Curse of the Jade Lily: A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “He wanted the money.”

  “No, no, we talked about that.”

  “Either the money or he was trying to impress you just like all of the rest of the men you used over the years.”

  “I never used a man who didn’t want to use me.”

  “Very scrupulous of you.”

  “Oh, McKenzie, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “What did you think was going to happen?”

  “No one was supposed to get hurt.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you come here, Heavenly? What do you want from me?”

  “Absolution for my sins, I guess.”

  I reached across the booth and slapped her hard. The sound of my hand against her cheek reverberated through the club like a clash of cymbals. Heavenly’s head jerked to the side and she made a kind of gasping sound as if she were trying to breathe in all the oxygen there was. She brought her hand up to soothe her cheek; I could see the deep red streaks my fingers had left on her flesh beneath her fingers. Her eyes filled with tears. She did not seem surprised by my action, though. Just the opposite. She looked as if she had been hit by something she saw coming from a long way off yet refused to dodge.

  Many heads turned to look at us. A man sitting with his girl a few tables away stood like he wanted to make something of it, but his girl pulled him back down. I reached into my back pocket for a handkerchief and gave it to Heavenly. That gesture seemed to mollify everyone.

  Heavenly swabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

  “If you weren’t in Nina’s place I’d beat the hell out of you,” I told her.

  “That’s why I came here.”

  “It’s your fault that Tommy is dead; don’t think for a second that it isn’t. But I’m the one who killed him. I have to live with that.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am, McKenzie. I am so, so sorry.”

  “Being sorry doesn’t help much.”

  “I know.”

  We sat quietly for a few moments while Heavenly dried her tears. During the lull, Nina appeared with more coffee for Heavenly and a Summit Ale for me. Before she left she gave me a look. I understood it perfectly—don’t hit her again. Heavenly must have understood it as well.

  “How can Nina be so nice to me?” she asked.

  “So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs,” I said.

  “Ella Wheeler Wilcox.” I wasn’t surprised that Heavenly knew the quote. She was an English major after all. “As I long suspected, McKenzie, you’re a romantic.”

  “Am I?”

  “All those times I threw myself at you, I knew you wouldn’t catch me. That’s why I did it. Most of the men I know, even the ones I’ve dated, all they wanted was twenty minutes of my time, you know? You never behaved like that. That’s why I always tease Nina. I want what she has. If not you, then someone like you.”

  “A romantic?”

  “A man. An honest to God adult man.”

  I nodded. Somewhere in there was one of the best compliments I had ever received. It wasn’t true, of course, what she said about me. If it hadn’t been for Nina, I probably would have acted like all the other men in Heavenly’s life. She didn’t need to know that, though.

  “Maybe if you…” I said.

  “Maybe if I what?”

  “My mother was very beautiful. She died when I was just a kid.”

  “Oh, McKenzie, I’m sorry.”

  “One of the few things I remember about her, she used to say, ‘Pretty is as pretty does.’”

  Heavenly snickered at that. “It’s easy to have morals when you’re rich,” she said.

  “Do you think people buy them off the shelf at Neiman Marcus? Besides, my mother wasn’t rich. She was a middle-class housewife living in Merriam Park.”

  “Is this a teaching moment, McKenzie?” she asked. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson?”

  “You didn’t come here just to get slapped, did you?”

  “I wanted you to know that I was sorry about what happened last night and that—that I didn’t mean you any harm.”

  “I asked you before if you knew who stole the Jade Lily, when we were in the van, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “Last night didn’t teach you anything, did it, Heavenly?”

  “I’m still going after the Lily, McKenzie. Don’t try to stop me.”

  “Heavenly, you’re alone.”

  “The story of my life.”

  “C’mon, give it up, please.”

  Heavenly set two fingers on the fifty-dollar bill and slid it across the table to me.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said.

  A few moments later, she was gone.

  A few moments after that, Nina joined me in the booth.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Some people never learn,” I told her.

  NINE

  Lunch was a walleye po’ boy for me and a baby beet and apple salad for Nina. Rickie’s had one of the best menus in town courtesy of her chef, Monica Meyer, a temperamental young woman who once worked for Wolfgang Puck. I liked to tease her because, well, she was so teaseable. If Monica had been there, I probably would have said something about going to Taco Bell to get some real food, but she wasn’t, so I said, “This is fantastic.”

  “I’ll tell Monica you said so.”

  “If you do, I’ll only deny it.”

  “What is it with you and Monica, anyway?”

  “She’s incredibly good at what she does.”

  “So you harass her?”

  “Yep.”

  “Huh?”

  “One of the things that I admire most is competence,” I said. “I don’t care what you do as long as you do it well—you could be an accountant, a janitor, a cook, the guy who sharpens my hockey skates, if you’re really good at what you do, you get my admiration and respect.”

  “You tease Monica because you admire and respect her?”

  “You’ll notice I never pick on people I don’t like.”

  “McKenzie, if you were a woman you’d be a blonde.”

  “Are you teasing me, Nina?”

  “Never.”

  “I wonder if I should take a sandwich out to the guy who’s following me.”

  Nina stopped chewing her salad and stared at me from across the booth.

  “Someone is following you?” she said at last.

  “Cherry red Acura parked up the street.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” I was skimming the menu. “What’s the least expensive thing you have? Kalua pork quesadilla? That’s way too good for him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Think he’d like a turkey meatball sandwich?”

  “Who wouldn’t? McKenzie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The guy’s an amateur. I could lose him in a minute, don’t worry about it.”

  “I meant about everything.”

  “Honestly, Nina, I don’t know. Apparently everybody and his brother want the Jade Lily, and they all expect me to either lead them to it or give it up after I make the exchange with the artnappers. I’d like to blow off the whole thing, only I’m afraid of the State Department. I guess I’ll decide what to do with the Lily once I have it.”

  “You’re still going after it despite everything that’s happened, that’s what you’re telling me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dumb blonde. Dumb dishwater blonde.”

  We went on like that for a while, talking about this and that, none of it worth repeating until my cell phone rang. I was prepared to let the call roll over to voice mail—I was having lunch with Nina, after all—until I saw the name of the caller.

  “Hi, Chopper,” I said into the microphon
e.

  “McKenzie, you still wantin’ t’ meet El Cid?”

  * * *

  I decided against buying lunch for my tail. Let the SOB starve.

  Instead, I went to my Jeep Cherokee and fired it up. The rear lights of the Acura changed from red to white to red again, telling me that the driver had put his SUV in gear and was ready to follow wherever I went. I knew I could shake him easily enough, only you know what? Screw it.

  Bending across the seat, I removed the Beretta from the glove compartment, checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and set it on the seat next to me—I was bending down so the tail wouldn’t see what I was doing. I looked left then right then left again for traffic. There was a lull, with no vehicles or pedestrians approaching from either direction. I drove out of the parking lot and up the street to where the Acura was parked, abruptly stopping when my rear bumper was parallel with the SUV’s front bumper. The driver seemed surprised when I got out of the Cherokee and approached him. He was even more surprised when I raised the Beretta. He brought his hands up and turned his head, not that it would have helped him any.

  I put one round into his rear tire. The exploding rubber was louder than the gunshot. The SUV suddenly listed hard to the left. The driver looked at me, an expression of terror on his face. He was wearing a suit and tie; he looked like a middle-management wonk. I didn’t know what he actually did for a living, although following an armed and slightly deranged ex-cop apparently wasn’t it.

  A moment later, I was back in the Jeep Cherokee and maneuvering my way toward Minneapolis.

  “Problem solved,” I said, except I didn’t really believe it.

  * * *

  The Phillips neighborhood is located in the center of Minneapolis and has some of the city’s oldest and most historic buildings. It also has a high percentage of crack houses, slum apartments, poverty, and crime—ninety-three rapes, robberies, burglaries, auto thefts, assaults, and homicides had been committed there this month alone. It seemed the entire area was on the skids, with house after house and shop after shop trying to nudge each other into ghetto status. The buildings on the street where I was driving all had closed drapes, bolted doors, bars on the windows, aging vehicles, and no children, yet I knew from experience that invisible eyes were watching every move I made.

  I found Chopper’s van in the parking lot of a small grocery store. He must have seen me coming, because the door on the side of the van glided open, the platform his wheelchair was on slid forward, and the elevator slowly lowered him to the ground before I even parked my car. Herzog was at his side, helping him off the platform and then retracting the elevator back into the van.

  “Chopper, how did it go last night?” I asked.

  “Do I look like a cuddler to you?” he said.

  “Ahh, no.”

  “No is fuckin’ right. I don’t snuggle. I’m a dude, man. Only this Em-ma, she’s like stay, stay, stay. Stay the night? Cuddlin’? The whole fuckin’ night? What reason have I gots t’ stay the night unless we goin’ again? Then her roommate shows up and I’m like whoa, cuz she’s hot, Ali is, and I’m like, ’kay, I’ll stay the night if the roommate joins in, and all of a sudden it’s git out, git out, git out.” Chopper shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “I don’ understand women.”

  “They are a mystery,” I said.

  “You carryin’?”

  “I am.”

  “That piece o’ shit Beretta, I bet.”

  “She gets the job done.”

  “There ain’t no carryin’ in Cid’s place. ’At’s a rule. You go carryin’ in Cid’s place they might shoot you walkin’ through the door.”

  “Pussy,” Herzog said.

  I didn’t know if he meant me or the person who might shoot me, and I didn’t ask.

  “Best leave it here,” Chopper said.

  He reached out his hand. I set my Beretta in it. Chopper held it up by the barrel. Herzog reached over Chopper’s shoulder, took the gun, and tossed it in the back of the van as if it were a flyer distributed on a street corner by one of those Jesus Saves groups. I heard it clatter against the metal frame of Chopper’s elevator just before Herzog slammed the door shut.

  “You gonna be cool, now, ain’tcha, McKenzie?” Chopper said. “Not gonna do nothin’ rash?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yeah you. Fuck.”

  “I’m just going to ask the man a few questions.”

  “It’s like he says—you can ask. Just don’ go pushin’ no buttons is what I’m sayin’.”

  “I promise.”

  Herzog set his hands on the handles at the back of Chopper’s wheelchair and prepared to push Chopper across the parking lot. Chopper turned his head and gave him a look. Herzog’s hands came off the handles as if he had touched hot burners on a stove. The expression on his face said, “I can’t believe I did that.”

  Chopper propelled himself to the street, off the curb, across the street, and up the opposite curb quickly, efficiently, and without assistance. Herzog followed dutifully behind. I had the impression that he really wanted to help and was disappointed that Chopper wouldn’t allow it. His mood brightened when we reached the front door of a beer joint and Chopper waited for him to open it. I assumed it was a beer joint because of the neon sign in the window flashing the name of one of those crappy pasteurized brews from St. Louis. There was no other means of identification.

  I followed Chopper and Herzog inside. It was dark in the bar. The lights were kept low, and a thick curtain had been pulled across the one and only window. Tony Bennett could be heard singing softly from invisible speakers. Two older men were sitting in an old-fashioned wooden booth next to the door, the kind with high backs that you can’t see over. They looked like working men having a quick beer before their shifts began. A third man, much younger, sat at a table and read the newspaper. The table was situated so that he had an unobstructed view of both the front and back doors. His winter coat was draped over the back of the chair. His gloves and a knit cap had been set on the table near his right hand. He moved his hand toward the hat when we entered, yet did not touch it. He was not drinking.

  “Got him?” I whispered.

  “Pussy,” Herzog whispered back.

  A fourth man was sitting in a booth parallel to the guy with the hat. There was a half-filled glass of beer in front of him, along with two cell phones and an iPad. He was talking on a third cell phone, his voice a soft murmur. I could make out only one word. “No.” There was a finality to the word that made my arm hairs stand on end—somehow I had the feeling he wasn’t saying no to a slice of French apple pie.

  If there was a bartender, he was invisible.

  Chopper wheeled his chair right up to the booth.

  “Cid, my man,” he said.

  “Chopper,” Cid said. He turned off his cell and set it on the table before slipping out of the booth. He was tall, with angular features, and was deceptively dressed in sweater, jeans, and black cowboy boots. I say deceptively because despite the casual appearance, I had the impression that his clothes cost more than the average new car payment. He bent down and gave Chopper a hug as if they were veterans of the same war.

  Chopper waved me over.

  “This here is McKenzie I told you ’bout.”

  Cid did not say hello; he did not offer his hand. Instead, he gave me a perfunctory head nod and slid back into the booth.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I sat on the wooden bench across from him. Herzog stood by the door where he could keep a wary eye on the exits as well as the man with the knit hat. All in all, I felt as if I had walked into a Martin Scorsese movie.

  “Nice place you have here,” I said.

  “Did you think I would have a ritzy office with a good-looking receptionist, a mahogany desk, and Queen Anne chairs?” Cid asked

  “Something like that.”

  “Men in my line of work aren’t afraid of the police. We can always make deals with the pol
ice. Do you know who we’re afraid of?”

  It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Cid expected me to answer it.

  “The Internal Revenue Service,” I said.

  He smiled slightly and nodded his head as if he had just learned something of value.

  “You’re quick,” he said. “Yes, the IRS. In my business it pays to keep your visible assets to a minimum.”

  “I understand.”

  Cid stuck his head out of the booth and looked behind him. As if by magic, a bartender appeared.

  “What can I get you gents?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m good,” Chopper said.

  “Hey, Chop,” Cid said. “This isn’t a nonprofit organization.”

  “Gimme a Miller Genuine Draft,” Chopper said.

  When the bartender turned his gaze on me I pointed at Cid’s glass.

  “I’ll have what El Cid is having,” I said.

  Cid smiled as if it were the first time he had ever heard the name.

  The bartender gestured with his chin toward Herzog. “What about your friend?” he asked.

  “My friend doesn’t drink,” Chopper answered.

  When the bartender scurried away, I said, “How does one get the nickname of an eleventh-century Spanish lord?”

  “I don’t know,” Cid said. “People just started calling me that. Perhaps they were impressed by my regal bearing.”

  I liked the answer, yet I knew it was a lie. To survive, much less flourish, in his line of work, a fence must be able to negotiate with the most dangerous thieves as well as the least scrupulous customers. The fear of betrayal, of being ripped off, of being arrested, was always present, so it was important to demonstrate a certain amount of fearlessness. “El Cid” was an affectation, just like his barroom “office,” just like the barely concealed muscle pretending to read his newspaper while carefully watching us. It was designed to make associates believe that Cid was someone not to be trifled with. From what I’d seen, it certainly got Chopper thinking. Just the same, I said, “I believe it.”

  Cid must have liked my response, too, because he suddenly extended his hand. “My real name is Dave Wicker,” he said.

  I shook his hand and said, “Mr. Wicker.”

  “Cid.”