Man with an Axe

by Jon A. Jackson

  Okay, so here's the scene. They're all goin’ nuts, blaming each other, suspicious of each other—you know, Who let the Mob in on this?—and Hoffa is . . . well, he's kinda cool. Hoffa is thinking. The immediate rush is over, but his little punim is scrunched up in a frown and the Great One is thinking. He's thinking he's gotta get the hell outta there. Which I don't blame him, but where's he gonna go?

  But, first things first. I gotta get rid of this body. I see it's up to me, mainly ‘cause these guys can't wipe their ass with both hands, but also ‘cause he's my corpse. I mean, I popped him, so I gotta get rid of him. Well, it's no big deal, but I'm not in any hurry and I figure I oughta get some help. So I get on Lonzo's case.

  Lonzo is taking a lotta shit at the moment ‘cause everybody figures he's the prick who tipped Carmine that Hoffa is here. Who else would do it, unless it was some neighbor or something, or maybe Vera or Tyrone let it slip when they were out shopping or talking to someone on the phone, or something? But Lonzo is a good suspect, ‘cause he's in with the Mob, so even though Tyrone is his dead sister's boy (a point he keeps making) everybody figures he sold Hoffa to the Mob, if only to keep them off his own ass when they find out that Hoffa is his guest.

  Jacobsen, to give him credit, don't agree. “I think we owe Lonzo,” he says. “It was Lonzo who kept telling Carmine he was sure Jimmy wasn't here. Why would he say that if he brought the killers here?”

  “Aw man, that was bullshit,” Tyrone says. And of course, Vera agrees, very loud.

  “He had to say that,” she claims, “ ‘cause he couldn't let on that he was the fink.” She's pointing at Lonzo and screaming.

  Lonzo is glaring around with those yellow eyes. He looks like he was about to kill him a couple of whiteys and maybe Tyrone, too. Fortunately, I'm there to keep the peace, with the Old Cat.

  I can see that all of this is making Hoffa real nervous, but what the hell, there ain't no way of settling it real quick and there are more important things to do. “So, Lonzo,” I say, “what's the deal? Did you tip Carmine?”

  Lonzo reels off a coupla yards a language that woulda had Sister Mary Herman kneeling on his chest crammin’ a bar of Fels Naptha down his throat, but all it means is “Nope.” So I explain to him, in case he don't get it: “These folks all think you set them up. You got to admit, that's the way it looks. Now you and me know Carmine can't be interested in nobody but Mr. Hoffa, here, and I don't even know why he's hot about that, but these folks are in the way and they could get zipped, so you can see why they're hot.” (They were listening and had quit yelling, so I just kept on yapping—sorta thinking out loud for their benefit.)

  “Carmine ain't gonna bring a heavy shooter like Cooze out here just to get some fresh air. He meant to take out Hoffa. Probably he, or somebody, was watching that little shoot-around out there. They seen, or think they seen, Cooze take down a short, white, middle-aged guy and unless they know something we don't expect, they prob'ly think it was Hoffa. I don't know if they seen

  Janney crawl back outta the bushes, but they sure must of seen me take down Cooze.”

  They didn't seem to get the point right away, but I'm sure you do, Mul. Like I said, Cooze didn't come back on his own. My guess was that Carmine didn't know that Hoffa wasn't hit. But it was only a guess. And anyway, they hadda know that Cooze was down, whether they knew it was me took him down or not. My second guess, and this was more than a guess, was that they would be back as soon as they picked up some more soldiers. And when they did, you can bet they wasn't going to do nothing less than clean house.

  So, should we blow this pop stand? Would you of stayed? Where was there to go?

  This is where my man Lonzo comes through. He says, “What if we was able to convince Carmine that Hoffa was dead?”

  “Good idea,” I say. “Let's shoot the fucker our own selfs and throw his ass in the Red Fox parking lot.”

  Krizmo and Baits start laughing their asses off, but Hoffa, of course, don't like this kind of talk, even in fun. He gives us a pretty good imitation of Edward G. Robinson, telling us all to shut up and start thinking again.

  But really, I explain, Lonzo's got a idea there. We got to get the word out on the street that Hoffa was croaked, but that there wasn't gonna be no corpse to show for it. If the Mob bought it, the chances were real good that they wouldn't be back. Then after a couple a days, Hoffa could tiptoe back home and by then everybody's had a chance to cool down and see that it's better this way and Hoffa could tell the F.B.I, some bullshit thing about he was fishing, anything. And the Mob could see that Jimmy's a standup guy and nobody's gonna get hurt and we can get back to business as usual. That seemed like the best bet to me.

  I had an idea of some people I could sing this lullaby to, kind of leak it, who I figured would buy it, but my man Lonzo shakes his head. He was sure that it'd never sell, not to Carmine and specially not to the Fat Man (who I allus figured was smarter than Carmine anyways) if the story could be pegged to me. It would look more like butter if he put it out, and he knew just the chumps to lay it on. It turned out a couple of them were the same chumps I was thinking about, but Lonzo's idea that it was better if he told the story seemed right. As for Cooze, it was the trunk of an ayban for him.

  So now, Mul, you're asking all kind of questions, I can prac'ly hear it: What's with Hoffa? What does he think? Why am I trusting a stinking rat like Lonzo? What the hell is going on?

  Okay, okay. Don't get your p.j.s in a tangle. I talked to Hoffa, but first I had to get the show on the road. I walked out with Lonzo while the boys were loading Cooze into the trunk of the Caddy and took him aside. “Screw all that shit inside,” I told him, “you get the word to the Fat Man that Grootka is here. And you tell him that Hoffa is dead. We ain't got time for no street rumor. Those boys'll be back within a couple hours, soon's it's dark. I know you sold Hoffa to the man and I oughta blast your sorry ass right here, but this way you got a chance to live. You hear me?”

  I swear the sonuvabitch looked me right in the eye—which is never fun with Lonzo—and said, “I never tol’ nobody nothing about Hoffa. When would I have a chance, even if I wanted to git my own nephew croaked?”

  I let him talk. He obviously hadda justify himself to somebody, so why not me? He said somebody up at Nigger Heaven had called him and told him that something funny was going on at his place and Grootka was hanging around, so he come up to see. But it never occurred to him that Hoffa was up here and sure as hell not that Hoffa was at his place! The only reason he come flying up to check it out was because I was there.

  Well, it sounded good, anyways. I just shrugged and let on that I believed it. The trouble was, if he didn't sell Hoffa, who did? He didn't have no comeback for that.

  Lonzo took off for town with Krizmo and Baits, to spread the good news on the right corners and let the Fat Man know what was playing at the Bijou, and they took the late Cusumano with them. I never heard no more about Cooze and neither did you, so you know they must of did a good job on that. Then I sat down for a chat with Jimmy.

  Mr. H. wasn't too happy. He'd been on the lam for three days already and he hadn't talked to his wife, or let her know he was okay. That was bugging the shit outta him. The guy really was worried about his old lady—it was pathetic. I didn't know what to tell him. What could I tell him? If he got word to her that he was all right, one way or another it would get out and that could be fatal. It was hard, but there it was. Well, he knew that, I didn't have to tell him.

  But the thing was, he claimed it was all a big misunderstanding. If only he could talk to Carmine and maybe Tony Jack [Anthony Giacalone, an organized-crime figure in Detroit with known associations in the Teamsters union.—M.], maybe a couple others, it could all be straightened out.

  “You want to hire a hall?” I asked him. “Maybe you should go on Johnny Carson.”

  But no, it was just that Tony Jack had sent a couple of punks to talk to him at the Red Fox, instead of coming hisself, like he was s'posed to. And then the
y were late, and when they tried to explain he blew up. He knew the guys, a couple of minor leaguers named Beano and Zit. [Long since deceased.—M.] The three of them had gone for a little walk away from the parking lot—there's woods around there, where they're putting in some developments, and they walked over that way, he says. Hoffa says the Zit pulled a gun.

  “Was he gonna shoot you?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” Hoffa says. “I think so. I was yelling at the bastard and he says, ‘Hey, asshole, I'm telling you,’ and he yanks out the piece and he's waving it around. Maybe he wasn't meaning to use it, but I panicked. I swung my briefcase and whacked the gun hand. He dropped the gun and I took off.”

  That was when he ran into Tyrone and Vera. They were just pulling into the parking lot to meet Jacobsen. Hoffa jumps in their van and asks them to help him, which they did. They ended up bringing him up here.

  “Why were you carrying a briefcase?” I asked.

  “I had some important papers I wanted to show to Tony Jack, but of course Tony didn't show up. Look, you're the hotshot dick, Grootka,” Hoffa says, “you get me out of this. I'm sick of this stinking joint. It stinks, I don't have no clean clothes, there's nothing to do—it was better in Lewisburg [the federal penitentiary where Hoffa was incarcerated, March 7, 1967, to December 23, 1971—M.] Between him"— he points at Tyrone—"playing that goddamn sax all day or playing these crazy records, and her"—Vera, natch—"walking around here half-naked, I'm going nuts. You talk to somebody, straighten it out.”

  “Well, what's to straighten out, that's what I want to know. What's the deal with Carmine?”

  “It's nothing!” Hoffa insists. “He thinks I'm gonna blow on him and Tony Jack to the grand jury in Pontiac. Hell, I never blew on nobody yet, why would I now? I don't know nothing!”

  “What does the grand jury want?” I asked.

  “It's something about a loan Tony got from the pension fund, a long time ago. What do I know about it? What am I, a friggin’ loan officer? I told the grand jury, I don't know nothing.”

  Well, I kept pushing, but Hoffa wouldn't give. He had some kind of deal with Tony Jack and Carmine, I could see, but he wouldn't give me any details, nothing. “Me and Tony and Carmine and Fatso, we're like brothers,” he said. “We been through a lot together. We do a little business, why not? But our deal, we go back a long ways, to we were kids on the street. I can't believe that they would put out a hit on me. It was just those friggin’ hothead punks Carmine sent.”

  “And your hot head,” I said.

  “Yeah, and my hot head. Jo says I got to watch my temper.”

  Jo is Hoffa's old lady, Mul.

  All I can think, Mul, is that maybe it was all a misunderstanding. It seems like Hoffa really was confused. But pissed, too. Mainly ‘cause Tony Jack had sent two punks to talk to him. Things got out of hand and now the Mob was looking to just get rid of Hoffa before they got stuck with the dirty end of the stick. Can you beat that? These guys, they're like high school girls, or opera stars. I know it don't sound like much, but you and me have seen deals that got nasty on less. Naturally, I didn't let on to Hoffa.

  “Gee, it don't sound like much,” I says. “I mean, Carmine ain't gonna spring for a hit on a public figure like you, and you being a old buddy, just ‘cause you might let something drop to the grand jury. What the hell, the guy knows you. Right?”

  “Right,” says Hoffa. And when I shrug and look all mystified, he shakes his head and says, “Oh, I dunno. I been trying to figure it out. I been thinking . . . why are these guys so down on me getting back into the union?”

  And this maybe is it, Mul. Hoffa tells me that he'd come to think that maybe Carmine and the others didn't want him to get back into the Teamsters. The deal was, when Hoffa got outta the can, when Nixon give him a pardon, he didn't realize that there was this special condition, that he couldn't participate in the union until 1980.

  “When they let me out they told me there was no special conditions,” Hoffa told me. “I hadda sign a paper, Conditions of Parole, and all it said was that I hadda live in Detroit and report in like anybody else. I told ‘em I could live with that and I signed it. But a day later I find out, when I'm already home, that there's a special condition. That ain't constitutional, and the stinkin’ Feds know it. You can't have the government screwing around in union business. Now that we got Ford in and this new attorney general, Levi, it'll get thrown out. You'll see. But it looks like Tony Jack and Carmine and them have been listening to Tony Pro. [Anthony Provenzano, a New Jersey Teamsters official who was connected to organized crime.—M.] He hates me since I wouldn't get him a pension from the fund.”

  I didn't know nothing about any of this, but I could see that Hoffa was still boiling about it. What it comes down to, was that the hoods was pretty happy with Fitzsimmons being the Teamsters president now, even if Jimmy had been their fair-haired boy in his day. But as far as they were concerned, Jimmy's day was over. At least, that's what he was afraid of. And he'd reacted when they sent the kids to talk to him, ‘stead of coming their selfs. And then he got to thinking that maybe they didn't want him back so bad that they were gonna make sure he didn't come back.

  I dunno, Mul. I can't say I was totally convinced. It's a big deal, putting out a hit on a guy like Hoffa. The guy who did it would have to be either nuts or really confident of who he was. Maybe both. But the thing is, this is what I had. This is Jimmy's story. And it kind of fed into my main pitch, before, that if we could just get the Mob to cool it for a few days and get Hoffa back home, show that he wasn't gonna blow the whistle on them, then maybe everything would be cool.

  But you know how it is Mul . . . when all's you want is something simple and all's it takes is for everybody to just be cool, that's when you can't get ‘em to sit still.

  Which reminds me. By now, if you're reading this, you must of had Carmine and the Fat Man down for a little talk, or maybe you went out to see them, maybe at the potato-chip factory. I should of said something before, but maybe it ain't too late, I hope not.

  WATCH OUT FOR THESE FUCKERS, MUL!

  I mean it, don't get too cocky around them. This is a bad situation. It could mean prison for the whole bunch of them. But I ain't telling you nothing, I guess. The trouble is, Mul, and I hope you don't take it the wrong way, but you never was much of a street cop. I mean, your deal is to study the evidence and ponder the case and talk to the witnesses and all that shit. And that's good. I mean it. But when it comes to going and knocking on the Big Bad Wolf's door, for the love of Mike, take some muscle with you and carry a big stick. If I ain't around, and I prob'ly won't be by the time you're reading this, get one a them guys like Stanos, or Dennis, from the Big 4. Don't fall back on Jimmy Marshall, he's a good kid, smart and all that, but he's too much like you, you asshole. Take some muscle. And watch your ass!

  8

  Hockey Hell

  I went to the hockey game and I came away so depressed that I can't talk about it. What is this? I'm watching these splendid men in brilliant red wheeling about the ice as if they own it, as if the other team wasn't there . . . but they don't win. A spectacular pass play culminates in Fedorov ripping a terrific, unstoppable shot to the high far corner of the net, but it is stoppable and so is the rebound. The Red Wings outshoot the creaky old Blues almost two to one, but they lose. It's not right. These guys are clearly superior; how can they lose? And beyond that, when they do lose, why do I care so much?

  I forced myself to push it out of my mind. I had plenty else to think about. For one thing, the guy from Accounting was back on my butt. Where is my accounting of discretionary funds? And Ahab wanted to talk about his supermarket shooting. I could barely remember the case. I had to put him off; I promised to see him later. And then the kid, Kenty, was back. He'd gotten another transmission on his computer.

  It was another little cartoon. Like the first, it wasn't a moving picture, just a series of panels. In this one, addressed as before to “Sgt. Fang Mulhiesen” (I do
n't know why people can't get the spelling right, it isn't that hard), we are back on the bridge, as in the first disk, except that now the lone character is a man instead of a woman. This man is little more than a stick figure with an overcoat and a hat and he encounters a couple of much larger men, one of whom has an axe and chops his head off, after which he's thrown off the bridge. It's a fairly simplistic drawing, but perhaps a little more sophisticated than it seems. Whoever is drawing the cartoon does know something about movement.

  As the cartoon goes on the scene shifts to a kind of residential neighborhood. Now we see the blond woman again. She runs down a street of detached houses, pursued by three big, dark figures, presumably men in overcoats and hats and carrying large square guns in their hands. Finally, she runs into a house and slams the door, and in the last panel the pursuers are attacking the house with axes and the woman's head sticks out the upstairs window with a balloon attached that says, “Help!”

  We watched the thing on the computer in Jimmy Marshall's office. Afterward, I took the kid back to my cubicle and we talked. He said, “I guess she figured her first message didn't get through to you, or you didn't take it seriously.”

  “Her?” I said. “What makes you think this is sent by a woman?”

  The kid shrugged. “I don't know, it just seemed to me that since a woman was yelling help, she must be the one who made the thing.” He shrugged again. “No big deal, I guess.”

  I sat back in my office chair and thought about it. It was true that I hadn't taken the first transmission seriously. It wasn't a legitimate complaint. Presumably, someone was just playing around with a computer and, having come across my name, perhaps in the newspapers, had sent the cartoon to someone on the Net who might be likely to take the thing to the precinct. It was a gag. Of course, the police have to take gags more seriously than would, say, an insurance officer, or a schoolteacher. But we don't always, obviously.