Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

  Yeah, I sounded a little stupid, but I never did hold my booze very well.

  “Memphis is my songwriter,” Shannon said. I nodded, studying her. Memphis had on red velvet pants and a chocolate-brown lace top. The pants were bellbottoms and the sleeves had giant openings. Her age was hard to tell, could have been anywhere from late twenties to early forties. She had shoulder-length brown hair, fine features, and full lips. Kind of like a nicely aged Jennifer Love Hewitt with a little more meat to her.

  “Do you write all of Shannon’s songs?” I asked her.

  “Most,” Shannon said. “All the ones I didn’t write.”

  “So what exactly do you do?” Memphis asked and sat down in the chair between Shannon and me. As if on cue, Shannon got up with her empty wine glass.

  “I gotta piss,” she said by way of explanation. I wondered if the switch had been planned. Was it something I said?

  “Investigate,” I said to Memphis.

  “Investigate what?”

  “Whatever someone pays me to do. As long as it isn’t illegal or immoral.”

  “A man with ethics,” she said.

  “A few. Not all.”

  She took a hit from a joint.

  When she exhaled, she said, “God, the lake is beautiful tonight.”

  Something about a grown woman sounding like a stoner made me laugh.

  “I wish I could see my lighthouse,” she said.

  “You have a lighthouse?”

  “I can see it from my farm on Harsen’s,” she said, referring to an upscale island a half hour drive from Grosse Pointe. “It’s not a bad view, but not as inspiring as this.”

  “Speaking of inspiration,” I said. “Where do you get your ideas for songs? Isn’t that what everyone asks?”

  She nodded. “How the heck should I know?” she asked. “That’s what I want to say.”

  “What do you usually say?”

  “Usually something about pulling things in from life. Or that God just beams them down to me. You know, I tailor the answer depending on the questioner.”

  “Did you know Jesse Barre?”

  She shook her head. “I knew of her guitars, of course. Anyone in the industry knew about them. But no, I didn’t know her personally. Why?”

  “She makes music. You make music. I figured the two of you would have crossed paths at some point.”

  “Good guess,” she said. “But no. We never did.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  We sat in silence for a few moments. A few thoughts ran through my mind.

  “How long have you known Shannon?” I said.

  “We sort of grew up together,” she said. “Went to high school together. Played music together. Fell in and out of touch over the years, but when we both got serious, then we hooked up.”

  “Did you know Laurence Grasso?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “Did you hear he’s dead?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you care?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was a waste of a human being.”

  “That seems to be the general consensus,” I said.

  “He treated her like dirt. He was mean. He was cruel. He was stupid but cunning. A weasel,” she said. “I’m glad someone sent him on his way.”

  She was pretty matter-of-fact. I didn’t think it was an act.

  “Will you turn it into a song?”

  “Everything’s a song. It’s just a matter of writing it down.”

  Sounded like a tailor-made answer.

  I was about to ask another question when I saw her face change. It sort of went slightly pale, and the general din of the crowd went down a notch. I turned and looked over my shoulder.

  Shannon’s manager stood before me. Teddy Armbruster, his bald head glistening like a Fabergé egg, his tree trunk body immoveable.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  I turned back to Memphis, but she was gone.

  I looked back at Teddy, and his dull-blue fish eyes stared back at me.

  “Yes, you,” he said.

  I picked up my glass.

  It seemed like the party was over.

  37

  Teddy lifted the club head until it was an inch from my face.

  “Four hundred sixty cc” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Big Bertha. Titanium. Graphite shaft.”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  He leaned down, put a ball on top of a rubber tee and turned his body toward Lake St. Clair. We stood on a little raised platform at the back of the house. It had a patch of Astroturf about nine square yards, and Teddy had his golf bag and clubs leaning against a little wooden rack.

  Teddy addressed the ball, and I said, “Keep your head down.”

  He turned his granite slab of a body and brought the club back in a swift, fluid motion. His body pivoted, and the club bent nearly in half before it sped down with astonishing speed. The ball rocketed off the platform and flew in a direct line out until it made a tiny little splash about three hundred yards away.

  “Nice shot,” I said. “I think you nailed a muskie. And you didn’t even call fore.”

  “You’re funny,” he said without even cracking a smile. He lined up another ball and repeated the same effort.

  “Got a perch that time,” I said. “Do you have someone go out and dive for all those balls?”

  “Cheaper just to buy more balls.”

  “Are golf balls considered pollution?”

  In response, he pointed the handle of the club at me and said, “Wanna give it a shot?”

  “I’ve modeled my golf game after Nancy Lopez,” I said and took the club. I put a ball on the tee, set down my glass and took a mighty swing. I barely nicked the little pill, and I watched it run off the platform, down to the water’s edge until it sat there like a little lake stone.

  “Now if we were on the course and that didn’t make it past the women’s tee,” Teddy said, “you’d have to pull your pants down when you walked up to the ball.”

  “Insult to injury,” I noted.

  “Why don’t you give me that back before you hurt somebody with it,” he said.

  He took the club and rested it on his boulder of a shoulder. “So what are you doing here, John? Besides disgracing the game of golf?”

  “Did you know Larry Grasso?” I said.

  “I don’t interact with scum,” he said. He was bouncing the giant driver off his shoulder. He looked like he was ready to hit me with it. Knock my head into the lake. I’m sure the impression was intended.

  “Did you know the scum was killed?”

  “I did hear, but I don’t care.”

  Shannon’s assistant, Molly, appeared behind me. Had Teddy somehow summoned her?

  “Did Shannon still keep in touch with him?”

  He laughed. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He shook his head. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Stay away from Shannon. Stay away from me. But even more importantly, stay away from the game of golf, okay?”

  He tilted his chin toward Molly. “See Mr. Rockne to the door,” he said.

  I turned to little Molly and saw that she was now flanked by Erma and Freda.

  I glanced back at Teddy. He was in the middle of his backswing. “Thanks for taking the time to bullshit me,” I said. His swing caught, and he shanked one about fifty yards to the right. His face turned red.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said.

  The Hefty Girls moved up on either side of me, and I lifted my hands up.

  “Easy, girls. I’m going. Don’t get those gigantic undies of yours in a bundle.”

  Molly led the way back through the party, and I found myself back at my car.

  “Just so you know, I’ve been told to schedule no more conversations with Shannon for you,” Molly said. Her tone was curt and clipped. She extended a hand.

  “This will be the last time we talk,” she said. Erma and Freda stood behind her, thei
r faces showing all the emotion of rubber caulk.

  I shook Molly’s hand and felt the soft scrape of paper in my palm.

  •

  Lakeshore Drive was deserted as always. The lake was choppy, stirred up no doubt by the constant plopping of Teddy Armbruster’s Titleist Pro Vs. What an arrogant prick. A guy used to having the world at his feet. A guy living off the natural talent of Shannon Sparrow. A wheeler and a dealer and a fifteen-percent cut of, what, fifteen or twenty million a year? Not bad.

  Something told me that Teddy was the kind of guy who could burn a few million bucks a year without batting an eye.

  The piece of paper Molly had shoved into my hand now sat on the passenger seat. Subterfuge was surprising coming from the world’s most efficiently curt assistant.

  I had taken a peek at the note. It was a phone number. Probably a cell. I debated calling it immediately but thought better of it. She’d be at that party for a couple more hours, and I had a feeling that the conversation she wanted to have, that I hoped she wanted to have, would be better done in private. Like when she was on her way home from the boss’s party.

  I looked out at the dark-green water. I’d had too much to drink at the party because I now saw the pale, lifeless eyes of Benjamin Collins. Saw his puffy flesh hanging from his bones in shreds. All because of my colossal mistake.

  What a fuckup I was. Usually, I let the feeling pass. Told myself that everyone makes mistakes. Some more egregious than others. But not tonight. Booze sometimes did that to me. Opened up the old wounds and dumped in the salt. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I just throw the kid in the back of the squad car and let him sleep it off in his own private cell?

  There was no right answer, at least not one I wanted to face.

  38

  The only thing worse than having a hangover, in my opinion, is being hungover and middle-aged. Waking up in a dorm room feeling like shit because of the kegger in Rastelli’s room is one thing. Waking up with a hangover and facing your daughters, your mortgage payment, and your middle-aged life is really fucking awful.

  “What’s wrong?” Anna asked as she shuffled into the kitchen, her bare feet whisking across the wood floor. She had on a pink terrycloth robe, and her hair was piled on top of her head like a standard poodle that’s treed a squirrel.

  “Too much wine. I hate the fucking French,” I said.

  “Wine? You don’t drink wine.”

  “Tell that to my liver.”

  •

  An hour later I rolled into my office and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a moment. I’d taken three Tylenol and an extra cup of coffee to help push the headache away. I sat in my chair for a moment and absorbed the silence. I let my conversations with Shannon and Teddy roll around in my mind. Shannon had issues, I was sure of that. Teddy was just an arrogant prick.

  I checked my mail and tossed it all, then sat down and fired up the computer. I did a quick Internet search using the name Teddy Armbruster.

  All the expected bullshit. Articles about Shannon mostly. The quote from the manager, telling the world what a talented, special, lovely person Shannon was. Extolling her virtues as a songwriter. Her dreams. Her hopes. And of course, her work with charitable causes, namely helping the children.

  Blah blah blah.

  Of course, with Shannon’s name, the search returned only about thirteen thousand items. I closed the search window and picked up the phone.

  “Nate,” I said. “It’s me, John”

  “I’m busy,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  “Yeah, but the problem is, you’re calling me is going to make you less busy and me more busy.”

  I sighed. “There’s a new Chinese place over on Jefferson.”

  I heard the pause.

  “Orchid Gardens?” he said through a mouthful of rapidly rising saliva.

  “That’s the one.”

  I pulled the review I’d set aside on my desk from Metro Times. Just for this occasion.

  “Ginger chicken with a raspberry sauce,” I read. “Saffron soup with steamed clams. Rated five out of five stars by the Metro Times. Have you been there?”

  “I want the buffet,” he said.

  “The whole thing?”

  “The buffet, John.”

  “Oh mother of mercy,” I said.

  “Goodbye,” he said.

  I sighed. With the buffet, the ordeal would turn into a four-hour meal.

  “Fine. You got the buffet,” I said.

  “Okay, what do you want?”

  “Teddy Armbruster.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s Shannon Sparrow’s manager,” I said. “I want to know where he’s from, what he did pre-Shannon. I think he’s evil.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “An Orchid Garden buffet and we’ll know,” he said.

  “I already said yes.”

  “I’ll call you this afternoon,” he said.

  “Deal.”

  We hung up, and I was pleased to note that my headache was gone. Maybe the thought of Chinese food alone was some kind of Eastern cure.

  I’d delayed calling the number Molly’d given me because I hoped to learn a little more about Teddy before we talked. But now that it looked like I wouldn’t get any dirt for at least a few hours, it was time to make the call.

  I punched in the numbers on the slip of paper. Immediately, I heard some gentle static and knew that it was a cell phone.

  A voice answered. “Yes?”

  “Molly, it’s me. John Rockne.”

  “I’ll call you right back,” she said, a hint of panic in her voice. The connection was rudely cut. I wondered how she knew where to call me. But then I remembered she could just check her call log.

  The phone rang and I picked it up. That was quick, I thought.

  “John Rockne?” the voice asked.

  It wasn’t Molly, but I thought I recognized the voice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It’s Shannon.”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Well, uh, I was expecting another call—”

  “I enjoyed talking to you at the party,” she said. I heard her take a deep inhale. Cigarette or pot?

  “You did?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” she said on her exhale. Probably a joint.

  “Well, if you ask me, no, not at all. Talk to my friends though . . .”

  “I just wondered if we could meet somewhere and talk,” she said. “Do you have somewhere private we could get together?”

  “Like, how private?” I said. Boy, this was weird. Shannon Sparrow wanting to meet me somewhere privately? After she says she enjoyed conversing with me?

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “How about my office?”

  Her silence told me that wasn’t what she had in mind.

  Oh boy. I ran through a few options, one of which included saying no. I dismissed it though.

  “I have a sailboat at Windmill Pointe,” I said. It was a piece of shit fixer-upper that I’d been meaning to work on for years. Anna and I just kept it to keep the boat slip. There’s about a ten-year waiting period for those slips.

  “Private marina?” she said.

  “Even better,” I said, “It’s public and totally empty this time of year. No guard to see your car, no attendants to recognize you. Just park in the parking lot and walk to my slip. No one will know you’re there.”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  I gave Shannon directions then said, “I’m in slip forty-eight. Air Fare is the name of the boat.”

  “Air Fare?”

  “I bought it from a pilot,” I said. “I know, stupid name.”

  “I can be there tonight.”

  “So around ten?” I said.

  “Okay.”

  We hung up without saying goodbye. Before I could even contemplate just how weird this was getting, the
phone rang again.

  “It’s me.”

  I recognized the voice as Molly’s. Were she and Shannon trading phones? Handing it back and forth, laughing at how easy it was to trick me?

  “I wanted to warn you,” she said. It sounded like she was walking somewhere, probably outside.

  “Warn me about what?”

  “You’ve asked a lot of questions, and there are people who don’t want you to get the answers,” she said.

  “Like who?”

  “Look, don’t make this difficult—”

  “Too late,” I said. “People have died. It’s already difficult.”

  “Don’t make it more difficult then. Enough people have been hurt.”

  I had a hunch and played it. “Is that the real reason you called? Just to warn me? Or do you know something I could use? Something that could help?”

  She paused just a second, and I knew I was right. “I know it’s all about Jesse Barre,” she said.

  “Yeah, but—”

  I heard another voice, in the background. It sounded like a man’s, and I thought I heard him say Molly’s name. Immediately, her voice took on a different tone.

  “Look, just make sure the invoices are sent with the proper postage,” Molly barked at me. I waited, wondering who had interrupted her. “Okay, okay,” she said, this time the panic in her voice was clear. “Right, I’ll put it in the mail to you, okay? I’ll send it to your office. Right?”

  “Send it via a courier today,” I said, understanding.

  “Fine. Just don’t let this mistake happen again!” she said and then hung up.

  Message received, I thought. Did Shannon Sparrow get a lot of invoices? I wondered. Well, creativity wouldn’t be at the top of my list for attributes Molly would have. She seemed like a law-and-order, by-the-book kind of gal. But the important thing was that she said she’d send whatever it was to my office. I felt like a linebacker who’d broken through the line and was in the backfield, ready to knock the quarterback on his ass.

  Okay, I thought. Shannon at ten o’clock tonight.

  Nate would call me this afternoon.

  That left me a few hours.