find a place inside there to lay low for a while and maybe stash the money. Or if we can’t, we’ll take a train out. If we try to get back to the office with the dough and run into the cops or the National Guard, they’ll relieve us of it, and that’s a certainty.”
He lets go of the wheel and floors the gas pedal, and I suddenly find out that steering really isn’t very tough at all, if you don’t care what you hit.
We’re back on Grand, heading east and south, the big engine pushing us up toward seventy. I blow the horn at anything that gets in our way, bounce off a few busses and cars, and mostly aim right down the center of the street, ignoring all the traffic lights. Jerp is breathing in gasps now and clutching a red handkerchief to his side, but he’s still conscious and his eyes look clear.
Two blocks ahead, I see a wall of khaki. The National Guard or the Army, hundreds of them or maybe thousands, with trucks and jeeps, are blocking off the street, advancing en masse.
“Ease off, Jerp. I think we’re okay now.”
“With that lot? Bollocks. First we have to stash the money.”
“It’s only money, Jerp. There will always be money. We have to get you—”
“It’s the responsibility, is the thing. We lose somebody else’s money, we’re no better than that riffraff we just left. Find a place to stash it, I say!” He’s screaming through clenched teeth now, and again I see there’s no point in arguing.
“We’re not too far from my place,” I say. “I’ve got a secret stash in the basement of the hardware store that we—”
“Go for it, lad!”
I make the corner onto Hobson on two wheels, and Jerp eases off on the gas a bit and lets me maneuver into the side streets.
“Almost there,” I say. “How are you holding up?”
“Alls I need is a short beer and a shot of Bushnell’s, and I’d be singing ‘Molly Malone.’ Shut up and drive.”
Three more turns and we’re there. Jerp can’t seem to find the brake pedal, so I throw the shifting lever into Park. The transmission makes a noise like a mechanical pig being slaughtered, but finally the rear wheels lock up and we skid to a stop in the alley behind the hardware store.
“Quick now, lad.”
As if he had to tell me. The streets are deserted here, but I can hear shouting mobs not that far off. I grab the gym bag, pile out of the car, and use my key to let myself into the service entry of the store. Lights off, everything deserted. I wonder where Mr. Holst, the owner, would go, if he decided to evacuate his own neighborhood. Where would anybody go?
Down in the basement, I open up the fire door on the old monster coal furnace that has long ago been replaced by the new gas-fired Lennox. I stick my body half inside the fire chamber, pick up the edge of the sheet of asbestos board that covers my own personal money stash, and throw the gym bag under it. As I shut the door and sprint for the stairs, I hear gunfire out in the alley.
Oh, shit. We cut it too fine.
Maybe I should have brought Jerp inside with me. Maybe I still should. Go ask. But my feet aren’t moving. It feels safe in the basement. And I am so very afraid. I dither and hesitate and wait, for what, I don’t know. And then I see the smoke at the top of the stairs. The bastards have torched my building.
Stairs three at a time, kick the back door open again, don’t bother with turning out the lights. The deadbolt will relock itself, if there’s anything left to protect. Just be sure you’ve still got your key.
Back outside, the sunlight is blinding. I put my hand up to shield my eyes, just in time to catch a blow from a club. Jesus, it feels like my forearm is shattered. With my other hand, I swing the baseball bat, lashing out blindly in all directions. I catch at least one set of shins and maybe a head or two, and I’m able to clear a little free space around myself.
Everything looks black and white but slowed down now, like an old movie being run in slow motion. I must have a lot of sweat in my eyes, because it’s getting hard to focus.
Down the street, somebody yells, “Hey man, they broke open Ullman’s!” That would be the neighborhood liquor store. The mob surges that way and loses interest in me. I make a final clearing swing or two with the bat and head back to where I left Jerp and the car.
Neither of which is there anymore.
What the hell?
He was hurt too bad to drive off himself, but if somebody was just boosting the car, wouldn’t they have dumped him out first? I climb the steel fire escape from my own pad, to get a better look over the crowd, but even so, car and Irishman are absolutely, totally gone. And as I perch there, they are joined by my pad, my building, my stash. And all my dreams. The building is going up so fast, the flames are already scorching my back.
I bound back to ground level and fight my way through the fringes of the crowd to some fairly clear street to the south. Then I start to make my way back toward downtown, running from one hiding place to another. The old Michigan Central train depot, Jerp had said. If he was capable of moving under his own power at all, that’s where he would go, and that’s where I should go, too.
Get there before dark, though, boyo. If you don’t, you’re just as likely to be killed by somebody inside the building as out.
How long is it until dark, anyway? The day is already about thirty hours old and looking like a place with no end.
Is that as fast as you can run, Herman? Cry, if you have to, maybe also scream. Piss your pants, if you think that helps anything. But whatever you do, do not stop running. Because once that goddamn sun goes down, the only white folks left on these streets are going to be the very quick and the very dead.
Jerp, where the hell are you?
***<
br />
“Herman?”
I blinked.
“Are you all right, Herman?”
“Sure.” Not even slightly.
“Do you want to claim this body?” said Brian.
“I’m not sure what I want yet.” I gave him one of my cards. “Don’t burn him without calling me first, okay?”
Chapter 12
Dead Man’s Key
We thanked Brian for all his help and went back out on the street.
“Well, that certainly didn’t gain us much,” said Anne.
“Maybe, maybe not. How quick can you get me a print of that key photo?”
“If we go back to my office, I can run one in two minutes, flat. What are you going to do with it?”
“Take it to a pawnbroker friend of mine who also happens to be a locksmith, see what he makes of it.”
“And also have him make you an illegal copy?”
“Are you so sure it would be illegal? I mean, I really am Charlie’s heir, you know.”
“I think I don’t want to hear about it.”
“You’re probably right, you don’t want to.”
***
We walked back to the skyway reception area again, and I did a poor job of making small talk with Pam while Anne took her camera to some inner sanctum to do her thing with it. As good as her word, she was back in less than five minutes with an eight-and-a-half by eleven color print.
“It’s a little grainy at this enlargement size,” she said, “but the serial number comes up all right.”
“That should do very nicely. If it’s a real key, from a real lock company, my guy should be able to look it up.”
“The bad news is, we shouldn’t have come back here.”
“Oh?”
“I ran into my editor, who was tactless enough to remind me that I have a deadline for a column I haven’t started yet. I’m going to have to pass on going to see your locksmith.”
“Tell you what: you go do your column and I’ll go do the things you don’t want to know about. And later this evening, I’ll take a look inside Charlie’s box and call you on your cell if I find anything that looks important.”
“Call me no matter what you find. I won’t shut the phone off until I’ve heard from you.”
“Deal.”
“Later.”
“Happy column.” I thought about inviting her to a romantic candlelit dinner of takeout Chinese with a cigar box instead of a fortune cookie. I thought about it rather a lot, in fact. But if she was sending me any of the right signals for such a venture, I couldn’t read them. I sighed slightly and headed back down the skyway.
Nickel Pete’s was only a couple of blocks away, but instead of going straight there, I took the skyway system all the way to the City Hall Annex. Whether my friendly shadows had found my phony cigar box amusing or not, I figured they would still be following me.
At the Annex, I took the elevator to the basement, then picked a lock to let myself into a stairwell to the sub-basement. Some remnants of my old life skills are handy at times. I re-locked the door behind me and went down to the original boiler room, now covered in dust and cobwebs, where I waited. Five minutes later, somebody rattled the knob from the other side. Then he kicked the door twice. Then nothing.
I waited another ten minutes, then headed back north through a maze of forgotten storage spaces and mechanical rooms. All of the sub-basements on that block are connected, and I finally came back out into the daylight through a freight elevator at the far end of the block, where I turned up my collar, put my head down, and sprinted the block and a half to Nickel Pete’s pawn shop.
He was about as happy to see me as he had been the last time.
“It’s too late for lunch now, Herman, so what kind of weird favor are you going to hit me up for this time?”
“Good to see you, too, Pete. Always a pleasure. I have a picture to show you.”
“Is it pornographic? Will it awaken long-forgotten urges and incite unwise adventures?”
“Afraid not.” I unfolded the print and laid it out on his counter, along with the impressed stick of gum, which really hadn’t fared all that well in my pocket.
“Then what’s the point?”
“Just look at it, will you?”
He looked.
“Do you have a book of some kind where you can look up the serial number of that key?” I asked.
“What for?”
“Is this what they call a senior moment? To tell what it is, of course.”
“I don’t have to look it up, I know what it is. It’s a Master.”
“That’s probably why it says ‘Master’ on it. I picked up on that already. Can you look up the serial number and tell me what it fits?”
“Obviously Herman, you were having a little nap when I said the word ‘Master.’ Master only makes padlocks.”
“So?”
“Millions and gazillions of padlocks. The most you might find out is the name of some hardware wholesaler, who is most likely out of business for ages now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the number is only four digits. That baby is old, Herman.”
“Well, bat shit, Pete.”
“Now I expect you’re going to ask me if I can make you a copy, using nothing but the photo and that mangled piece of chewing gum for a pattern.”
“Pete, you really should have made a career on the stage. You can read minds perfectly.”
“How nice for me. But instead, I’m stuck here, breaking the law and putting my locksmith’s license in jeopardy.” He let out a profound sigh and headed for the back room. “The things I do for you.”
It was favorite line of his.
While Pete made the key, I watched the storefront and main door, looking for shadows on the other side of the glass that I might want to hide from. Then I grabbed the phone from Pete’s side of the counter and called Wilkie’s cell phone.
“Harra.” He always answers that way, and I have never figured out what it means.
“Hey, Wide, Herman here. How’s your work load?”
“Your man Russo hasn’t left town yet. Unless he tries to leave the country, I can’t grab him before his trial date, so I got one of my second-stringers keeping an eye on him.”
“That’ll work. So are you available for something else?”
“Well, seeing as how I failed to pick up any loose change last night when my eight-ball shooter split on me, I could use a little something, you know? Not for tonight, though. I got a date.”
“Would that be with the ugly broad from the Minneapolis cop shop?”
“Hey, watch your mouth. She’s a nice person.”
“Me? You’re the one who always calls her that. I’ve never even met her. Anyway, is that the lucky lady?”
“So?”
“I’m wondering if you can hit her up for a favor.”
“The number of dates she gets? I can hit her up.”
“Now who’s saying mean things about her?”
“Well it’s not like she’s listening, is it? What are you after?”
“Go by my office and pick up a snow shovel that’s wrapped in a black plastic trash bag. Don’t open it unless you’ve got gloves on. I need somebody who knows what they’re doing to see if they can pull some fingerprints off it.”
“And then see if those prints are on record.”
“Well it would be a pretty pointless exercise otherwise, wouldn’t it?”
“What do I use for an excuse?”
“You’ll think of something.”
“But this is a bounty hunting job, right?”
“We’ll call it that, anyway.” Wilkie doesn’t have a PI license, and sometimes we have to do a little creative labeling of the work he does for me. Bounty hunting doesn’t require a license.
“Who am I hunting besides Russo?”
“Whoever’s prints are on the shovel.”
<
br /> “Uh huh. And who am I hunting before I know who that is?”
“Joe Kapufnik. The Duke of Paducah. I don’t care. Have Agnes pull a couple of names out of our ‘long-gone’ file. And tell her I said to give you a couple hundred retainer out of petty cash. Take your friend someplace nice.”
“Hey, you’re right. I’ll think of something. Anything else?”
“One other thing. This one’s a little more open-ended and not so quick. See what you can find out about a guy who calls himself Eddie Bardot, claims to work for something called Amalgamated Bonding Enterprises. He was in my office this morning, so my security tape will still have him on it. Aggie can print you a still photo off it, if you see a frame you like. Either his name or the company’s could be phony, but he doesn’t look as if he ever changed his face. Give it a shot, okay?”
“What are you liking him for?”
“I’m not sure. He comes off like old Mob, but he could be just a freelance shakedown artist trying to look that way. Before I decide how to deal with him, I need to know if he’s connected.”
“Time and expenses-plus-ten?”
“That’s the drill, only I might not be able to pay you right away.”
“I can wait. I’m on it.”
“What’s your girl’s name?”
“None of your business.”
“Odd name. Say hi for me.”
Pete brought me the key, and I left.
Chapter 13
Charlie Victor’s Box
I left Pete’s by the back way, through an L-shaped alley, and went straight to the Victory Ramp, where I retrieved my BMW, after carefully looking over the undercarriage and the wheel wells to see if it had acquired any bugs or bombs. If it had, they were extremely tiny, so I decided they couldn’t hurt me.
If my tail included one or more vehicles, I couldn’t spot them. But just to be on the safe side, I took a very indirect route home. I crossed the Mrs. Hippy on the Robert Street Bridge and wandered around the river flats for a while, then headed up the Wabasha hill to the top of the river bluffs, to an area known as Cherokee Heights. There I got on the high end of the long, straight, severely sloping High Bridge and went back down across the river again. But at the bottom of the bridge, I made a strictly illegal U-turn and headed back up. As I went back the way I had come, I did a mental inventory of the oncoming traffic.
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