Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Come on.” Brian led us past the Fantastic Phallus and through a black-painted door into a break room. There was a couch of questionable cleanliness, a crusty counter with a cracked white plastic microwave that had seen better days, and a sink heaped with dirty dishes. The top of a rickety-looking card table was strewn with a mixture of porn mags and, of all things, a few months’ worth of Good Housekeeping magazines. Considering the condition of the little room, whoever brought those in was probably hoping some of the housekeeping hints might rub off.

  Brian sank into a chair at the table, rubbed at the nine o’clock shadow on his jaw, and yawned. “Take a load off. You caught me in the nick of time.”

  I perched carefully on the edge of a grimy, cracked-vinyl chair. Lisa chose to remain on her feet.

  “Long night?” I asked.

  “Aren’t they all? Quiet, though. Maybe everyone was still strung out from New Year’s Eve. Now tell me what’s up.”

  I recited the events of the last two days. Like many cops, Brian was a good listener and interrupted only to ask clarifying questions.

  “So,” I said, “we’re checking with everyone my dad played poker with Friday night to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary about him, or if he might have said something to one of you guys that might explain his absence.”

  Brian peered me through, concern etched on his face. “Your dad came to me, oh, sometime this past fall. October? November? Can’t remember. Told me that some guy had come into the bar and expressed interest in buying him out.” Brian squinted one eye shut in thought. “Chase? No that’s not right. Started with a ‘C’ I think. Last name was Shyler? Shiller? Something like that. The guy actually gave him an offer. Pete told him he wasn’t interested.

  “Not long after that, Pete said he started getting harassed. Vague threats, shit like that. Phone calls with no one on the other end. Other calls telling him if he were a betting man, he’d better sell. Things escalated over time. He told me someone slashed his tires one night. A big rock shattered the front window of the bar.”

  I had no idea. My damn father, Mr. Stoic, hadn’t told me the full story. Of course he hadn’t. He probably knew I’d go ballistic. What surprised me was that he hadn’t gone ballistic himself.

  Unless he had.

  A bright bolt of shame flared in the back of my head. If I had spent more time with my dad, maybe I wouldn’t be finding out about all of this second hand. Instead, they—whoever “they” were—had escalated from slashing tires to assault. The thought of my not-so-young-anymore father coming into the lot with two thugs lying in wait made my blood run cold.

  I told Brian about the two guys who jumped Lisa and me the previous night.

  He swore under his breath. “You call the police?”

  “No,” I said. “Didn’t think about it. I was too pissed and got caught up patching Lisa’s head. I suppose I should at least report it.”

  I glanced at Lisa, who had gone pale. Her lips were pressed together into what almost looked like a sneer, and the glare she sported was enough to make me want to cringe. “You okay?” I asked, wondering if her head wound was causing more trouble than I’d thought.

  She gave a minute shake of her head, as if she was coming out of a daydream. “Yeah,” she said absently, “you know, at the time I didn’t think about calling the cops either.” She seemed to pull herself together and focused on Brian. “Do you know if Pete reported any of the prior harassment?”

  He said, “We talked about some legal options. He didn’t like anything I offered and said he’d deal with it himself.”

  I muttered under my breath, “Of course.”

  “Don’t know what else to tell you, Shay. Pete was in a good mood Friday night. He won, which always helps. Even though his head was half in, half out of the game.”

  That meshed with what Agnes told me. “Thanks, Brian.” I stood.

  Brian laced his fingers and tucked his hands behind his head. He leaned dangerously far back in his chair. “Keep me updated, okay?”

  “I sure will.”

  We hit the exit, and Lisa said, “Your dad is stubborn.”

  “You could say that.” We crossed Washington Avenue and headed for the Escape. “He always thinks he has to take care of everything on his own. Doesn’t know how to ask for help.” I paused as I dug the keys from my pocket and unlocked the doors. “Though he actually did ask for help, considering what Brian said. Why he decided not to take the assistance offered is beyond me.”

  We climbed inside and I started the engine.

  Lisa said, “Too bad there wasn’t more that Brian could give us. At least we have a partial name. Sort of.”

  I pulled into the street. “Yeah. So close, yet … not so much.”

  “Where to next?” Lisa asked.

  I looked at the radio. 9:40. “Let’s head to St. Paul and see if we can find Mick Simon, better known as the Vulc.”

  “The Vulc?”

  “Mick was Vulcanus Rex, the Fire King of the St. Paul Winter Carnival, back in the late Nineties, or was it … ah hell, it doesn’t matter when. Anyway, he’s been ‘the Vulc’ ever since. With the carnival coming up, I’m sure he’s working in one of the Krewe’s warehouses feverishly planning the new Fire King’s appearances.”

  “I guess I know less than I realized about the carnival. But the Krewe, they’re the crazy guys that run around in those red suits, goggles, and pointy little beards, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said wistfully, memories of the St. Paul Winter Carnival flooding my head. I remembered Mom and Dad bringing both Neil—Eddy’s son—and me out to the festivities when we were little. Every year after the accident that killed both my mom and Neil, Eddy did her best to keep that tradition alive by bringing me to the carnival. My father was too busy running the Leprechaun and keeping himself knee-deep in the sauce to entertain any thoughts of coming along. Only much later did I realize that the prospect of going back to something that had meant so much probably hurt him badly.

  I braked to a stop at a light and said, “I think I was about five or six when my father first told me about the history of the carnival, which was initially held way back in the late 1800s. I remember thinking that had to be before the time of the dinosaurs.”

  Lisa laughed at that.

  The light changed and I picked up speed again. “I suppose life back then was good—if you didn’t mind outhouses in below-zero weather. There’s always a downside to everything, right? Anyway, the biggest problem for St. Paul’s growing rep was a newspaper story some reporter from New York wrote claiming the city was no better than Siberia.”

  Lisa said, “I have to admit I kind of agree with the Siberia thing.”

  “Me too. Especially this winter. I’ve had enough snow to last me for a long time. Good thing the folks back then had more fortitude than we do.”

  I lapsed into silence, recalling my father’s deep voice recount the legend of how, on the tenth day, Boreas, King of the Winds, and the Vulc, God of Fire, duked it out. The god of fire kicked Boreas out of town every time, sending away the cold and bringing in warm weather. After this year’s cold and snow, we needed the Vulc to come in and do some early ass tromping.

  One of the warehouses Mick and company used for carnival-

  related stuff was a little north and west of Holman Field, St. Paul’s airport. That’s where I figured we’d check first.

  The drive into St. Paul was smooth. Most of the rush hour had dispersed, leaving the stretch of I-94 between Minneapolis and St. Paul problem free.

  Lisa was quiet, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. For that I was grateful. I hated feeling like I needed to come up with something to say to fill the void.

  We crossed the Mississippi by way of the Robert Street Bridge, and I eventually pulled into the parking lot of a boxy brick b
uilding. It was a few minutes after ten o’clock, and the lot was empty.

  There wasn’t any signage, but I knew that around the back was a space that the Imperial Order of Fire and Brimstone—an organization made up of past and present Vulcans—used to house the Winter Carnival’s Royal Chariot, which was a 1932 fire engine long ago manufactured in Luverne, Minnesota.

  When I was a kid, my dad occasionally brought me to Vulcan headquarters. He wasn’t a Krewe member, but being a friend of Mick Simon’s opened a lot of doors. The fact that he tended to bring a few six-packs along helped. For hours I’d watch the guys putter with replacement fire engine parts and repair or replace running boards, door panels—whatever had worn out, rusted through, or broken. By now they must have replaced about every removable piece on the old jalopy, and probably some that weren’t.

  Lisa asked, “How do you know if this Mitch guy is even here now?”

  “Mick,” I said. “Mick is one of the board members who helps decide what charities the Krewe is going to support and what activities the current Krewe will take part in. I suppose there’s other stuff aside from that too, but that’s the gist of it. It’s that time of year where things are hopping, so the odds are good he’ll be here.”

  “It’s always nice to find an organization that actually does good stuff for the community. I kinda thought they were grown men running around in red pajamas smearing black grease paint on unsuspecting victims they wanted to kiss.”

  “Nobody said they were saints. Come on. Let’s go see if we can go two for two.”

  We walked up to a door that had a fancy red and black Imperial Order of Fire and Brimstone sign attached to it. I pressed the buzzer and waited to see who opened the door.

  To my surprise, no one did. I leaned on the doorbell one more time. Nothing.

  “Oh, come on,” Lisa said.

  No kidding. I let out a frustrated breath. Guess we’d just have to circle back to Poker Buddy 2 later. “Okay. We’ll try again later on. Let’s regroup.”

  Back to the Escape we tramped.

  Lisa settled in, clicked her seatbelt on, and said, “Who’s next on your dirty little list?”

  I keyed the engine, mentally pulling up Poker Buddy 3. “We’ve talked to Brian. How about Roy? Roy Larson—”

  “Isn’t he the guy who hawks kitty litter on TV?”

  “One and the same. Before he got himself into the feline elimination business, he owned the Leprechaun. Well, it wasn’t the Leprechaun back then.”

  “What was it?”

  “The Do Stop Inn.”

  “Seriously?”

  “As an aneurysm. You can see why Dad changed the name.”

  “It’s kind of cute, in a skeezy sort of way.”

  I laughed. “Maybe. And don’t forget Hemorrhoid Harvey and Limpy Dick.”

  “Those names belong in a cheesy dime store novel.”

  “There’s something to be said about the quality of people my father hangs around with.”

  “I guess. Okay. Tell me about”—she could hardly keep a straight face—“Hemorrhoid Harvey. What’s up with that?”

  “I had to ask Agnes the same thing yesterday. He owns Benjamin’s Drugstore in Richfield. Apparently Benjamin’s is the go-to emporium for the geriatric set.”

  “Oh, this keeps getting better and better.” Lisa’s lips trembled from the effort of holding back what I assumed was an explosion of hilarity. “And Limpy”—she slapped a hand over her mouth and said through her fingers—“Limpy Dick?”

  That did it. She doubled over in a fit of laughter. I suppose if I hadn’t been familiar with these crazy people, I would have been joining in with her.

  “I told you about him last night. Remember? Or are you having memory issues from the damage to your skull?”

  At that, Lisa made a concerted effort to contain her giggles. “Oh, I think it’s coming back to me now. What a terrible thing.”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t slow him down at all.” I thought about that. “In fact, you kind of forget he’s missing a leg after awhile.”

  “Huh. Well, okay. After all that and the coffee, I have to hit a restroom. Then we can continue this most gripping project.”

  “Gripping. Not exactly what I’d call this wild turkey chase, but it works.”

  After making a pit stop at Cossetta’s (pizza to die for) on West Seventh, we decided to head to Roy Larson’s office next. This time I called ahead. He was out for lunch but would be back soon.

  We retraced our path back across the Mississippi, and I was lucky enough to find metered parking not far from Larson’s Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter headquarters. It was kind of scary what one could actually make money doing. Roy’s kitty litter domain took up the entire third floor of the six-story Thresher Building, located in the Warehouse District in Minneapolis.

  A woman lugging two animal carriers hustled into the elevator right behind us. From the caterwauling going on within the carriers, you’d have thought the animals were being slowly and painfully murdered. The woman said apologetically over the yowling, “Sorry about this. I’m bringing them in for a photo shoot for a new ad.”

  I smiled. “It’s okay. Sounds like they’re not too happy traveling around like that.”

  “Oh, they’ll quiet down once I let them out and give them a couple treats. They come highly recommended from the place that supplies us animal actors. The trainer is parking and will be in shortly. I hope.”

  Animal actors?

  The woman and her noisy charges exited on two, and we continued the ride to the third floor in blessed peace. The elevator doors opened into a lobby that comfortably seated ten. Each wall was decorated with a huge blowup of a cat posing in various beatific positions on top of trays of cat litter. I wondered what kitty goodies the photographer had to bribe him with to cooperate.

  The receptionist was a young man in his mid-twenties. His short blond hair was so bleached it practically glowed. That contrasted rather shockingly with his orange-brown face and the glaring white skin around his eyes that made him look like a reverse raccoon. He either paid too much for a bad spray tan or spent some significant time in an ultraviolet casket. A genuine suntan in the middle of a Minnesota winter was a pipe dream.

  Glow-boy sat behind a horseshoe-shaped desk, dressed to kill in a natty gray suit with a bright-orange cartoon tabby cat crawling across his tie. He gave us a blindingly white smile.

  “Hi,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Roy Larson in?” I asked. “We don’t have an appointment, but I think he’ll see us.”

  “He’s down on two. They’re shooting a commercial for our newest product, Larson’s Hawaiian Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter.”

  Lisa asked, “What makes it Hawaiian?”

  “They added a coconut scent to it. It smells exactly like Malibu Rum.”

  Coconut booze–scented cat poop. Just what the world needed.

  Glow-boy said, “If you want, I can check with him and send you down.”

  I said, “That would be great.”

  After pushing some buttons and speaking in low tones to someone on the other end of the line, Glow-boy said, “Go on down to the second floor. When you get off the elevator, it’s the third door on the … ” He held his hands up and wiggled the fingers on his right hand and then the fingers on his left. He gazed at his hands a moment and flopped his right hand around and said, “Yes. That’s it. On the right.” He looked up at us with a triumphant expression.

  I suppressed a grin. We reentered the elevator. Once the doors slid shut, Lisa burst out laughing. “I think he had one too many baking sessions at the tanning salon.”

  “Or he’s sniffed too much Hawaiian litter.” I poked the button for the second floor. “Oh hell, I have to admit I flunked my first driving test because the instructor told me to make a right and I execute
d a perfect left. I almost crashed into another car when he yelled at me that I was turning the wrong way. It was a short return trip.”

  “I’ll bet. Ouch.”

  “You know it. But Eddy brought me back the very next day and I nailed it. It was the same creepy examiner. He held onto the dash the entire time.”

  The elevator doors slid open. As we exited, Lisa said, “I failed my test three times. But it was because I screwed up the parallel parking thing twice and didn’t come to a complete stop once. God, the trials of teens.”

  We stopped at the third door on the right, which was propped open. A few people scurried around inside setting up a stage at one end of the room. The stage was filled with a couple fake palm trees, a whole bunch of coconuts, and a backdrop showcasing a sun-

  dappled beach with teal-colored water. Huge letters arced over the sandy beach and spelled Don’t Be A Chump, Use Larson’s Hawaiian Super Clump.

  “Huh,” Lisa said, “not exactly subtle.”

  We came to a stop just inside the door. Poker Buddy 3 himself was talking to the lady we’d met in the elevator.

  The cat carriers were on a table off in the corner. Another woman, who looked like a female Jack Hanna in forest-green khakis and

  button-down safari shirt with the sleeves rolled over her elbows, was talking to the felines through their wire doors. She had the weathered, ruddy skin that comes from spending most of your life outside.

  I caught Roy’s eye. With a charming smile, he waved us over. He looked a little like an older Clark Gable, complete with Brylcreem shine—he once told my dad that he used shoe polish on his hair—and a thin little mustache that had a gap centered under his septum. He’d practiced the one-eyed squint till his left eye was permanently squintier than his right.

  Regardless of his rather unique appearance, I had a certain fondness for good old Roy. He’d been kind to a rambunctious toddler who skulked around his bar when my dad hauled me along for a visit. After my father purchased the establishment from him, Roy was always quick to throw me one of the Brach’s butterscotch disks he kept tucked in a jacket pocket. I used to think he had an endless supply, because he never ran out. Believe me, there were a few times I gave him a run for his money. I figured he probably grew them on a butterscotch tree at home.