Books Meldrim lay there, on his back. His brown eyes were open and he held an old long-barreled revolver on his breast. He looked up into my eyes and said, “I was hoping it was you, Mul.”
I swear I could have kissed the old bastard. Instead, I said, softly, “You bastard. Just taking a little nap on the bosom of the deep, Books?”
His eyes were pretty bleak, but he smiled. He clambered up and I helped him onto the dock. He stood next to me and looked up at the deck and the house. “You left my door open,” he said. “That's no good for my piano.” He pronounced it “pee-yaner.”
Books had gotten a good look at the two young men who had come to the house. He'd seen them drive up, noticed the Michigan plates and their manner, and had spent an hour of terrified hiding. His last resort was the boat. I knew from his description that the two men were almost certainly the two I'd seen outside Vera's house in Ferndale. I called the border patrol and put a watch on the tunnel and the bridge, but the men had had plenty of time to get back to Detroit, so I didn't expect too much.
I helped Books straighten up much of the mess and encouraged him to notify the police, but he brushed that notion aside. He made coffee and we each had a hard jolt of brandy. His fear, anxiety, and then anger were yielding to depression, I could tell, but he was tough and fought it down. He looked about, at the stains on his rugs and walls—he had thoroughly cleaned the mess out of his piano.
“The gen'amens did a number on me, didn't they?” he said, mildly. “I'm surprised they didn't take a dump on the davenport.”
“You'll get it all straightened out,” I said. “I'll help you.” I sounded agreeable, and I meant to be supportive—the man had been through a hell of a deal—but my depression had long since changed to fear, then to relief, followed by a rising anger. I recognized the signs; it was nothing unusual. I remembered a very pretty little cousin of mine, Sarah, who used to come visit me in the summers from California. One day she was dancing in the kitchen while my mother was making cookies. My father had gone down into the basement, which at that time was really only a root cellar, reached by a trapdoor. The trap was open and Sarah, dancing about, singing merrily, had heedlessly tumbled into the hole. I remember my mother's shouts of horror and then relief when my father issued out of the cellar holding the little blond girl, who was dazed but then laughed to see my mother's fright. My mother had struck the little girl, not very hard and not across the face, but then she'd tried to cover up her violent reaction with a justified anger, raging about Sarah's thoughtlessness. It was soon apparent that the slap had only been a frightened reaction, a kind of release of tension.
I felt some of my mother's anger now, listening to Books prattle away. I knew he was just working off his own excess anger and fear, but still.
“Thank you. Yeah, we can fix it up, but it'll always be there, a little faint stain. Well . . . it is time to wind this up. Time to quit playing games, playing Grootka's game. You remember the last time you were out here and I said you should cook a little fish as you would rule the empire?”
“Yeah, yeah. Lao-tse, wasn't it? Govern an empire as you would cook a little fish?” I wondered if he was going to slow down anytime soon.
“It works both ways,” Books said. “But that's a concept that wouldn't make a lick of sense to Grootka. If a .38'd kill you, why not use an elephant gun and be sure? That'd be Grootka. Well, I'm ready.”
And now it was my turn. “You're ready? Well, I'm glad. What the hell do you people think is going on here, anyway? You saw those guys—they didn't drive all the way down here to trash your house and scare you. If they'd found your ass it'd be floating in Lake Erie now. Don't you know that?”
“What's got you so goosey?” he said, eyeing me curiously. “Wasn't nobody trying to shoot your ass.”
“How do you know?” I retorted. “I get my ass shot at twice a week. Part of the job. How come you didn't tell me that M'Zee Kinanda was really Tyrone Addison?” That was what was bugging me.
“Ah, so that's it,” Books said. Then he assumed an annoyingly pious expression and offered, “If the man wants to be known as M'Zee Kinanda, that's his right. It ain't my business.” He started muttering and putting things away, pretending to ignore me.
“Don't give me that crap. This whole thing's been a put-up job from the start, leading me around by the nose, feeding me a little info here, withholding it there, ‘here read this notebook, here's a tape’ . . . it won't do. Not anymore. I've had it.” And I had. I was angry.
“All right, all right,” the old man said, holding up his large, slender hands placatingly. “I'm sorry about that. I just didn't know how to go about it, how much you should know, what I was supposed to reveal . . . Grootka said—”
“Oh, don't give me any more of that Grootka crap,” I interrupted. “Give me the goods. I want to hear it. What do you know? I know you weren't up north with those guys—or do I? All I know is what I read in Grootka's notebooks. Which reminds me, are there any more of them? I want them, right now.”
“That's what those fellas were after, I expect,” he said. He'd dropped the philosopher cloak, I saw, although I suspected it was one that he would prefer to wear as closely as his skin from now until he croaked.
I was momentarily arrested. “Did they get it?”
“I don't have any more,” he said. “Course, they don't know that.”
I waited a beat or two. “Well, that might be something,” I said. “Now tell me a story.”
I sat back and lit a cigar. Forty-five minutes later we were en route to Detroit. His story was not vastly different from the one that had slowly accreted in my mind. Books, naturally, played down his role when it was likely to appear criminal, but played it up when it looked admirable, particularly if it seemed wise and sagacious. I didn't mind. It was a good story. You know it.
He had not gone to Faraway, or wherever we should call the cabin in the north, he said. I believe him. Grootka had returned and told him the whole story. Books had helped him write it up. “Except that he wouldn't let me actually write it, and the man couldn't spell ‘hockey,’” Books lamented. “Had to be in his writing and in his spelling. Otherwise, it was no good.”
“But what,” I said, and then repeated, with menace, “what in hell was the point?”
“Grootka didn't give a damn about Hoffa,” Books said. “So in a way, you had to ask, why not just let it drop? Him and Lonzo got out okay, Tyrone and Vera got out okay, I stayed clear right along. . . . Sure, a couple of guys died, but people dying every day.”
“Not all of them are Hoffa,” I said.
“That's right,” Books readily agreed. “Nobody gives a rat's ass about ol’ Janney, he was a foreigner and a oddball, anyway. Who gives a hoot for some jive greaser like Cusumano? I don't believe I ever even saw the guy before and he sure was a killer, hisself. But there's Hoffa. Hoffa is like Pharoah.” He pronounced it “Fay-row.”
“Pharoah? What the hell are you talking about?” We were fast approaching Windsor, and I was looking for the tunnel exit.
“Pha-roah don't ever die alone. When Pha-roah dies, a lot of people got to die. He ain't going into that pyramid alone. Pha-roah ain't taking the sun boat without company.”
“Don't get philosophical on me, Books,” I warned him.
“I ain't being philosophical. That's the truth. That's just the way it is. Pha-roah don't die alone. We all are just lucky it was as few as it was.”
I had called ahead, and Customs waved us through. Stanos was waiting for me on the other side. We pulled into the parking lot and he stood up from lounging on the trunk of his Olds Ciera. He was tall and rangy, with a raw face that was all nose and chin and bumps but had somehow weathered from ugly, acned youth into a cruel but not wholly awful maturity. He looked meaner than two dogs tied back to front.
“My good Lord,” Books breathed, looking at him. He'd heard me calling for Stanos to meet us. “It's like a young Grootka. Ain't it? I never thought to see anything like that agai
n.”
“The world is round, Books. He's not as smart as Grootka, but he's got time.”
Stanos leaned into the car. He was wearing a gray suit that looked like he'd stolen it from Grootka's closet. It flapped open to reveal a shoulder holster that carried a gun as big as the Old Cat. “You must be Books Meldrim,” he said. He extended his arm across me to shake Books's hand. He had a husky, gravelly voice that still carried an element of youth in it, kind of cocky, but sort of indifferently happy with the day. “Glad to meetcha.”
He stood up and rocked on his heels, swinging his long arms restlessly and smacking a fist against an open palm. “Well,” he said, “nice day for somethin’. You ready to go knock some fucking wop heads?”
I let him stand there for a while until he came down off his high horse. Then I looked up. “It's not like that, Stanos. I just want to go by Krispee Chips and talk to Humphrey.”
Stanos grinned. “And you need a little backup? That's great! Maybe they'll get out of line.” He gestured with his thumb at Books, and said, “Is the spoo—, is he go in'? Yeah? Great! That's just great. Okay!” He slapped his hands like a pistol shot and turned toward his car. “Le's go!”
I looked at Books. He was looking me in the face. He shook his head slightly, his lips pursed to whistle softly. I gave him my best Fang grin. “Le's go!”
* * *
Humphrey DiEbola was not the Fat Man, not the man I had met many years ago with Grootka in the halls of 1300 Beaubien. Nobody today would think to nickname him the Fat Man. I had seen him several times in the interim years, and not more than a couple of weeks earlier, but each time he looked leaner. He was almost handsome these days. He was standing behind his desk in the old office that had been Carmine's. It still had the fascinating sculpture in the corner: a man-size figure of a rat in a pin-striped suit and a fedora, carrying a shotgun. It was a great piece by the legendary sculptor Jabe.
It was a pleasure to meet the nice Ms. Soteri again. She ushered us into DiEbola's office and I was taken by surprise. There stood Ms. Helen Sedlacek, sometime paramour and associate of my old nemesis, Joe Service, standing behind the boss in her own pinstripes.
Ms. Soteri brought coffee, along with a tray of brandy. Humphrey leaned back in his padded leather and teak chair and patted the hand of his assistant, Helen. “What can I do for you, Mul? This isn't about Ortega, is it? I'm afraid I haven't heard any more from the fellow.”
He basically ignored Stanos and Books. Stanos had slammed back the brandy and set the glass down on a bookshelf, near his coffee cup. He lounged with one hand idly scratching at his midriff, comfortably close to his shoulder holster, and smiled at nothing at all. Books sat as silent as Buddha, merging with the soft leather chair.
I had been thinking carefully about what I was going to say to Humphrey all the way down here. I wanted to get it right. “Mr. DiEbola, I didn't come here with any kind of wish list, or demands, or to hassle you—”
“Mul, it's Humphrey,” he interrupted.
“Sure, sure. We've had some problems in the past . . . I don't want to go into all that. The police have problems of one sort or another with anyone, any organization. Yours is a little different. No, no, I'm not going to get into that.”
Humphrey nodded. I noticed Helen step a little closer to him and then I saw his hand slip down behind the desk. What the hell, I thought, is he actually going for a gun? But then, no, I saw Helen's hips move slightly and I thought, What the hell! He's feeling her ass! I couldn't believe it. Humphrey DiEbola was feeling Helen Sedlacek's ass right in front of us. They have a relationship!
“You know, sometimes I can feel the earth tremble,” I said.
“What?” Helen said, echoed by Humphrey.
“I was just going to say a few words about you've got your agenda and I've got mine and I'm sorry, but when your agenda crosses mine the one that takes precedence is . . .” I paused, tapping my chest. “But then I felt the earth tremble. I can see it doesn't make much sense talking. Just let me say this, Humphrey. I know where the bodies are buried.”
Helen spoke quickly. “People often say that, but then when they go to dig them up . . .” She lifted a hand and opened it, palm up, then tipped it over as if pouring out dirt or something, “Nothing there.”
I decided to ignore that. “I've got a case that would be—how shall I put it?—difficult to make,” I said, talking not to Helen but to Humphrey. “But it'll make.”
Humphrey leaned forward, both hands in view on his desk, clearly interested. “This is about Pepe, isn't it?” he said.
I shook my head. “We're nowhere on that, Humphrey. I don't think I'm giving away department secrets if I tell you I don't think we're going to get anywhere on that. This goes way back.” I looked at Helen then and tried a little smile, one that I hoped would look rueful. “I was hoping you and me could talk privately,” I said. I glanced at my two companions and said, “I'm sure Stanos and Mr. Meldrim would excuse us.”
Helen did not like this, at all. “Sergeant Mulheisen, I've had to deal with you before,” she said. “So has Umb—, Mr. DiEbola. The problem with dealing with you is that you speak for yourself, and whether you're genuinely candid or not, you don't necessarily speak for the police department. So there's no point in speaking to you at all, is there?”
“Well, Helen,” I said, “I know you have the ear of various police, uh, figures. I daresay some of them are pretty significant. But this, what I have to say to Humphrey, is just between him and me. He and I. Him and me.” We all smiled at that verbal clumsiness. It's amazing how nicely that works.
I walked outside with Humphrey and we strolled down the graveled parking lot toward the loading docks. I looked back and saw Helen standing in front of the building with her arms crossed, watching us. Stanos stood nearby. Books was drinking from a fountain.
“How long has this been going on, Humphrey?” I asked him, looking back at Helen.
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Can't sneak the sun past the rooster, can I?” he said. “I've known Helen since she was a baby, Mul, but by God . . .”
He really was happy. I hated to spoil his day. “You ever hear of a guy named Cusumano, Humphrey?” He shook his head. He looked serious now. “No? Well, it doesn't matter. As far as I know his body doesn't exist. And it wouldn't matter if it.did. I think he got to be part of a Buick, or maybe a Ford, though even that would have been junked by now. But the name should evoke some memories. A place, a time? A guy? How about a guy named Jacobsen?”
Humphrey turned away from me. He was an intelligent man. He didn't like games. But right now his mind wasn't on my needs. He was watching Helen. She had sauntered over to Stanos and was talking to him, her back to us, hands on her hips, feet boldly apart.
She was a good-looking woman, young. Stanos was laughing, lighting a cigarette, his own legs widespread like hers. She laughed at something he said.
“Janwillem Jacobsen,” I said.
“Never heard of him,” Humphrey said, over his shoulder. He turned back to me. “What is it you want, Mul? I want to get along, you know that. Carmine, he was old-fashioned, but that's all gone. We can get along. Just tell me what it is.” He wanted me to name my price, I could see, and get out of his hair. He had his hands full. I could feel the earth tremble.
“I have the gun that killed Jacobsen,” I said. “It has your fingerprints on it. Like I say, it would be a hard case to make, but it'll make.”
I'll give the man credit. He didn't blink. He just looked at me, not a muscle moving. “Okay. You have a gun. All God's chillun got guns, Mul. What do you want for yours?”
Now, that was the question. What did I want?
“I want the guy who took down Hoffa,” I said.
He glanced away, at Helen again. She was talking fairly animatedly with Stanos, her hands gesturing, her short skirt swinging. She had pretty nice legs. She and Stanos were getting along like a quarterback and a cheerleader, it seemed.
“What do
you want with him?” Humphrey said. He could hardly attend to what he was doing. I almost felt sorry for him.
“What do I want with him? Humphrey, I'll be famous. I'll be the dick who broke the Hoffa case. I want to send him to prison, for murder, to avenge the death of one of our greatest union leaders. What do you mean, ‘What'?”
“What if he's dead?” he asked.
“Is he dead?”
“A long time ago. But . . . I could find a guy . . . a guy who was there, anyway. He didn't pull the trigger, but he's still . . . you know, what is it? Culpable.”
“What's his name?”
“Bring me the gun. I'll bring the guy.”
I stared off into the sky. It was a little sunny here, not like down on the lake. I thought for a minute about what was implied by that “I'll bring the guy” statement. It could mean a lot of things, such as: DiEbola would find someone to take the fall, he'd provide a corpse . . . I wasn't sure what other permutations were conceivable. So I tossed in my kicker, as if I'd simply overlooked it: “There's one other thing.”
DiEbola restrained a sigh of impatience. “What now?” he asked. He wanted me to leave and take my tall, skinny detective with me.
“Buchanan,” I said.
He looked at me sharply. But after a moment he snorted. “Sure. Why not? He's a goddamn liability, anyway. I'll send you some material on him. Where do I send it?”
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