Black and White Ball

by Loren D. Estleman

  When he was finished he put the car in gear, gunned it to shove his way through the accumulation, and turned into the street, which was relatively clear; some civic-minded citizen was already at work on the cross street in a pickup with rusty wheel wells and a blade up front.

  Roger circled Laurie Macklin’s apartment house. The window facing the park was covered with plywood. He’d hoped to frighten off her watchdog yesterday, aiming his rifle, a lightweight bolt-action target piece made in South Africa, high; to kill Walker, or even wing him, would make his primary mission ten times more difficult. In Detroit or Miami, a day without a homicide, or an attempt at one, was as rare as a bishop’s fart, but in little candy-ass Milford it would bring on a full-court police press. There were a lot fewer doors to knock on there, and cars passing through to stop and search. A wild shot with no casualties was another species entirely. The rural Midwest had two seasons, hunting and target practice, and any shithead who could afford to own a rifle could point it and shoot. The local media would cover the mishap, the law would run it out, maybe even find the roof of the aerobics studio from which the bullet had been fired; but with no tracks to follow and no fingerprints left behind and the rifle itself in pieces at the bottom of Sherwood Lake east of the village—and now a fresh layer of ice to discourage dragging even if the budget stretched that far—the incident would soon fade from the collective memory.

  He ranged as far as five blocks around the old house. There was no sign of Walker’s car. That was encouraging. Even if Roger was leery about extending his recon into the streets that hadn’t been plowed yet, he was relatively certain the man’s age and game leg would keep him from parking any farther away. Either he’d been scared off or had set up shop at a distance to avoid drawing any more fire Laurie’s way.

  At length Roger pulled into the curb on the other side of the park and cut the motor. With nothing but an open gazebo standing between him and the house, he could see everyone who entered or left it.

  He’d brought his handgun, a High Standard autoloader with a five-and-a-half-inch barrel, in a steel lockbox with a magnetic lid that sealed it to the metal superstructure under the passenger’s seat, where only a thorough search would turn it up, but he wasn’t going to use it yet; not at least until he’d prodded his father with another photograph of his child bride and heard back (or not) from him. He’d broken with Peter’s example of ditching his weapon after use, and with his prejudice in favor of revolvers. The High Standard, a custom piece built to his order, came with interchangeable barrels, which defied ballistics tests based on striations, and spare firing pins, which made comparing spent shells useless. Although the original caliber was .22, a load that contributed to accuracy because of the light recoil, he’d had the frame reinforced to accommodate .38 and .44. After he’d employed one, he got rid of the barrel and kept the pistol. That eliminated the need to test a new weapon every time. Acquiring a replacement barrel, expensive as that was, was less costly than replacing the gun. Also it exposed him to less hazard. Peter seldom used the same armorer twice in a row, and the wider you ranged in that part of the underworld, the greater the chance of betrayal. Roger’s guy was too highly placed in the munitions industry to risk his position by blowing the whistle. The profit he made from repeat business outweighed blackmail and the risk involved. It gave the son satisfaction to know he’d improved on his father’s methods.

  The clouds slid eastward all of a piece, like someone shoving open a door on tracks. The sun was summer-bright, glaring off the impeccably white earth and forcing him to hook on his designer shades. Traffic picked up, the first of a succession of snow-blowers announced itself with a tug and a whirr and another tug and then the kettle-drum tympani of pistons chugging into action. The village plows started on the lesser-used side streets; more privately owned trucks, some with magnetic advertising signs on the sides of the cabs, started in on the parking lots. A white-bearded jasper wearing four kinds of plaid and knee-high boots came out of a house, pulling a box sled containing a power augur and a bouquet of short fishing rods down the sidewalk, headed for some frozen fishing hole; the damn fool thought the ice would be thick enough to support him on the strength of a three-hour cold spell. Roger was reminded it was Sunday, and to linger too long might attract attention from stay-at-home neighbors. But he expected Laurie to come out any time. It was that kind of day, brisk and bright and built for strolling through the dear old village, breathing in the clean air and admiring the holiday decorations. He reached into the backseat to scoop up his camera bag, screwed the long lens onto the Nikon, and with the sun warming the interior of the car sat back to soak it in while he waited.

  * * *

  Macklin said, “What good’s an intelligence professional who can’t provide intelligence?”

  “I wish you’d keep your voice down.”

  “I keep it down for a living. Answer the question.”

  They were sitting in the corner of a dive in Mt. Clemens, a hike north of Detroit, where the chances of their being recognized were small. The bar itself had been shuttered twice for serving alcohol to minors and once for solicitation of prostitution, and reopened by way of an arrangement with an assistant city manager who’d been forced to resign soon after for his understanding nature. It was dark by design, the walls painted forest green and the only illumination courtesy of candle lamps on the tables and the wash from the working light above the bar. The establishment was the local venue of choice for stray spouses and closeted gentry. A CD juke played a succession of 1980s rock, low enough so that the pulse of the basses barely penetrated the murmur of low conversation. The air was a fug of beer and deep-fried carcinogens.

  The man seated across from Macklin was built like an NFL lineman gone to seed. His face, shoulders, and waist were broad, but in such proportion that few people realized just what a tub of lard he was until he stood or sat next to someone of average height and weight. His neck and his head were as much of one piece as a fireplug. To minimize the risk of recognition in that company, he’d left behind his suit and tie—still the FBI uniform forty years after the death of J. Edgar Hoover—and wriggled into XXXL jeans, a muckety-dung sweatshirt, and a lumberman’s jacket with a red-and-black check; a mistake, that coat: It made him look more enormous yet. No wonder he rode a desk. He’d stick out in the field like a parade float.

  “I’m underutilized,” he said. “I’m a federal official with clearance all the way up to the attorney general. I don’t know why I had to drive the hell and gone this far to do something for you that you could get from the Secretary of State’s office in Lansing.”

  “That was the first call I made. There’s no record Roger registered a vehicle in Michigan, and I shouldn’t have to tell you it’s a lot harder to do it under a phony name and Social Security number than it was before nine-eleven. I don’t have contacts in all fifty states. If I did I’d never get through them all in time.”

  “It’s a states’ rights issue. If I pull rank it’ll cause a stink.”

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you I can stink up the place all on my own.”

  “Not without exposing yourself.”

  Macklin laughed rarely, and never when he was truly amused. He did so now. “How you got so high knowing so little is a mystery.”

  The agent turned the beer glass in front of him between his palms. It looked like a thimble by comparison. “Where should I start?”

  Macklin paid for the drinks, slipped an extra sheaf of bills under a paper coaster, and stood, unhooking the windbreaker from the back of his chair. “Florida and Nevada. He’s a snowbird. Get me the make, model, and plate number and I’ll do the rest.” He looked down at the other man. God, he was fat. “You’re sweating for nothing. It isn’t Watergate.”

  “You’re right. No one was killed in Watergate.”

  ME

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I left Laurie to feather the nest I’d scooped out for her and went back to my office to make a call, converting the mai
l under the slot to trash on the way. Barry Stackpole answered on one ring. Caller ID has its blessings as well as its faults.

  “Why are you still haunting that flea palace?” he greeted. “Don’t you know the whole world works at home? They’re storing hay in the Empire State Building.”

  “I ask myself that question first of every month. Then once or twice a year something comes along to answer it. Just now I’m using it to violate a city ordinance.”

  “You can’t fight the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center.”

  “I can spar with it. I need a picture.”

  “Take a selfie.”

  “As close to current a shot as you can get of one Roger Macklin.”

  “Sounds like a baseball player. What’s he done, and when can I shout it to the world?”

  Barry was the last living investigative reporter. Thirty years had passed since he almost lost that title. As it was he came out of it with three limbs, eight fingers, and nine-tenths of his skull. These days he was doing his shouting over the World Wide Web.

  “You’re slipping, cuz. He may be the latest addition to a fine old family firm, but he’s been there long enough to make a few sales.”

  “Macklin, right. We haven’t heard from Peter in a while. Last I heard he was rooting for the Blue Jays.”

  Toronto. “You dog. How long have you and Deb Stonesmith been dating?”

  “She’s married to the chief; the way Sister Mary Immaculata’s married to Jesus. But now and then we run into each other in the line at Krispy Kreme. Seems to me your name came up in that conversation. You don’t call, you don’t write. I’m going to buy you a computer just so I can unfriend you.”

  I let that dangle. “I know the feds have a photo on file at least as recently as when they buried Peter’s ex, because Roger threw a fist at him in the cemetery, but I don’t know how long ago that was.”

  “Sec.” A sound came over the line like dice rattling in a cup, and I knew he was logged in. “Year ago last month. I’ll see if I can dig up something fresher. Am I wasting time asking why?”

  “Only if my obituary shows up before I get back to you.”

  He started to say something else, but I got the razz from the waiting room. Someone had opened the hall door, activating the buzzer. A shadow shapelier than the usual came to the pebbled glass. I made sure Barry had all my current contact numbers, hung up, and told her to come on in.

  “I hope I’m interrupting.” She’d changed from the sweater and slacks into something in rayon or heavy silk, a one-piece dress that showed off her trim athletic figure. “I feel like I’m freeloading on all your hard work and you need a break.”

  “I took mine in October and November. Demand’s down since Bill Gates started giving away information for free.” I rose partway and jerked an elbow toward the chair on the customer’s side. She swept into it and crossed her legs. She wore sheer stockings or possibly Coppertone and low-heeled pumps. I couldn’t identify the scent she wore. Juniper, maybe. Or maybe I was just remembering her good gin.

  “I like your office. It doesn’t stand for any nonsense. No Zen garden, no clickety-click metal balls. My old boss at the travel agency had a putting green and a basketball hoop.”

  “I’d get more mileage out of a firing range, but I don’t have the room. Settled in?”

  “As much as I can be. I think that rollaway is stuffed with Russian thistle.”

  “The CPA on the second floor has a leather recliner. I’ll see if I can borrow it.”

  “Please don’t. I’m enough bother as it is.”

  This was where I should say she was no bother at all. I played with a cigarette and said nothing.

  If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. She stroked one of the chair’s walnut arms. “I suppose you think I’m naïve or stupid or both.”

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  Her smile this time was bitter. “That answers my question. Would it help you make up your mind which if I tell you I still love Peter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I read poetry.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Love and smarts have nothing to do with each other. I think it was Wordsworth said it. Or maybe it was a fortune cookie. I mix them up all the time.”

  “Well, I won’t bore you with a list of Peter’s good traits.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked as if I’d slapped her. Then she decided to get mad. She pushed herself to her feet and smoothed her skirt.

  “Don’t forget to slam the door on your way out,” I said.

  She had her hand on the knob. She turned back, thought about getting madder, then suddenly let out a gust of laughter. She went out, closing the door gently behind her.

  That made three times in one day. Either she was getting positively giddy or I had a stand-up act to fall back on when sleuthing played out.

  I waited for the phone to ring. I didn’t know if Barry would find what I needed in five minutes or five days. I tore the spent days off the daily calendar on the desk and sent it off after last week’s mail. I lit the cigarette. The smoke clawed at my stomach lining and I remembered something. I locked up, went to the tailor’s old office, code-knocked, and waited while she unlocked. I had a key just in case, but I didn’t want to be shot by my own Luger. She’d taken off her shoes. Like most women she’d found a way to turn an industrial space into a country cottage. Her rigid suitcase stood on end next to the rollaway, supporting a gooseneck lamp I recognized from Rosecranz’s office. A gauzy pink scarf embroidered with yellow buds was draped over the copper shade, diffusing the harsh light.

  There were other improvements. A thick woolen blanket covered the rollaway with a giant pillow on top of it. Either one took up too much space to have come in her bag.

  “If you came to forgive me, I accept,” she said.

  I didn’t have anything half so clever, so I watched it walk the waters.

  “The fairy godmother’s been in, I see. That spread doesn’t go with anything in that supply closet the old Cossack hangs out in.”

  “He went out and bought them for me. Wasn’t that sweet?”

  “Like borscht. On that subject, it just hit me I haven’t had anything to eat since some Chicken of the Sea sushi last night. Want to catch a bite?”

  “That drive through the Yukon wore me out. Why don’t you wake me up and surprise me with something?”

  “You’ve got only yourself to blame if it turns out to be liver and onions.”

  “Love ’em.”

  I pulled my head out of the room and waited until I heard the lock snap. Considering how she loved in general, liver and onions came as no surprise.

  * * *

  The Hockeytown Cafe on Woodward laid out a takeaway spread of burgers, barbecue, and deli sandwiches that could stop your heart just by reading the menu. I bought a meatball sub, a lean Reuben, a pulled-pork sandwich, a quart of coleslaw and a quart of potato salad, and stopped at a market on John R for a six-pack of Purple Gang, a local brew, from the coldcase. It wouldn’t go to waste even if she didn’t like beer.

  When she didn’t answer her door after the second knock, I took a chance and used the key. I opened the door just far enough to see she was lying on her side under the woolen blanket, stirring it with the even action of her lungs. She was smiling in her sleep. She’d said to wake her, but unlike the case with a nightmare you can never pick up a good dream where you left off. I eased the door shut and carried the greasy bag and carton down the hall into my waiting room, where someone was waiting who I really didn’t want to see.

  TWENTY-SIX

  He was sitting on the padded bench, reading a magazine from the assortment I set out to make the place look uptown, folded back to the middle. From what I saw of his face under the brim of his winterweight Trilby, his lips didn’t move.

  “Working Sundays,” he said. “Lord’s day off; tsk-tsk.”

  “You, too, Detec
tive. No rest for the worried.”

  He snapped the magazine shut and swatted it with his free hand. “We’re going to war in Iraq, it says here. Old Uncle Saddam’s in for a spanking.”

  “Funny, Detective. It may not be this month’s Vogue, but I don’t keep them around any longer than a term in the Senate.” I wrestled the six-pack under the arm supporting the sack of food and shook out my keys.

  Stan Kopernick looked up. The heavy handsome jaw was working, but I didn’t think he had any gum. “Expecting company?”

  “Me and my reflection in a beer bottle. I’m past due addressing my Christmas cards. If I don’t get ’em in the mail before closing, they’ll be late.”

  “You don’t have that many friends. All the time I’m sitting here I heard your phone ring once.”

  A muscle jumped in my cheek. If Barry had called back and left a message, he might have heard it. On the other hand, Barry never put anything on the record that might be overheard and put to use.

  “Marketing. You know, ‘Wishing you a season without a case to crack. A. Walker Investigations.’”

  “Sounds counterproductive.”

  “It’s a subliminal message. Come on in. Meatballs or corned beef? I’m saving the pulled pork for myself.”

  He rose to his full height, patting his thick hard stomach. The camel’s-hair coat hung open over what looked like the same blue suit. “Jenny Craig’s got me on a low-carb diet: Fitness review next month. But I’ll take some suds.”

  Inside the office, he raised his head an inch, and with it the bold nose; sniffed. “I thought you was a Scotch man. Gin’s a cheap drunk.”

  “There’s no such thing.” I wasn’t fooled for a minute. He bought that the juniper scent came from a liquor store the way I bought the Ambassador Bridge.

  “You got a message.” He pointed at the light blinking on the answering machine.