Violet Darger (Book 4): Bad Blood

by Vargus, L. T.

  Lombino spoke then, his eyes seeming to fix on Jaworski without looking right at him.

  “After we make the drops, we’ll head back to the bar, right? Carlo will go off to take care of the other, of course, and we can settle up with you. Have a few drinks to wind down.”

  Jaworski swallowed in a dry throat. He didn’t want to go to the Constantine’s. Not now. Not ever. Not after what happened between him and the owner. But what could he do?

  Even after Dan Howard’s death, the bar remained a hub for wise guy activity. The made men drank there. Ate burgers and sucked down milkshakes there. Conducted business in the upstairs apartment which Howard had set up as something of a bachelor pad.

  He couldn’t avoid going back forever. So he nodded at Lombino.

  Two images of Howard’s face flared in his skull, the pictures so vivid, burning so bright they made him clench his teeth.

  The glossy promotional headshot that ran in all of the papers was first. Howard smiled like a chimp in it, Jaworski thought. Dim eyes too close together.

  The second image scalded its way into his head then, burning out everything else, filling the frame, blotting out the first. This one featured Howard slumped in the driver’s seat of his car, the exit wound gaping where his cheek and eye socket used to be, a ragged hole, blood and brains dripping down his nose, sliding down his cheeks, making a red mess out of the dash and steering wheel.

  This was how Jaworski had seen him last, with all that gore drizzling down the front of him.

  Chapter 21

  Huettemann waited in his car in the parking lot of a small strip mall in Hamtramck. The stores were all closed, their lights turned out and their front windows barred with security gates. All but the place on the end — a donut shop. He could see two men inside, clad in white aprons and hairnets. The night bakers, he figured by the outfits. They were leaning against the front display case, shooting the shit. Huettemann supposed they had a lot of time to kill when the various confections were resting or rising or baking in the oven. Probably wouldn’t be such a bad job, really.

  His eyes fell to the digital clock display on his dash. He expected Detective Blankenship to arrive any moment, and then they’d head off for their shift of watching Constantine’s. A stake-out. Huettemann had never actually done one before, and a nervous thrill ran through his belly at the thought of it.

  He’d only ever gotten that feeling once or twice on the job. He’d been in a chase once as a rookie. A drunk driver. The guy crashed right into the living room of a house when he missed a turn going 95 miles an hour. No one inside was hurt, and the driver somehow walked away without a scratch, but the crash completely destroyed the homeowner’s aquarium. It had apparently been filled with very rare and expensive tropical fish, and the guy was furious.

  This whole mafia thing felt like something out of a TV show. It was serious business, he knew. A man was dead. A man he’d known, at least from afar. It wasn’t all fun and games. But even so, he couldn’t stop the excited pitter-pat of his heart. The jittery shake of his hands.

  He was glad he didn’t work down here all the time and felt a little guilty thinking that way. And maybe a little cowardly. But it was the truth. He knew someone had to do it, but he was glad as hell it wasn’t him. And he wasn’t at all excited that the violence of the city had seemed to seep northward into his jurisdiction.

  He told old-of-towners he was from Detroit all the time, but after spending the last day or so down here, he’d started to realize that wasn’t true at all. He’d been born and raised north of the city, in Rochester Hills. The suburbs couldn’t be further removed from the real city. And he realized, too, that he’d known that all along, on some level.

  The truth was, he liked that it made him sound kinda tough, telling people he was from Detroit. And he’d ventured into town now and again in the summer to see the Tigers play. His brother-in-law was a big Red Wings fan — he always bought season tickets and invited him along for a few games as well. If Huettemann was really in the mood to torture himself, he’d go see the Lions.

  In a way, the Lions seemed the perfect reflection of the culture of the city. Here was a place with so much local love for it. So much reverence that should count for something. Everyone said they wanted things to get better. And yet year after year, things just seemed to stay in the same old holding pattern of getting their asses beat.

  He looked up again, saw that one of the bakers in the donut shop was wheeling out a cart laden with fresh goods. He watched the man line up the doughy treats on one of the trays and felt saliva flood his mouth.

  Crap, he was hungry. He’d eaten supper well over three hours ago and hadn’t thought to bring a snack along. Not even something to drink. That was stupid.

  A dark blue Buick rolled into the lot and approached Huettemann’s vehicle, stopping when the driver’s side doors were aligned. The tinted window descended with a whirring sound and Detective Blankenship appeared in the opening.

  “Ready?”

  Huettemann nodded and climbed out, checking the door handle to ensure his vehicle was locked before pocketing the keys. He skirted around the front end of Blankenship’s Buick and lowered himself into the passenger seat. There was a click as he secured his seatbelt.

  Blankenship gestured at a pair of plastic cups taking up residence in the cup holders in the center console.

  “Stopped off at the party store. Grabbed some snacks, coupla pops. Coke, the real deal. Hope that’s OK. I don’t drink that diet shit, and I don’t think anyone else should either. Fuckin’ poison if you ask me.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Huettemann said. He was surprised and sort of touched that Blankenship had thought to bring something for him. “I actually had a bit of a brain fart myself and didn’t bring anything. Not even a drink.”

  “Classic mistake. Gotta bring along provisions. A beverage at the very least. But I like to have some snacks on hand as well. Coupla things to nosh on. I got pretzels and Red Vines. Something crunchy and salty. Something sweet and chewy. Figure that just about covers all the bases. And I’m happy to share.”

  “Thank you,” Huettemann said, almost absurdly grateful. “Snacks will be on me next time.”

  Blankenship smiled at that and put the car in gear.

  They drove the few blocks to the bar, and Huettemann watched the red and blue neon sign pass by in the dark. Blankenship turned onto the next side street, then looped around to the alley behind the main drag. He chose a spot in the overflow parking for a small hardware store, which was closed at this hour like almost every other business on the block aside from the bar. Blankenship reversed into a space next to the store’s dumpster. They had a clear view across the narrow side street into the back lot of Constantine’s.

  Blankenship’s phone blurted out a digital jingle. He put it on speaker when he answered.

  “That you over there, Blankenship?” a voice asked. Huettemann thought he recognized it as Agent Costello.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “You alone?”

  “Nah, I got Deputy Huettemann of the OCSD along.”

  “I was gonna say… the way you were snugging up against that dumpster, I thought you mighta been a couple of necking kids.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Voices laughed on the other end. Huettemann smiled at the ribbing. These guys were no different than those he worked with. Always razzing each other. Teasing and making jokes.

  He wondered sometimes what it was like being a lady on the force. Like that Agent Darger. She seemed like a tough enough cookie, but it occurred to him that it might be kinda lonely for the gals in law enforcement. He was sure they heard the jokes well enough, might even laugh along, but he doubted they could ever really be part of the fraternal stuff, any more than a lady could be part of locker room shenanigans.

  “Anything of interest to report?” Blankenship asked.

  “Nothing. Unless you count a squirrel on a bike.”

  “A what now?”
>
  “Saw a gal ride by — a grown woman, mind you — dressed up like a squirrel. Big floofy tail, little black nose with whiskers, and a headband with some fuzzy ears on top.”

  There was a beat of silence and then Huettemann said, “Sounds kinda nutty.”

  Simultaneous groans erupted from Blankenship and the men on the line.

  “I hope you don’t make a habit out of that,” the detective said. “I’d rather be stuck on a stake-out with a guy fartin’ out the three chili dogs he ate for dinner than someone crackin’ puns all night.”

  Huettemann shrugged apologetically.

  “It’s been quiet, other than that,” the voice on the phone said. “You all set for us to take off then?”

  “Yeah, get the fuck out of here.”

  “Hold up a minute. I need to address the deputy. You hear me over there, Hooterman?”

  “Loud and clear,” Huettemann said, ignoring the mispronunciation of his last name. Costello was only trying to needle him, and he refused to rise to the bait.

  “OK, good. Now, you’re gonna wanna make sure you keep an eye on things if Blanken-slip tries to exit the vehicle at any point. Pay close attention to the gear shift and also to the seat of his pants.”

  Huettemann had no idea what any of it meant, but the men in the other car seemed to find it the height of comedy.

  Blankenship rolled his eyes.

  “You guys are a barrel of laughs.”

  They bid their final farewells and hung up. A moment later, Huettemann saw the headlights on a Mustang parked on the side street flick on. It eased out of the row of cars parked on the curb and proceeded down the lane.

  “What was that Blanken-slip stuff all about?” Huettemann asked.

  Blankenship rocked onto one butt cheek and tugged at the waistband of his pants, trying to get comfortable in his seat.

  “I was part of a joint task force between Wayne County, the FBI, and the DEA a few years back. We were executing a search warrant for a pill mill. You know, a doctor we suspected of writing up bogus prescriptions for opioids and other controlled substances.”

  Huettemann nodded.

  “We’d been doing recon on him for a week, trying to decide how he’d react to us taking him in. He had possible ties to domestic terrorist groups, so there was some concern that he might have access to weapons, even though there were no firearms registered in his name. He was also considered a flight risk. They usually are out here, what with being so close to the border. It’s easy to lose a guy hopping over into Canada. So we made sure we had all our ducks in a row.”

  He reached for his soda and paused to take a slurp.

  “I was on the detail that was raiding his office. My job was to cover the back entrance — the one for employees. We didn’t want him to try to skedaddle out that way when the main team came in through the front with the search warrant. As it turned out, the front door guys got a little hot, didn’t even wait for me to get into position out back. I heard them go banging through the front door over the radio, making a real commotion. And I guess them jumping the gun was sort of contagious. Half in a panic, I hopped out of my vehicle without putting it in park.”

  Already Huettemann was grinning, having some idea of where this story was headed.

  “It was the middle of January. Parking lot was just one big sheet of ice. So as soon as I stepped out, I slipped and fell flat on my ass. And all the while, my car is still in gear. I sort of barrel roll out of the way, concerned it might run right over me, right? Can you imagine being hit by the car you yourself were driving? That’d be a way to go. Anyway, I see that the car’s headed straight for the White Castle next door. So I try to scramble to my feet, but Jesus, the ice is just a bitch, and I fall again. This time, I look up just in time to see my car rolling in slow motion right over the curb and into the drive-thru sign of the White Castle. It really felt like time had actually slowed down, and I was seeing it pass frame-by-frame like a movie. Felt like a bad dream, really. Let’s put it this way, I’m lucky it only hit the sign. Without that sign, it woulda just kept rolling right into the restaurant.”

  Huettemann chuckled and shook his head.

  “What about the warrant? Did they get the guy?”

  “Oh, they got him. And once they had him in custody and set about seizing his records and whatnot, they came around to where I was, wondering what became of me. I’m still standing there, staring at the destruction I’ve caused, not quite believin’ it. I hear a car pull up behind me, and someone calls out and asks what the hell happened. Another car shows up, and they musta been chatting on the horn, because they suddenly start hootin’ and hollerin’ at me. The wind kicked up right then, and I felt a strange breeziness in my lower regions, and that was when I looked around and realized that I’d split my pants right up the back seam. I was just flappin’ in the wind at that point. The guys were laughing so hard I thought they were gonna fall right outta their vehicles and onto the ground.”

  Huettemann had tried to restrain himself from laughing too hard at the story. He generally tried to avoid finding humor at someone else’s misfortunes. But by the end of Blankenship’s tale, he was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

  “Anyway, that happened twelve years ago, and no one has ever let me forget it. I don’t expect they ever will, not until I retire. Hell, not until I die. And even then, they’ll probably find a way to etch it onto my headstone.”

  A black limousine pulled alongside the back lot of Constantine’s and stopped. Huettemann could hear the dull thud of music coming from inside the limo.

  “Now what do we have here?” Blankenship muttered, bringing the pair of binoculars in his lap up to his eyes. He fingered the center knob, adjusting the focus.

  The volume of the music seemed to increase as the side door of the limo opened, and two middle-aged women spilled out of the back seat along with the burbling chorus of a pop song. They clung to each other, giggling, and somehow managed to keep themselves upright. Four more women climbed out behind them, the whole group clad in matching hot pink feather boas.

  Blankenship let out a disappointed grunt and lowered the binoculars.

  “Bachelorette party.”

  Huettemann watched the group mill around the limo, checking phones and applying lipstick. Every one of them seemed absolutely shit-faced.

  “How can you tell?” Huettemann asked.

  The door of the limo still hung open, and the first two women — who appeared to be the most inebriated of all — started to dance. For a while they thrusted and gyrated, but ultimately kept bumping into each other and finally resorted to holding each other up while they swayed from side to side.

  “I mean, they seem a little… old.”

  Blankenship handed over the binoculars.

  “The lady on the far right. She’s wearing a sash. Read what it says.”

  Huettemann squinted into the eyepieces and struggled for a moment to train the lenses on the woman. When he did, he read the words printed across her torso out loud.

  “Buy me a shot, I’m… tying the… knot.”

  He set the binoculars on the dash.

  Finally, the bride-to-be stalked over to where the two boozehounds were attempting a drunken version of the Macarena and shut the door, effectively cutting off their music supply.

  One of the ladies made a pouty face and then raised her hands in the air and hollered something unintelligible. Huettemann could tell it ended with the word forever, but that was about it.

  The other women followed suit, finishing up with a high-pitched chorus of, “Woooooo!”

  Blankenship chuckled.

  “What are they yelling about?”

  “I believe they said, Same penis forever,” Blankenship translated.

  Seeing the confusion on Huettemann’s face, he shrugged.

  “I don’t know either, man.”

  The women disappeared around the corner and the limo rolled further down the street, leaving a strange and empty quiet in
its wake. Blankenship must have felt it, too, because he reached behind his seat and came back with a sleeve of CDs. He plucked a disc from one of the pockets and inserted it into the dash.

  Huettemann recognized the opening guitar riff immediately. It was “Detroit Rock City” by KISS. He glanced over at Blankenship, who had lifted his hands and started playing the air bass, judging by the “doo-bah-dah-dee-doo” sounds coming out of his mouth.

  Catching Huettemann watching, Blankenship dropped the invisible instrument and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Gotta stay loose, right? Limbered up,” Blankenship said. “Ah, geez. Almost forgot.”

  He dug around in the back seat again and brought forth the pretzels and licorice, then set about opening the bags amidst a cacophony of crinkling plastic. He plucked a Red Vine from the bag and popped one end into his mouth like a wilted red cigar. The bag waggled in his hand as he offered it to Huettemann.

  The smell of artificial raspberry filled the small space, and Huettemann helped himself to one of the candy ropes.

  “Thanks,” he said, then took a bite. While he chewed, he settled in for the next few hours of the stake-out.

  Chapter 22

  Dan Howard’s final scene had been weeks in the making. Word got back to the hitman that the bar owner had been hitting on his girl, being none too sly about it, practically catcalling her. Urszula worked at Constantine’s on weekends — his bar — and Howard did these things in public. In front of everybody, including some of the made guys Jaworski fulfilled contracts for.

  The muscles in the hitman’s jaw coiled when he heard these stories, but he shoved the anger down. Waited until he could be sure.

  Jaworski wanted to see for himself, had to know firsthand, so he’d attended some banquet Howard was putting on out in the sticks, at Howard Enterprise’s corporate headquarters. Howard had hired Urszula and a few of the other waitresses as servers for the function.

  By corporate standards, it was a tiny building, located out among cornfields and woods in rural Michigan. Corrugated steel siding panels lined the place in gray-blue ripples. It looked more like a structure that would house tractors than offices. Totally nondescript. Apparently they conducted a multi-million dollar business out of this humble setting, but apart from the ridiculous helipad on the roof, you’d never know it.