by Dan Ames
“It’s registered to a Melissa Stark,” he said.
The name meant nothing to me.
“Anything interesting going on, John?” he said. Despite all the shenanigans, Nate was still a reporter, and he actually did work from time to time.
“I’ll let you know.”
•
The address 1114 Sheffield turned out to be a small apartment building two blocks from the village of Grosse Pointe. It was one of the few low-income areas of Grosse Pointe. Most people here were renters. A “transitional neighborhood” is how realtors and city councilmen would most likely describe it. There weren’t many apartment buildings in the village as it tended to conflict with the image Grosse Pointers try to project. Quaint houses are more the order of the day. But a few apartments managed to infiltrate the market and the mysterious Randy had apparently set up shop at one.
I parked the Taurus and went to the main door which had a little grid with four buttons and four plexiglassed spaces, on which three names were written. The fourth was blank.
I pressed the first button on the list. There was no answer. I tried the second button. According to the nametag, it belonged to an A. Tanikas. A moment later, a voice rattled through the tin speaker.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice. Older.
“I’m lookin’ for my buddy Randy.”
“So?”
“Yeah, he lives here but there’s no answer and his nametag is gone. Don’t tell me he moved out . . . he owes me ten bucks.”
“Talk to the manager.”
“Where?”
“See that blue house across the street?”
I turned. Sure enough, there was a little blue bungalow crammed between two apartment buildings.
“Thanks,” I said to the speaker, but Mr. Tanikas had already returned to his present activities. I pictured a retired guy doing a crossword puzzle. But who knew, he could have been a senior engineer at Ford, working on a top-secret engine that would revolutionize the auto industry. You had to be careful with assumptions.
I crossed the street and knocked on the blue bungalow’s front door. Nice spot if you were a manager of an apartment building. You didn’t have to live in the building and listen to the constant squabbles, but you were close enough to keep an eye on things.
The door opened, and I came face to face with the man who possibly held the answers to my questions. He was a small, fine-featured, older man wearing khakis and a cardigan. Imagine Ward Cleaver in his early seventies.
I said, “I’m looking for my buddy Randy. He used to live in one of those apartments over there.” I jerked my head toward his apartment building.
“Randy Watkins?” the old man said, and I nearly hugged him. I finally had a last name.
“Yep, that’s him,” I said.
“Whaddaya mean he doesn’t live there anymore? He owes me a month’s rent!”
“Well,” I said. “I just assumed, what with his nametag gone.”
“Aw, fuck,” he said, and there went my Ward Cleaver image. “He never wanted his name there. Said he never got any mail anyway. I put one up once, but the stupid bastard just took it down. Waste of ink and paper from my label maker.”
Mr. Cleaver narrowed his eyes at me. “Thought you said you were friends.”
“Well, he owes me some money-”
I saw Friendly Cardigan Man’s eyes slide off my face and look over my shoulder.
I turned around.
A black Nova.
I got a quick look at the driver, and he got a quick look at me, and then he slammed the car into gear and roared around the corner.
Mr. Cleaver said something I couldn’t make out, and then I was running for the Taurus. I fired it up, slammed it into gear, and took off after the Nova.
21
He had a head start, but it was a small one. Plus, I was no expert on cars, but the old Novas weren’t necessarily the fastest cars on the road. And the Taurus, despite its rep as a classically boring, middle-of-the-road, suburban-white-guy car, had a V6 with 230 horsepower. Which I was confident could outgun the old Nova in a test of brute strength.
I gambled that he would head toward Detroit. It made sense. There’s a tangible sense of lawlessness in the city. Not enough cops, and really, really bad criminals all over the place. If you’re in a car chase, and if you’re a criminal yourself, the best place to go is Detroit. There’s much less chance you’ll ever be found than if you hightail it out to the suburbs.
So I took a chance and headed straight from the village toward I-94, right up Cadieux. I caught up to my friend in the Nova on the entrance ramp. I got on his bumper, and I could make out his head and shoulders. He was a big guy, and judging from the quick glimpse I’d gotten at the apartment building, I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before.
We played cat-and-mouse on the freeway. Randy Watkins had apparently seen every Sylvester Stallone movie ever made because he tried every trick in the book. Using a semi-truck as camouflage. Speeding up, braking down hard. Veering toward an exit ramp, then veering back at the last minute. I tried to get up and get a better look at him, but he always swung back or got behind me. Nevertheless, I did get a few more glimpses, enough to put together my own little “artist’s rendering” in my mind. His hair was light brown, almost blond. Thick features. A strong jaw. Kind of a pug nose. Big hands on the Nova’s steering wheel.
We dodged each other for a few more minutes until finally Randy made his big move and jumped the shoulder onto an exit ramp. I’d anticipated his move and was already on the exit ramp. So after his poor man’s Evel Knievel routine, he ended up right in front of me.
Randy led the way into Detroit proper. I soon found myself in not-so-pleasant neighborhoods. Streets with the requisite cars up on blocks, garbage lying around the street. Lots of Detroit citizens standing around on the sidewalks, hands in their oversized shorts. Looking around, waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen.
I started to worry about what Mr. Watkins’ plans might be. It was certainly easier to kill someone in Detroit than it was in Grosse Pointe. And if his behavior was telling me anything, it was telling me that Randy had played a part in the murder of Nevada Hornsby and his deckhand. This was not good news. He may have killed before, which meant he may kill again. And here I was cornering him like a rat in a cage.
As if reading my thoughts, the Nova pin-wheeled into a narrow alley, yours truly a second or two behind him. I flew down the narrow passageway. I could see a big truck maneuvering a garbage dumpster into place.
But no Nova.
I started to brake just as I passed a small opening on my left. I quickly realized I’d made a bad tactical mistake as the rear end of the Nova shot out of the narrow alley I’d just passed. The Nova clipped my rear end, and the Taurus careened into the brick wall. All I heard was screeching metal and the sound of glass breaking. The car rocked to a stop, and I tried to get my bearings. The Taurus had slid around, and I was now facing the way I’d come.
And there, in the middle of the road, was Randy Watkins. Lifting a gun and pointing it at the most obvious direction possible.
I dove for the floor just as the sound of shots ripped through the alley. The shots came fast, one right after another. More glass broke. I heard a ricochet that sounded exactly like it does in the movies. I scrambled along the floor, trying to get to the passenger door. If Randy was coming, I didn’t want to get trapped in the car. I found the passenger-side door handle and pulled, but nothing happened. I reached up but it was already unlocked. I pulled the release and threw my weight against the door. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. I panicked, hurling myself against it, over and over again, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, my mind screaming at the idea of any moment seeing the pug face of Randy at my window, shooting at me like a fish in a barrel. I kept pounding at the door, finally felt it give, and then I tumbled out onto the pavement.
At the same time, I heard the most beautiful sound of all. Tires squealed, and I nearly w
ept with joy. I saw the Nova roar out of the end of the alley and around the corner.
My heart was racing, and I suddenly wanted to be sick. I staggered around the car, my legs weak, my shoulder sagging as if I’d knocked it out of alignment.
Steam poured out from underneath the Taurus’ hood, and the engine made a bunch of strange popping sounds that could only be the automotive equivalent of a death rattle.
Lights had come on in the alley, and only after a moment or two did I realize they were colored lights. Blue and red. A Detroit cop car nosed its way into the mouth of the alley.
Now I knew why Randy had taken off instead of staying around to finish the job. He’d been able to hear sirens. I hadn’t.
I couldn’t stand anymore. My legs kind of gave out, and I sat down on the pavement. Another Detroit cop car slid to a stop behind the first one. The driver’s door of the first squad car opened and a big guy got out. He held his gun up and pointed at me. Boy, that was the second gun pointed at me in a matter of minutes, and I sure didn’t like it.
He slowly walked up to me. Not worried, but not entirely casual either. I imagined he could see the bullet holes in the rear window.
He waited a long moment, almost studying me with a bemused expression. I figured he would tell me to put my hands up, or to get on my stomach on the ground while he frisked me or took a whack at me with a nightstick.
He did neither.
Instead, he spoke to me. And when he did, his voice sounded beyond casual. He sounded bored.
“License and registration,” he said.
22
“It wasn’t a bullet,” I said.
“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” Anna said. I’d gone through the expected ordeal: a statement at the police department in Detroit, several informational interrogations, paperwork up the yin yang, a stop at the emergency room for two stitches on my arm, and now, several hours later, I’d finally come home.
“I’d tell you if I’d been shot,” I said. “They taught us that in marriage class. Always tell your partner about gunshot wounds.”
“What is it then?” she said, ignoring me. Her tone was high, cynical, and severely pissed off.
“A chunk of metal from the car,” I said. The truth was the doctor hadn’t been entirely sure. It could have been a fragment from the bullet. A fragment from the windshield. Or, much less likely, a scrape from the car. In all likelihood, I had been shot. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to say it to my wife.
“Shrapnel from the bullet?”
“No, I think it was from the car crashing into the wall,” I said. “I always hated that Taurus.”
“Good, John, keep making jokes. This is all very funny,” Anna said. I was about to respond when the doorbell rang. Anna answered the door, and I heard Ellen’s voice. I groaned inwardly.
“Well, if it isn’t the Terminator,” Ellen said, waltzing into the kitchen. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
“What the fuck is going on here, Ellen?” Anna said. Ellen just shook her head, took a pull from her beer, and looked at me. Anna stopped looking at Ellen and turned to me. With both of them staring at me, I felt like a rotisserie chicken. Skewered and about to be thoroughly roasted.
My wife and my sister. Talk about the proverbial rock and a hard place.
“He was always a terrible driver,” Ellen finally said. “In Driver’s Ed in high school, I remember when he was out on a country road and the instructor told him to turn, he drove into the cornfield.” She started laughing. “And then the teacher, Mr. Darnell, said, ‘I meant turn at the intersection up ahead.’” Now Ellen really went off. The good thing was that she was obviously trying to lighten the situation for Anna, not for me. The worst part was that the stupid-ass story was true.
Anna looked like she still wanted to strangle both of us. My sister and I don’t have much in common, but dry sarcasm at inopportune times is about the only genetic strain we share.
“What were you thinking, chasing this guy around on your own?” Anna said.
“I couldn’t call Ellen. I didn’t know anything about the guy,” I said. “Hornsby had made an offhand comment about his worker, a guy named Randy, calling in sick. I thought I should follow up, even though I figured it was a waste of time. And if it was a waste of time for me, it sure as hell would have been for her.”
“Spoken like a true Grosse Pointe taxpayer,” Ellen said. “Very considerate of you, John.”
“How was I supposed to know that this Randy guy turned out to be such an asshole?”
“Had you even considered it?” Anna said.
“Well, I think everyone’s a potential asshole,” I said.
Ellen sort of laughed at that. Anna’s heat dial went up a notch.
“Well, it wasn’t a total waste of time,” Ellen said. “The guy is obviously bad news. Why do you suppose he took such exception with you, John? Other than the obvious.”
I looked at her then wondered why the hell I didn’t have a beer. Jeez, a guy gets in a gunfight and nobody offers him a beer. I puffed up my chest like a prized rooster and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Before I could twist off the top, Anna snatched the bottle from my hand.
“Doctor’s orders,” she said. Then she twisted off the cap and took a long drink. A regular Florence Nightingale.
“Why’d he try to kill you, John?” Ellen asked again. As tough as my wife was, when my sister got that tone in her voice, it seemed like even the air in the room started looking for a way out.
“Driving a piece of shit Nova would make me feel pretty murderous too,” I said.
Anna slammed her hand down on the counter. Some of her beer sloshed onto the table. “This is not funny!”
“Did you find out anything about Randy Watkins?” I asked Ellen. Right after the Detroit cop had called an ambulance and given me back my license and registration, I’d called her and told her what I knew.
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t share information with a loose cannon such as yourself,” she said. “But I suppose I can make an exception this time.”
“Don’t do him any favors,” Anna said.
“The Randy Watkins identity is entirely fictitious,” Ellen said. “He was renting that apartment month-to-month, and the information he’d provided to the landlord was all bogus. And he always paid his rent in cash.”
“The car?”
“We’re still checking.”
“You should be able to pull the slugs from my car,” I said. “Might get something useful.”
“Thanks for the tip, Perry Mason.” Ellen said. “It is, in fact, on its way to the crime lab.”
“So the car’s totaled,” Anna said.
I nodded.
“Does that mean you’ll have to use the minivan?” she said. This was good; we were back to practical matters. Much safer ground.
I shook my head. “As fine and sporty-looking a vehicle as it is, I’ll be renting a car. My insurance covers it.”
Ellen drained the rest of her beer and set it on the counter by the back door.
“Thanks for the beer,” she said. “Anna, when he gets sick or even the tiniest scratch, he turns into the world’s biggest baby.”
“I know,” my dear wife said.
“Just ignore him.”
“I will.”
Ellen walked by me and punched me on the arm. Yes, that arm.
I gave a little yelp.
“See what I mean?” Ellen said.
I glanced over at Anna who took a drink from her beer. I could have been wrong, but it looked like she was laughing.
23
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” I said.
The Enterprise car rental customer representative, a Bill Gates look-alike circa seventeen years old, sort of smirked and looked out at the waiting room. It was totally empty.
“Sorry, man,” he said, a hint of camaraderie in his voice. “I feel for you.”
Just outside, another Enterprise employee ha
d just pulled up my rental car.
A Pontiac Sunbird.
White.
And a two-door.
“I can’t drive that,” I said to the guy. I looked at his nametag: Buddy. “We’re getting three more cars this afternoon,” he said. “If you can wait—”
“I can’t wait, Buddy.”
Anna had already dropped me off and left. I’d have to call her and tell her to come back and get me. Jesus Christ. Was I going to tail someone in a white Sunbird?
“Sorry, man, there’s nothing I can do,” Buddy said. “The last Aztek went out fifteen minutes ago. All I’ve got left are these white Sunbirds. I’ve got twelve of them.”
“Big surprise,” I said.
Buddy handed me the keys, and I had no choice but to take them. He slid a piece of paper across the counter, and I signed away what little pride I had left.
“Take it easy on the ladies,” Buddy said, laughing. Everyone’s a smartass.
•
Considering everything that had happened—Hornsby’s murder, my running and gunning with Randy, etc.— I decided it was time to touch base with my client.
I drove over to Clarence’s place and rang the bell. When he opened the door and after we exchanged hellos, he looked over my shoulder at the Sunbird in his driveway.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be there long enough to affect your property values,” I said.
“Is that a Sunbird?” he said.
“I can think of a few other names for it,” I said.
“Doesn’t seem like your style,” he said.
“I drove a Taurus,” I said. “Taurus drivers by definition have no style.”
He nodded again, silently agreeing that I had no style.