La Donna Detroit

by Jon A. Jackson

  DiEbola sat and stared at the console. He could hear Helen’s steady breathing. He imagined her lithe young body, sated with sex, lying warm and moist, curled in her bed. He had a great aching desire to go in to her. He would slip off his silk pajamas and crawl into the warm nest of her bed. Would she reject him? He was not sure. He could practically feel her slim, almost childish arms about his neck, her teasing little hands. Oh, how he wanted to go to her. But he could not.

  Now why was that, he wondered. Why exactly? Presumably, he could do anything he wanted in his own house. He had, in fact, just murdered a man. A man he actually liked and considered a kind of protégé. A man, in fact, whom he had until recently considered worthy of his trust to the point that he had been at least tentatively grooming him for succession. But he saw now, of course, that Pepe had not been qualified for that trust, that confidence. Still, from there to the chopping block was a huge step. But he had done it. Only now he couldn’t go in and even “check on” Helen.

  Why not? Because she would be annoyed. And he would have no credible excuse. He wasn’t sure if he could even speak, or if his hands would tremble.

  Well, he was a patient man. Also a bold man. This night’s work could undo him. But he wasn’t worried. He contented himself with the thought that no matter how agonizing his desire, he was strong enough to wait it out. The ability to postpone gratification was, he thought, the very essence of genuine being. It was self-mastery, wisdom, power … just about everything.

  He forced himself to concentrate on details. He had disposed of everything—body in one hole in the ice, clothes in another, farther out. The rest of it, the sheet, the head, the hands, those were safely tucked away in a bag that, tomorrow, would find its way into the incinerator at the plant. By now, the ice would have closed the holes, the wind would have blown the snow over the tracks of himself and the toboggan.

  He went back upstairs and packed Pepe’s bags, including the guns and the wallet, all the personal items. That took him a good long while, but no one disturbed him. He wadded up the rest of the bedding and left it on the bed for the maids to take care of. Pepe would probably have done that, he thought. Then he carried the bags downstairs and set them in the anteroom. In the morning, Itchy could take them to the airport. Perhaps it would be a good idea if Itchy took a little vacation, Florida perhaps, or even the islands. He could work out those details on his way to the Krispee Chips factory tomorrow. It would be done, he was confident.

  He decided to rely on the alarm system and toddled off to bed without recalling John to the console. They could resume their usual routine when the morning crew arrived.

  4

  Busy Life

  Roman Yakovich had heard a saying in his youth in the Old Country: Even a simple life ends sadly, but a busy life is all pain. Roman had tried to live a simple life, but these were busy times. Still, he had tried. He had devoted himself to a smarter friend, Sid Sedlacek. He thought that if he just did what Big Sid said things would be less complicated. To an extent, it worked: Big Sid’s clever maneuverings had brought them through the war and to the United States, to prosperity. In Detroit, however, people didn’t seem to agree with the old saying. These were upbeat, can-do kind of people—they loved complications. Life hadn’t turned out as simple as Roman had hoped, but it was easier than it might have been.

  But now Big Sid was dead, slain by an assassin’s bullet. In the nature of things, given that Big Sid was a gangster, this seemed all but inevitable. Still, Roman took it hard, although he didn’t show it, of course. The fact was, he felt rather to blame for not protecting Sid, although it was not his fault at all. Roman had not been with Sid at the fatal moment.

  And then, besides his normal bereavement, Roman felt a powerful sense of loss of occupation. Fortunately, Roman still had Big Sid’s aged widow, Soke—no older than himself, actually, just sixty-five, but seemingly an ancient woman—to look after. That helped. They lived a quiet life on a quiet street in a huge house, a life that was now as simple as anyone could wish. They went for walks. Not very far. The neighborhood had declined into a drastic poverty, except for this block, which made it dangerous. But Sid was well armed and, anyway, they walked in careless ignorance of danger. The walks were short because Mrs. Sid was a dumpy, gray woman. Her legs weren’t good. They walked to the end of the long block on which they lived, near Grosse Pointe, stopping at Kercheval Avenue and walking back. Roman drove her to the Serbian Orthodox church on Eight Mile Road, to the special grocery store in Hamtramck, where she got imported foods. She still cooked for him, heavy Serbian meals of pierogi, sarma, dumplings stuffed with liver paste.

  The dozens of people who used to come for the Sunday meals— all-day buffet, actually—came no more. And the little angel who had brightened their lives no longer appeared. Little Helen, the only child of Big Sid and Mrs. Sid, was in trouble. She had run away with a dashing young man named Joe Service, who was some kind of trouble-shooter for Big Sid’s one-time associates. Little Helen and Joe Service had disappeared after the death of the mob boss, Carmine. Helen had visited at Christmas, but she had stayed at the home of the new boss, Humphrey DiEbola, the one they used to call the Fat Man, although he was no longer fat. This might have seemed a scandal, and it upset Soke, but Roman understood that Helen’s stay with Mr. DiEbola was of a business nature, and he calmed her mother with that. And then Helen had gone back out West.

  She wasn’t gone long. She reappeared in time for the Eastern Orthodox Christmas. Mrs. Sid was very happy and Helen seemed glad to be home, but Roman could see she was in trouble. He didn’t ask any questions. He just made sure her room was comfortable and he took both the ladies shopping for Christmas, buying presents and lots of food. And then he called Mr. DiEbola, just in case he wasn’t aware of Helen’s reappearance.

  Mr. DiEbola was very grateful. “The poor kid, she’s had a bad time, Roman,” he’d said. “Listen, I want to help her. She needs help. Let her settle down, relax. But keep me informed. You did good. If she calls anybody, see if you can find out who she’s talking to. Some of these people she’s been screwing around with, they aren’t good friends. They don’t look out for her like we would. She’s just a young woman, practically alone in the world, now that her papa’s gone. But we can help her. In a few days I’ll come by, see what I can do. If she looks like she’s running away again, let me know, right away. She’s a little confused right now, don’t know who her real friends are.”

  And after a few days, as he’d promised, Mr. DiEbola came around. He was slimmer than Roman had remembered him. He’d lost a lot of weight. Probably, now that he was the big boss, he was worrying too much. It was a difficult thing, running a large and complicated enterprise like the business. But he looked healthy, younger even.

  Little Helen didn’t seem unhappy to see him, but Roman could see she was anxious. She and Mr. DiEbola went into her papa’s study and when they came out, an hour later, she seemed more cheerful. She no longer looked to Roman for support. She even patted his arm and said that everything was all right. So that was good, Roman supposed. He would never allow anything to hurt the little angel.

  That same afternoon, Helen moved back to DiEbola’s house on the Lake Saint Clair shore. It wasn’t far from home, just a few miles, but it was a significant move. She visited her mother at least once a week, and occasionally Roman would drive the old lady to visit at Mr. DiEbola’s house, especially when the weather got better. Spring had come early. It was still chilly, except for occasional days when it was nice enough to walk down to the shore across the huge lawn and sit on folding chairs on the deck that had a roof of exposed beams. Helen would bring a cashmere blanket and a shawl for her mother. Servants would bring coffee and even a decanter of slivovitz for Roman. Mr. DiEbola was dashing in a colorful windbreaker. Roman wore, as always, a heavy black wool suit and a white shirt and tie. He also wore the handsome checked wool cap that Helen had given him for Christmas. It sat so well on his large, square head and made him feel g
ood.

  He was pleased to see that Helen was happier and that she got along so well with the man she used to call “Unca Umby.” There was something about her flirtatious manner with DiEbola, however, and his too eager acceptance of it, that disquieted Roman. But he decided it was just her lighthearted, girlish way and he dismissed it.

  Still, all was not gaiety. Earlier, when Helen had first moved to DiEbola’s, Roman and Mrs. Sid had visited a couple of times and they had been introduced to an interesting young man from Mexico, a fellow who was apparently Mr. DiEbola’s cook. This Pepe had become more than a cook, it seemed. He was doing something at Mr. DiEbola’s potato chip factory, but Roman wasn’t sure what it was. But he joined them for coffee and drinks, at that time. Now, however, when the winter was ending, Roman never saw him. He didn’t ask about Pepe, because he sensed that it was not a topic that would be welcomed. In his idle moments in his room (Roman had moved into the house from his old room over the carriage house, to be handy for Mrs. Sid, in case she felt ill), when he was not watching a hockey game on television, Roman would wonder if there hadn’t been some romantic trouble with Pepe. It had been clear that there was some sort of attraction between Pepe and Helen and that Mr. DiEbola wasn’t too pleased about it, although nothing was ever said and no incident had occurred in Roman’s presence. Now that he thought about it, however, Roman supposed that Mr. DiEbola had sent Pepe packing.

  As for Joe Service, his name was never mentioned. Roman had met him only once. That was after the death of Big Sid. Roman had been told to cooperate with Service, who was investigating the death of Big Sid. He seemed like a good fellow to Roman and he had gotten along very well with Helen, to be sure. Too well. When they had disappeared after the assassination of Carmine, Roman felt bad about it. He thought maybe he should have warned Helen about these young guys who come waltzing into town, no attachments, acting like they own the world. But, he had reasoned at the time, she was not a little girl anymore. She had to learn about these heartbreaking Lotharios. And her heart had been broken, he was sure. But she had survived. She seemed very happy now. The thing that bothered him, though, was that she should be so … well, flirty with Mr. DiEbola. The man was almost as old as Roman! He was no Joe Service, who, despite the misery he had evidently caused the little angel, was a more appropriate match for her.

  Roman wasn’t sure how to deal with this development, but it was a complication. He hated complication. He decided to stay out of it. Keep your mouth shut. Drive the old lady around, do the shopping. Play cards when you’re asked. Otherwise, watch television, root for the Red Wings, despite their awful dependence on those Russian players.

  Roman wasn’t worried about little Helen. She might be small, but she was dynamite. He laughed to himself in his room, thinking of the word dynamite. He wasn’t any genius with words, but he liked the combination of mite with the notion of explosiveness. That described little Helen, all right. A dynamic mite. He could pick her up with one hand. When she was a child she would ask him to do just that, delighting to perch on his outstretched hand. She shot around like a little rocket, all over the place, screeching like a devil. She would hide in the shrubbery while he blundered about, searching for her, then suddenly streak away out of the corner of his eye, disappearing around the carriage house, her squeals of laughter hanging in the air.

  Now she was a woman, all right, with heavy black hair that incongruously featured a silver streak rising from her pale forehead. She wasn’t a lot bigger than a child, however. And Joe Service wasn’t a lot bigger than her, so maybe their attachment was natural and reasonable, Roman thought. Two perfectly made small people, very handsome, very well matched. They were grown-ups who still possessed much of the innocence and delight of children. Roman was sorry now that it hadn’t worked out.

  Unlike Roman Yakovich, Detective Sergeant Mulheisen was very much a Detroiter. Problems were his bread and butter. But lately, however, like Roman he had a desire for a more peaceful existence. In Mulheisen’s case, this took the form of burying himself in routine. He’d been running around all over the country, out to Montana, Colorado, and points in between, in pursuit of Joe Service and Helen Sedlacek. He’d finally run Service to ground in Colorado and seen him safely confined to a hospital there, awaiting recovery, questioning, and, he hoped, a trial. Now, he felt, he could turn his attention to precinct work, catch up. This wouldn’t last long, he was sure, but while it did, he was happy to immerse himself in local issues.

  One major problem was definitely local: according to Chapter 3, Section 48, of the police manual, he was required to reside in the city of Detroit, an issue that he and numerous white officers had dodged for years. His boss (formerly his assistant), Captain Jimmy Marshall, had just informed him that the rule could no longer be ignored.

  Earlier, Mulheisen had kept an apartment in the city, but for some time now he had lived in his childhood home, in nearby Saint Clair Flats, with his widowed mother. It was a convenient arrangement for both of them. She was rarely at home, often away for extended bird-watching jaunts or lobbying for some environmental cause. In theory, it was comforting and convenient to have one’s policeman son around to mow the lawn, move furniture, and keep the burglars out. For him, it meant free housekeeping and even the occasional meat loaf.

  Now the department had cracked down. Once he became resigned to the move, Mulheisen didn’t mind. To his surprise neither, apparently, did his mother. High school kids could be hired to mow lawns and shovel snow; machines could answer the phone. Mul had never mowed the lawn once, could not program an answering machine, and often forgot to turn off the coffeemaker. Perhaps burglars had avoided the house—assuming they knew it was a cop’s house— but they were welcome to take what they wanted, if they were into monochrome TVs, furniture that was antique but not valuable, old tennis rackets, and boxes of unused housedress fabric.

  Mulheisen had looked at an apartment near the Cultural Center. It was small, but it had considerable advantages. It was located in the heart of the city, in an area undergoing extensive renewal and some gentrification. It was the upstairs back in a four-flat brick mansion. All newly remodeled. He could walk to the new ballpark, Comerica Park, or whatever they were calling it, when it opened. It had a tiny bedroom with a closet about the size of a refrigerator, a combination living room–dining room–kitchen, a bath with a new shower and tub combo. Not a lot of room, but maybe he didn’t need so much. The rent was reasonable, he thought, at twelve hundred dollars a month.

  As for work, there was plenty of it in the Ninth Precinct. For instance, with the breakup of the ice on Lake Saint Clair, some kids throwing rocks at the spectacular ice jam on the Detroit River had discovered a body. Not an ordinary drowning, for sure. This body had no head and no hands. The corpse had been badly mangled by the ice. According to the medical examiner, Doc Brennan, the body had been deposited on the ice several weeks before the breakup.

  It was a male, in good physical condition at demise, aged about twenty-five to possibly twenty-nine. Probably about six feet tall, probably weighing about 185 pounds. Mulheisen had absolutely no leads on an identification, but he was a patient man. Something would turn up.

  Besides this case, the precinct had a curious one involving a woman who had been shot while ostensibly holding up a supermarket. And then there was the odd incidence of some troubling E-mail messages received by a young boy in the precinct and addressed to Mulheisen himself. Oh, there was plenty to keep him engaged, all right. And all the while he was keeping one ear cocked, as it were, for news about the recovery of Joe Service, out in Colorado. When Service came out of his coma there would be plenty to do.

  In the meantime, he was busily packing his books for the move. Or rather, he should have been packing. At the moment, he was engrossed in a history book, one he had purchased months before and had glanced at cursorily, only to set it aside and never open it again. He was leaning against a bookcase reading Richard White’s The Middle Ground, despite its daunting subtit
le: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815. He had been in the act of adding the book to a box of other history books marked READ, SOON! when he made the fatal mistake of opening it. He had been standing like this for fifteen minutes, but now he absentmindedly shifted some other books off an easy chair and sat down.

  He had innocently looked up what White had to say about Pontiac, one of Mulheisen’s abiding interests. White’s analysis of that historical figure was somewhat at odds with Mulheisen’s own, though by the end of White’s comments it appeared that they weren’t so far apart. Just out of curiosity, he’d turned to another figure from early Detroit history whose name had also been borrowed by General Motors: Antoine Laumet de La Mothe, Sieur de Cadillac, the founder of Detroit.

  The passage that so engrossed him was an account of what appeared to be the first murder in Detroit history. The aboriginal people gathered about Detroit included several tribes. Most, like the Ottawas, were Algonquian people, but some were Iroquoian, such as the Huron-Petuns and the Miamis. In 1706, when this important trading and administrative post was five years old, the Ottawas were warned by a Pottawatomi that when the Ottawa warriors left for a proposed attack on the Sioux, in their absence the Huron-Petuns and Miamis would attack their village. The old Ottawa chief, whom the French called Le Pesant—the Fat One, although he was said to have slimmed down in recent years—counseled a pre-emptive strike on the Huron-Petuns and their allies.

  The Ottawas ambushed a party of Miami chiefs, killed five of them, and then attacked the Miami village, driving the inhabitants into the French fort. The French fired on the attacking Ottawas and killed a young Ottawa who had just been recognized as a war leader. Although the Ottawa leaders tried to prevent any attacks on the French, angry warriors killed a French Recollect priest outside the fort and a soldier who came to rescue him.