Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels)

by David Housewright

  Brucie? His name is Brucie?

  Brucie jabbed at my throat. I shifted my head away and slapped his knife hand to the side. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, and with my right I drove a four-knuckle punch into his throat.

  Brucie staggered backward but didn’t lose his balance. He pulled his wrist free with such ease I wondered why I had bothered grabbing it in the first place.

  This is not good.

  Brucie moved toward me again, crouching low as before.

  I held my ground, braced myself. Parry and strike. What other choice did I have?

  Brucie raised the knife.

  “Stick ’im,” Danny urged.

  A woman began to scream in high, piercing, continuous shrieks. She was standing behind Brucie and to his left, holding the hand of a little girl, who in turn was holding toy fins and goggles—they were both dressed for the pool.

  When Brucie saw them, he hid the knife behind his back. The expression on his face made me conclude that he was embarrassed.

  That would have been a good time to hit him.

  But it was an even better time to run away.

  And so I did.

  I escaped from between the four cars and sprinted along the lane, gobbling ground in a hurry, until I reached the perimeter of the parking lot. Instead of running directly to my car, I went up the street, crossed against the light, circled the block, and approached the Neon from behind. No shouts followed me, no “there he goes,” no “get him.”

  The screaming from the parking lot had ceased by the time I reached the Neon. I heard no sirens and wondered if the woman had called the cops, or at least the lobby. I waited, the engine running, my gun resting on the seat next to me.

  A few moments later, Brucie’s big Chevy Blazer appeared at the entrance to the motel parking lot. He was driving; Danny was riding shotgun. They hit the street without bothering to slow down. I wasn’t surprised. If I was them, I’d be on the run, too. Come to think of it, I was like them. That’s why I didn’t linger in the parking lot when the woman screamed.

  I followed, but I wasn’t careful about it. Brucie made me in a hurry. The Blazer accelerated hard. I tried to match its speed. Danny’s head appeared outside the passenger window, followed by his elbow, his arm, and a hand with a gun in it. He pointed the gun in my general direction, and my stomach suddenly had that express-elevator-going-down feeling. Only he didn’t fire. His head jerked toward the cab of the truck as if he were listening to something. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

  A few quick turns and we were on Highway 5 heading east, weaving between cars just like in the movies. The sound of angry horns followed us, but there was no squealing of brakes, no smashed fenders. We had been lucky so far.

  A couple miles down the road, Highway 5 merged with U.S. 212 and we were driving north toward Minneapolis. The Neon had more giddy-up than I had expected. I quickly and easily accelerated to 80 mph, but there wasn’t much more that her four cylinders could give me. The Blazer pulled away. I tried to keep close, hoping I’d catch it when Brucie and Danny exited the freeway, only I couldn’t see around the other SUVs and vans on the road. I gave it up after a half mile and coasted to the posted speed limit.

  That’s it, I promised myself. If I ever get my life back, I’m going to buy the fastest car they’ll let me drive on city streets.

  It was dusk by the time I returned to Hilltop. The streets were quiet. I could see the flickering light of TV sets through trailer windows, and somewhere someone was playing Bob Dylan. I cruised past Pen’s mobile home. Her carport was still empty. I drove to the end of the street, turned around, and drove back again. One-on-one surveillance was impossible. There were too many people living in too confined an area. There was no place I could park and not be noticed, nowhere I could walk and not be seen.

  “I know all my neighbors,” Ruth had said. She probably wasn’t the only one.

  Yet I couldn’t let Pen go. She was my only link to Sykora, and through him to Frank Crosetti. I had convinced myself that Sykora was conducting some kind of black bag job; otherwise he’d be using bureau resources to hide Danny and Brucie, not his wife. Besides, although I had been a devoted fan of The X-Files, I wasn’t prepared to believe that the FBI as a whole would behave so poorly.

  Having helped to save her from an assault—I still couldn’t believe her attacker was a kidnapper—Jake Greene had achieved a certain amount of trust and goodwill with Pen. That and his cover as a reporter might get some questions answered. But I needed more.

  The Easy Cash pawnshop was located in a Minneapolis neighborhood of dopers, prostitutes, gangbangers, immigrants, working poor, and other unreliable credit risks that so far had remained untouched by attempts at gentrification and social tinkering. Yet there was nothing desperate about the shop itself. It was light and airy and clean and at first glance resembled any department store you’ve ever been in. If there was a difference, it was in the astonishing array of merchandise—over twelve thousand square feet of VCRs and DVDs, computers, electric guitars, jewelry, tools, bicycles, lawn mowers, even motorcycles and snowmobiles. If a product had financial value, Easy Cash traded in it. The only exception was guns. There was a large sign next to the front entrance that read EASY CASH DOES NOT BUY OR SELL GUNS OF ANY KIND. YOU ARE PROHIBITED FROM CARRYING A GUN ON THESE PREMISES.

  I was met at the door by a young man who wore a blue tie; all employees of Easy Cash were required to wear ties and dress shirts. I asked for the owner, and he pointed at Marshall Lantry. Lantry, who was wearing a tan sports jacket to go with his shirt and tie, was standing behind a counter in the center of the store. The counter was on a foot-high platform. I had convinced Lantry to build the platform in order to discourage miscreants from attempting to come over the top of the counter for either the cash register or him and his employees. Above and behind his shoulder were mounted posters of Anna Kournikova, Taye Diggs, and Jennifer Lopez. Hanging right above the posters were security cameras. The way I had explained it to Lantry, the posters would encourage customers—male and female alike—to look up, which in turn would help the security cameras to get a good shot of their faces.

  The corners of Lantry’s mouth were curled upward into a smile. Since his mouth always curled that way, giving Lantry a pleasant grin that never disappeared, I didn’t know if he was happy to see me or not.

  “Damn, McKenzie,” he said. “I was just talking about you with Chopper. You remember Chopper.”

  Chopper was a borderline sociopath who took a bullet in the spine and now conducts his many illicit enterprises from a wheelchair that he maneuvers with motorcycle-like speed and recklessness.

  “Yeah, I know Chopper.”

  “He was just saying that everyone he knows is either a mean sonuvabitch or an asshole ’cept you.”

  “High praise indeed.”

  “He was sayin’ how you saved his life.”

  “All I did was call EMS after finding his bullet-riddled butt on the sidewalk.”

  “That’s not the way he says it.”

  “Chopper has always been prone to exaggeration.”

  “Yeah, well, I agree with him. You ain’t a sonuvabitch or an asshole.”

  “Stop it, Marsh. You’re giving me a swelled head.”

  “As compared to other things that inflate.”

  I glanced up at Anna, and Lantry chuckled.

  “So, you buyin’ or sellin’?”

  “Buying.”

  “I just got in a couple of great speakers if you’re lookin’ to expand that sound system of yours.”

  “Actually, I have something a little more high-tech in mind.”

  “High-tech as in … oh.” Lantry leaned over the counter. The sparkle in his eyes added to his permanent smile. “You want to talk serious business?”

  I nodded.

  A few moments later, Lantry led me to a tiny room in his basement. I thought of Phu. So many of today’s entrepreneurs conduct business out of their cellars.

  M
etal shelves were pushed against each of the four walls. Electronic surveillance gear, both new and used, was stacked on the shelves: bugs made to resemble electrical outlets and phone jacks, audio recorders, video cameras in every shape and size including a fountain pen, microwave and satellite dishes, and a lot of stuff I couldn’t identify. Seven years ago, city officials had shut Lantry down for running illegal poker tournaments. That’s how I met him, playing Texas Hold ’Em. If they knew about this setup, they’d probably send him to prison.

  Lantry said, “You realize that it’s illegal to intercept and record conversations without the consent of the folks involved, right?”

  “It’s also illegal to sell bugs for the purpose of intercepting conversations.”

  “And it’s illegal for you, the customer, to buy bugs for the purpose of intercepting conversations. I have a copy of the statute around here somewhere.”

  “You’re telling me this why?”

  “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doin’.”

  “That’s a different question altogether.”

  “So it is.” Lantry rested his hand on an office calculator. “I just got this in. It not only transmits conversations and video images for over two hundred meters, it actually calculates. Cool, huh?”

  “Very.”

  “So what do you want to surveil? House? Apartment?”

  “Trailer.”

  “Trailer?”

  “A mobile home.”

  “A mobile … where?”

  “City of Hilltop.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  I explained.

  “Hell, I musta driven by that place a thousand times and didn’t know it was there.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I told him.

  “Okay, so your average single-wide trailer runs about nine hundred to eleven hundred and fifty square feet”—I was always impressed that Lantry knew these things—“which is good cuz we can do the job with only two bugs.” Lantry found one and bounced it in the palm of his hand. It was black, about the size of a wine cork, and had a tiny antenna on top. “Couple of these babies for the trailer and another for the telephone ought to do the trick. They’ll pick up a whisper from fifty meters. What we’ll do is, we’ll stash a receiver in the trunk of a car, connect the receiver to a voice-activated tape recorder with four-hour cassettes. We’ll park the car about a block away from the trailer. The recorder has a real-time indicator so you’ll know what was said and when it was said. You just cruise by every couple of hours—”

  “That’s not going to work,” I said. “There’s no place to park the car. It’s a very dense, very high-traffic area. The car would be spotted in ten minutes. People would be asking questions about it an hour later.”

  “That makes it tougher.” Lantry set the bug back on the shelf and glanced over the rest of his equipment.

  “Also, I want to be able to monitor what is being said in real time.”

  “Tougher still,” Lantry said. “How close can you get?”

  “I have a motel room nearby.”

  “How near?”

  “Three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty yards as the crow flies.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Piece of cake.” Lantry snatched a bug off yet another shelf. Like the other listening device, it was black. It was about two-thirds the size of a business card and had the width of a ballpoint pen. There was a cable jack and two wires with clamps protruding from the top.

  “The double-oh-six,” he said. “It monitors telephone conversations when the phone is in use. It’s a room transmitter at all other times. It transmits on UHF so no dork with a police scanner will intercept your conversations. Great range. Just one of these and you’re covered. But it’s expensive. It retails for about five hundred and seventy-five pounds in England.”

  “How much is that in real money?”

  “A lot.”

  “How do I install it?”

  “You don’t. I’ll do it.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, thinking it over. “There’s no reason for you to take a chance like that.”

  “Better me than you, McKenzie. You’ll only screw it up.”

  He was probably right, and I told him so.

  “I can let myself in,” Lantry said. “Question is—can you make sure the trailer is empty?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “How much time do you need?”

  “Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Next question—how many times do you need to go in? Once to plant the bug, yeah. But do we need to remove it later?”

  “Can it be traced back to you?”

  “No way.”

  “Then leave it for the maid.”

  “Final question—who’s the target?”

  “A federal agent named Sykora.”

  “Federal agent?”

  “FBI”.

  “Getting a little ambitious, aren’t you, son?”

  “He’s bent.”

  “How bent?”

  “Paper clip bent.”

  “Bent enough to take violent action should we be discovered?”

  “Probably.”

  “Fun.”

  Lantry wasn’t being sarcastic. He meant it.

  “Know what’s more fun?” I told him. “Not getting caught.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the fear that makes it … Never mind.”

  “I need this done right away.”

  “Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Morning?”

  “Fine.”

  “How much is this going to set me back?”

  “Normally I’d give you a discount seein’ how we go back some.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But for the FBI—the price is five large, McKenzie, including expenses. Nonnegotiable.”

  “A workman is worthy of his hire.”

  “And I want it in cash.”

  “Of course.”

  “You gonna tell me why you’re doing this?”

  “Marshall, my friend. We live in an age of confusion, mistrust, and deteriorating moral values.”

  “A terrible thing.”

  “I fear for the future of the Republic.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You want to get something to eat?”

  “Why not?”

  7

  The carport next to Pen’s trailer was still empty when I rapped on her aluminum door at 9:00 A.M. I waited a moment, listening to the wind chimes she had hung there, then knocked again. Pen swung open the door like she expected to see a loving friend on the other side.

  “Jake Greene.” She spoke my name as if I were that friend. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you.”

  “How are you this beautiful, sunshiny day?”

  A simple question, yet the way she asked it made me feel as if the success of her own day depended on my answer.

  “I’m fine. How are you after yesterday?”

  “I am deluxe.”

  She smiled broadly, and her eyes half closed. They reminded me of cobalt thiocyanate, the chemical dealers use to test the purity of cocaine. The higher quality the drug, the brighter the blue. Pen’s eyes were at least 90 percent pure.

  “Did you speak to your husband about what happened yesterday?”

  “I did. Steve thinks it was a case of mistaken identity, some hophead confusing me with his ex-girlfriend, but he says I should keep a cautious eye out for junky-looking pickup trucks.”

  That didn’t sound any more logical to me than a kidnapping attempt, but I said, “Wise advice,” and let it slide.

  “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, but—actually, I was hoping you could come out with me, perhaps show me around Hilltop while we chat. For my story.”

  “I need to tell you, Jake, you really should speak to someone like Ruth Schramm. I haven’t been here that long.�
�

  “I will talk to Ruth, but I wanted to chat with you because you haven’t been here for that long.”

  “Let me get my bag.”

  I felt a sudden jolt of excitement then, like she had just agreed to an offer of dinner and a movie.

  Pen appeared a moment later with a bag slung over her shoulder that was big enough to tote New Zealand. She didn’t bother locking the door when she left the trailer, and I mentioned it to her.

  “Isn’t that cool?” she said.

  I flashed on the kidnapping attempt but said nothing.

  In the bright morning sunlight, Pen looked like a midwestern farm girl. She wore a white blouse knotted under her breasts, blue shorts, and sandals. She had golden hair, a smooth, outdoorsy complexion complete with freckles, and a healthy figure, and she smelled a little like the autumn leaves we used to burn in the backyard before the state made it illegal—a delicious scent, both arid and sweet. I felt as if I were committing four of the seven deadly sins just by walking with her.

  We strolled along 47th Avenue, turned south, turned again. I was already lost, but Pen moved with the assurance of a native, swinging her arms buoyantly. I carried a Bic and a small spiral notebook that I pretended occasionally to write in.

  Pen said, “None of my friends back home can believe I’m living in a trailer park.” She laughed as if she also found the idea ridiculous. “I’m trailer trash.” She laughed some more. “I nearly killed Steve when he installed us here. I wanted a house. I figured if they were going to make us move to Minnesota, at least we could live in a house. But Steve said it was only a temporary assignment, so … Anyway, I really like it now—trailer living. It’s really not all that different from living in an apartment.”

  I edged Pen toward the side of the lane to make room for a white van with the name of a cable TV company emblazoned on the side. I pretended not to recognize the driver as the van moved slowly past, and he pretended not to recognize me.

  “We used to live in New York, Steve and I, in a crowded apartment building in the middle of the city. Five years we were there and I didn’t know any of the neighbors, which is both amazing and kind of disturbing, if you know what I mean. I’ve been here for just under five months and I know everyone. A more interesting and truly eccentric group you’ll never find. I love them all.” Laughter. “I fit in real well.” Then more laughter. It made me want to laugh, too, even though I didn’t get the joke.