1 Motor City Shakedown

by Jonathan Watkins

  Issabella watched him as he spoke; saw the earnest concern on his face. He was standing there, with his mop of curls and his large, expressive eyes, and she saw who he must have been as a boy—full of unguarded enthusiasm and big, confounding emotions. Life had changed him the same way it changes every child, so that now the enthusiasm was guarded, the emotions protected against betrayal or rejection.

  For the first time since they’d met outside Vernon Pullins’ hospital room, Issabella knew with real clarity that she was falling in love with Darren Fletcher. She leaned in and put her head against his chest, letting him envelop her with his arms, holding her. She could feel his heartbeat against her ear.

  “You are so getting lucky, you know,” she said.

  “I was holding out hope for that.”

  Darren carried her overnight bag into the room. Issabella watched him as he set the bag on the foot of the bed and leaned over to turn on a desk lamp. She imagined it was their own room, the two of them a couple, familiar with one another and knowing all of each other’s stories. She imagined they had TV shows they watched together, and little bickering exchanges about politics and family.

  Darren was frightened of scaring her off, and here she was mentally mapping out a sedate future for the two of them. The thought made her giggle in the doorway. Darren looked up, saw her smiling, and beamed at her like she was made of sunshine.

  Issabella softly shut the door behind her.

  *

  Afterwards, they held each other in the darkness and listened to the sounds of the road outside. He used a finger to tuck loose lengths of her hair behind her ear and kissed her neck.

  “You never ask me any questions,” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  “About me.”

  “I didn’t want you to think I was unsure about you,” he said, and kissed her neck again.

  “Why weren’t you unsure about me? I’m unsure about me. All the time.”

  A car pulled into the parking lot, crunching gravel, and its headlights swam like a spot light across their window. She saw his hand resting lightly across her own, his fingers curled into hers, and then darkness again.

  “You had the same crazy idea as me,” he said. “You went to that hospital. You got rebuffed by that cop, and you still stuck with it.”

  “And promptly had a panic attack.”

  Darren squeezed her hand.

  “You were just in a bad spot,” he said. “I know what that’s like. Life can seem like it conspires against you, sometimes.”

  “Darren?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you rich?”

  He was quiet for a while.

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “How?”

  “I used to be a big deal, Izzy.”

  He said it playfully, like it was just another off-handed joke. But the silence that followed made her sad, and she held his arm tighter across her. He kissed her ear.

  “You’re still a big deal, Darren.”

  “I’m going to try,” he said.

  *

  When he was half-way through shoveling bricks of heroin and stacks of shrink-wrapped cash from the sunken closet safe and into the duffel bags he’d picked up at the Meijer’s in Midland, Allen felt someone watching him.

  The sun had already fallen, and he had a black Mag-lite stuck in between his teeth, illuminating the safe and its dwindling contents. Around him, the Midland woods were hushed in that hour between dusk and true night, when the nocturnal creatures who call the wilds home aren’t yet moving about or calling to one another, and the world seems empty.

  But now there was some other. Allen was not alone.

  He dropped the flashlight into his palm, pivoting in a circle around the little clearing where, two years ago, he and Lee and Noel had buried the safe and sworn to each other that none of them would ever open it without the other two present. It was their treasure-trove, and they had planned to split it when the time was right, when there was so much accumulated wealth that the three could go their separate ways into lives of eternal sunshine, umbrella drinks and bronze-skinned girls.

  He straightened and, in the same motion, slipped the Glock from its waist holster and held it against his thigh. He clicked the flashlight off and took several silent steps backwards, away from the spot where he had been crouched. If someone really was in the woods with him, the flashlight was just an invitation to get shot in the head.

  Allen squatted down again, this time on one knee. He kept the Glock held lightly at his side, his eyes scanning the darkness. He remained frozen like that for a long time, no urge to shift or move ever reaching his mind. He could wait, and he could do it all night if that’s what it took to convince him he was alone.

  Eventually, the sounds of the local wild life chirped and cried and swelled through the woods. All around, those insects and birds that prattled and sang to one another assured Allen that if there was some other human moving through their home, they certainly weren’t aware of it.

  Another hour passed, and Allen’s thighs began to burn with the effort of remaining in the same position. The sudden unease he had felt had long since passed. But he stayed where he was.

  Allen was not a man who would ever forget the hard lessons of the desert. Whoever moved first, died. Whoever decided they had to piss, or take a drink, or just shift to relieve boredom—they were the ones who didn’t hear the distant crack of thunder until they were already on their back and staring at a sky growing dim.

  Allen waited.

  *

  Malcolm was a statue. Mosquitoes sank their needles into the backs of his hands. Something with flittering wings shambled around his ear, lit on his cheek and skittered along the side of his face.

  When Allen moved in the little clearing below, Malcolm only stared. The man’s flashlight went out, and Malcolm only stared.

  Hours inched by, and for every minute that Allen Phelps didn’t move to grab his bag of cash and run back to his car, Malcolm’s blossoming sense of joy grew brighter.

  During the drive up from Detroit, he had begun to formulate the briefest details of a new project. Now that his life’s statement was so much scattered ash, he knew in some primal corner of himself that he must either start over with a new project or risk decline and death. Everything was animated by purpose, and he was no exception.

  Rooted in the foreign territory of the natural world, locked in a waiting game with a trained killer of men, Malcolm passed the time by solidifying the themes and objectives of his new project. It would sustain him, as his previous artistic efforts had sustained him. It would define him, and keep him from self-destruction.

  And it would begin with Allen Phelps.

  *

  Morning breathed into the little clearing. The closet safe yawned open in the ground, its dark depths empty. No human remained in the clearing, or in the woods surrounding it. The prattling insects fell silent, and the local life settled back to slumber.

  *

  Darren sipped his third coffee and watched Issabella cut her omelet with the side of her fork.

  “I can’t believe you aren’t going to eat anything,” she said for the second time since the two of them had found the little roadside restaurant and settled into a booth at the front window.

  “I never really get hungry in the morning,” he said.

  “Well, I do.”

  “Good. I like to watch you eat.”

  “Ugh,” she said. “Read a newspaper or something. You’re making me self-conscious.”

  “That’s why it’s cute.”

  “I’m going to stab you with my utensils.”

  “I have an idea.”

  She chewed her mouthful of omelet and took a sip of orange juice.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You’re in charge.”

  “That sounds nice. What does it mean?”

  Darren settled back in the booth and looked out the window at the gravel parking lot and the woods on the other side o
f the two-lane highway. The Upper Peninsula, once you got past the bridge, was all woods. Towering trees seemed to choke every inch of the world like an invading army that had run out of territory to claim.

  “I think you should call the shots from here on out,” he said. “You were the one who bothered to read the paperwork from Vernon’s office and find our future star-whistleblower. So when we get to Marquette, it’s the Issabella Bright show. You get to say how we approach this Two Leaf guy—I love that name, by the way, very ‘I am one with nature’ shaman kind of thing –and you get to, you know, point the way.”

  “And you’re going to be doing what?”

  “Moral support.”

  “Right.”

  “And sage counsel, of course.”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with this,” she said, and the little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. She sipped her orange juice and studied his placid expression.

  Their waitress appeared-- an elderly and pleasant woman who Issabella imagined was co-owner of the restaurant with the yawning old man working the grill. The lunch counter was covered in tourist knick-knacks and plastic domes containing what were advertised as “Authentic U.P. Fudge. Cheaper Than the Bridge”. Darren thanked her when she topped off his coffee.

  “You guys doing a little getaway?” she said.

  “Sort of like that,” Darren said. “We’re headed up to Marquette.”

  “Nice town. Cousin of mine’s out there, just loves the place. You two enjoy yourselves.”

  The waitress drifted away to other patrons, and Darren tested his fresh cup tentatively. Issabella dabbed her mouth and set the napkin down on her empty plate.

  “You’re trying to do…something,” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re being nice. To help me build confidence or something. Right? That’s what this “You’re in charge” stuff is. You think this will help me not be panicky and annoying.”

  “I’ve never seen you be panicky or annoying.”

  “Oh God,” she groaned. “Don’t treat me like some kid, Darren. If I needed some sort of pep talk, I’d—“

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Darren shrugged and set his cup down. He folded his hands in front of him and his smile broadened.

  “Things are a little more complicated than we thought,” he said. “I woke up a couple hours before you. You’re adorable when you’re asleep, by the way. You kind of sprawl out all over the place and snore with real abandon.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “So I watched you for a little while,” he said. “But, as adorable as that was, I get bored easy. So I started playing on-line euchre on your laptop. And then I got bored with that and read some on-line news sites. Which is boring all by itself, so I—“

  “You need to stop drinking coffee.”

  “—ran Johnny Two-Leaf through the Michigan I-CHAT database.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Yep,” he said. “And wonder of wonders, our star-whistleblower, Vernon’s crony in the drug-smuggling and body burning business, has active bench warrants. Failure to report for probation and malicious destruction of property. Johnny Two-Leaf is a wanted man, Izzy Dear.”

  Issabella laid her head down in her arms and groaned.

  “So,” Darren continued, “we may have some thorny legal issues to work out while we’re vacationing in the Great White North. Like, how do we not become accessories to helping Johnny evade his legal responsibilities? Mind you, I’m not too worked up about it. I mean, there’s really little chance that our transporting Johnny down home is going to get us personally tangled up. But, stranger things have happened, right? And you’re probably not as, ah, unconcerned about that sort of blemish on your young lawyer’s reputation.”

  Issabella made another groaning noise into her folded arms.

  “So, I think some legal finesse is required,” he said. “Like, maybe we have him turn himself in on the warrants voluntarily, and make a motion for a P.R. bond so we can get him on the road as soon as possible.”

  Issabella raised her head and looked at him with a flat expression.

  “You mean I make the bond motion.”

  “I mean that, yes.”

  “And when that goes down in flames?”

  “I have faith in you,” he said. “You’ll get our man sprung. I have no doubt.”

  “You suck.”

  “Now how is that any way for one equal partner to speak to another?”

  “You suck.”

  Darren laughed and finished his coffee.

  *

  Malcolm pulled into the parking lot of a Meijer’s shopping center just outside the town of Marquette. He wheeled his car around until it was pointed back out at the street. He shut the engine off and stared at the hotel across the street.

  It was one of the old, mid-century highway motels consisting of two floors of rooms laid out in a row, with an exterior set of stairs and a balcony linking the bottom floor to the upper. There was an ice machine and pop dispenser nestled in a little cove on the ground floor. The office was a separate, one-story building with an attached restaurant.

  As he looked on, Allen Phelps climbed out of his car in the motel’s parking lot. The TAC lieutenant stretched and looked around before walking in to the office. A few minutes later, Allen emerged and walked to a door on the first floor of the motel.

  He produced a key, opened the room and disappeared inside.

  Malcolm remained where he was and entertained himself with contemplations of color palette and recurring themes. His new Great Work was solidifying itself in his mind’s eye, taking on a life of its own. He was anxious to begin, to put the first mark upon a page that would herald his new statement about the world and the wretched truth that ran like a poison undercurrent beneath the river of human existence.

  When Allen reappeared from the motel room, climbed in his car, and drove away, Malcolm did not follow. Instead, he walked across the Meijer’s parking lot, into the warehouse-sized store.

  Once he found the aisle dedicated to art supplies, Malcolm grinned with deep satisfaction as he picked and selected among the assorted offerings.

  SEVENTEEN

  Darren was at the wheel of Issabella’s Buick when the curving stretch of road offered them their first glimpse of the city of Marquette. Issabella pointed out the windshield at a distant white dome that dominated its corner of the world.

  “Yooper Dome!”

  “Seriously?”

  She fished in her purse and came out with her cell phone. She snapped pictures with it.

  “Denise was talking about it,” she said. “That’s my lawyer-friend. She says it’s the largest man-made wooden dome in the world. The Superior Dome, but they call it the Yooper Dome. This is cool.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Issabella snapped two more pictures and settled back in her seat. She gave him a disapproving frown.

  “I like tourist spots,” she sniffed. “I’ll go anywhere if there’s a historic site to see.”

  “I’m a ‘find the nearest pub and blend in with the locals’ kind of traveler.”

  “Or just find the local pub, regardless, you mean.”

  “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

  Darren guided them down into Marquette, following the GPS as it instructed them on the proper route to the address they had for Johnny Two Leaf. The roads were wide, swept with elms, oak and evergreen. The buildings were rambling brick and stone, from before the time when construction materials were machined into uniform dimensions, with signs written in Old English script and big sidewalks encircling them. The streetlamps were cast-iron pillars ending in faux candle-boxes. As they passed through the downtown blocks, clumps of trees were ever-present, the entire town still interspersed with the wilds that had stood before it. They crested a rise and Lake Superior was a rolling crescent curving along the city’s edge, impossibly infinite, impossibly blue.

  “Jesus,
” Darren said. “This place is where someone thought up the phrase ‘quality of life’.”

  “I could totally live here.”

  He arched a skeptical brow and said, “Wait until the fall and this place is buried in snow. Then you’d be digging your way out to get to the quickest plane out of here.”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  They continued to turn and wind their way through the town until they were in the suburbs west of downtown. The GPS announced they had arrived, and Darren pulled the Buick to a stop beside the curb of a modest, single-story brick house. A big black SUV was parked in the drive.

  “You lead, kiddo,” he said.

  Issabella rang the doorbell and tried to settle on her approach. Just because Johnny Two Leaf was the sole employee of Vernon’s local crematorium didn’t mean he was definitely tangled up in the drug-dealing business. He might be blissfully unaware that his boss had been transporting improbably large quantities of heroin with the bodies he delivered up here. He might just be some innocent guy who was wondering why his phone calls down to Detroit weren’t being answered anymore.

  If that was the case, Issabella didn’t know what she was going to do. She had settled on the idea that clearing Vernon’s name of being a murderer and simultaneously bringing down the drug ring of Detroit cops who had killed him were important enough to keep at this case. The money aspect was gone, though. And the actual legal aspect had died with Vernon. If Johnny Two Leaf wasn’t the star whistle-blower she hoped he was, Issabella had decided it was time to get back to the reality of being a lawyer. She needed real cases, and she needed money.

  “Are we going to be partners after this is over?” she said as the two of them stood together on the little cement porch.

  “As lawyers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so. I mean, I didn’t want to assume.”