That's the way it goes sometimes, he told himself. You bust your butt to find the goods, and then—'voila! He started to load the boxes into the van, but then it occurred to him that to do so might not be wise. He didn't know anything about this Lande except what he'd been told, but he couldn't imagine that he was the sort of fellow who wouldn't compulsively check on his goods, probably every time he went in or out. If Lande discovered he'd been robbed, it might complicate Joe and Helen's plans. He dumped Lande's money in the van—he figured he could repack it later—and then he refilled the boxes with newspaper from a nearby bin and restacked the boxes as before. That ought to allay suspicion for a while, he thought, and left whistling.
“What foresight,” Joe said at breakfast the following morning. He pointed to the headline: MYSTERY MOB FIGURE DIES, MILLIONS MISSING. “That ingenious sleuth, our old pal Mulheisen, has once again solved the crime,” Joe said. “They say this Lande was implicated in the Tupman and Conover shootings. Hmmm.”
Helen didn't believe it. “It's all Carmine,” she insisted. “He skates again.”
Joe lowered the paper and gazed at her. She was wearing her wig and was dressed for work, but she looked mean. She was going to wrap up her business today.
“But not for long,” Joe said. That got a smile from her.
An hour later the phone rang. Joe ignored it until he heard Helen's voice on the answering machine: “Joe, pick up.” Mulheisen had just called, she said. He wanted to talk to her about Lande and other matters. “I put him off until tomorrow morning,” she said. “What do you think?”
“Don't go,” Joe said. “With any luck we'll be out of town.”
He hung up and went out for a walk. The Detroit Zoo wasn't far. He wandered around the grounds, gazing idly at the caged animals. The serpent house intrigued him, particularly a glassed-in cage that revealed a tree full of pythons. He dodged the kids and wrinkled his nose at the smell, but mainly he pondered his present course of action.
What he was about to do with Helen precluded any notion of carrying out the contract with the Fat Man. It was too bad. Joe had never broken a contract before, but this seemed like a good time to make an exception.
Oh, be honest, he thought, almost every contract has been broken in some sense. A contract has always required bending or amending because of circumstances one couldn't control. This was just the first time he'd decided on his own to break a contract without there being truly mitigating circumstances. It was hard to give up the money once it was in your possession.
He knew the Fat Man and Carmine would be getting antsy. They could read the papers, too. If Lande hadn't had the money, where was it? They would start looking for Joe soon.
He thought about giving them the money—well, some of it, maybe even most of it. That would probably be the smartest thing to do. Then he thought about Helen, about that lithe body, that smooth little head. She was going to be trouble, he knew—he had a curious, bleak feeling in his gut. She could blow his whole life to smithereens. But, nanh, it wouldn't be that bad. It'd be fine. They'd work it out.
But this was definitely a burning of bridges. If he had mused once that he could never go back to Iowa City, well, it was certain that this side of the Missouri River would soon no longer be an appropriate environment for him. He felt no remorse. He'd never liked it in Detroit, even when he'd done well. This time he'd done better.
* * *
About midmorning the long brown Cadillac cruised carefully down the narrow side street. It was hundreds of yards from the Krispee Chips factory when, as Carmine's driver had long dreaded, some idiot pulled out of a parking place and the driver had to swerve to avoid him. There was no room. The limo crashed into another parked car, and the idiot halted, blocking the street. Both the driver and the burly bodyguard piled out, angry as hornets. They were confronted by a little guy in a fedora, an old, pin-striped suit, and a full-head rubber Mickey Mouse mask.
The mouse—or the rat, as it were—swung up a sawed-off shotgun. It was over in less than five seconds. Then the rat climbed into the front of the limo and leaned over the back. The gun boomed again and again.
The rat ran down the street in the direction from which the limo had come and jumped into a waiting van. Helen stripped off the mask and flung it into the back, among her luggage and Joe's, which included three large, brand-new duffel bags that were stuffed full. Joe drove them swiftly away.
“My god, I can't hear!” she yelled, holding her hands over her ears. Her clothes were flecked with blood. Joe drove calmly and carefully down the long street and turned onto Jefferson, headed for the Fisher Freeway. He glanced at the woman with concern. Her eyes were wild, and her tiny patch of hair was matted with perspiration, but she was grinning.
“It was perfect!” she shouted. “The little bastard was all squinched up on the floor. I practically had to crawl over the front seat to get him. It was incredible. The noise . . . My ears are ringing! Did you say something, darling?”
Joe laughed and stopped for a light. He rubbed her head gleefully and hugged her. The light changed, and he got into the right lane to take the freeway exit, for their new life.
* * *
Mulheisen was still ten minutes away from Tiger Stadium when he heard the announcer say, “Here's the pitch to Phillips . . . He swings . . . and there's a drive to left field . . . It could be . . . It's hooking . . . It hits the foul pole—deflected into . . . It's a home run! It's out of here folks! The Yankee third base coach is arguing, but he won't win this one . . . And the Tigers lead one to nothing in the bottom of the first! That was . . . whataya think, George? An oh-and-two pitch, looked like a curve ball that didn't curve.” And George readily agreed, “Inside and low, but it didn't really break, Al. Not a bad pitch on oh-and-two, but Phillips is one of these guys who just won't take a pitch.”
“Crap!” Mulheisen snorted. He reckoned it was the only home run he would have had a chance to see off Phillips's bat all summer. But he wasn't really annoyed. What the hell—he was going to opening day. It was fine weather, a little cool, but no clouds. He was determined to think about nothing but baseball today. Even Helen's failure to show for their appointment didn't bother him. He'd checked with her office, and they said she was no longer with CCC. That puzzled him, but he refused to worry about it. Tomorrow.
He wheeled into the parking lot, where a skinny dark man with a tall, sloping forehead frantically waved him away until he saw who it was. “Hey, Fang!” the man yelled, his grin exposing several gaps in an array of otherwise awful teeth, “d'jou hear that! Phillips! Cat got some power, eh?”
Mulheisen exposed his own fangs and said, “That you, Malfitan? Park it, but don't hide it. . . and don't throw a party in it either.” Then he sprinted away.
Steeple Head yelled after him, “Ah'mo knock off a piece a ass in the backseat, you jive honky,” but Mulheisen was gone. He flipped his badge at the gate and ran in, even though he had a ticket he'd paid for well in advance. He huffed up the ramp to the grandstand over the Tiger dugout and grabbed a Stroh's beer off a vendor as he dropped down the steps to the row where his reserved seat was located. Naturally some clown was already sitting in the seat, but he jumped up and vanished when Mulheisen waved him away.
An overlarge fellow in a Tiger uniform stood at the plate, patiently waving a bat like a wand as the Yankee pitcher started his motion. The runner on first was Trammell, and he took off with the pitch. It was a fatal fastball, and the batter turned on it like a cyclone. The ball arced up, up, up, up and then began to plane out toward the upper deck in left field.
Mulheisen didn't sit down. With a roar the rest of the fans rose to join him as the tiny white pellet crashed into a stanchion, then deflected over the roof toward Cherry Street.
“Cess-ill!” the people screamed over and over, and Mulheisen added his voice.
After that they all settled down to that most satisfying of spectacles, a home-team slaughter. By the sixth inning, when the score was nine-zip, they we
re all pretty sloshed and hilarious, singing songs and embracing each other whenever Trammell, or Whitaker, or the Kid on the Korner snapped a double to the wall or came up with the ball deep in the hole and lasered a Yankee runner out.
“Is this great, or what!” a vendor yelled. He almost gave away beer. The fans, including a fine-looking woman in section 27, sprawled in the sun and took off their shirts. The ushers got the woman to cover up before any trouble ensued, but the crowd just laughed.
Oh, hell, yes, Detroit was happy. The Tigers were back. It was spring. Life had begun again.
During the seventh-inning stretch a cop came up to Mulheisen at the hotdog counter and said, “Mul, didja hear about Carmine? The alley sweeper got him!”
Mulheisen paused in his glee and said, “No way. Where?”
“On the street, just outside the Krispee plant,” said the cop, grinning.
“They get the guy?” Mulheisen asked, chomping into the mus- tardy dog.
“It was a rat,” the cop said. “An alley rat. Got clean away.”
Mulheisen went back to his seat, a little mystified but determined not to think about it. Today was opening day. He'd deal with the homicide later, along with the rest of the laborious cleanup of the Big Sid case. Right now Cecil was stepping into the batter's box . . . One out and the bases loaded . . . They'd have to pitch to him.
* * *
The following day Mulheisen and Jimmy drove down to the Harbor Bar. They were dressed in jeans and light jackets and they were talking about boats. Jimmy was thinking about buying, and Mulheisen, who had owned both a gaff-rigged catboat and a powerboat at different times, was giving advice. He also carried a couple of sealed plastic boxes, a little larger than the boxes that might contain twenty-five Corona cigars. He had picked them up from the crematorium the day before.
“Any word on Helen Sedlacek?” Mulheisen asked Jimmy as they walked into the bar. They ordered beers and sat down by a window that looked onto a dock where pleasure boats were tied up.
“I talked to Roman,” Jimmy said. “He hasn't seen her lately, he says. And her home phone has been disconnected.”
Mulheisen thought about this. “Another woman flown?” He glanced out the window and noticed a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser drawn up at the dock. The name on the stern was Serb-A-Rite. A woman was loading some bags off the dock, onto the deck, probably stocking up on beer. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a sweater. She was tall and sturdily built, but she carried herself in a guarded way. Nice looking but not beautiful. Rather strong features. Sunglasses.
“Speaking of flown women,” Mulheisen said. “I didn't even have to ask directions.” He handed the boxes to Jimmy and walked out onto the catwalk and squatted down next to the boat. The woman looked up at him.
“Miss Kouras?” he asked. Up close she had a worn look, perhaps a little bruised, as if she'd been in an accident but had pretty much recovered.
“Kouras?” she said. She shook her head slowly, her thick hair swinging about her face. “You must have made a mistake.”
Mulheisen stared down at her, then looked away. It was a fine day again. Gulls were gliding about as if pulled through the air on strings. The water danced in the sunlight.
“Sorry,” Mulheisen said, and he really was. He shrugged and pulled out his identification folder, holding it open so that she could see. “I have to talk to you.”
The woman sighed and said, “Can we talk here?”
Mulheisen looked around. He waved to Jimmy to come over, then said, “Sure. For a while, anyway.” And he hopped onto the boat. “Actually, maybe we could take the boat out for a little run. Do you think? I have to drop some friends off.”
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