About halfway, the elderly man told the driver to pull off in Lansing and stop at a Starbucks. Asked the driver to grab some coffees and sandwiches.
The old man remained in the town car, and phoned Mark Bergman.
• • •
The town car pulled up at a dock in Muskegon, on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The driver helped his passenger get out, then fetched the old gent’s bag from the trunk.
The old gent had curly gray hair, and a beard covered most of his face and neck. The skin that showed was wrinkled and dotted with liver spots. There was a bandage on his temple, the kind you see on old folks who’ve had a melanoma removed. He was wearing big plastic goggle sunglasses, the kind old folks wear over their regular glasses. And he was short, Dale Phipps’ height.
The old gent boarded a ferry headed across Lake Michigan to Milwaukee.
If any of the other passengers had taken a close look they might have noticed the hair was a wig, the beard was fake and the wrinkles latex. But who wants to take a close look at an old person.
One Hundred-Nine | 2012
Assistant US Attorney Lee Kelley called Ross Kurnit. Kurnit said he’d be right over, it was only a four-block walk.
Shortly after Kurnit exited his office building, a muscular man in a black suit and sunglasses approached him and said, “Mr. Kurnit.”
Kurnit looked him over. “You FBI?”
“My superior would a appreciate a quick word,” the man said, directing Kurnit’s attention to a large sedan with tinted windows, parked at the curb.
Wasn’t FBI; would’ve shown ID.
Might be a new client. Or an old one. Kurnit glanced around. A crowded Loop sidewalk, cops all around. Not a place for a snatch.
Kurnit nodded. The man escorted him to the car and opened the rear passenger door. Kurnit leaned down to see who was in there.
“Hey, Ross, how they hangin’?”
Kurnit carefully said, “Good. Yours?”
Cousin Eddie gave Kurnit a vulpine grin, and patted the seat alongside him.
Kurnit got in. The muscular man closed the door.
Cousin Eddie studied Kurnit, remained silent, forcing Kurnit to ask: “So to what do I owe the honor?”
“It’s not an honor, it’s serious,” Cousin Eddie said. “Here’s what you and your client are not gonna tell Kelley.”
The trial lawyer’s poker face failed just a little, a slight widening of the eyes. “Eddie—”
“Cut the crap. If your client’s crazy enough to talk about certain living people, so be it. But your client does not finger the late Jay Branko. Your client erases every single file mentioning Branko. Your client never says Branko’s name. And if Kelley asks about Branko, your client swears Branko never heard of this art shit. You clear on that?”
Kurnit blinked. “Yeah, I am. But I’ve never even met my client, I have no idea how he’ll—”
“Your client will get this right. And a hundred grand will show up wherever he wants it. And you, Ross, are about to have a couple of career years.” Cousin Eddie’s voice went gunmetal. “But Ross, if you let your client fuck this up, I’m gonna be unhappy with you. And your client’s gonna find out so-called witness protection is just another government program. You know what kind of ambitious cunts run those? I do. Intimately.”
A stare. Cold stillness.
Kurnit’s lips moved. “I’ll convey that,” he promised. “But Eddie, my client says he stashed—not with me—he stashed copies of his files—the complete files—to be made public if he suddenly dies.”
“That’s another downside of witness protection. You don’t die; Joe Blow dies, in Moose Crap, Alaska. The Feds are only allowed to inform immediate family. Your client hasn’t got any. Nobody he left those files with will know he’s dead.”
One Hundred-Ten | 2012
Mark took another nap. Beat spending the afternoon at his desk trying not to doze while awaiting the outcomes of the two frenzies ignited by Dale Phipps’ latest call.
Frenzy #1 was investigative: the FBI scoured the roads between Lansing and Detroit in search of Burka Woman.
Frenzy #2 was bureaucratic. If the FBI failed to find Burka Woman, they’d have to wait for Dale Phipps to surrender. And Dale would only surrender to Detective Bergman, despite the fact Dale was entering Federal custody. Which raised an urgent issue: Who’d be in command?
Let the inter-agency games begin.
Mark slept through them. Woke refreshed, grabbed a coffee and ambled back to his desk. Where Doonie informed him the bureaucratic crisis had been resolved: If Dale surrendered within city limits, Husak would command, with Mark leading the pickup, backed by cops and FBI. If Dale surrendered outside Chicago, Ostergaard would command, with Mark leading the pickup, and everybody else being FBI.
“Except me,” Doonie explained. “I told Husak to tell the Feds you said you weren’t doin’ this without me.”
“Damn, I’ve been talking in my sleep again.”
• • •
A little after 7 P.M. Nick Rarey phoned in the box score on Frenzy #1: Dale was pitching a shutout. Burka Woman hadn’t shown up at any bus terminal. Or train terminal.
“She couldn’t leave by plane,” Rarey said. “No way Burka Woman—or Dale—gets through airport security. He’s holed up or he’s acquired a vehicle.”
Mark said, “Dale’s too smart to steal a car, those plates would be on every cop computer in the Midwest.”
“But Dale can’t rent, he’d have to show his license and credit card. We’ll check the taxi and car services in Detroit.”
“And he might not be Burka Woman any more—ask about anybody Dale’s height with his face covered. Meantime, you know if Dale’s lawyer and the U.S. Attorney have cut a deal?”
“I’ll ask.”
“Thanks.” Mark put down the receiver and looked up at Phil Adams.
Adams had materialized halfway through the call, standing patiently by Mark’s desk and pretending not to notice Doonie staring bullets at him.
“Sounds like the FBI ain’t had much luck finding Phipps,” Adams commented, to Mark.
“Yes it did,” Doonie said. Low, hard.
“So, need me to hang in here?” Adams asked Mark.
“Nah,” Doonie answered. “You have yourself a nice night.”
Adams gave Doonie a sour grin. Told him, “You too, Bergman,” and left.
Mark and Doonie looked at each other.
Mark said, “Halloran’s.”
One Hundred-Eleven | 2012
Halloran’s was better than just noisy. It had retro high-backed booths, offering retro privacy. At this hour the booths were reserved for dinner customers. Worked for Mark, who had no plans. Worked for Doonie, whose dinner plans had called for him to meet Phyl and Patty over at Barbara’s, the only of his seven sister-in-laws Doonie never warmed up to.
Mark and Doonie finished eating before talking about what they were there to talk about; Doonie’s rule, if time ain’t an issue you don’t jump right in. He’d spent enough of his fucking life turning meals into work.
The niceties observed, Doonie parked his silverware on his plate and said, “Branko is why Phil Adams’ Chinaman is so worried about Burka Woman.”
Mark nodded. “That’s what Branko’s office wall says.” He’d told Doonie about the photos. Branko with the Mayor; the chairman of the Cook County Democratic party; the Republican governor.
“But,” Doonie mused, “only cards Dale’s playing are Gianni and Lou.”
“Because Branko’s too dead to prosecute. But if Dale does have proof Branko partnered with the bent noses on murder-for-profit, the media’s gonna go crazy on Branko’s city contracts and that picture of him playing BFF with the Mayor.”
“Haveta ask Dale about Branko next time we see him.”
“If we get the chance. Gotta hand him to the Feds soon as we pick him up.”
“Life,” Doonie sagely complained.
“And,” Mark said, “if we make th
e pickup in Chicago, Phil Adams can’t be there.”
“He won’t.”
“Ain’t up to us.” Mark finished his drink. “Think Husak will be down with it?”
“He better be. ’Cause if Husak don’t cut Phil out of the loop, somebody’s gonna have to put Phil in the hospital,” Doonie said, with a hint of longing. “You done?” he asked, indicating Mark’s leftover fries.
“Phyl—your Phyl—is gonna kill me,” Mark predicted as he shoved his plate toward Doonie.
“Speakin’ a deadly women,” Doonie said as he sloshed extra ketchup onto the fries, “you been in touch with our girl?”
Mark took his time before answering. “She called to ask me over. I said yes. Then I hadda call back to cancel. She hung up on me.”
“So when you gonna call again?”
“Not until this shit’s over.”
“Uh-huh.” Doonie contemplatively munched a fry. “You afraid she’s gonna hang up again, or that she won’t?”
“Heavy,” Mark deadpanned.
“Since Gale left you ain’t been yourself.”
“Who’ve I been?”
“Gale’s gone, what, coupla years? How many women you seen since?”
Mark shrugged.
“In a good month you useta get busier than you been this last year.”
“Sorry.”
“And how many times you been over to our place since Gale?”
“Five, six—no—eight.”
“My point.”
Eight. As opposed to hanging with the Dunegans at least once or twice a month, for years.
Mark said, “Oh.”
“Oh,” Doonie confirmed. “You got Phyl kinda concerned. And ya just turned me into fuckin’ Oprah. Gonna go see can I still piss standing up.” Doonie slid out of the booth and headed for the john.
Well, that… called for another round.
Mark scanned the room. Saw their waitress walk up to a table of ten and begin taking orders. Might take days.
Mark went to the bar. Busy place. Every stool filled, and a small mob of standees fondling cocktails while waiting for a table. Mark got as close to the bar as he could and waved to the bartender, who was filling a large order. The bartender gave Mark an efficient nod, yes I’m aware you exist.
“Have a seat, my work here is done.”
A woman on the barstool Mark was standing behind. Attractive. About thirty. The adult version of thirty.
Mark said, “Thanks, I’m at a table.”
“Ah. Slow waitress,” the woman commiserated, or maybe teased. She put cash on the bar and stood.
“Overloaded waitress,” Mark averred.
The woman rewarded Mark’s defense of the damsel with an approving, subtly amused look. Large warm brown eyes. Frank, confident. But not an invitation. An assessment. Reading Mark. Way a cop would, almost. She didn’t vibe cop. But something. And, there was this almost familiar—maybe the expression, or the eyes—
“What can I get you?” The bartender, suddenly there.
“Two Jack Daniels, rocks,” Mark told the bartender, then returned his attention to—
She was walking away, threading through the crowd toward the door.
Mark watched. She didn’t look back.
“New friend or blast from the past?” Doonie, showing up alongside Mark.
“Neither.”
The bartender plunked down their drinks. “Fifteen.”
“Goes on the tab for booth Seven.” Mark picked up the drinks, handed one to Doonie and raised a toast: “Here’s to you, Oprah.”
“Suck my gray hairy balls,” Doonie said, clinking.
One Hundred-Twelve | 2012
Mark settled into the couch with a cold bottle of Goose Island, his cell, and his burner. He cued up The Wild Bunch. The uncut full length as God and Peckinpah intended version. Mark wouldn’t be getting to sleep anytime soon, so here’s to 139 minutes of his mind getting the hell out of his skull.
A gang rides into town, wearing cavalry uniforms. They dismount and deploy; half discreetly establish a perimeter around a bank, half march into the bank. Mark picked up the burner and… Turned it off. Put it in a desk drawer.
A posse of railroad detectives is hiding on a rooftop across from the bank. They ambush the gang, and a temperance parade gets caught in the crossfire. Mark can’t call JaneDoe. If JaneDoe takes his call, a second later his cell will ring, it’ll be Dale, and Mark will have to hang up on JaneD—
Mark’s cell rang.
Not Dale. Nick Rarey. “Happen to be in the neighborhood, wondered if you’d be up for a nightcap.”
• • •
“Good beer.” Rarey took a contented swig.
“Yup.”
“You wanted to hear about the US Attorney’s first date with Dale’s lawyer. Kurnit said Dale has files on all the transactions. And can testify about planning hits with Lou, including two sessions with Gianni. Plus he confirms Tesca originated the scam, got shoved out, went rogue, and the Mastrizzis were gunning for Tesca.”
“And also for Dale.”
“Yeah. But if I were the Mastrizzis I’d worry Dale hid copies of the files to be sent to the cops if he got whacked.”
“That’s what torture’s for. Besides, the files show offshore companies that don’t have Mastrizzi names on ’em. Might not stand up in court without Dale to connect the dots, and swear the Mastrizzis conspired on the murders. Speaking of trying to kill Dale—did Kurnit say if Branko was in on the art scam?”
Rarey shook his head. “Kurnit said the only names Dale dropped were Gianni and Lou. Kelley told him to ask Dale about Branko.”
“Speaking of Dale, I assume you didn’t get any hits off the Detroit taxis and town cars.”
“Not so far.” Rarey finished his beer, and returned to the topic dearest to FBI hearts—Branko being the Missing Link between the Outfit and City Hall. “You find it strange Dale isn’t offering us Branko?”
“Dunno. Another beer?”
Rarey studied Mark. “Y’know, Mark, sometimes I get the feeling I’ve been feeding you more information than you’ve been feeding me.”
“Pure paranoia. Got any leads on who shot Branko?”
Rarey grinned and so did Mark. He went to the kitchen and returned with beers.
Handed one to Rarey, who sighed. “We still got zip on the shooter. Sláinte.” Rarey took a long pull. “Got any leads on who Branko went to all that trouble to meet with in secret?”
“Zip,” Mark lied.
No fucking way Mark was going to toss Cousin Eddie’s name to the FBI and hope it doesn’t get back to Eddie.
No fucking way Mark was going to trust anyone but Husak with the news he and Doonie suspected Cousin Eddie was the secret friend Branko met in Bridgeport. And how deeply interested Eddie was in Dale Phipps.
• • •
Mark got in bed, closed his eyes.
Dale. Branko. JaneDoe. The Mastrizzis. The FBI. JaneDoe. Tesca. Cousin Eddie. Adams. Husak. JaneDoe.
Mark gave up, went down to the exercise room and picked a fight with a gang of weight machines.
One Hundred-Thirteen | 2012
Jesus fuck. Dale glared at his phone, as if blaming it.
Kurnit had given him the good news about the meeting with the US Attorney. Then the news of how—in violation of Dale’s instructions—he’d omitted any mention of Branko. And why.
Did Dale have to fire Kurnit and get a new lawyer? Shit. How long would that take? Time was not his friend.
Besides. If what Kurnit told him was true, it wouldn’t matter who Dale’s new attorney was. This Cousin Eddie character would get to him.
“He’s fucking Godzilla,” Kurnit swore.
Fucking Godzilla.
Fine. Screw it. Dale didn’t need to mention Jay Branko. Dale would get full immunity without Jay.
Though that would mean he’d have to lie convincingly when the FBI interrogated him, then perjure himself in court if asked about Jay. It never fucking ends.
/>
So what. Get to it. Erase Jay Branko from the files.
Shit. Even after Dale sanitized the thumb drives he had with him, the drives he’d left with his other lawyer and in his safe deposit box still contained the Branko data.
Little time bombs that could get him killed.
Or maybe little grenades he could save himself with.
Dale called Kurnit. Told him to tell Cousin Eddie he’d play along. But that if he died bad, even as Joe Blow in Moose Crap, he guarantees the full files, including the Branko data, would go public. If Cousin Eddie doubted that, he could go ask any cyber geek for at least three ways Dale could make it happen.
Dale didn’t bother to communicate a similar threat to the Mastrizzis. They were gonna kill him no matter what, for all the things he could say about them, stuff that wasn’t in the files.
One Hundred-Fourteen | 2012
Mark and Doonie went into Husak’s office and closed the door.
Turned out they weren’t telling Husak anything that hadn’t already crossed his mind. Husak knew what Phil Adams was. Said, “When we set the details for the Phipps pickup—”
Mark’s cell rang. It was Rarey.
“Burka Woman is history and Grampa Phipps is in Wisconsin.”
“Doonie and Lieutenant Husak are here,” Mark said, switching to speakerphone.
“G’morning sir, Doonie,” Rarey enthused. “Just heard from Detroit. Yesterday an old man, Dale’s height, hired a town car, paid cash. The driver took him across the state—with a stop in Lansing at the exact time Dale phoned Mark—then to Muskegon, where a ferry was leaving for Milwaukee. Our people are checking footage at both ferry terminals.”
“Driver give a description?”
“Curly gray hair and beard, big square bandage on the forehead, and rockin’ a pair of those Generation AARP giant goggle sunglasses.”
When the call ended, Doonie said, “Maybe the Feds will grab Dale in Milwaukee and we won’t have nothin’ to do with it.”
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