by Dave Balcom
They continued their friendly talk, and I went to the Suburban. I put a leash on Judy and grabbed a plastic bag out of the little bucket on top of her crate. Then we started up a dark street.
She was obviously looking for the perfect place, and when we arrived at a vacant lot next to a gas station, I unhooked her and urged her to “be a good girl.” She had been conditioned to that phrase since birth, and in minutes she’d found a suitable place to deposit her waste.
I followed with the bag over my hand, grabbed the poop and turned the bag inside out, tying the top closed and called her to heel and hooked her to the leash.
At the gas station I deposited her bag in an appropriate container amid the gas pumps. We continued our walk along the nearly deserted streets of a small northern Michigan city on a Thursday night.
Walking a dog as well-mannered as Judy on a leash is all about respecting other pedestrians you encounter. They don’t know your animal is under more control from a voice command than other dogs are on a leash.
With Judy walking at my left knee, I took the street side as we approached a man walking in our direction, putting me between the dog and him. I didn’t expect trouble and wasn’t looking for any, but as we passed each other, I heard his foot scrape in a sudden movement on the sidewalk.
The noise triggered a growl from Judy, a duck and a quick move away from the stranger from me. I heard the whistle of a night stick as it passed over my head, and came out of the move in perfect tai chi balance. “Sit, stay!” I whispered, knowing Judy was out of the fray from that point on.
I couldn’t identify the weapon, but it looked to be black and Billy club-long as the stranger slapped it into his left hand, while shuffling towards me. I knew he expected me to back away and as he moved to deliver a backhand blow I surprised him by launching myself inside the arc of his swing.
His hand holding the weapon actually collided with my right ribs. At contact I spun my body clockwise as I trapped his hand and arm under my right arm. He was now off balance and his belly right behind my left elbow, which is what I used to end this event by TKO.
“Oof!” I heard his air explode as I buried my left elbow in his solar plexus, and I felt his weight sagging so I released his weapon hand. As he crumbled to his knees, I stepped on the weapon that he’d dropped.
It was more like a old car radio antenna than a Billy club, but I could see that in the hands of an expert, it would mess a guy up but good.
“Jesus!” The mugger said as he started to gag again. “What the fuck was that?”
“Put your hands on the sidewalk and don’t try to stand up or I’ll have to do more.”
“I’m not ready for more,” he groaned as he stretched his hands out to the sidewalk.
I patted him down, and took his wallet from his hip pocket. I found a switchblade knife in a scabbard on his right leg just above his boot. I stepped away from him, “If you move, I’ll have to sic this animal on you; it won’t be pretty.”
I held his wallet up to a street light that was far from close enough to help. I could see his home address was Detroit, but I couldn’t make out his name. I pulled my cell phone and called Miles.
“What’s up?”
“I’m standing here on Main Street with some ass who tried to mug me; can you come over here in an official capacity?”
“I can, and I will bring local capacity with me. What are you near?”
“We’re just across a side street past a gas station...”
“Okay; we’ll find you, just look for the people with the pretty lights.”
Miles jumped out of the Suburban as Jan pulled up to my location; I’d left my attacker on the sidewalk and I was standing at the curb. Even before Miles could say anything the guy with the pretty lights came around the corner and parked in front of Jan.
“What’s up, Inspector?” The deputy asked as he approached us.
“Andy, good to see you,” Miles said. “You remember my friend Jim Stanton?”
“Mr. Stanton,” the deputy said touching his hand to his ball cap.
“Deputy Schmidt. I called Miles because I have his number on my speed dial,” I said holding up my phone, “after this man,” I handed Schmidt the assailant’s wallet, “tried to brain me with this,” and I handed the weapon over. “I found this knife in a scabbard on his right leg, just above his boot.”
The deputy took the knife, pushed the button and the blade, at least seven inches long, gleamed in the street light. “Nasty piece of work. How’d you subdue him?”
“He was sloppy, and my dog warned me.”
He went over to the man who was still in his hands and knees position. I heard him beg the officer, “Call off the dog, wouldja? I ain’t gonna make a move, just call off the dog; that guy said it’s vicious.”
Schmidt looked back at me, and I could see him smiling. “Mr. Stanton? Could you call your animal, please?”
“Judy, heel.” The dog bounced over to my left knee and sat, her bit of a tail beating a tattoo in the dead leaves.
“I’ll take this guy in. Mr. Stanton, you’ll need to stop by in the morning, give a formal statement and file a formal complaint. By then we should be able to understand who this guy is and what he was up to. Is that okay?”
As he had been talking, the deputy had helped the mugger up and handcuffed him. He led him to the cruiser, opened the back door and guided the guy into the back seat.
He came back to me, and reached for my hand, “I don’t know what you did, but I don’t like his color...”
“Elbow to the solar plexus is all.”
“Thank you, sir. You folks have a good night now.” He walked back to the cruiser, made a radio call, and then quelled his light array as he pulled slowly away from the curb.
“You make out anything from his license?” I asked Miles.
“Unpronounceable name; if the license is real, he’s twenty-two years old and hails from Detroit. He had just a little less than five hundred bucks in his wallet.”
We studied each other for a second, “Doesn’t sound like a robbery, does it?”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “Let’s find a drink.”
“We can drink one at the B’laire House; I have a stash if they’re not serving.
But they were serving. Jan went off to bed while Miles and I tested their ice supply and found it adequate. The pet-friendly atmosphere was perfect as Judy lay between my feet and slept soundly, no apparent hangover from our adventure.
CHAPTER 40
When I arrived at the sheriff’s office the next morning, Edwina escorted me straight to Rick Bromwell’s office, and returned immediately with a cup of coffee to which she’d already added the cream.
“Perfect,” I said, thanking her. “You may have a future in the food services industry, Ed.”
“I have a past in the food services industry, smart aleck. Every working girl in the region has done time at Shanty Creek Lodge; my family owned it.”
I looked at Bromwell who had a broad smile on his face, but chose to say nothing. He pushed a report across his desk to me. “Congratulations and thank you from every police officer in Michigan, Mr. Stanton.
“You took a real bad boy off the streets last night. The boys downstate can’t wait to spend a few years with Mr. Chmolski.”
I looked at the note, and found that Credenza Chmolski, 22, was wanted for questioning concerning a savage beating in Detroit that left a man blind, and was a “person of interest” in four more violent attacks in Hamtramck, Flint, Lansing, and Grand Rapids over the past four years.
“Busy boy from the neighborhood?”
“Bad ass enforcer is the working theory.”
“Enforcer for whom?”
“Some call them the ‘Partnership,’ others the ‘Combination.’ But whatever you call ’em it’s still the mob.”
“So he comes to Bellaire and attacks me? I hope it was just keeping the rust off during his vacation.”
“Not likely,�
�� he said with a sad smile.
“How did I become crosswise with the Mafia?”
“That would tell us a lot, wouldn’t it?”
Miles came into the office with a handful of notes, closing the door gently behind him. When we were both looking at him, he started, “Mr. Stanton, you do have a way with people...”
“What did I do?”
“For one thing, you’ve affirmed that we’re onto something with our search for Paul Ralph and now his family.”
When we didn’t respond, he pulled up a chair, and spread his notes out on his side of the sheriff’s desk. “Mr. Mole-ski,” he pronounced the name phonetically, “is the latest in a long line of hoods connected to organized crime in Detroit. I just spent the past hour on the phone with our organized crime unit – the same people Dave Boyington shared space with years ago.
“Long before nine-eleven, military intelligence agencies have been interested to know if there was any connection between terrorists abroad and our home grown mobs. They’ve wondered if some of the seemingly easy access the whackos have experienced came from the same people who didn’t shy away from selling anything, no matter what, as long as the price is right.
“They’ve been keeping an eye on the mobsters even as they’ve been on the lookout for the terrorists, and so they know a lot about ‘Big Mo’ as he’s been known since childhood.”
“That’s all interesting, of course,” I said before draining my cup, “but why target me?”
“Big Mo has wants and warrants out for him in several localities in the past few years, but nobody seems to know where he is, and what they really want to know is what he does with the bodies.”
“Bodies?”
Both the officers were shaking their heads at my naivety, but Bromwell took up the story. “Deputy Schmidt found Chmolski’s vehicle, an old clunker of a van...”
I interrupted, “How did he find it?”
“Just took the mope’s keys with a door fob on it, and cruised the streets clicking until the van’s lights went on. He then roused Judge Adams out of the sack, and they executed a search warrant on the vehicle.”
The sheriff pulled another sheet of paper from his desk, “Here’s the inventory: four sets of handcuffs, three large rolls of shrink warp, four unopened nine-by-twelve plastic drop cloths and four bags of instant concrete. In addition, the entire inside of the van was covered in plastic, and there was an overnight bag with a complete change of clothes.”
“What the...?”
Miles spoke up, “It’s called ‘wet work,’ Jim. Sometimes an enforcer is used to send a message – say, to remind people that paying their bookie or their protection dues is not optional; sometimes they don’t want any answers so they employ a ‘sanitizer.’ Looks like Big Mo was moving up in pay grade...”
“Moving up?”
“Our guess is, Jim, that he had enough stuff on hand to take you, Jan and the pup and make you disappear without a trace.”
I was reaching for my phone but Miles stopped me, “She’s fine. I brought her with me, and she’s in the conference room. She was talking to your neighbors in Oregon when I left her.”
I leaned back in my chair. “We’ve stirred up the ant hill, haven’t we?”
Both men nodded.
“It’s the fire bombing? Is that what started all this?”
“It probably started before that,” Miles said; “Killing the Deals – there were no forensics on the victims, they were ashes and we didn’t have the DNA capability back then. As our forensic capacity advanced, the bad guys adopted the “no clues” strategy. Jimmy Hoffa disappears and while there’s lots of speculation, you can’t rule out that he was kicking back on a South Pacific island and laughing his ass off. No corpus delecti, no arrest, trial, or conviction.”
“Where did the van come from?”
“Stolen last week in Cadillac,” Bromwell said.
“A real junker?”
“It runs. Kinda surprising the electronic door locks still work, actually.”
“Really rusty, like?”
“What’s your point, Jim?” Miles asked.
“I’m wondering if it looked like a candidate for a car crusher.”
Both officials looked at each other. “Is there a junk yard with a crusher hereabouts?” Miles asked the sheriff.
“I don’t think there’s any such place, even in Traverse or Petoskey. Is there one in Cadillac?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll start checking,” he said as he reached for his phone.
I had an idea, “Why would you want to clean the vehicle up if you were just going to crush it and the bodies?”
Miles put his phone down without completing the call.
“So how deep is Torch Lake?” He asked Bromwell.
“Plenty deep enough, but even this time of year, a boatful of dead bodies would be noticed more often than not. There’s a bunch of eyes on that lake twenty-four-seven.”
“What’s next?” I asked.
“For you? Nothing I can think of,” Bromwell said. “If I were you I might seriously consider hittin’ the road for Oregon.”
I shrugged that off. “What has Big Mo had to say for himself?”
“He wants a lawyer; said any court-appointed hack would be fine with him. Oh, and he wants you charged with assault. We had a doctor look him over; that was some shot you gave him, his entire abdomen is bruising up. Looks like a gaudy sunset.”
“I’d like a chance to chat with him.”
“Not likely. He’s going down and he knows it. Probably looking at a dime if not more on the assault charges.”
“Ten years is just the price of doing business to a lifelong criminal, and you know that as well as anyone, Rick. And while he might never talk with you, he just might with me. Especially if he knows that I won’t ask for names or share specifics with you guys.”
“What makes you think so, as if I were going to permit such a meeting?”
“I have had more than 30 years of experience interviewing people, many of them who had no idea about sharing anything with me, and then told me everything I needed to know to move my story forward. I’ve had some luck with some pretty bad people, too.” I looked at Miles who was looking at his feet and shaking his head.
Bromwell was watching Miles, too. “Inspector?”
“I’d give him a shot, Sheriff; what do we have to lose?”
CHAPTER 41
The interview room at the Antrim County Jail looked like it had been the model for the NCIS set where Gibbs broke down all those suspects or the Law and Order set where D’Onofrio reigned through the years: A nine by twelve closet with a plain oak table separating two chairs.
I noted that there were no eyebolts in the floor where shackles or restraints could be attached as I’d seen in a similar room in Canada one time.
Big Mo was already in the room when I was ushered in, and the stink of him was overwhelming. A deputy was at the door, and when I entered, he excused himself with, “I’ll be right outside.”
I pulled out the chair opposite Mo and sat away from the table, wishing for an upwind situation.
“I’m pretty ripe, right?” He had shaggy brown hair and was at least a week but not more than two since his last shave. He had brown eyes that looked almost black, and he carried his head low, like a bull, and looked up to look straight ahead. The word “brooding” came to my mind uninvited.
“No showers in this institution?”
“I passed; like, I need to make you folks more comfortable?”
“How’s your belly?”
“I gotta give you props, man; you did me good. I had heard you were big and you are, but nobody told me you were quick, what was that shit?”
“Tai chi. The practice offers a student the opportunity to be prepared and react to almost any situation... or so it says on the matchbook cover offering ten lessons for a hundred bucks.”
“You a black belt or whatever?”
“Wrong school; tai chi offers
no such accreditation.”
“Whattya want with me?”
“I think that should be my line, don’t you? Why me?”
“Strictly business.”
“Probably, but then it becomes my business and that gets pretty personal.”
He shrugged and looked up at the ceiling.
“Tell me, what kind of name is Credenza? Sounds like a piece of office furniture.”
“Italian family name.”
“And Chmolski?”
“Russian father?”
“Who’s Little Mo?”
“I was until the old man took a powder; it just grew a bit, you know?”
“That’s just it, Credenza; I know nothing. Who would want to sic you on me?”
“You should ask, threatening to sic a vicious dog on me after you knocked me down. What kind of innocent citizen walks around with a vicious attack dog?”
“You think Judy would attack you?”
“You said she would, I know from nothing about mutts. What kinda dog is that, anyway?
“She a Drathaaur, a bird dog. The only danger you had from her was perhaps getting your face licked. She’s very friendly and has displayed no judgment in the people she comes in contact with.”
“She’s not dangerous?”
“Only to birds, and even then she never bites; even when she’s bringing back a cripple.”
“Whipped by a bird hunter?”
“You were.”
“Why are you here? Just to gloat?”
So I told him. I explained who I was and what I did for a living. I tried to let him know that no matter what he told me about how he ended up on the pavement in Bellaire, I wouldn’t ask for him to name names or violate any code he might follow, and while I might use information from him to find the people who sent him after me, I wouldn’t reveal anything he wanted me to keep secret.
When I was done, he was looking at the ceiling and shaking his head. “As if, right.”
“You have a code, don’t you?”
“Of course, Omertà,” he said in a whisper.
“Well, so do I. It’s called the canons of journalism, and I live them every day; I’ve never violated my promises.”