La Donna Detroit

by Jon A. Jackson

Qui Vive

  Mulheisen trudged back to the village through the pouring rain. He went to the little tavern, the Shamrock Pub. It was next to the Mercantile, part of the same white clapboard building. It had living quarters above it. The bartender was Casey Gallagher, also the proprietor of the “Merc,” as Mulheisen had already learned to call the store. The two enterprises shared an arched passageway with old-fashioned swinging tavern doors. Gallagher moved from one location to the other to take care of customers.

  Mulheisen had a welcome double shot of Jack Daniel’s, at a hearty five dollars American. He hadn’t been drinking much lately, for some reason. It tasted good. There was nobody else in the bar, which was just a long room with a jukebox and several old framed photos of sailboats and fishing tugs on the walls, a pressed-tin ceiling. When there were no customers in the Merc, Casey stayed to chat. Casey was a wiry fellow of middle age with a mustache. He was happy to talk about hockey. He was a Toronto Maple Leafs fan. He was delighted that the Red Wings had thought they’d bought the Stanley Cup, paying far too much for players like Shanahan and Fedorov, to say nothing of Chelios, only to fall in the second round. The Leafs had battled to the third round, at least, on a quarter of the payroll.

  No, he hadn’t seen any Detroiters around, although it was early in the season. They’d show up when the weather got warm. Mostly fishermen, boaters. Sure, he knew Doc White, helluva woman. Her folks had lived out here, off-islanders, from down below. They’d retired here. The old man had been a factory worker, at Massey-Ferguson, in Hamilton. Been gone about five years, and now the old lady had died. He hoped Doc White would stick around, not go back up to the Indians, as was rumored.

  “Not much of a practice for her out here,” Mulheisen ventured.

  “Oh, I don’t know. She’s about retirement age herself, eh?” Casey observed. “She’s got plenty to do. Besides the surgery, she’s online, you know. She consults with some of these tribes up north. She can do that from here, advise the resident nurse, or paramedical people, you know. Not bad, eh? She can live in a healthy place like ‘Shypoke’ ’stead of the blackfly country, and do her doctoring on-line.”

  Mulheisen agreed that was quite a deal. He went back to the inn for a bowl of chowder and read an interesting book that Jean gave him, on the history of the lake country, the coureurs de bois, the independent fur traders. He wished he had thought to bring the book on Le Pesant. The story fascinated him, with its bizarre resonance in the DiEbola case. He reflected that, like the Algonquians, DiEbola seemed to live by an entirely different code from the conventional notion of justice. Perhaps that was unfair to the Indians, however. They were not, after all, people without a conscience, without a recognizable moral code. Quite the opposite. Whereas DiEbola, from what Mulheisen knew of him, was a man whose code, if he could be said to have one, was strictly personal, a law unto himself. For him, the concept of crime was apparently irrelevant: he did what he wanted.

  He was confident that DiEbola had at least been here, and might still be. He had no idea why and he wasn’t too concerned. He hadn’t a warrant for his arrest, but he didn’t consider that a problem. No doubt he could call McPherson when and if documents seemed necessary.

  In these and other thoughts he spent a pleasant afternoon. He hadn’t taken much time to relax lately, he realized. He contemplated his recent living adjustments in Detroit, wondered if he’d made a mistake moving in with Becky. Complications. One minute she chided him for calling to say he wouldn’t be home, the next she wanted to be informed about his movements. But it was interesting, he thought. He’d been getting stale, no social life. No sex life, either. This was definitely an improvement on that score. But who knew what lay down that road?

  He supposed he’d also made a mistake in coming up here, if this turned out to be only a stopover visit on DiEbola’s flight. A waste of time, wild-goose chase. Still, the woman had obviously been in contact with DiEbola. She might give some hint about where he’d gone next. That would be worth something. He imagined that they had established some kind of on-line relationship, if what Helen had told him about DiEbola’s interest in the Internet was pertinent. The modern thing. What a world, he thought: a mobster meets his childhood crush again, on-line. He had no idea, really, what such a relationship entailed. He’d read about so-called chat rooms, but what were they? Lonely people sitting at a computer late at night, typing messages to one another, discussing topics of interest. He’d heard there were even Web sites for hockey fans, discussing the latest trades, that sort of thing. It sounded pitiful. Still, if you were on an island in Lake Huron, or up in the bush, the Net must seem like a window on the world.

  Dr. Ivy White showed up on time. She wore a dress and her hair was brushed, although it was a little disheveled from the rain hat she’d taken off on entering. She had even put on some makeup. She wore her Wellingtons, however.

  They sat in the lounge. Other guests were playing cards. Mulheisen and the doctor were served coffee. The conversation got off on a more comfortable tack than earlier, at the house. She quickly confirmed that she had been in communication with DiEbola on the Net. She called him Bert, which it seemed had been his name of choice in his youth. She claimed to be familiar with his reputation, but she also asserted that it was undeserved.

  To Ivy White, Bert was a misunderstood man. He was bright, a talented entrepreneur and businessman who had survived a rocky youth to achieve success. Given his background and the milieu in which he’d grown up, it was not surprising that he’d had some difficulties with the law, early on. But he had risen above that, she felt. She didn’t expect Mulheisen to believe her, she said. A policeman was bound to believe that young toughs never really reformed. But in her experience among the indigenous peoples, she’d seen firsthand a paradigm of how the greater society can affect, initially, expectations among the underprivileged and, later, through its misunderstanding of their different attitudes and behavior, the sense of self-worth of those same individuals.

  In simpler terms, she said, the tribal people she’d worked with had struggled constantly with this problem. It had been a revelation to her, she said. The dominant society wanted everybody to conform, she saw. When they persisted in pursuing their traditional activities they were treated as outlaws. And even when they chose to play the white man’s game, their accomplishments were denigrated. She thought that something like that had been Bert’s burden, as well. But he’d risen above it. He’d carved out his own, unique niche and style.

  Mulheisen hardly knew where to begin. He’d rarely encountered anyone so naive. It was all well and good, he said, to talk about different cultural values, discrimination, and so on. He went along with a lot of those notions himself, maybe most of them. But few societies, he said, accept blatantly criminal behavior as proper, tolerable, or even justified. A society that did that was a criminal society, he said. Mindful of his recent reading, he said that he understood that the indigenous peoples had a different way of dealing with aberrant behavior than modern Western cultures, but he reckoned they were no more tolerant of crime, especially violent crime. When it came to protecting their society and culture, they did deal with it.

  But he didn’t want to get into a philosophical or sociological discussion, he said. He just wanted to caution her about accepting Bert’s version of his activities uncritically.

  “You seem to think that DiEbola is just an ordinary businessman,” he said, “maybe a little rough, or tough, but essentially one who contributes to the general economy, providing jobs, capital, and so on. I have evidence of a different kind of activity. Until very recently, this man sat at the very top of a criminal combine in Detroit and the surrounding area. He oversaw activities like drug dealing, prostitution, massive organized theft, loan-sharking, intimidation of ordinary citizens to obtain payments to avoid physical harm. And at the heart of it all is murder. That’s what drives it all. They murder people for, among other reasons, the benefit of enforcing all other activities.”

  “I’m n
ot so naive as you think,” Dr. White said. “Those activities exist in all complex societies. There are always those who perform those activities. But I can’t believe that Bert is a ruthless murderer, some kind of fiend. He may have transgressed, to some degree. People who hope to survive in those societies have to make accommodations. You can only hope that you don’t have to compromise too much.”

  They went on in this vein for some time, rather spiritedly, until Mulheisen tired of the academic argument and simply showed his cards. “I have evidence that your Bert murdered at least half a dozen other men either personally or with the assistance of accomplices. He was there. He ordered deaths. In a couple of cases, at least, I’m sure he did the murder himself.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  “Why is it so difficult to believe? If you came to Detroit, I could show you the evidence. What do I have to do to make you think otherwise?”

  “I’ve seen him,” she blurted out. “I’ve talked to him. He’s wounded. The people who did those things want to kill him, because he opposed them. He’s fleeing for his life. I have to help him.”

  20

  Radio Silence

  Joe explained to Pollak that he knew Roman. He would go in and find out what was going on. In the meantime, maybe Pollak should follow the doctor, see what she was up to.

  “There’s only one place she can go,” Pollak said, “to the village. Must be she’s going to see Mulheisen. Let’s go in and see if DiEbola’s here.”

  But Joe argued against that. “Why do that? No point in showing yourself to Roman, if DiEbola’s not around. Besides, maybe she’s got a nurse here, or a housekeeper. You can keep an eye on the path, warn me if the doc comes back.”

  Pollak thought about that for a moment, then said, “She’ll be going to the hotel, or some such place, won’t she? I can’t exactly walk in and stand around unnoticed. Folks’ll want to know where I came from.”

  “It can’t be that small an island,” Joe pointed out. “What the hell, you’re supposed to be some kind of superagent. Figure it out!”

  Pollak stubbornly said, “I’ll just see where she goes. I’ll be back toot sweet.” He took off down the trail.

  Joe slipped into the house as quickly as he could. Roman confronted him in the hallway, his massive revolver in hand. But as soon as he recognized Joe his face lit up.

  “Joe! You come back! The boss’ll be happy.”

  “How is he?” Joe asked.

  “No good, Joe.” Roman shook his head grimly. “He ain’t gonna make it.”

  “The wound?”

  Roman nodded. “What you doin’ here?”

  “I’ve got to see him,” Joe said. “The feds are onto him. He’s got to get out of here.”

  Roman shook his head. “Don’t t’ink so, Joe. He’s in here.” He led Joe to the door of the bedroom.

  Joe stopped. “Roman, there’s a guy with me. He went down to the town, to make sure the doctor was out of the way. He’s a fed, Roman. He thinks I’m cooperating. If he comes back, don’t make a fuss, but keep an eye on him, okay?”

  “Joe, you ain’t wit’ the feds?”

  “No, no, don’t worry. It’s just a gag. Just keep an eye on him, all right?”

  Humphrey was in the guest bedroom, downstairs. He was in bed, a large one with a brass bedstead. The doctor had rigged an I.V. for him. He didn’t look good. His eyes were red and his mouth appeared dry, he had a yellowish tinge of jaundice. Joe was shocked. When he’d dropped him off he’d been stiff and sore, needing Roman’s help, but he certainly hadn’t looked like this.

  “Slim,” he called to him, “it’s me, Joe. What’s the prob, guy? You don’t look so good.”

  Humphrey opened his eyes. They were yellow. “Joe,” he said, hoarsely, “how you doin’, kid? Ain’t this the shits? That fuckin’ Mongelo, he killed me. Or maybe it was the guard, John. That ricochet. How’s Helen? She okay?”

  “She’s fine, Slim. But you don’t look so good. Listen, I got kind of boxed in by the feds. One of them’s here. I had to bring him. Sorry.”

  “It don’t matter, kid.” Humphrey closed his eyes. He groaned as if to himself. He made an effort and said, “I shouldn’t have come. It was a dumb idea. A little unfinished business. I thought Ivy deserved…. But she ain’t the same broad, Joe. I don’t know what I thought.” He moved his head slightly, in a negative way. “She’s wacko,” he said, after a moment. “Plus, she ain’t exactly Ivy. She’s … old.” He made a gurgling noise, as if laughing. Then he groaned.

  “Slim, take it easy,” Joe said. “Listen, I got the boat. I can get you out of here. It’ll be a hassle, but we could split, maybe go some warm place, lots of sun. You’ll get better. There’s doctors.”

  “What about the fed?” Humphrey said.

  “I don’t know, I’ll take care of him.”

  “You’re a good kid,” Humphrey said, “but I don’t think I’m goin’ nowhere.”

  Joe heard a noise in the hall. He straightened up. Pollak came into the room, pushing Roman ahead of him. He had Roman’s revolver in one hand, the Heckler & Koch in the other.

  “Stand over there,” Pollak said to Roman. Then he came over to the bed and looked down at DiEbola. “Well, the big boss,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Looks like he’s in a bad way.”

  “He can’t be moved, not by us, anyway,” Joe said. “We’ll have to get a chopper or something in here.”

  Pollak shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. He stuffed Roman’s pistol into his coat pocket, then checked the safety on the H&K.

  Humphrey looked at the agent, then looked at Joe.

  Joe lifted a hand, as if to halt Pollak. “Just a minute,” he said.

  “Sure, Joe,” Pollak said reasonably. He rested the muzzle of the submachine gun on his free arm. “We’ve got a minute. What’s on your mind? You got a problem here?”

  “This looks a little weird,” Joe said. “I mean, what’s the doc gonna say when she comes back here and finds him?”

  “Well, if she doesn’t come back too soon, I don’t see a problem,” the agent said. He talked as if DiEbola were not listening.

  “What about Roman?” Joe said.

  Pollak looked at Roman, standing at the foot of the bed, watching the scene impassively. “I tell you what,” Pollak said. “Actually, this is good. Here.” He hauled Roman’s gun out of his pocket and held it out toward Joe. As he did so, the barrel of the H&K came up, covering Joe. “Go ahead, take it,” he said. “You can pop the monster with it, then pop him.” He gestured at Roman with the H&K. “It’ll look like … well, who knows what it’ll look like? Let the mounties figure it out.”

  Joe took the bulky revolver from him. “What if the doc comes back before we get out of here?” he said. “She might have Mulheisen with her.”

  “Well, if we stand around here talking much longer …” Pollak said. “But let’s hope she doesn’t. Three bodies are already too many.”

  Joe wasn’t sure if he’d heard that right. Three bodies? Did he mean to include Dr. White, anyway? Or was it a slip? Was there some other third body? He didn’t want to debate this point. He laid the revolver down on the bed.

  “I don’t think so,” Joe said.

  Pollak shrugged. “Whatever. I can do it.”

  Humphrey scrabbled weakly at the pistol on his blanket. Pollak hastily reached to stop him.

  It was a dreamlike moment for Joe—a very familiar dream. As if in slow motion Joe found his automatic in his hand. This time he didn’t even think but shot the agent in the face. The bullet struck Pollak in the center of his forehead.

  The dead man spun backward, knocking into a lamp, a chair. But imperturbably, Roman strode around the bed and caught the corpse, still upright. He snatched a towel from a nearby stand and wrapped it quickly and neatly about the man’s head.

  Joe blinked and glanced down at Humphrey. They looked at each other, amazed. Then Joe walked casually around the bed and helped Roman hol
d the body upright. “I got ’im, Joe,” Roman said, and began to drag the body toward the door, his arms wrapped about the man’s upper torso.

  Joe stuffed his gun in one pocket, bent, and retrieved the H&K. When he went to the bed and picked up Roman’s heavy revolver he looked at Humphrey. His mouth was ajar. “Jeez,” Humphrey croaked. “Ivy’ll shit.”

  Joe laughed. “I’ll straighten it up,” he said. “Be right back.” He and Roman hauled the body outside and over to the cliff.

  “I got ’im,” Roman said. “It’s easier this way.” He hoisted the body onto his shoulders and started down the path.

  Joe returned to the bedroom and very quickly set things aright. There was no blood that he could see. Roman had moved so quickly. But the room still reeked of gunfire.

  “Open a window,” Humphrey said.

  “You think?”

  “It’ll be okay. You better git goin’.”

  Joe opened a window. The curtains billowed in, so he lowered it halfway. He looked to Humphrey. “That all right?”

  “It’s fine,” Humphrey said. “Thanks, kid.”

  “I’m outta here, Slim,” Joe said. “Take care.”

  Humphrey grasped his hand. “You too. Take care of Helen. And Roman. Get outta here.” His hand dropped to the cover.

  Joe caught up with Roman halfway down the steep path. Together they lugged the body down to the beach, battered by the wind and rain, cursing every step of the way. On the beach they attempted to carry him more or less upright, gripping an arm around their shoulders, but Joe was enough shorter than Roman that it proved too clumsy. Finally, Roman once again simply hoisted the man onto his shoulders in the fireman’s carry and hauled him to the boat. There they managed to manhandle the corpse onto the boat, getting thoroughly wet in the process.

  “You know, Roman,” Joe said, “there’s no point in going back up there. You’ve done all you could for Humphrey. Better than you did for Big Sid. This makes up for it.”

  Roman nodded.

  “Helen’s going to need a guy like you,” Joe said. “Cast off.”