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

by David Housewright

  “Roseanne Esmae.”

  “No. Esjay. Roseanne Esjay.”

  “She’s the one who labeled Minneapolis ‘Murderopolis.’”

  “What about her?”

  “Nothing. I was just trying to remember her name.”

  “That’s the only reason you called?”

  “Well, you could do me another favor.”

  “What?”

  “Look up the phone number of the New York Times.”

  I bought a fifteen-minute phone card at the drugstore and wasted six of them first trying to get through to Roseanne Esjay and then reminding her who I was.

  “The St. Paul cop with the goofy name, I remember now. How’s your cute friend?”

  “My married cute friend?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “He’s good.”

  I was surprised that Esjay was in the office on a Sunday morning and told her so.

  “Trust me,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for information.”

  “About what?”

  “Some big fat slob named Frank Russo might’ve been a capo in the Bonanno family. My take is that he’s hiding from Angelo Granata. I don’t know why.”

  “Are you still with the St. Paul cops?”

  “No.”

  “Are you with the FBI now, or some other …”

  “Not at all. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what you have to do with Frank Russo.”

  “I’m looking for him.”

  “So is most of the New York Mafia. Why do you want him?”

  “Are we on the record?”

  “Hell, yes, we’re on the record. McKenzie, why are you looking for Frank Russo?”

  “If we’re on the record, I can’t tell you.”

  “C’mon …”

  “Sorry.”

  “All right—look, off the record, then.”

  “Russo murdered a friend of mine.”

  “In Minnesota? Frank Russo’s in Minnesota?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. The FBI is hiding him.”

  “The FBI is hiding—they must have turned him. They’re using Russo to get to Granata.”

  “That’s my understanding, too.”

  “Oh, man, this is great.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “In Minnesota, you say. I’ll be damned. McKenzie, you need to go on the record. You need to—”

  “Roseanne, Roseanne …”

  “McKenzie.”

  “Roseanne, I don’t care what you write, as long as you don’t mention my name or why I’m looking for Russo. Is that a deal?”

  “What do I get in exchange?”

  “You get the name of the special agent who’s holding Russo’s hand.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  “Just tell me, first—why is Granata looking for Russo?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  I glanced at my watch. I still had a few minutes left on my phone card.

  “I have time,” I said.

  “Granata became acting boss of the Bonanno family when they busted Joseph Massino. He’s very good at what he does. Very disciplined. Under him the Bonannos have become the strongest of the five Mafia families. Frank Russo was one of Granata’s most dependable and ruthless capos. He wanted to use the Bonanno muscle to force the other families into a kind of European Union, five independent families but all of them under a single leadership umbrella—Granata’s umbrella. From a strictly business standpoint, it wasn’t a bad idea, only Russo’s plan probably would have led to all-out war, and Granata wouldn’t go along with it. Russo decided to take over the family and impose his union anyway. He tried to hit Granata. He missed. Now a hundred and fifty Bonanno soldiers are searching for him, plus God knows how many freelancers.”

  “That’s not complicated at all,” I told Roseanne.

  “It is if Russo cut a deal with the FBI. You say he’s in Minnesota?”

  “He was the last time I saw him.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I stood about two yards away from him.”

  “When?”

  “Last Friday afternoon. The day before he killed my friend.”

  “He killed your friend, but the FBI’s still protecting him?”

  “That’s right. Or at least some agents of the FBI are.”

  “Same thing happened in Boston. In exchange for information on the Patriarca Mafia family, a handful of maverick agents protected members of the Winter Hill Gang from prosecution. Eventually the Patriarca family was devastated by federal prosecutions, and the Winter Hill Gang took control of the Boston-area rackets. Now about a billion dollars’ worth of lawsuits have been brought against the government by victims of crimes committed by the informants while they were under FBI protection.”

  “Same thing might be happening here.”

  “Your friend who was killed …”

  “His name is Mr. Mosley. He was a beekeeper. You can probably pick up everything you need from back issues of the St. Paul and Minneapolis newspapers.”

  “You promised me a name.”

  “Steven Sykora.”

  “Sykora?”

  “He’s Frank Russo’s babysitter.”

  “Sykora used to be with the organized crime task force that was investigating the Bonanno family. I heard he was transferred a few months ago.”

  “Guess where.”

  “The Minneapolis field office.”

  “What a coincidence.”

  “If I write this story—who am I kidding—when I write this story, probably tomorrow if I can get any kind of confirmation, all hell is going to break loose, you know that, don’t you? Along with the FBI freaking out, a hundred hitters are going to descend on the Land of 10,000 Lakes looking for Russo.”

  “There’s something you should know, Roseanne.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s actually closer to fifteen thousand lakes.”

  Special Agent Brian Wilson wasn’t in his office. I had to track him down at home.

  He said, “Hello.”

  I said, “Hi, Harry.”

  “McKenzie.”

  “You recognized my voice.”

  “That, plus you’re the only one who calls me Harry.”

  “That’s because you look just like the actor Harry Dean Stanton, and that’s how I came to think of you before I learned what your real name was.”

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “Besides, I hear Brian Wilson and I think of the Beach Boys.”

  “Then you’re the only one. What do you want, McKenzie? You know the bureau’s been looking for you.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Tell me you’re going to give yourself up.”

  “About that—how’s my credit?”

  “Do you think I owe you a favor because you helped us bust those gunrunners a while back?”

  “Maybe a small one.”

  “McKenzie, we’re talking our nation’s security here.”

  “C’mon, Harry. You know that so-called Seeking Information Alert is b.s.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had your andouille and chicken jambalaya. If that’s not a weapon of mass destruction …”

  “You said you loved my jambalaya.”

  “I was being polite.”

  “Harry …”

  “Okay, okay. A small favor. What is it?”

  “Meet me at home plate of Metropolitan Stadium.”

  He thought about that for a moment before asking, “When?”

  I gave him a time. “Do I have to tell you to come alone?” I added.

  “I’ll be alone.”

  “You won’t be sorry.”

  “Hell, McKenzie, I’m already sorry.”

  After saying good-bye to Harry, I drove to an audio-video store and had a dozen copies made of the two cassettes I had recorded. Afte
rward, I found a sporting goods store. I bought a pair of Bushnell binoculars that were on sale and a set of palm-sized two-way radios. I also purchased a box of shells and a spare magazine for my Beretta.

  A middle-aged white man in his fifties—my definition of middle age is considerably more conservative than Ruth Schramm’s—stood on the corner of First Avenue and Sixth Street in downtown Minneapolis, across the street from the Target Center. He was dressed in the colors of the Minnesota Timberwolves and holding up a handmade sign: I NEED 4.

  I watched Chopper roll up to him.

  “My man,” he said. “You want four? I got four. Where you want to sit?”

  The man put down his sign and leaned over Chopper, examining the seating chart of Target Center that Chopper rested on the arm of his wheelchair.

  “I can get you into blue, my man. You want four right here?”

  “What do you want for those?”

  “One and a half.”

  “For all four?”

  Chopper started laughing. So did the buyer.

  “I know, I know,” said the buyer. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off the correct amount of cash while Chopper reached into the saddlebag of his wheelchair and produced the four tickets.

  “Listen,” said the buyer. “If the T-Wolves win, they get the Lakers next week. Can you help me out?”

  “Tough series,” said Chopper. “All I got left, I got two. You want two? I can get you two in the upper deck.”

  “How high?”

  “Second row midcourt.” Chopper produced his chart again. “No way you’re gonna get better seats this late.”

  “I don’t have the cash on hand,” said the buyer. Apparently he knew the rules. “You going to be around?”

  “I be here, my man. I be here. But don’t you wait too long. First come, first serve.”

  “I hear you.”

  The white buyer and the black scalper shook hands in that funky way hip guys do—I was never able to master it myself—and parted company. A moment later, Chopper was gliding down the avenue asking each and every stationary individual he passed, “You lookin’ for tickets?”

  It’s a misdemeanor to scalp tickets in Minnesota, but mostly the law goes unenforced. As for building security, if you conduct your business off arena and stadium property, they usually leave you alone. Chopper had never been arrested or rousted; I doubt anyone wanted to be seen hassling a thin black man in a wheelchair. On the other hand, this was still a new enterprise for Chopper, the latest in a long list of profitmaking ventures, and he hadn’t been at it long enough to get busted.

  Game time was 2:00 P.M., but Chopper continued to sell until nearly 2:30. Once the sidewalks around Target Center became empty, Chopper spun his chair around and started wheeling north on First Avenue. I waited for him. He was only a few yards away when he saw me.

  “Fuckinay, McKenzie. How you doin’, man?”

  “Hanging in, hanging in,” I told him and shook his hand.

  “I was just talkin’ ’bout you.”

  “I know. Lantry told me. What are you doing, telling people I saved your life? I didn’t save your life.”

  “You did.” He seemed distressed that I would deny it.

  “All I did was call the paramedics. They saved your life.”

  “That ain’t the way I ’member it.”

  “Chopper …”

  “You way too modest, McKenzie. That’s one of your problems. You don’t never take credit.”

  “Have it your own way.”

  Chopper had never been what fashion magazines might called “full bodied,” even during his days running girls in Frogtown, but up close he seemed distressingly thin. I had to ask him, “You’re not on the pipe, are you?”

  “Fuck. You know I don’t do that shit.”

  “You look awfully skinny, Chopper. Have you been eating regularly?”

  “We talkin’ food or pussy?” Chopper laughed at his own joke. When he finished, he said, “This is the new me. Mean and lean, baby.”

  “Maybe so, but you should come over one of these days. I’ll give you a meal, fix you right up.”

  “You gonna make that Texas chili you had that one time?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Cuz that was the best shit I ever had.”

  “Compliments are always appreciated, Chopper. In the meantime, you’re making me nervous. I’ve seen anorexic models with more meat on their bones. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “I ain’t hungry, man. You hungry?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  The hostess at the Loon Cafe sat us at a table by a window, giving us a good view of the traffic on Fifth Street. Chopper decided to order a little something. Just to be polite, he said. He ate quickly, devouring an order of calamari in jalapeño tartar sauce, a Chinese chicken salad, a ten-ounce rib-eye, coleslaw, a sixteen-ounce Leinenkugel Honey Weiss, and half my fries like famine was imminent and the old axiom “He who eats the fastest eats the mostest” was now the first law of survival.

  Again I worried about him. He saw it in my eyes and laughed out loud.

  “Man, you like the Chinese. Think you save a brother’s life, you’re responsible for ‘im. I’m fine. Lost a little weight is all, rollin’ up and down the avenues, engagin’ in free trade. Man, I’m a free trader.”

  “How is business?” I asked.

  “Now that I’m online, man, it’s like printin’ Washingtons.”

  “Online?”

  “Got’s my own Web site—ticketchopper.com. I sell through eBay sometimes, too. You lookin’ for Dixie Chicks in Vancouver, the Boss in Chi-town, Mavericks in Dallas, I’m your man.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m global. Got brothers all over waitin’ in line at ticket offices, pay ’em fifty dollars, whatever, for a couple hours of work buyin’ for me—that’s where I get most of my tickets. Also get from TicketMaster, get from a pool of brokers I’m tight with—I resell ’em. Serious money, man. Got three-fifty for a pair to see the Stones last week cost me sixty-six-fifty each.”

  “What are you doing outside Target Center, then?”

  “Same-day tickets, man, Internet ain’t worth shit. You gotta be out there with the people. Gotta have the product in hand. Team like the Minnesota Wild in the playoffs, man, wait ’til thirty minutes before game time, I get one-eighty for a sixty-two-fifty ticket. More if they playin’ good.”

  Chopper carelessly took a long pull of beer.

  “Fillin’ a need,” he added, beer dribbling down his chin. “Givin’ the people what they want.”

  “Chopper, you’re a true entrepreneur. Bill Gates would be proud.”

  “Damn straight. Hey, man, you lookin’ for tickets? I’ll take care of you. You like them jazz guys, like that Wynton Marsalis, like that Harry Connor—”

  “Connick. Harry Connick.”

  “They come to town, I’ll get ya tickets. Best seats in the house. Face value, man. Give ’em to ya for face value.”

  “You’re my hero, Chopper.”

  “You know it.”

  Chopper finished his meal and shoved the plate away.

  “Dessert?” I asked.

  “Nah. Spoil my dinner. So, you workin’?”

  “What do you mean, working?”

  “Doin’ one of your Robin Hood things, you know.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I figured. Only, you gotta say, man. If you workin’, you gotta speak up. Otherwise, a brother think you’re just shootin’ the shit to be polite, just trying to be, whatchacallit, politically correct—see a cripple and figure you gotta feed ’im a meal.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘differently abled’? And when have you ever known me to be politically correct just for the sake of being politically correct about anything?”

  “What I’m sayin’ is, you wanna know shit, just ask.”

  “Okay. What I want to know is this—what’s new?”

 
; Chopper looked at me like I had just asked him if it was raining outside.

  “Fuck, McKenzie, whaddaya mean, what’s new? I got Queen Latifah on DVD yesterday. That’s what’s new.”

  “I mean, is there anything happening out there that’s disrupting the status quo?”

  Chopper stared out the window as if he were searching for something.

  “Gangs fighting over turf, but that is status quo.”

  “I heard a big shipment is coming in.”

  “A big shipment of what?”

  “Hell, Chopper, I don’t know.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Could be.”

  “There’s always pharmaceuticals changin’ hands, but nothin’ big. Nothin’ bigger than usual, anyway. You’re lookin’ for what’s unusual, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I ain’t heard of nothin’ that’s unusual.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Only thing I heard about that’s different is cigarettes.”

  “Cigarettes?”

  “Guys bringin’ in a load of cigarettes. Supposed to be a big load of name brands.”

  “That can’t be right,” I said.

  “Only big shipment I know of.”

  “Smuggling cigarettes?”

  “Big business in cigarettes,” Chopper said. “Gettin’ bigger. ’Specially with cigarette taxes goin’ up to pay for all them state deficits. Buy smokes in Kentucky where it’s three cents a pack, sell ’em in New York where it’s a buck-fifty, pocket the difference.”

  “What is the cigarette tax in Minnesota?”

  “Forty-eight cents a pack.”

  “Doesn’t seem worth it. All that trouble to make a lousy half buck.”

  “Do the math, man. Four-eighty a carton multiplied by say, a hundred thousand cartons. Maybe three days work drivin’ ’em up here. I’d like a taste of that. And if you do it, like, say, every week …”

  “I see your point. Tell me more.”

  “I don’t know any more, man. I ain’t in that line of work.”

  “What about the guys bring them in?”

  “I heard wiseguys from New York.”

  I must have looked like an idiot, sitting there with my mouth hanging open. Chopper waved his hand in front of my eyes and called my name.

  “Okay, Chopper,” I said. “Just so you know, ‘wiseguys from New York’ is what you call a significant detail. Do you have any more? Details, I mean.”